Mac travis adventures bo.., p.56
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 56
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
Planting the charges was fairly simple, requiring someone to drop into the silo and place the explosives on the outside casing in several strategic areas. The original rocket was meant to be ignited from within by a thirty-inch diameter charge launched directly into the nozzle. The solid fuel would then combust and send over five million pounds of thrust through the nozzle. His engineers had assured him that solid fuel would still be stable after fifty years and that placing explosives on the outside would turn the engine into a bomb. With the depth of the silo over two hundred feet into the ground, the blast would fracture the aquifer and change the entire drainage of the Everglades.
In many ways, the end result of the plan matched the environmentalists’ Plan Six Flowway, but that would take almost a billion dollars and a decade to put in place. His plan was less than a thousand dollars in explosives and when triggered would take effect immediately. Once they got over the shock of it, they would thank him.
Mel was able to drive faster after the traffic thinned past the casino turnoff. She passed cars parked to the side of the road where people lined the banks, cane-pole fishing the canal to the north of the highway. There were several pull-offs, with airboat trailers along the way. Traffic was light and she saw more gators lining the highway than cars and trucks. This made her situation more tenuous as she drove the two-lane road. There was no place to go. She checked Mac’s position on her phone again. He was moving, and she was thankful that their positions were converging. But there was only green between them. The last road that connected them was miles behind her.
Checking her rearview mirror, she saw the car closing and knew she had to make a decision. The gas gauge on the rental car was already down to half, and after trying to accelerate, she knew it was doubtful she could outrun whoever was following her. A billboard on her left made her decision for her. She had a mile to figure out how to buy some time. Without the speed to lose the car behind her, she did the opposite and slowed, allowing her pursuer to close the gap. She was down to forty mph now, and the car was within a hundred yards.
She willed it closer, not wanting to drop any more speed or he might figure out her plan. The parking lot appeared in the distance, less than a quarter mile away. Maintaining speed, she approached the turn and braked hard when she reached it. The car fishtailed into the gravel parking lot, barely missing several parked cars before she was able to pull it out of the skid.
Jumping out of the running car, she saw a sign for airboat rides and ran to the ticket hut, pushing past a waiting family. A quick glance behind told her the other driver had missed the turn, buying her a few desperate minutes. Pushing her credit card forward, she asked for a private tour, insisting it needed to leave immediately. The girl behind the counter didn’t get her urgency, and she waited impatiently for the charge to go through, quickly signing the receipt and shoving it back to her. Just as she pushed through the turnstile, the blue sedan pulled into the lot.
She found herself on a roped boardwalk with alligators on both sides. A sign said these were nuisance alligators taken from Miami area residents’ swimming pools and that they would find their way back if released. Passing several empty tour boats capable of holding twenty or more people, she took off at a run toward one of the smaller boats at the end of the line. Looking around for the driver, she saw several men drinking sodas under a palm frond structure and ran toward it.
With her receipt held in front of her, she must have looked like nothing they had ever seen before, but one of the men rose and greeted her.
“What’s the rush, ma’am? Them gators ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“It’s not like that.” She held out her phone for the man. “I need to get there.”
“Heck, ma’am. That’s quite the ride,” he said, looking at her receipt. “Guess you paid for half a day. Ought to cover it.”
She followed him to one of the smaller boats. Looking back, she saw a man push through the ticket booth and look around. “We’ve got to hurry. It’s a matter of life and death,” she said.
The driver had only one speed and she hoped it was fast enough. Another look back confirmed the man had seen her and was running toward them. Finally the driver hopped onto one of the boats and offered her a hand. She took it, quickly sitting in front of the raised driver’s seat, and prayed the man following her didn’t have a gun. The engine cranked and started. Gripping the handrests firmly, she held on as the driver moved the boat forward into the narrow channel, gradually increasing speed as it opened up. They passed a clump of trees and she forgot for a second the danger she was in as she looked out at the miles of sawgrass spread out in front of them.
Handing her phone back to the driver, she looked back and, just before he accelerated, thought she saw another boat leave the channel.
21
Mac did a double take when he saw the splatter of paint he had mistaken for a bullet and looked around for the source. Another shot hit, forcing him to duck back into the small cabin for cover.
“Call that number back,” he told Pamela. “Tru’s got his hands in this.”
While she waited for an answer, he scanned the abandoned industrial facility. Whatever this had been, it was long gone. From the look of the buildings, they had been scavenged of anything valuable. Ductwork and conduits hung from ceilings and walls and graffiti marked the exteriors. It reminded him of something the Soviets might have built in the sixties.
She had the phone to her ear. “Hey. Tru there?” Pamela asked.
Mac took the phone. “We are in the boat. Hold your fire.” He paused for a minute to see if he could see any signal relayed. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Max. First Bayou Brigade.”
Mac muttered the name to himself and almost smiled. Trufante was here and apparently had recruited a paintball army. He had no idea the numbers involved, so he decided to play it safe. “Send your leader out.” He thought he heard the unmistakable accent in the background.
“State your name,” the youngish voice said.
“Tell that lame-brained Cajun it’s Mac. Mac Travis.”
Three figures became visible, moving from behind the cover of one of the buildings.
“It’s Tru,” Pamela said, and tried to jump from the boat.
Mac pulled her down. “It is, and he looks okay, but you gotta be patient. We don’t know who else is here.”
She moved behind him. Trufante motioned to the two fatigue-clad men, one either side of him, to wait and ran toward the canal. Pamela grabbed Mac’s arm as a stream of bullets erupted around Trufante’s feet. Within seconds he was back behind the building.
“They didn’t hit him, did they?” Pamela asked.
“He looks all right. Boy’s got more lives than a three-legged gator,” Mac said, looking for where the gunfire had come from.
“Can you get him back on the phone?”
Pamela dialed and spoke to Max. Mac knew the second that Trufante was on and took the phone. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Mac, oblivious to the danger around them.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Mac yelled into the phone.
“It’s a little complicated.” Trufante’s voice came through the static.
Even though they were less than a hundred yards apart, they were at the limits of cell reception. There were no towers this far into no-man’s-land. Mac took the phone and noticed only one bar on the screen. The battery icon was also in the red. It was always complicated with Trufante, and the story would be better told over a beer. “Who’s shooting?” He cut the conversation short.
“She-devil and two of her boy toys.”
Mac stared at the building in frustration. “Care to clarify?”
“Her name’s Jane. Don’t know much else besides she likes guns and fast cars.”
The identity of the shooters could wait, and he was already getting frustrated with Trufante. “What are they doing?”
“I got a squad out doing some recon. Should know something soon.”
Mac was trying to figure out what was going on when the phone died. He set it on a small table and looked around the cabin for a weapon.
“What happened?” Pamela asked, getting right in his face.
“Battery died,” Mac said. He was done with her too. He needed to take the offensive and looked around the small cabin.
TJ used the boat for six-person charters, and commercial boats were required to carry additional safety gear not required on pleasure boats. He searched for the orange safety kit and removed the flare gun, whose twelve-gauge shells would also work in the shotgun. With only four shots left, he inserted one of the flares in the chamber of each weapon. He stuffed the rest in his pockets. He would save the shotgun shells.
“Can you use any of this?” he asked.
“I know how to shoot. My daddy taught me,” she said.
He handed her the shotgun and immediately noticed that she knew firearms safety. Her trigger finger was outside the guard, and the barrel was pointed at the ground. That gave him a little comfort. If they were all playing with paintball guns he would have been well armed, but knowing there were automatic weapons as well did not leave a good feeling in his gut. They were sitting ducks if they stayed with the boat. He jammed the flare gun into his pants. It was time to move.
Just as he thought it, another flurry of shots fired. “We need to get off the boat,” he told Pamela, leaning out of the cabin to see if he could figure out where the shots came from. There was a muzzle flash from a large steel building to the left, and he scanned the abandoned facility for a safe escape route. It didn’t matter which way they went; they would be exposed for a least twenty yards. They needed to create a diversion.
“Look here,” he said, making room for Pamela to peer around the corner of the cabin. “That building over there. Take your best shot.”
He lowered himself and crawled out on the deck, making sure to stay below the gunwales. With a hand motion, he called her to his side and looked her in the eye. Underwater construction and salvage was a dangerous game, and in his career working with Wood he had been in some bad spots with a variety of men. Without the ability to read people and see panic before it could manifest itself, he would probably be dead. When he looked someone in the eye, he knew how they would react; wide eyes and dilated pupils were sure signs of impending doom. There was something odd about her look, but that was her normal; absent were the warning signs he was looking for. He nodded. “Ready.”
She confirmed the signal and rose to one knee. Using the gunwale for support, she adjusted her position to a solid firing stance and braced herself. He watched her as she closed her left eye and sighted the weapon. With a bang and a whoosh, the flare left the barrel. The orange phosphorus trail showed the path of the projectile as it headed directly at the gunmen. They must have seen it too, because they left cover and ran back toward the building. Mac didn’t wait. He grabbed her hand and together they jumped into the water.
After swimming the five feet to the earthen berm, he climbed on hands and knees to the pavement. Looking back to confirm Pamela was behind him, he sprang to a crouch. Bullets struck the dirt by his head. It had taken too long. They would have to use another round. Pulling the flare gun from his waist, he aimed and fired. Although not as accurate as the shotgun, the shot was good enough. He grabbed Pamela and ran toward the building where he had seen Trufante.
State Representative Vernon Wade sat in his office staring at his service weapon. The Colt 1911 usually resided in a display with his military citations prominently displayed behind him, but today he had it out on his desk. Several sheets of newspaper protected the oak surface from the rags, brushes, and oil he was using to clean the pistol. The question now was who he would use it on—himself or Philip Dusharde. The sugar magnate had him over a barrel, and the only way out was violence. He knew he was not the only legislator Dusharde had bought, but after the call he had taken a half hour ago, he was regretting his association with both the man and the industry.
It was common knowledge that Big Sugar bought political influence. It was rumored they had reached as far as the president, forcing Bill Clinton to push Florida’s environmental disaster management back into the state’s control in the late nineties, where it would be much cheaper and easier to buy what they needed. The cleanup costs and land deals proposed then paled in comparison to what was happening now. Times had changed and he was faced with an angry electorate, one that had been turned upside down demographically over the thirty years of his service; from farmers and fishermen to retirees and tree huggers. As a result, he was backtracking as fast as he could away from the sugar industry. His opponent in the upcoming primary wasn’t squeaky clean, but following the current trend of non-politician politicians, she spoke freely, not worried about polls, and no one seemed to care.
His county was awash in polluted water and dead fish. The environmentalists blamed the dark brown flow routed to the Gulf via the Caloosahatchee River from Lake Okeechobee and the sugar fields below it. Back in the day, Big Sugar had paid off scientists to push the blame for the red tides and fish kills elsewhere, but it was so bad now a child could figure it out. He knew legislators on the East Coast were facing similar problems, and, with the rise of social media, there was nowhere to hide.
He’d told Dusharde he needed to back away or risk losing his seat—and more. Dusharde had laughed and told him he was expendable. But without the magnate’s patronage he knew he would soon have a mailing address in a federal correctional institute. That might not be the worst of it once his trophy wife left him and his ex found out. Both would not hesitate to flay him publicly, and probably together.
It was a hot issue now, and every reporter and blogger in the state was interested. The probes were getting close. Several well-placed informants had told him a reporter from the News-Press had been asking questions in the county records office about real estate he owned. One of those deals that Dusharde had told him “would never see the light of day” was about to. His problem was not just taking the money, it was his greed. He had doubled down and used the “campaign contributions” and his inside knowledge to buy some of the real estate involved in the state’s purchase plan.
The voters had approved the purchase of large tracts of agricultural land, which would have made him a quick buck if the sugar companies hadn’t double-crossed him and stalled the transactions. The sugar magnates had used their influence and the land had never been sold. Now he was sitting on a pile of dirt that was worth pennies on the dollar and could put him in jail.
With the gun tucked into his belt, he put on his suit jacket and adjusted it to conceal the bulge. It was time to pay Dusharde a visit and settle this. Then he could move on to the campaign appearances he had scheduled for the weekend, all carefully fabricated to slide his position toward the environmentalists. You didn’t get elected five consecutive terms without being able to take the temperature of the electorate—and it was running green now. To make the shift, he had to deal with Dusharde and, unfortunately because of the Colt, he would have to drive.
It was his habit to listen to National Public Radio, not that he agreed with their views, usually his were a hundred and eighty degrees from the liberal agenda, but he needed a source of motivation, and NPR provided a good one. He started to yell at the radio as he drove. A piece started about the Plan Six Flowway and he focused on the story.
The plan was to open drainage channels into the Everglades, in effect, restoring the original flow. That would entail buying tens of thousands of acres of public land—but the land purchases were to the east of his property, leaving it worthless. The project would also contribute jobs and money to his district. That was the good part. Promoting the environmental plan would likely get him reelected. But he was conflicted about the proposal to alleviate the flow of fertilizer-saturated water pouring into the Caloosahatchee and St. Lucie Rivers.
Though the plan looked good on paper, with big blue arrows showing the unrestricted flow of water to Florida Bay, buying the land and creating the drainage was problematic. The bridges to breach sections of Alligator Alley and Highway 41, the two roads that crossed the state connecting the east and west coasts, were necessary to the plan. From what he knew during his time with the Army Corp of Engineers in Vietnam, bridges brought unforeseen complications. The organic mush of the Everglades was all-too-similar to the swamps of Vietnam. These were not hard-bottom or sandy riverbeds they were planning to span. The bridges’ piers would create channels that would form dams as silt and muck accumulated. In the end, he feared all those millions of dollars would be spent in vain. The plan would result in an ongoing multi-million-dollar dredging project to keep the water flowing.
Thinking about the inadequacy of the proposed project only fueled his anger. Whether the plan would work or not, he knew he needed to back it. It would mean jobs in his district and pacified environmental groups—both good things. But first he needed to salvage his investment, and, after the phone call, he knew Philip Dusharde had other plans. His resolve hardened the more he thought about it.
22
Mel was pinned against the back of the seat by the forty-mph wind generated from the forward movement of the airboat. The 383 Chevy small-block engine put out 475 horsepower, and she was feeling all of it as the driver made a run for it. He must have seen the other boat come out of the channel and accelerate after them.
The low square bow sliced the tops of the cattails, sending them flying at Mel, who held up a hand to protect her face from the stinging spikes found on the top of the plants. Facing backward was more comfortable than forward, and she was able to watch the boat behind. It looked like they were maintaining the gap, although judging distance with only cattails and sawgrass between them was difficult. They had moved far enough from the highway that her entire field of view was now the same. Soon she started noticing subtle differences as they moved farther south. The Southern Glades, reaching from Highway 41 to Florida Bay, was the most pristine of what was left of the original River of Grass. Once spreading over much of South Florida, the Glades had been drained, filled, and rerouted so less than half of the natural area remained.
