Wood's Reef (21 page)

He eyed the waist belt PFD he used for paddling, a multi-tool hanging from a carabiner on its belt. It was only a few feet inside. Reluctant to go back in, he looked around but saw no other option. Gas and vapor filled the space now, the wind acting as a fan to keep the fumes in the building. He took several deep breaths, totally emptying his lungs with each effort. He held the last breath and repeated the process of tipping the chair back and forth, walking it forward with each effort. He moved the back of the chair to the belt and grabbed at it with his index fingers. His lungs burned from holding his breath as he rushed to get out of the door. The chair tipped over, dumping him onto the floor. The good air left his lungs upon impact, then he automatically grabbed for air. Fumes filled his lungs. Coughing, he rolled the chair towards the door, trying to get outside and escape the fumes. 

He made it and once in the fresh air, his head cleared. The tool had a serrated blade, which made short work of the duct tape. Free from his restraints, he took a deep breath and ran into the house. He righted the bleach bottle, stopping the drip. Out of air, he tried to breathe and gagged, almost throwing up. The mixture had stopped smoking now, but he had no idea how stable it was. He ran back outside to refresh his burning lungs and breathed deeply again. A few deep breaths, the last one held, and he was back inside. He grabbed the pan from the floor and moved as fast as he could without spilling the volatile liquid. Once clear of the building, he poured the contents slowly onto the gravel drive. Better a little gas in the earth than an explosion. The immediate danger over, he planned his next move.

***

He grabbed his BC and regulator. His mask and fins were on the boat, but he quickly found an extra set. Reviewing the mental checklist in his head, he moved toward his office. The gun safe was in the back of the closet, and he removed the pistol and placed it in his waistband. At the desk, he keyed the mike on the VHF radio, already on channel 16. He hailed his boat several times with no response. That didn’t surprise him; if Trufante or Wood had anything to do with this, you could count on the radio being off. 

The computer was still on, though, with Mel’s email screen open. He closed the window and clicked an icon on his desktop. Although he wasn’t generally paranoid, a window opening required a password. He entered his and the file opened. All the GPS numbers he had accumulated over the years appeared in a spreadsheet. Several columns of numbers came up, meaningless to anyone not familiar with longitude and latitude. The numbers were listed in ascending order, making it easier for him to place them in his head. Novices needed to plot the numbers either manually on a chart with a lat/lon grid, or by using a computer program. Mac had worked with these numbers for years, though, and visualized the location of each. The third column contained the waypoint number in his GPS. 

His cell phone sat on the desk, undisturbed since yesterday. He grabbed it, hoping there was enough battery. He was sure Mel would be attached to her phone. He tried to call, but it went to voice mail. His next attempt was through a text message. He texted her the waypoint number and lat/lon coordinates, laboring over the numbers, triple checking that he’d got them right. The last line of the text asked her to meet him there. His lungs still burned with every breath as he made the decision to go after Gillum.

***

Gillum was pacing outside the SUV as the sheriff's truck and trailer pulled up to the ramp. The deputy already on site began directing the busy boat traffic to clear a path as Jules started backing the triple-axle trailer toward the ramp. There was room for half a dozen boats to put in, and despite the wind, all the spaces were occupied, with several boaters impatiently waiting. He stopped a truck that was just about to back in and directed it to move out of the way. The driver shot a look but obeyed. Once clear he motioned for Jules to back into the space. 

The SUV dropped back, the trailers wheels submerging in the water. The deputy at the cockpit held up a fist, signaling for her to stop. He checked that the motor was down and fired it up. The 27-foot Contender slipped off the trailer, the deputy guiding it into a space at the adjacent dock. The Navy crewmen quickly loaded the boat and started stowing gear, while the Sheriff got out of the truck. 

“Someone better stay on land and coordinate this thing. I’m gonna try and track down the two terrorists here. My deputy will take you.” She turned to the deputy. “Keep me posted. Whatever the Captain says goes.” 

The boat moved toward the no wake buoy, turned, and accelerated. The twin 275 hp engines had the boat on plane in a few seconds and it moved out of sight around the corner. She parked and went to the deputy's car, still under the shade tree. Once inside, air conditioning running, she got on the radio and put out a BOLO for the two suspected terrorists. There were too many people involved in this now to play it low key.

Chapter 39

Trufante had the wheel. He leaned against the seat, taking weight off his injured leg. The boat was making ten knots, pitching forward with each wave. Spray drenched the deck as the bow rose and fell. It was only two foot seas, but driven by the wind, they were whitecaps and stacked up close together. The seas were following now, the waves running with the boat. It would be much worse coming into them on the way back. Wood was below, laid out in a bunk. Sue and Mel sat at his side. 

Mel watched his face as his brow furrowed with every bump.

“By the dawns early light, who taught him how to run a boat?” Wood muttered.

“Easy, Dad, it’s pretty messy out there. We’ll be at your place in a few minutes.”

“Tell him to bring her into the lee of the island. That’s the side the bomb is on, and out of the wind. Let me know when we get there.” He rolled over, burying his face in the cushion.

Sue motioned for Mel to come out onto the deck. Once outside, she raised her voice to be heard over the engines and wind. “He can’t take much more of this. Even if those staples hold, there’s no telling whether there’s more internal damage.”

“There’s not much we can do until we get there. Once we get the bomb onboard, we can just park him out there. Probably where he wants to be anyway.”

“If you can talk him into it, I’ll call in sick and stay out with him. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Thanks.” Mel looked down at the text message just coming into her phone. She moved over to the helm and showed it to Trufante. 

He squinted at the small screen and smaller letters, her hand bouncing with the rhythm of the boat. “If we were sitting in a bar on land I couldn’t make that out. You’ll have to read it to me.”

“Just says to meet Mac at waypoint 59 in an hour. These must be the coordinates.” She texted back.

“Wonder what’s going on out there.” Trufante turned on the chart plotter and waited for the unit to acquire a signal. An hourglass spun on the screen as the unit calculated it’s position from the satellites it used to navigate. The display changed to a menu, and he went to the waypoint view and scrolled to 59. An arrow came up on the chart plotter, showing the location of the waypoint overlaid on a chart. “That’s where we found that thing,” he said slowly. “Wonder what he’s up to?”

“There’s Dad’s place.” Mel pointed to the island in the distance. “He said to go around to the lee side of it.”

“Yeah, makes sense. That’s where we left the bomb. I’m going to have to go in a big loop to miss the sandbars. It’s low tide now, gonna take a few.”

“Let me know when. I’m going to look in on him.”

Sue was by his side when Mel came over next to her. “How’s that leg holding up?” 

“Hurts a bit, but I’ll live.” He grinned at her. “We get back from this, I’ll have to get a nurse to help me out.”

She smacked his arm. “So what’s really going on here? I’ve been picking up bits and pieces about a bomb. What are you guys really into?”

Trufante put his arm around her. “Well little lady, it kinda goes like this …”

***

No one had to tell Wood when they pulled around the island. The seas went to glass, the wind buffered by the island. The boat coasted smoothly through the water. He gained his feet and fought his way up the ladder one rung at a time, pausing between each step.

“Actually made it without wrecking. Pull her up onto that sand bar there.” He pointed toward the shore. The sand bar was about fifty feet off the beach. “We can ground her. By the time we’re done, the tide should float us back off.”

Trufante slowly approached the sandbar, nudging the bow, then gunning the engine slightly to ground the boat. The scar left by the boat that crashed was still visible as he stopped. “What’s your plan now? We’re two cripples and two women. How’re we gonna get that thing ought’a there?”

“No worries, it ain’t a bomb without the guts. Should have done this before, and never got the Navy involved. I’m gonna try and pull the trigger mechanism and then see if I can get the warhead out of it. Never did it myself, but I used to watch the ordnancemen all the time.”

“That’s a ballsy maneuver. You sure you know what you’re doing? I got a lot more beer to drink before I’m ready to meet my maker.”

“Just get those girls to pull the paddleboard down. You stay here with the boat. I’ll grab some tools and the girls can get me in there. I’ll give it my best shot. No telling what the inside of that thing looks like after sitting in salt water for so long - could be nothing left.”

“That’s good, because Mac texted Mel and wants us to meet him at the spot where we pulled this up.”

“Goddam it to hell. Fifty years those bombs have sat down there undiscovered. Now they’re both out.”

***

The paddleboard moved easily through the water. Wood lay prone, Mel on one side, Sue on the other, guiding it. They reached the shore and helped Wood off the board. Mel and Sue supported him as they made their way towards the bomb. They both glanced at the wrecked boat before moving to the bomb. Camouflage pulled back, the bomb shone dimly in the sun. Wood got down on his knees, removed a screwdriver from the box they had brought from the boat and started to remove the access panel. The screws were bound — years or saltwater had corroded them just enough to weld them to the metal. 

“Can you find the house from here?” he asked Mel. 

She gave him the look only a daughter can give her father. “What do you need?”

“In the top drawer of the tool cabinet is a set of easy outs. They look like little spiral things. Grab them, and there’s a battery drill right by it. Better get both batteries.”

Mel headed toward the house to retrieve the tools. Wood tried to get comfortable, his back against the bomb.

Chapter 40

Doans was pretty much soaked by now, the low freeboard of the boat offering little protection from the spray. Next time he’d have to steal a better boat. No wonder that couple fought like that with this piece of crap. The salt water hit his face again as he pulled back on the throttle. He slowed down, surveying the broken water. It was much harder to see the bottom features when it was this choppy. He was halfway to the island, an area he knew was loaded with obstructions. On a typical Keys day, you could see the bottom clearly, almost watch the turtle grass swaying in the gentle current like wheat in a breeze. The sandbars and shoals stood out in stark contrast to the sandy bottom. Not today, though. The slate grey water was unreadable. 

He took his handheld GPS from his pocket and wiped off the broken screen with his shirt tail. Hoping it still worked after the crash, he waited for it to start up. It was hard to read through the cracked plastic. The screen showed his progress in real time. Ahead was the mark he had put in before running aground and hitting the old man. He navigated toward it, trying to remember where the shoals were. 

His mind was drifting when a wave took the boat on the beam. He looked around and saw another, larger wave - the wake from the lobster boat, coming at him. The next wave caught him before he could correct course, knocking him to the deck. He lay there for a moment waiting for his vision to clear. As he turned to get up he saw a waterproof box secured in the open compartment below the steering wheel. His injuries forgotten he pulled the box out, got to his feet and set it on the seat. The latches opened, he removed the revolver from the foam surrounding it. The barrel spun in his hand revealing six bullets. Thank God for rednecks he thought as he placed the gun in his waistband.