Wood's Reef (3 page)

Chapter 4

Jerry Doans watched the entire operation through his binoculars. He was out on a scouting mission aboard his rented 22-foot center console. He needed to keep an eye on his “fleet” — the handful of lobster boats that he shadowed. These were the successful lobster and crab boats, that set their traps in more secluded areas. Seclusion was important for what Jerry did. 

He kept tabs on the boats to check on the location and frequency with which they pulled their traps. This knowledge was critical to his profession; he liked to dive on the traps the day before they were scheduled to be pulled, as it gave him the best chance of scoring some tails without anyone noticing the two or three he took from each trap. If all the stars lined up, he could dive on Fridays, hit the road to Miami and sell them Saturday. This conveniently had him in the city for party night, with a fist full of spiny lobster dollars. A good day could net him $1000.

Today, he wanted to get a closer look but was wary of being spotted. Whatever they were doing over there, it was
not
lobstering, that was for sure. He finished the last of his “Big Gulp” - sized rum drink and looked again, trying to make out what they had pulled up. The rental boat gave him some cover as he slowly motored closer for a better look. No one would recognize it as anything other than a rental. There were rental boats all over this area, and the commercial fisherman and locals treated them like pesky mosquitos. Using a rental gave Doans the ability to go wherever he wanted, automatically labelled an idiot tourist by the locals. He got as close as he dared to the boat hauling from the bottom and sat back to watch.

It had to be worth something, he thought. Mac Travis wouldn’t waste time pulling garbage off the bottom. He continued to watch the larger boat, wondering how he could capitalize on this new-found knowledge. 

The object now out of view and Travis underway, he refilled his drink and started figuring out how close he could follow. He wanted to know what Travis was up to.

***

Mac shielded his eyes from the glare coming off the water as he navigated the forty two foot steel-hulled trawler through the maze of small keys and shoals scattered in his path. This was one of those places where GPS was useless. The straight line the computer and satellites would calculate always ended up grounding you in these waters, as evidenced by the propeller slashes, white in the dark turtle grass.

The trawler was making about six knots through the choppy waters, the beefed-up 760-hp diesels not needed here. This wasn’t an area you could run full out. They were cruising through one of the less-travelled areas, known by the locals for good permit fishing on the right tide, but not much more. Tourists stayed away, as there were no markers except a stick with a plastic bottle or buoy stuck on it here and there. And to the uneducated eye, there was no rhyme or reason to those, either. You never knew who set a marker there or what they were marking. The red and green navigation markers liberally sprinkled through the Keys to mark the main channels were not in evidence here. 

He guided the boat through mostly invisible channels, some indicated by subtle color changes, others not at all. The sun was descending toward the horizon, the air cooling slightly, as he slid up to a lone piling twenty feet from a small beach. There he found a camouflaged john boat, some traps and nets hidden by the mangroves growing above the water line.

“What brings you to these parts?” came a voice from the scrub. 

“Need your help with something,” Mac called back.

A grizzled old man walked into view. He waved his walking stick toward Mac, and Mac nodded in a greeting to his old friend. 

He swung the stern to the pile and tied the boat off from a rear cleat. Once secure, he dropped the anchor to keep the boat from swinging in the current. The tide was almost done rising now, and allowed the thirty two inch draft of the trawler to swing freely inches above the sandy bottom. In a few hours it would turn, leaving the boat aground. That meant he didn’t have long to talk.

“Brought me some tails, that was damn nice of you,” The man called Wood yelled.

“Yeah, I can give you some, but I need your eyes on this.” He pointed to the bomb lashed to the deck. 

Suddenly Wood was in the water, wading the dozen feet to the boat, his pants wet to the mid-thigh. Trufante helped him onto the dive platform and over the transom.

Mac caught the recognition in Wood’s face, and knew he had brought this to the right place. 

“Knew it was out there, but didn’t think it would ever see the light of day,” Wood murmured.

“You know what it is, then?”

“MK101-Lulu is what it is. Nuclear depth charge from back in the ‘60s. Kennedy’s fiasco with Cuba. I know exactly what it is and how it got there. Now the question is what to do with it. That son of a bitch has eleven kilotons of nuclear meanness.” 

“Is it safe?” Mac asked.

“After being in that hole for fifty years, anything can happen, but in theory they’re set to explode at depth. Where the hell was it?”

“Thirty-foot hole.” 

“Makes sense. I gotta think about this. That son of a bitch running for President has his fingerprints on this too. You did the right thing bringing it here. Now I gotta figure out what to do about it.”

“I can’t take it in or leave it on the boat. Look at the thing. It’s older than you. If it hasn’t started leaking nuclear material already, it’s bound to soon. Leaving it down there’s not an option.”

Wood ran his hands over the rusting rivets. “I’ve got some history with this, best keep it here. You can swing around to the mangroves on the west side. There’s a bar that stays above the tide. Hard to see unless you know it’s there.” He paused. “The other problem is what to do about that.” He swung his head towards Trufante. “That boy’s got a mouth on him that’ll run from here to Key West faster than you can drive.”

“I’ll have to deal with that one,” Mac said. “I couldn’t have got it here without him.”

***

Wood guided the trawler around the small island, locally known as a key — butchered vernacular of the Bahamian cay. He poled his skiff with practiced ease. Slow and strong. Mac idled behind him around the mangroves and cut the engine when Wood signaled. 

Mac looked over at Trufante trying to gauge the condition of his mate. He looked close enough to sober to be useful. The men reversed the process of bringing the bomb on board. It was soon sitting on the sandy rise. Wood pulled a machete from the skiff and handed it to the Cajun. 

“This is a young man’s game.” He signaled for Trufante to cut some mangroves to camouflage the bomb.

Trufante snorted. “Any fool knows those are protected. You can’t just cut on them.” 

“My island, my rules. Now start cuttin’. Cover the whole clearing with the camouflage net.” Wood pointed to the ball of mesh in the bow of the john boat. “Then put the branches on it.” He motioned Mac to come closer, out of hearing range.

“We’re going to have to make a plan about what to do here,” Wood said.

Mac slapped at the mosquitos circling his head, wondering why they left the old man alone. “Let me get rid of that fool and come back in the morning. I’ll bring some supplies for you if you need.”

“What the heck.” Wood shielded his weathered eyes from the setting sun, looking for the source of the barely audible engine noise.

Mac followed his gaze. A rental boat moved out of the mangroves across the way and started to pick up speed. “Fool tourists, what are they doing out here?”

Chapter 5

The vice president leaned forward in his chair and glanced at the poll numbers his campaign manager had laid out on the antique coffee table. He rubbed his bearded face and glanced out the window of the Old Executive Office Building at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, across the way. If these numbers held, he may just get there. The realization of his dream started some fifty years ago was a week away from fruition. POTUS. President Ward - he liked the sound of it. 

“They look really good, Brett.”

“Yes, sir. Take a look at the battleground states. The only one in the margin of error is Florida. We need to spend some resources down there and kick it up this week.”

“You’re sure Ohio and Virginia are a wrap?” 

“As long as there’s no October surprise, I feel pretty good about it. And I don’t see that coming, either. You’ve been sitting in this office almost two terms without a mistake. They ran you through the vetting process ten ways to Sunday before they put you on the ticket as VP eight years ago. ”

Joe Ward, VP, sat back and relaxed. “Anyone that climbs the ladder from enlisted man to fighter pilot, senator and now here has some baggage. Let’s just say there may be a skeleton or two out there. They’re just still in the closet. Besides, I really have not done much from here. You know the boss is all about control. Isn’t it plain as day that I haven’t done anything?” he reminisced. 

“It’s the vice president’s job to do nothing. You’ve backed some good causes, kept the Senate in check, and gone to some funerals. That’s a job well done for a VP. Now look at this itinerary. We’ll spend a little time in the Panhandle, maybe hit a Gators game, and head for South Florida. That’s where the votes are. We need to get those little old ladies in Dade and Broward Counties lined up to vote for you. Pack your bags, sir. We’ve got less than a week, and I mean to make the most of it.”

Ward could not hide the smile that was creeping across his face. After all these years playing second fiddle, starting as a junior senator, then moving up the ladder to head several prominent committees and finally vice president. His sixty-eight years weighed on him as he picked up the itinerary. 

“I did a big chunk of my naval service at Truman in Key West. Do you think we could get any traction with the fiftieth anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis?”

“I’ll see what I can work up. We’ll need to do some focus groups. Weigh the Cuban vote. I don’t think there’s going to be any backlash. The focus groups will tell us that. ”

***

Mac turned toward port and idled into one of the canals off the main channel of Boot Key Harbor. Marathon had canals like subdivisions had roads. The boat headed into the commercial district, behind the gas docks and bars close to the inlet. Properties here had about 100 feet of seawall. Back yards were concrete, with scattered palm trees and shade awnings. The utilitarian yards had no lawns. Lobster and crab traps were scattered as lawn ornaments, and commercial boats lined the seawall in various states of readiness. Voices came from every third or fourth property, many slurred. Dogs barked randomly.

He coasted to a stop, turned the prop toward the dock, and put the engine in reverse, slowly moving closer to an empty spot on the seawall. 

“Not working tomorrow,” Mac said as Trufante moved toward the wheel, not ready to disembark yet. “Maybe the day after. See what the weather does.”

“Hook me up with some cash then.” Trufante was close enough Mac could smell the beer on his breath. “Should be a little overtime for today, too.”

“Here’s a couple hundred.” Mac pulled two bills out of his wallet and handed them to the crewman, anxious to get the man off the boat. “I don’t want any drunk talk about what happened today. That stays between us, you hear me? I’ll sell the catch tomorrow morning, swing by and settle up with you.” 

Trufante gave him the down-on-your luck, this-isn’t-enough-money look. “Hey, you got more money than me.” 

Mac shrugged. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. Trufante was under the impression that they should split 50/50, partially because he’d run his own operation in the past. “Your boat only needs a little work, and you could do your own deal.” He scanned the property, settling his gaze on the group of people sitting in a rough circle under a roof overhang, cooled by a ceiling fan. “Get rid of your entourage up there. They’re just drinking your beer and eating your food. Not one of them is any use to you.”

“Yeah boss,” Trufante mumbled. He grabbed the bill. “You know one or two of those girls up there’s got her eyes on you. I could hook you up if you wanted.”

“No thanks, that’s trouble I don’t need.”

Trufante hopped over the side and gained his footing on the dock. He yelled up at the party, and then was gone into the darkness. 

Mac sighed in relief — that had gone better than he expected — put the boat in reverse, cut the wheel in the opposite direction, and executed a perfect U turn. Minutes later, he was out of the canal.

***

Trufante walked up to the patio and greeted his guests, flashing his big white smile at them. He was king here — these were his people. There were three men and two women sitting around in assorted chairs, using an empty wire spool for a table. Each had a beer that did not look to be their first. He grunted a greeting as he headed for the refrigerator by the back door and, two bottles in hand, returned to settle into an empty chair. 

The truth was, he had more money than Mac. Just didn’t have the inclination to do anything with it. It was an easy life hanging with his buds, drinking beer, and riding motorcycles. Katrina had forced him to make a quick move out of New Orleans. He’d been a big-time concrete contractor working on the dikes that held the Mississippi at bay … until they didn’t. Not really sure if the law was after him, but he had the sense to know that he’d never get another contract. The Keys were an easy place to blend in and hang out. There were all kinds of characters here that made him seem common, except for his smile. Two thousand dollars of bright white teeth, oversized for his mouth, gleamed whenever he grinned.