Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (26 page)

I pushed the throttles all the way forward. The boat jumped, flattening
out on the water as it gained speed. I doused the running lights that I'd
turned on as we came into Boca Grande Channel. The go-fast boats could
outrun me, but maybe they couldn't see me in the dark. If they had radar,
we were in trouble.

I kept the boats in sight on my radarscope, their blips making steady
progress toward us. I realized they were on a course to intercept me. They
knew exactly where I was. They had radar.

Jock disappeared into the cabin, and in a moment was back, lugging
the M60 machine gun and its tripod. He laid it on the deck and went back
down into the cabin. He returned with the rocket-propelled grenade
launcher. We were loaded for bear.

Logan took the launcher, caressed it softly, smiling. "Man, I haven't
used one of these in years."

Jock looked up from where he was assembling the tripod for the
machine gun. "Do you remember how to use it?"

"Bet your ass," said Logan. "Bet your sweet ass."

I took another look at the radar screen. "They're closing on us," I
said. "They'll be in rifle range in a few minutes."

Logan pushed Simmermon from his sitting position onto the floor of
the cockpit. "Peggy, get in the cabin," he said. She did.

Just then, I saw winks of muzzle fire from the lead go-fast. "He's firing on us," I said. "He's too far away to do any damage, but they'll both be
in range in a couple of minutes."

Jock had the M60 tripod braced on the gunwale near the stern. "I
see them," he said, working to get the gun ready.

He settled in, quickly threading the cartridge belt into the chamber.
He pointed it in the direction of our pursuers. I heard the heavy retort of
the M60 override the sound of the straining outboards. Jock was firing
steady streams of tracers. The lead go-fast had closed to within a thousand yards of us, when it veered off its course, turning away. Jock must
have gotten some hits.

Logan was standing, feet planted wide apart, riding with the movement of the boat. He had the RPG launcher on his shoulder, his eye to the
optical sight, the breech pointing overboard. He pulled the trigger, and
the rocket shot from the barrel, the back-blast rolling harmlessly across
the water.

The lead boat exploded. In the bright light of the blast, I could see
shards of fiberglass shooting like flaming arrows into the dark water. The
boat was gone in an instant, and a burning patch of gasoline was already
dying out.

Logan let out a howl of elation. "Bring it on!" he shouted, shaking his
fist at the scene of carnage.

The other go-fast made a wide arcing turn at high speed, bouncing
in its own wake. I could hear the roar of its engines as it sped back the way
it had come, tracers from Jock's M60 chasing it.

"Should we look for survivors?" I asked.

"There won't be any," said Logan. "Let's find out what Simmermon
has to tell us."

I eased the throttles back to neutral. We drifted on the dark Gulf waters. No other boats were in sight, and my radar screen was empty. The
quiet of the night was broken only by the slap of small swells hitting the
side of the boat.

Logan pulled Simmermon up by his shirtfront and sat him against
the bulkhead. He removed his gag and said, "You want to tell me who
you're going to blow up?"

"The world."

"When?"

"It's started already. You can't stop it."

"Can't stop what?" Logan asked.

"The bombers. Some have already left the island, and the others are
leaving today."

"What are the targets?"

"The ones God picks."

"You can do better than that, Rev," said Logan.

"God talks to me, you know. He tells me what to do. I am his earthly
right arm."

Peggy had come up on deck. "I think he's schizophrenic," she said.
"Once, when he had me in his room, he got quiet, and then started talking. It was like he was having a conversation, but I could only hear his side
of it. He told me it was God talking to him."

"Voices," said Jock. "He's crazy as a loon."

Logan kicked Simmermon in the hip. "I want to know what you're
going to blow up," he said.

"It's not what, it's who," Simmermon said. "You'll see. God is going
to cleanse the world of heathens."

"How?"

"Suicide bombers," said Simmermon, a look of pleasure crossing his
face. "We're going to set the world right."

Jock was talking into his satellite phone, facing astern, nodding his head,
writing on a piece of notepaper he'd pulled from his pocket.

He closed the phone and turned to me. "We need to meet a Coast
Guard boat. They'll take Simmermon off our hands." He read the coordinates off his notes.

I dialed them into my GPS. "We're only about ten minutes from the
rendezvous point," I said. "Did they give you a time to meet?"

"A forty-one footer is on its way now."

I flipped on my running lights and brought the boat up on plane,
turning onto a course that would take us to the Coast Guard boat. Logan
was squatting on the deck, still talking to Simmermon. I couldn't hear
them over the roar of the engines. Jock stood on the deck holding the stock
of the M60, still on its tripod.

As we approached the rendezvous point, I slowed the boat. My radio
came alive.

"Recess, Recess, this is the United States Coast Guard. Request that
you turn your running lights off and then on."

"This is Recess. Wilco," I mumbled into the mic as I flipped the lights
off and then on.

A spotlight hit us, its beam piercing the dark and pinning us to the
black water. "Recess, this is the Coast Guard. We have you in sight. I'll approach from your port. Don't shoot."

"Coast Guard, this is Recess. I copy. I have you in sight. We're standing down."

The white boat with the red striping and the Coast Guard emblem
appeared out of the darkness. Its spotlight was trained on an area off my
bow, not blinding us now.

The Coastie coxswain eased his boat alongside us. A woman in blue
fatigues threw fenders over the side, and a young man in the same uniform
threw me a line. Jock went to the bow to catch another line, and we secured the boats together.

One of the Coasties said, "Permission to come aboard?"

"Come ahead," I said. "We're glad to see you guys."

A uniformed man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, climbed
aboard Recess. "I'm Petty Officer Bob Postel," he said. "I was told to meet
you and take charge of a prisoner. Which one of you is Mr. Houston?"

Jock stepped down into the cockpit and said, "That would be me."

The Coastie threw a sloppy salute. "I was told to meet you, sir, and
put myself and my boat under your command."

"That won't be necessary," said Jock. "I do need you to take charge
of a prisoner and keep him incommunicado at your station until I get
there."

"I understand, sir. I'll need to put a lifejacket on him. Can I untie his
hands for that?"

"No problem."

"Sir, just so you'll know, we've thrown a cordon around Blood Island. I don't know what's up, but I was told to let you know that."

"Thank you, Petty Officer. Would you ask the commander on the
scene to contact me on the VHF?"

The Coastie untied Simmermon's hands, put a life jacket on him,
and then used handcuffs to restrain his arms behind him. He and another
man helped the Rev onto the Coast Guard boat, and they were gone into
the night, their stern light receding into the darkness.

"Mr. Houston?" I asked.

"One of many names," Jock said, and grinned.

"What now?"

"We're going to meet the Coast Guard commander. We may need to
get back on the island, and then we need to talk to Simmermon and the
people you've got stashed."

The radio beeped, and then a voice came over it. "Recess, Recess, this
is the Coast Guard cutter Intrepid."

"This is Recess, Intrepid."

"I'm in command of the operation at Blood Island." He gave his coordinates, and said, "Can you come to me?"

I looked at Jock who nodded his head. "Roger that," I said. "We're
on our way."

I dialed in the new coordinates and we headed west.

The Intrepid was a 210-foot Reliance-class cutter, carrying a crew of
seventy-five and sporting a 25-millimeter chain gun and two 50-caliber
machine guns. These guys were serious. The chain gun could fire two
hundred rounds per minute and was accurate to a distance exceeding one
mile. It would blow anything less than a warship out of the water.

The cutter was lit up like a downtown square. Deck lights bathed the
white ship in a brightness that would let anyone within miles know she
was there. She was hove to about a mile from Blood Island, staying to the
deep water of Boca Grande Channel. I could see the running lights of
other smaller Coast Guard vessels hovering on all sides of the island.

I radioed the cutter as we approached, identified myself, and was told
to come alongside. Lines were thrown down from the deck along with a
rope ladder.

Jock grabbed the ladder and told me he'd be right back. Logan and
I let go the lines, and I backed Recess off several yards.

In a few minutes, a Coastie on the cutter's deck waved me back in.
Jock came aboard, and I backed off again.

"We're going in,"Jock said.

"In where?" I asked.

"Back to Key West, to the Coast Guard station. A Delta Force team
out of the Hurlburt Field in the panhandle is going to drop on Blood Island in about an hour. In the meantime, the Coasties have the place bottled up tight. Nobody's going to be leaving."

Logan said, "From what the Rev just told me, I think he's planning
to hit some mosques. Called it divine retribution for what's going on in
Israel."

"He could start a war," Jock said.

"I think that's his intention," Logan said.

It would be daylight soon, and we were all tired. We still had a lot to do,
and we had to make arrangements for Peggy. She was sitting next to me at
the helm. "Peggy, you need to call your dad," I said. "And I'd like to talk
to him too."

I handed her my cell phone and she dialed the number. In a moment
I heard her say, "Daddy, I'm with Matt. I'm okay."

They talked for a minute, and she handed the phone to me. She was
crying loudly, sobbing, her head buried in her hands. Logan came to the
helm and put a hand on her shoulder, just letting her know he was there.

"Matt," Jeff said, "how can I ever thank you?"

"Don't worry about it, Jeff. We're practically family. We're on our way
to the Coast Guard station, and I'm sure the local cops will want to talk to
Peggy. They'll be in touch and arrange to get her home. What's going on
with Laura?"

His voice was low, strained, flooded with emotion. "It's not good," he
said. His voice caught, a sob stifled. "She's very sick. Some sort of virulent
form of leukemia. She's been aware of it for some time, but she didn't tell
anybody. Didn't want to worry us."

"Prognosis?"

"Terrible. She's close to death. I think she's been holding on to see
Peggy. I'm not sure how I'll live without her."

Pain ripped through my soul; shock and despair gnawed at my brain.
No. Not possible. Laura was dying. That just couldn't be. She had been
awake and lucid just a few hours ago. She was going to be fine. I had banished my fear with the relief that came with that knowledge.

I knew we'd never have a life together, but as long as she was alive, there was always that glimmer of hope. When she'd needed help finding
Peggy, she called me. And I knew that if I needed her badly enough, I could
just go to Atlanta to see her. The despair I'd felt during the dream of her
funeral bore down on me, dark and hopeless. My mind could not comprehend a world without Laura. Darkness was closing in, shutting down
my emotions, drawing me into a pit from which I would not emerge. But
Peggy needed me, and Laura needed Peggy. I willed the cloying dread
back into its rotten corner, back there where the memories of dead soldiers hide in the shadows and lurch occasionally into my nightmares.