by Glen Robins
So engrossed in the food was he that Collin didn’t notice the man with the rifle enter the room until he placed a tall glass of orange juice next to Collin’s plate. “Fresh squeezed it myself just this morning. Help yourself.”
Thirst had also been pushed out of his mind until the orange juice appeared. “Thank you. I appreciate it. It’s very kind of you guys to let me hole up here for a while.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. Our contact tells us you’ll be back out of here as soon as that plane returns with fresh air tanks for you,” said the man as he folded his large frame into the seat across from Collin.
“Yeah, that’s my understanding,” nodded Collin. He finished the last of his food and drained the orange juice. Looking at the glass, he said, “That’s good stuff. Thanks again.” Collin pushed back from the table and rose from his chair.
The man with the rifle watched him carefully. He stood and took a step toward Collin.
As he stood, Collin felt dizzy and swooned, but just managed to catch himself on the table, using both hands to steady his balance. “Whoa,” he said as his eyes rolled back in his head.
That was the last thing he remembered.
Chapter Thirty
London, England
June 16, 3:15 p.m. London Time
The news was not the good news Nic was hoping for, but it was not the bad news he had expected, either. An officer from the Colombian Coast Guard was on the phone and had just informed him that their dive team had arrived at the site of the wreck before six o’clock in the morning and had located the boat using sonar equipment as it was no longer visible. They searched the boat and the area surrounding it and were unable to locate the body of Collin Cook. Parts of the boat, which had broken into several sections, had sunk to a depth of over one hundred twenty feet. Debris was scattered all over the ocean floor and an Asian man’s body was found trapped inside the cabin, but not the Caucasian’s.
“It’s no surprise that boat went down where it did. Those are very dangerous waters, especially in bad conditions,” said the Coast Guard officer over the phone.
“Certainly you’re not giving up, are you?” asked Nic with a rising tone in his voice.
“I don’t see how your man could have lived through that. If he was in the cabin also, I don’t think he could have survived.”
“Trust me, he has survived worse. He’s out there somewhere. We need to find him,” said Nic, trying to impress upon the seemingly unconcerned Colombian officer the urgency of the situation.
“We have established a search grid based on the wind, tides, and current to search for the body. We will communicate the results upon the conclusion of our search,” replied the officer.
Nic wasn’t entirely pleased, but he knew he had to keep his tongue in check since he lacked the authority to order these men to obey him. He knew he had to use gentle persuasion, which was neither natural nor comfortable for him. “May I suggest you search the entire area under the assumption that our man may have survived? Like I said, he has a habit of living through the worst situations. You will need to hurry. This man is very crafty. We don’t want him to get away.”
“Yes, sir, I understand and will report our findings promptly, sir.”
When the conversation ended, Nic stood and paced his cubicle. Times like these he wished he could be everywhere. He wished he could pilot a boat or a plane and search the entire area himself until he found the pesky and perplexing Collin Cook.
As he paced, wondering what to do next, he decided to report to his boss and his counterparts in the US. Maybe in the course of conversation, some brilliant idea might emerge that would somehow close the net around his prey. Dutifully, Nic passed the information first to Alastair Montgomery, his section chief, who once again seemed checked out, and next to Reggie Crabtree of the FBI. “He’s gone, Reggie,” Nic began. “There’s no way the Colombians are going to find him. He’s got what, a nine- or ten-hour head start?”
“What have you got to go on?” asked Reggie.
“Not much. The Colombians are going to search everywhere, including the islands. But that hardly matters now, does it?”
“Hardly matters?” said Reggie in a mocking tone. “How can you say that? He can’t just disappear. It almost sounds to me like you’re giving up, Nic.”
“I assure you, Reggie, I’m not giving up. I’m merely frustrated by our inability to catch this guy. I’m frustrated that we don’t know where he is, how he got there, or what he’s going to do next. I’m frustrated that he could have gone anywhere in that time span if he’s got that little rubber boat again and enough petrol.”
“What are your options, Nic? Get the Colombians to widen the search grid? Call in aerial support? Try to predict where he’ll show up next, ready to apprehend him? I think we all know how well these tactics have worked out for us in the past.”
“What do you think we ought to do, Agent Crabtree?” asked Nic sardonically.
“Wait.”
“Wait? What are you on about? Wait where?” Nic’s voice pitched higher with each incredulous query.
“Wait right where we are. He’ll show up eventually. And when he does, he’ll try to make contact—either with his family or his lady friend or the Captain of that boat that sank. Watch and listen to those people and you’ll find Collin Cook. He has not gone long without making contact with one of them.”
“What are you saying? Give up? After all this work, you want to just give up?” Nic’s elevated pitch bordered on falsetto.
“Not at all. If he survived, we can assume he’ll resurface at some point. Rather than wasting energy and resources on a futile search, we wait for him to show up again,” said Reggie. “We know he’s not a threat on his own, so we wait it out and let him draw Penh out of his hole. Then we nab them both.”
“Your plan is to sit back and wait?”
“It’s called surveillance, Nic. Standard police practice. It’s not as exciting as the hunt, but a lot more effective in this type of situation. When he shows up or calls or emails or whatever he does, we’ll move in. I don’t see that we have too many other viable options, Nic. We can’t chase him if we don’t know where he is or where he’s going, right?”
Nic thought for a moment. Clearly dejected, he agreed nonetheless. “It just feels better being proactive rather than reactive.”
“Maybe so,” said Reggie. “But this is our best option right now. We have everything in place. If he’s alive and well, we’ll know about it and we can be proactive then.”
****
Puerto Lempira, Honduras
June 16, 6:04 p.m. Caribbean Time
Collin awoke with a start, throwing his body over the edge of the cot and landing in a crouched position, like a panther ready to pounce. Water dripped down his face and onto his shirt. One hand gripped the side of the cot, the other ready to strike at the first thing that moved.
“Geez,” said the man who had held the rifle. “Remind me not to stand too close next time I wake you up.”
Collin apologized. “I was having a pretty intense dream, that’s all.”
The dream hung in the air above him, ragged and tattered. It wasn’t real, but it was. It had substance and meaning, but it was too ethereal to grasp, especially with the shock from the cold water. The remnants of the dream stayed with him, casting its own shadow across the room in the fading twilight, leaving Collin feeling dark and hollow.
“Time to bug out, man. Your plane’s back and your number’s up,” the rifle man said with a gesture toward the cove where the pontoon plane was taxiing on the water’s surface toward the beach.
Collin looked around for something to gather up but realized he had come ashore with nothing except the clothes he was wearing. He unzipped the mosquito net that encased the cot and stepped past the rifle man, crossed the room with the makeshift kitchen and eating area. A plate of tacos sat untouched.
“All yours, man,” said the rifle man.
Collin grabbed the pap
er plate and stepped out onto the sand.
The pilot saw him and waved him over. Collin gestured a thank you and good-bye to the two men who remained at the hut and climbed into the plane. The engine never stopped running. As soon as Collin sat down, the pilot was revving up again, preparing for takeoff.
Without a word, the pilot signaled for him to put on the headset. “Listen up, friend. We’re heading straight back to the site of your wrecked boat, OK? Probably take us about five hours to get there, so we’ll go over the plan on the way,” said the pilot.
Collin nodded and bit into his first taco.
Lukas’s voice came through the headset. “Yes, let’s go over everything, step by step.”
“OK,” said Collin as politely as he could while he chewed, still trying to bring his brain out of the foggy dream. Images of Penh’s smug, arrogant countenance; Stinky’s ghost-like, horrified face; and puddles of blood lurked in the shadowy corners of his subconscious.
“I should ask how you slept, my friend,” said Lukas, who tried to suppress a chuckle.
Collin cocked his head and winced. “Fine, I guess. Just having a little trouble waking up. Why are you laughing?”
“Yes, I was afraid of that,” said Lukas. “I’m not laughing, really. I have to admit that I had the two agents at the hut slip a little sleep aid in your orange juice to make sure you got the rest you need. I figured all the excitement of late may make it hard for you to fall asleep.”
“That explains why I was so dizzy and why I can’t seem to kick my brain fully into gear.” Collin rubbed his stubbly face and blinked hard. “I feel like I should be pissed, but I’m too numb for it to register.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, my friend. It was for your own good. Now, your pilot has been busy today getting everything ready for your mission tonight.”
“That’s right,” said the pilot. “I’m not a diver, but I’ve learned a lot about it today. The guys who helped me come highly recommended by the Agency, so you can trust them.”
“OK. Sounds good. Thanks,” said Collin, trying to be as positive as possible.
“You’ve got two air tanks in the back,” the pilot explained. “Both filled with nitrox—thirty-two percent oxygen mix instead of the normal twenty-one percent. Helps you dive deeper and stay longer without the need for long decompression stops on your way back up. It really helps to shorten your ascent time, which I thought would be important.”
Collin, who was still trying to shake the shadows of his dark dream, strained to focus on the pilot’s words. Decompression stops in scuba diving were calculated based on the maximum depth and time spent at that depth. They were necessary to allow the body to release nitrogen accumulated in the cells by the pressure underwater. Failure to stop could lead to the bends, a potentially serious condition that could cause air embolisms in the joints, blood vessels, lungs, or brain. Mild cases, he remembered learning, caused discomfort. Severe cases caused death. He didn’t remember all the details, but knew he had to avoid it since there was no recompression chamber handy.
“OK. How do I program that into the dive computer?”
“Already done,” said the pilot. “Had the professionals in Cancun take care of all the details for you.”
“I guess that makes me feel better.” Collin leaned back and blew out a breath. “How deep are we talking?”
Lukas answered and said, “It’s hard to say exactly, but probably over a hundred feet.”
Collin swallowed hard, remembering that he had never gone past seventy-five feet. He’d never needed to. All the interesting stuff, including the fish and lobster he hunted, generally could be found between thirty and sixty feet deep.
“I’ve also programmed the exact coordinates Billy Bob gave me for the location of the laptop you’re going after into your underwater GPS, which is attached to your BC on the right hand side,” the pilot said, patting his rib cage on his own right, indicating the location of the GPS. “You’ll need to get in and out as quickly as possible. At depths of over one hundred feet, you probably have a max of about seven minutes before you should start coming up. If you’re down there even five minutes, it’s probably best to do decompression stops at sixty, thirty, and maybe even fifteen feet for at least two minutes each, just to be safe.”
“Collin,” Lukas broke in, “it makes me extremely nervous knowing you are doing this alone. Believe me, if I could, I would either have our dive team doing this retrieval, or I would make sure you had a certified partner.”
“I understand the dangers. But we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Like you said, there’s a lot riding on this.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island
June 16, 11:06 p.m. Caribbean Time
Flying low and fast, Collin and the pilot approached the site of the shipwreck shortly after eleven p.m. The pilot pointed out the Island of Providencia on his radar, ahead about two and a half miles. Knowing his dangerous mission would be underway in just moments, Collin’s stomach began to tighten, and his throat went dry. He drained a water bottle before landing to keep himself occupied, hoping to chase away the desert in his mouth.
Not many things scared Collin, but the idea of plunging one hundred feet into the darkness alone worried him. Having no experience wreck diving, other than yesterday’s emergency dive, only fueled the anxiety. Knowing that there were things he didn’t know that he probably should know about this sort of technical dive raised his blood pressure. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.
The pilot slapped his shoulder and pointed at the water below them. The rocky islet where the Admiral had foundered appeared suddenly on Collin’s right, just below them. The pilot circled the area in a low, tight turn. Seeing nothing unusual on the water, the pilot finished the loop and landed, like before, a hundred feet from where Collin had originally emerged from the Admiral.
“You OK, man? You don’t look so hot?” he asked as he studied Collin’s face.
“No choice, right? I volunteered for this; I have to be OK,” he said. After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Don’t worry. Once I get in the water, I’ll be fine.”
As Collin geared up, the pilot worked to secure the plane with anchors.
Along with the two air tanks marked with bright fluorescent stripes, Collin found two more items in the back seat of the plane. One was a “shorty”—a three-millimeter-thick wetsuit with short sleeves and legs that came to his mid-thigh. The other item was a fishing spear. Shaped like a trident fastened to the end of a long yellow pole, it had a rubber loop on the opposite end where the handle was. Collin passed his hand through the loop and held the pole about halfway along its length, stretching the rubber strap to its max. Then he released and let it fly. The spear shot out in front of him, poking into the water six or eight feet beyond his position before the elastic leash snapped it back to his hand.
The pilot poked his head through the door and caught Collin’s eye. “Thought that might come in handy, just in case you meet up with something you’d like to spear.”
Having noticed that Collin left his fins behind on the last dive, the pilot had purchased a new pair, which fit Collin better than the previous pair.
Forcing back the growing dread, Collin suited up and checked all of his gear. It was a bit awkward balancing on the pontoon as he prepared, but he made it work. With the dive light dangling from one wrist and the spear from the other, Collin crouched down and eased himself into the water. Butterflies let loose in his stomach, but he pulled the mask down over his eyes, put the regulator in his mouth, and deflated his BC, known as a buoyancy compensator, to allow himself to sink below the surface before his nerves had time to get any more agitated.
Using the underwater GPS, Collin swam toward the wreckage below the surface, plugging his nose and blowing out to relieve the pressure on his ears while descending. As he moved through the water, his confidence gradually replaced the dread. Despite his rising confiden
ce, he still felt very much alone and exposed.
****
The pilot watched as first Collin disappeared and then as his trail of bubbles was no longer visible. He double checked his anchoring system. Satisfied that the plane was secure, he wrestled a long black case out of the rear cargo hold and placed it on the back seat. He then removed a small inflatable raft and unfolded it. The third item in the hold was a compact plastic container. This and the raft he carried to the front seat. He opened the plastic container by unclicking the plastic locking mechanism on either end of the lid and pulled out a long black cord, which he plugged into the plane’s DC socket. Flicking on the power button produced a high-pitched whining sound. The air pump and raft weren’t used often, but they would sure make his life easier tonight.
Once the raft was fully inflated, the pilot rummaged through the cargo hold for the two halves of the plastic oar, which he fitted together and laid across the raft while he jockeyed the big black case into a balanced position on the pontoon, leaning it against the struts. He kept a hand on the case and a hand on the oar as he carefully sat in the raft. With his weight evenly centered, the pilot lifted the case and placed it lengthwise in the raft between his knees so that it hung over the bow of the little boat.
With the oar, he paddled his way ten or twelve yards to the rocky islet and found a large flat rock on which to unload the case, then the oar, then himself. He pulled the raft out of the water and used its string to tie it to a smaller rock. He then moved to a high flat boulder near the crest of the tiny island of rocks, opened the case, and began assembling a high-powered sniper rifle, complete with laser-sighted scope and silencer.
