Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) Page 11

  Two hours later, we were passing New Ground and Doc came into the pilot house. Turning to him, I gave him the paper Santiago had given me and said, “This is nearby, isn’t it?”

  Doc took the paper and looked at it, then said, “Yeah, on the western edge, though. Another two miles, but it's only about thirty feet of water. Is this where Santiago said to make the pickup?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “But, I told him Rebecca Shoals, same day and time. After the pickup, the boat making the delivery is going to disappear. Senor Santiago is going to need a new transporter. That’s how I plan to get on the inside.”

  “How do you know it’s going to disappear?” he asked. “Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask.”

  I eyed Doc closely. My first instinct when I met him was that he was a good man. That hadn’t diminished since then. If anything, I felt even stronger that my initial instinct was right.

  “Doc,” I said. “I work as a private contractor for DHS. Santiago has come up on their radar and that’s part of the reason I’m here. Once the exchange is made, a go-fast boat will intercept the carrier and take them into custody.” I hoped I was right, at least. I still needed to contact Deuce and arrange it to happen.

  “You’re a fed?” he asked incredulously.

  “More of a merc, than a fed,” I said grinning. “I don’t carry a badge, or anything. They just pay me to do odd jobs. Take the wheel, I need to make a phone call.”

  I took the piece of paper back from him as he took the wheel and he said, “You won't get a signal out here. Nobody does.”

  I went into the cabin and opened the briefcase Julie had given me. Inside were several file folders and a satellite phone. The new kind, with a big screen you can see pictures on. Maybe even do a video call with. I set it aside and looked at the file folders. The top one was a dossier on Santiago. I set it aside also and looked at the others. They were complete workups on every man in the crew. I pulled the one out for Doc and opened it. I scanned through it, but didn't see any red flags, which would have surprised me.

  I picked up the phone and turned it on. It took a minute to familiarize myself with it, but I eventually found the contact list and Deuce's number. I hit send and Deuce answered after two rings.

  “About time you called,” he said.

  “Hey, thanks for all the paperwork,” I said. “Thought I was through with that crap when I left the Corps.” He laughed and asked what he could do for me.

  I read him the coordinates from the piece of paper and said, “I'm meeting another boat there tomorrow, to pick up 500 pounds of marijuana. Think you can arrange to have the boat picked up, after the drop is made?”

  “Sure,” he said. “No problem at all. How long do they need to be held?”

  “At least a week,” I said. “Santiago offered me a job as his bodyguard, this morning. I think I can get him to offer me a better job, if his delivery man disappears.”

  “You don't waste any time, do you?”

  “You said to cozy up to the guy,” I said.

  “What's the end game? I'll have to run all this by Director Smith, you know.” Deuce knew that I wasn't particularly fond of Jason Smith, his boss.

  “Not sure, just yet,” I said. “I want to get inside his operation as far as possible. He likes me. Says a man with nothing to lose can be valuable to him. It may mean going into Cuba.”

  “Cuba!” he exclaimed. “I don't think Smith's gonna go for that, Jesse.”

  “So, don't tell him. Nothing's definite yet, anyway. One more thing. The Revenge is still at Oceanside. Can you get some things aboard for me?”

  “What do you need?” he asked.

  “High tech electronics,” I said. “Real high tech, but easy enough for a Jarhead to use. Something that will impress Santiago and some kind of listening device that I can put in his case, or something.”

  “Well, you already have a lot of high tech stuff aboard,” he said. “I'll get with our IT person. She's top notch, used to be an analyst for the CIA. The bugs are easy enough. I'll have her send you a video message on whatever she comes up with. She loves this kind of free lancing stuff. Her name's Chyrel Koshinski.”

  “Just remember to tell her that the directions have to be at grunt level,” I said. “I'll call the marina ahead of time and let them know someone will be dropping off a package and to let them aboard. There's a spare key to the salon under the seat, at the helm.” I ended the connection and went back into the pilot house.

  “It's all set,” I said. “The boat will be detained for at least a week. You never mentioned you received a Purple Heart.”

  “What the hell!” he said. “Nobody knows that, not even Nikki. How the hell did you find out? Never mind, I don't want to know. Just keep it to yourself, okay.”

  “Why the big secret?” I said. “Because you were shot in the ass?”

  “Alright, alright,” he said laughing. “You made your point. Your friends 'cast a big shadow'.”

  We were moving west, past New Ground now and Doc asked, “Why the rush to get to Rebecca Shoals? You have people looking at satellite imaging, following the shrimp?”

  “No,” I replied. “Just a hunch.”

  An hour later, we were near Rebecca Shoals and I had Doc get the crew to drop the hook. We anchored just off the shoals, in about eighty feet of water and ate supper, then I told the crew to get some shuteye and we'd start our first trawl an hour after sunset.

  10

  Shrimp Rodeo

  I got a few hours of sleep, but was awakened an hour before sunset, by a chirping sound, like a cricket. It was the satellite phone in the briefcase. There was a video message. I opened it and saw a young woman in an office. She had short blonde hair and wore glasses. In the video, she held up two listening devices and explained how to use them. One was a flat piece of clear plastic, with a black adhesive backing, that could be stuck to clothing, preferably under a jacket lapel, she explained. All I had to do was peel off the black backing and press it in place. The second one, was a round, whitish blob that she said could be stuck under a table. It looked just like a bubble of excess urethane. It worked the same way, it would activate when the backing was peeled off. Both bugs would work for 48 hours, then become inactive and drop off. She said there would be six of each in a small case that resembled a sunglass case.

  Then she held up what looked like a regular ball point pen and explained that when you twisted the top, it activated a small charge that would emit a thick, heavy smoke once it was dropped and impacted the ground. She went on to explain that it had originally been armed by simply twisting the top, but the impact feature was added because too many people were accidentally activating it in their pocket. She said there would be three of these, each marked with innocuous company names in a color that would match the smoke, white, black, and red. The white and black were for cover and the red, for emergency.

  Then she held up a small black box, about the size and shape of a tackle box. Opening it, she took out a small object and pressed a button on its side. It unfolded itself into a small parabolic mirror, with tripod legs. She pointed out where to plug in a cord and attach it to the small amplifier in the tackle box. She then lifted a small pair of headphones and showed where they plugged in and explained that it could pick up a quiet conversation over 200 yards away, even through glass. She said it took a little practice and patience to finely adjust the aim for best results and this was the 'show off' piece.

  The last thing she displayed to me was a laptop, similar to my own. “In fact,” she said, “Mister Livingston had insisted it be this particular model, because, and I quote, ‘It's the same kind the Jarhead has on his boat’.” She went on to explain that it was loaded with an encrypted program, to video conference with the other team members. It also had real time satellite imaging capability, but satellite time was expensive and I should get authorization before using it.

  She ended the video saying, “I look forward to meeting you in person, Captain, when we
come down to your little island.” I had no idea what that was about. I powered the phone down and put it back in the briefcase, thinking everything sounded like a bunch of James Bond stuff and headed to the galley to make some coffee.

  When I got to the galley, I smelled coffee and bacon. The cook was already up and getting breakfast ready. It seemed strange having breakfast as the sun was setting, but this is the life shrimpers live and I'd have to adjust to it, at least for the week.

  “Good morning, Captain,” Paul Laudenslager said as he poured me a cup from the pot. “Sugar and cream are on the table.”

  “Thanks Paul,” I said. “Don't need either.”

  “I can bring your breakfast up to the pilot house, if you like,” he said.

  The tide was falling and the boat was facing north. So I said, “Thanks, I'll eat out on the deck, though.” I took my coffee out to the work deck. Sitting on the gunwale, leaning back on the cabin bulkhead, I looked out over the water to the west. The sea was calm, with only a slight rolling motion and small waves rolled across the shoals. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of low, dark clouds to the west, painting them in a blaze of red and purple hues. Gulls and pelicans were coming down onto the steel frame of the lighthouse, to roost for the night. They knew that throughout the night there would be a lot of food in the water around our boat and all they had to do was follow us.

  Paul brought a metal plate full with eggs, bacon, grits and toast out to me, along with the coffee pot. Handing me the plate, I suddenly realized I was hungry and dug right in, as he poured me another cup. He stood there a minute and when I looked up, I could tell he wanted to ask me something.

  “What is it, Paul?” I asked.

  “Well sir,” he started. “The crew's been talking. About you having a gun aboard.”

  “I carry a gun wherever I go. Is that a problem?”

  “Well, it's also what you said to Santiago. About not caring about anyone on board.”

  “I don't,” I said. “I was hired to do a job. My job is to bring you guys out here and bring you back safe, then put some money in your pockets at the end of the week. After that, if we never see one another again, it's not going to bother me. I'm not your Skipper, Paul. I'm your Captain. You know the difference, right?”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “I surely do.”

  “I'll do everything and anything I have to do, to ensure that every man on board gets home safe and sound. That's my job. Simple as that.”

  “Scuttlebutt says you lost your wife not long ago and that you're kind of a wild card since then.”

  I looked hard at the man then growled, “Is there a question in there?”

  “No sir,” he said. “I'll leave you to your breakfast.”

  He started to turn and I dumped the rest of the plate overboard and said, “I'm done.”

  I walked forward to the pilot house and started the engine. Then I switched the PA system over to boat-wide and keyed the mic, “Rise and shine! Get to the galley and get your bellies full. Be ready to drop nets in thirty minutes. Mister Talbot, report to the pilot house.”

  Three minutes later Doc came in and I said, “Any discussion on this boat about my wife is to cease, most riki tik, Doc.”

  “Sorry Jesse,” he said. “That's my fault. One of the crew asked and I didn't see the harm. It won't happen again.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because if it does, I'll reinstate the time honored tradition of keel hauling.” I calmed down and told Doc to go ahead on down to the galley and get some breakfast.

  Twenty minutes later the crew was on deck, ready for a nights work. We hoisted anchor and lowered the nets. We trawled the grassy flats to the east and north of Rebecca Shoals and after an hour, Doc came into the pilot house. “Looks like your hunch is paying off,” he said. “We already have to haul the nets. Take a break and I'll take the helm, while they bring 'em up.”

  I went down to the galley and got another mug of coffee. Paul had already cleaned up and had just come down to fill a thermos for the crew. “How'd you know the shrimp would be here, Captain?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” I said, “I just think like a fish. I checked the last few years of fishing reports for the area and noticed that a lot of mackerel were being taken here during this week, every year. Mackerel love shrimp. Hey Paul, I'm sorry I blew up at you earlier.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Let's go up and see what we got.”

  We went up on deck as the first net was brought aboard. It was loaded. A lot of by-catch, too. It was something I'd always hated about the shrimping industry. The nets have a device mounted in them to protect sea turtles, called a turtle extruder device, or TED for short. It's like a cage, with a trap door at the bottom and diagonal bars that force a large turtle toward the door and out of the net. I always thought the bars should be tighter, to also force fish out.

  The net was dumped onto the deck and the sorting began. There starfish, crabs, finfish of all types, even small stingrays. And there were a lot of shrimp. A whole lot. The crew was whooping and yelling with excitement, as they sorted all the edible fish from the inedible. Anything that couldn't be consumed was thrown overboard, most of them already dead. I noticed several large hogfish and pointed them out to Lupori.

  “Keep those in a separate bucket, Lupori,” I said. “Once the sorting's done, clean them and take them down to the galley.”

  “The boat's not licensed to keep finfish, Captain,” he said. “We toss most everything overboard, except what the sports fisherman can use for chum or bait. They'll be along in the morning, to trade for beer.”

  “Fortunately for us,” I said, “I am a licensed commercial fisherman. We're having blackened hogfish for supper.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain,” he replied.

  The other three nets yielded pretty much the same results. The moon was coming up and it was nearly midnight when we put the nets back out for another trawl. If our luck kept up, we'd have the hold filled early and the crew was already looking forward to an extended weekend. I let Doc keep the helm on the next trawl and joined the crew waiting for the nets to fill up again. The storm that had been forming earlier to the west was moving closer. It was still a good ten miles away, but we had to keep a close eye on it. The lighting inside the storm was almost constant, lighting up the thunderheads from within. The wind was starting to shift and had picked up a little.

  I went forward and entered the pilot house. Doc was looking out over the bow toward the storm. “Doesn't look real good, Jesse.”

  “Anything come over the radiofax?” I asked. A radiofax is like a regular fax machine, but the information comes via high frequency radio.

  “Just got one from NOAA,” he said, handing me the printout. I looked it over, noting that while the storm looked bad from where we were, it was forecast to move slightly north of us. Good news for us, bad news for the other shrimp boats on New Ground.

  “Did you warn the others yet?” I asked. “Looks like it's going to go right over New Ground.”

  “No,” he said. “It just came in.”

  I picked up the mic and spoke into it, “Miss Charlie to Night Moves. Al, do you copy?”

  Almost immediately his voice came back over the static, “This is Night Moves. You guys having any luck over there?”

  “Not too bad,” I said. “How's it going there?”

  “About the same, Jesse,” he said.

  “Did you get the radiofax on that storm to the west?” I asked

  “Hang on,” he said. “Yeah, just pulled it off the machine. Can't see it from here, how's it look?”

  “Looks like Independence Day from here, almost constant lightning.” I looked at the radar and noticed the four blips on the north side of New Ground. “Maybe you guys ought to move south of New Ground, before it gets too close. Hell of a lot of electricity out there.”

  “Thanks, Jesse,” he said. “We just might do that.”

  I hung up the mic and looked at Doc. “They're not going to,”
he said. “Al's about the most stubborn man I ever met.”

  “Well, I'm not,” I said. We were heading west on the northeast side of the shoals, about half a mile away. “Come southwest and make for the windward side of Isaac Shoal. We'll pull the nets when we pass Isaac and see what the storm looks like then.”

  Doc made a slow, sweeping turn that took half an hour. By the time we were headed southwest, we were nearly due east of Isaac Shoal and the nets were full again. We kept a close eye on the storm as the crew emptied the nets and sorted the catch. When we were ready to drop the nets again, the storm was only about five miles northwest of us.

  “Head south at ten knots for twenty minutes,” I said. “That should put us far enough away from any stray lightning. I'll go tell the guys to get lunch.”

  After lunch, we dropped the nets again and headed west then north, as the storm passed by us. The third and fourth trawl of the night were only slightly less productive than the first two, but with less by-catch. As the sky to the east started getting the first hints of purpling the dawn not far off, Williams came into the pilot house with a big grin.

  “Over 900 pounds, first night out,” he said. “You just broke Captain Trent's best night ever, Skipper.”

  “Really?” I said. “How much can we carry?”

  Doc looked at Williams, then me and said, “Four thousand pounds, but that'd mean a really slow ride home. Captain Trent usually calls it a week at three thousand pounds.”

  I ran the math in my head and said, “That'd be what, $10,000? If the next few nights go as well as tonight, I'd say that'd be a pretty profitable four days.”