Mac travis adventures bo.., p.33
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 33
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
“Maybe. That would date it, clarifying the declination,” she said. “Let me go have another look.”
“No,” Mac said. “He’s happy for now. Let him be.” Mac could see Hawk through the tinted windows, bent over the table studying the chart. The northern tip of Big Pine Key had just come into view, and they sat in the sun, watching the small islands pass by on the starboard side. “That’s it,” Mac said, studying the island. “Cheqea is the only one I don’t have pictures of.”
“Cheqea?” Alicia asked.
“Teqea’s twin sister. She’s a bit of a recluse. Lives out there somewhere on state land.”
She followed his gaze to Big Pine. The key was considerably larger than most, famous as the last refuge of the protected Key deer. The undersized deer were given thousands of acres of government land to roam. Somewhere in the scrub that comprised the landscape of the key, Cheqea could be found. The twins had a unique relationship, never understanding that their parents had put them, and their cousin Diego, in a position to find the treasure—whatever it was. If they could have worked together, they had the clues, but they hated each other. It must not have been the first time. The tribal elders had accounted for this, passing the tattoos down for generations without the treasure being found. But now two of the three were gone and the tattoos with them. Teqea and Diego’s tattoos were on the disk—Cheqea’s were missing. It had to be the answer.
“Dead ahead,” TJ said, looking up from the radar.
The boat was a thin line on the horizon, growing quickly as they closed the gap. They had just passed the Content Keys. The music blared through the sound system, rivaling the roar of the four engines on the transom. Trufante was still at the helm, and Pamela, who had figured out how to run the sound system, swayed to some Jimmy Buffett.
Trufante looked up from the gauges and saw it too, slowly growing, the tower of the trawler barely visible on the horizon. “Content Keys are coming up. We better make our move soon,” he said. Civilization would soon encroach on their efforts. This far out, the backcountry was the domain of smugglers, drug runners, and a few fishermen; another five miles would bring boat traffic and witnesses. He pushed the throttles forward, redlining the engines. They wailed in protest, but he ignored it and sped after Hawk’s boat. They were close enough to make out the details of the trawler, and he backed down the rpms before they were spotted.
“What’s the plan, man?” he asked TJ.
“Run ’em aground and then firebomb them.”
Trufante looked at him. “Dude, they’re going to have weapons. We need to figure this shit out.”
“Look.” TJ pointed to the trawler, its distinctive shape now clearly visible. “They’re turning.”
Trufante put his hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Wood’s old place.”
“Out here?” TJ asked.
Trufante ignored him, trying to think how they could parlay this development into a plan. “Not sure what the buggers are up to, but we can anchor off the back side, and they’ll never see us. Take ’em on land.”
“You sure that’s a good idea? That water looks pretty skinny.”
Trufante stared at the turquoise water, the color lightening the closer it got to shore until it was almost clear. Ignoring TJ’s concerns, he steered toward it. Hawk’s ship was around the corner now, needing the deeper water of the channel, but with their own outboards tilted up, he figured they only needed a few feet of water.
With a loud thud, all three passengers were thrown forward. They had bumped bottom before he expected. The engines screamed in agony as their water intakes, covered in the sand, were unable to suck the water needed to cool them. Alarms sounded, but Trufante reacted quickly and hit the tilt. All four engines lifted, and the change in weight distribution allowed the hull to float. He looked back at the array, letting the outside two down just enough for water to cover the propellers and submerge the intakes. Leaving the two longer-shaft inside engines in the air, he started the short-shaft pair mounted on the outside and backed off the shallow flat.
“That was freakin’ close,” he said, exhaling and smiling. “Maybe we need to reconsider our attack plan. It’d be a bad thing wrecking Celia’s babies.”
Hawk came on deck just as they turned toward Wood’s place. He looked at Mac. “We’re going to stop so you can get your gear. That’s it. No screwing around.” He took Alicia’s arm and dragged her toward the cabin door. “Don’t forget about this,” he said, holding the controller in his free hand.
Mac saw the fear in her eyes before Hawk pushed her inside. He tried to put it out of his mind, focusing his attention on Ironhead, watching him as he picked his way through the shallows, easily finding the cut channel. They coasted up to the piling, and Mac jumped off. He splashed through the waist-deep water and started toward the shore, but his foot caught something, causing him to fall. It was the old cable from the boom. Pushing forward, now totally wet, he gained the small beach and followed the trail to the clearing. Ignoring Ironhead, who was about ten feet behind him, he entered the shed and started tossing gear on the floor.
“Come on. Just grab it all,” Ironhead said, standing in the doorway.
Mac found a mesh bag and started stuffing the dive gear into it. He looked around as he packed, trying to find anything he could include that could later be used as a weapon, but there was nothing that wouldn’t be obvious. He knew Ironhead was a skilled diver and would catch anything at all out of place.
“What are we diving?” he asked, picking up an old dive computer.
“You won’t be needing that. We’ll be using rebreathers with side-mount tanks for decompression and backup,” he said.
Mac set down the computer but picked up a compass attached to a retractable lanyard that sat next to it. Ironhead watched but didn’t say anything as he tossed it into the bag.
With no reason to delay and an idea forming in his head, he closed the zipper and rose, slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder. He left the shed and started down the trail.
“Here, take this,” he said, handing the bag to Ironhead. “I’ve got something over here.” Without giving him a chance to react, he took a small path to the right and found himself in a clearing. He went right for the winch, hoping the years of neglect had not frozen the mechanism. The last time he knew it had been used was a dozen years ago, during a chase, when Wood had used it to disable the boat of a crazy German couple colluding with a high-ranking government official to find oil out in the backcountry. Mac almost laughed remembering when some had thought the Keys were the next great American oil field. Now, with the production in the Dakotas, that was a distant memory. A quick look back confirmed he was alone, and he released the latch, allowing the cable to free-spool. The clicking sound would alert Ironhead if he used the ratchet to maintain the tension.
Initially he was discouraged when the cable didn’t move, but the handle broke free, and the slack started coming in. Increasing the speed, he cranked for all he was worth, trying to keep the line taut, but it was coming in too easily now and a frayed end appeared. Discouraged, he rose and went back to the main trail.
“What the hell are you up to?” Ironhead asked.
Mac looked at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Call of nature,” he said, taking the bag back. Together they walked to the beach and waded to the trawler.
With both men and the gear back on board, Ironhead went to the wheelhouse and started the engine. Mac peered into the clear water, cursing under his breath. Slowly the boat backed out of the canal, and he let out a sigh of anguish as he stared at the open water. If the cable had been intact, the propeller and shaft would be disabled now. Ironhead expertly negotiated the channel, turned into the deep pass, and accelerated.
Mac was out of ideas, but he hadn’t raised any red flags either. There would be another chance. He would just have to be ready. He looked back at Wood’s island, hoping he would see it again under better circumstances, when he noticed a large boat cut the edge of the channel, heading toward them. Not many would be brave or dumb enough to cut the channel like that unless they knew it well. The boat was closing on them, and he recognized the four rooster tails coming from behind it. He tried to see who was aboard, but the only thing recognizable was Trufante’s smile.
There was no reaction from Hawk or his men. The boat meant nothing to them, just another charter coming back from a day out in the Gulf. Mac slid over to the port side. From their current course, Mac guessed that they would pass on the starboard side, and he wanted to be downrange of whatever they had planned. The boat was within a hundred feet, and he could clearly see Trufante, TJ, and Pamela. As he suspected, Trufante was at the wheel and TJ was huddled by the transom. Slowly he rose, and Mac could see the lit rag sticking out of the bottle.
With a roar, the boat was past them. Mac ducked behind the crane, knowing what was coming. Just as the bottle smashed against the deck, Ironhead and Hawk emerged from the cabin, their pistols already extended. They aimed and fired at the speeding boat, stopping when the glass bottle shattered. Fire spread across the deck.
“Get a fire extinguisher,” Hawk yelled at Ironhead, then laughed when he saw the small pool of flames on the steel deck. There was nothing flammable, and the fire was too small and not nearly hot enough to do any damage. “And bring the big gun,” he called after him.
Ironhead appeared a minute later with a white fire extinguisher in one hand and what looked like a bazooka in the other. The fire was gone with one quick squirt. He handed the extinguisher to Hawk and raised the gun to his shoulder. The boat had turned and was coming back at them now, preparing to pass on the port side. Ironhead lined up the shot, but at the last minute, Trufante cut the wheel, changing their trajectory to pass on their starboard. Mac grinned at the subterfuge and moved across to the port side, when another flaming bottle came toward them. Again, it landed but did no damage.
Mac knew it was only a matter of time before either Trufante made a mistake or Ironhead got a lucky shot off. He had to do something to increase the odds. They were coming back for another pass. This time, both boats would be facing in the same direction. The ruse Trufante had employed last time would not work. Ironhead would have a clear shot toward the boat’s stern as they passed.
Inching over to the crane, Mac grabbed the control box. He was already familiar with the controls from the other night, and he slowly reached over, releasing the hook from its keeper. Ironhead was in front of him, bracing himself, using the transom and gunwale for support, preparing his shot. Hawk was firing at the approaching boat, but his shots went wild. With both men occupied, Mac hit the power switch, relieved that the noise of the engines covered the mechanism’s whine. The boom swung toward Ironhead. Mac hit the toggle to slow it and waited.
The boats were neck and neck. Hawk was firing at close range, but the motion of the boat was throwing his aim off. Ironhead was patiently waiting for his shot when the next bottle came over the gunwale. Both men ignored it, knowing it would be ineffective. The backs of the four outboards had just passed the transom of the trawler when Mac saw Ironhead tense and squeeze the trigger. Anticipating the shot, he moved the toggle. There was a long pause before the boom built up momentum and slammed into him, taking him over the side, but the projectile had left the muzzle a fraction of a second earlier. Mac watched in slow motion as the heat-seeking missile found the four blazing engines and the boat erupted in a ball of fire.
19
They stood by the transom, surveying the water, each looking for something different—Hawk and Wallace for Ironhead; Mac and Alicia for any survivors from the explosion. Alicia stood next to Mac, trying to look stoic, but he could see tears running down her face. A low cloud of smoke still hung over the water, concealing the crash site. Slowly it lifted, and they saw the wreckage.
“Wallace,” Hawk yelled. “Get in there and steer toward the debris.”
He started toward it, but they stood, jaws dropped, as they watched what was left of the boat slip below the surface before they could reach it. There was still hope, with patches of debris everywhere, and Mac scanned the surface, desperate for survivors.
“Careful that trash doesn’t wreck the prop,” Hawk yelled to Wallace.
Mac continued to scan the water as the boat moved through the flotsam. Several bright orange life vests could be seen floating near the spot where the boat had sunk, but they were vacant. They continued to work the perimeter of the site, and finally Mac saw something move.
“There!” He pointed to a section of wreckage that looked like the console of the boat with three heads clinging to it. Somehow they must have been hanging on when the boat blew and the force of the explosion separated the prefabricated unit from the hull. From this distance there was no way to tell if they were dead or alive. Wallace ignored him.
Mac moved next to Hawk and pointed out the bodies. “You have to save them.”
Hawk looked at him, unconcerned. “Right, let’s see if they’re still alive.” He pulled his pistol above the transom, ready to fire, and called to Wallace to move toward them.
Slowly the boat picked its way through the wreckage, and they reached the console. What had been the small cabin was now bottom-up, giving the unit enough buoyancy to stay afloat. But instead of rescuing them, Hawk called for Wallace to stop, raised the gun, and aimed at the three heads, now looking to them for help.
“Get under!” Mac yelled at them and went for Hawk, pushing him off balance.
The gun fired and Mac was on him. Both men were on the ground now, Mac clawing at him, trying to get at the weapon.
“Back off, Travis,” Wallace called.
Mac chanced a look up and saw Wallace with his gun pointed at Alicia’s head. Reluctantly, he backed away from Hawk and crawled to the transom, where he looked over the edge to see if the shot had hit anything. With one hand, Wallace helped Hawk to his feet, but the other still had the gun trained on Alicia.
The calls for help were louder now, and Mac moved to the gunwale, where he looked at the console. The current had moved them close enough he could almost reach them.
Hawk was on his feet now, taking aim again. The range was almost point-blank, and he knew he had to do something quickly. “There—” He pointed to another piece of flotsam. “It’s another body.”
Hawk turned, following Mac’s outstretched arm. From this distance it did look like a head on the surface. “Go,” he called to Wallace and put the gun in his waistband. Sticking his hand in his pocket, he withdrew the controller for the shock collar. Waving it so they could both see it, he said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Mac looked back at the wreckage, trying to find Trufante. They were even closer than before, but quiet now after seeing Hawk with the gun. Hoping Hawk was too distracted to hear, Mac leaned over the gunwale and yelled, “Cheqea. Find her.” Hawk’s gaze moved to him, and he turned away from the wreckage, but before he did, he caught a look of understanding on Trufante’s face.
The last thing Mike remembered when he woke up, tangled in a mess of mangroves, was the blast when the boat blew. He recalled being thrown from the deck into the water, but besides the pain in his side, he had no idea what had happened. Slowly, he fought the mud sucking at his feet and used the branches from the mangroves to pull himself onto the small key. His side felt warm, and he looked down at the gash. A pool of blood was accumulating at his feet. He looked back to see a trail floating on the water like an oil slick. Feeling fortunate he hadn’t attracted a shark, he lifted his T-shirt and looked at his side.
It was hard to get a good angle, but he knew he needed medical attention—and now. Pulling off his T-shirt, he wrapped it around the wound, tying it as tightly as he could. With the blood flow stemmed, he looked around, surprised to see the mainland only a few hundred yards away. Fortunately the current had pushed him toward shore. An outgoing tide would have pulled him into the deep waters of the Gulf, where he would have been easy prey for a cruising shark or just lost at sea. He looked across at the mainland, not recognizing where he was, but it didn’t really matter—it was close enough to swim. Feeling light-headed, he got up and waded toward shore. The sun was behind him, starting to set, but daylight was not a concern.
The mud sucked at his feet, but he fought through it until he was deep enough to fall forward on his hands and knees. With his weight distributed on all four appendages, he was able to make it past the flat into a channel, where, with the help of the tide, he sidestroked for the shore.
Exhausted from the effort, he climbed out of the water, sat on a small beach, and caught his breath. His side pounded in pain. Remembering the pills he had gotten from the VA clinic, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the bottle, and turned the lid. Though he had been hitting it pretty hard, he thought there should be a half dozen left, but the inside was half-full with cloudy water that had leaked in, dissolving the pills. He drank it like a shot, hoping that some of the contents remained, but the minute it hit his mouth, he gagged on the bitter mixture of the pills and seawater and threw it back up. Whatever medicinal value it had was gone now. To make matters worse, the mosquitoes had found him and were swarming around the wound and his head. He brushed them away and tried to rise. It took everything he had to make it to his feet, but one step at a time, he started walking to a light in the distance.
Trufante, TJ, and Pamela clung to the console, not sure if they were better or worse off. They watched Hawk’s boat as it turned to the west and made for Moser Channel. They followed its path into the channel but lost sight of the boat when it passed under the tallest section of the Seven Mile Bridge.
