Brigands Key Page 21

  “Sir…”

  “Turn the bird around, Adams. Our mission’s done. We’re going home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sanborn dashed from one side of the bridge to the other. The Ellie June blasted through, kicking up a high wake. Hammond had the engines opened full throttle.

  The two trailing patrol boats roared along in pursuit, “No Wake Zones” be damned. Maybe they could be ticketed for that.

  The boat to the north arced across the channel to cut Hammond off, but it was hopeless. Short of slamming into Ellie June or opening fire, there was little the boat could do to stop her. There was little chance of either happening. Wasn’t there?

  To Sanborn’s horror, the boat opened fire, spitting flames in staccato bursts. Screams erupted around him.

  Bullets struck the water in a line of geysers that raced toward Ellie June. Hammond swerved east, bullets smacking the water where he would have been a split-second later. He crouched low. Ellie June raced toward the mainland, and the northern patrol boat accelerated after it. She was faster than the bigger vessel and separated from it, swinging northwest once more and straightening course.

  Heading straight for the patrol boat.

  “Oh God,” Mayor Johnson murmured next to Sanborn. He was chewing his fingernail. “I’m going to skin Hammond alive and fly his hide from a flagpole.”

  A hand clamped onto Sanborn’s shoulder and turned him. Frank Walters. “They’re shooting us again. You gonna do something this time?”

  “Frank, calm down. What do you think anyone can do right now?”

  Walters turned and stalked away.

  Sanborn hurried over to Tommy Greenwood. “Keep an eye on Frank Walters. He’s losing it.”

  Greenwood nodded and edged his way through the crowd toward Walters.

  The deck gun of the Coast Guard boat rattled, spitting yellow fire. Again, a line of geysers exploded around Ellie June. Pieces of the boat flew apart, splintering with the smack of bullets. Still the boat raced onward.

  The deck gun spat again and the windows of Ellie June exploded. The bow rail leapt upward, fell, and dragged alongside the boat, skimming the water.

  “Turn, Jerry,” the mayor groaned. “They’ll kill you!”

  Ellie June closed swiftly, coming apart as it charged into the hail of fire. Still no change in course. Closer, closer…

  The Coast Guard boat swerved at the last second. The gunner stumbled from the deck gun, but his harness kept him attached and flailing wildly. The gun discharged into the night sky. Tracers streaked into the blackness and fell in the distance.

  Ellie June blew past the lighthouse and thundered into the rough seas off the north end of the island. The three Coast Guard boats chased her. The gunner on the lead boat recovered and regained control of his gun. He swung it about and took long aim. Fire leaped from the deck gun and the bursts of sound echoed across the water.

  More pieces of Ellie June flew off and skipped along the water’s surface, keeping pace with her.

  A flash of light, an explosion, a shock wave. Ellie June blew apart, its tanks pierced by white-hot bullets. A deafening roar. Chunks of the boat flew high and fell in flame like meteors and crashed into the sea.

  Burning flotsam littered the sea, the flames streaking the black water with gold.

  * * *

  Carson Grant leaned into the wheel of Lost Expedition, bracing himself against the impact of waves. Rain and ocean sprayed horizontally, splashing his face, dimming his vision, as the boat climbed and fell across tossing waves. He glanced at Charley. In the dark, he couldn’t make out the kid’s features, but he could read posture. The kid had a death grip on the gunwale and dash.

  “You alright?” Grant shouted.

  “Time of my life,” Charley shouted back.

  The bow raised high on a wave, teetered on the crest for a moment, and slammed down into the trough. The impact jarred Grant, running up and down his spine.

  He tried to project a devil-may-care spirit but felt far from it. For the hundredth time he cursed himself for such lunacy.

  What had he been thinking? Ramming a twenty-four footer straight into the mouth of a monster hurricane? And putting Charley’s life in mortal danger bordered on criminal.

  Just thirty minutes ago, he’d considered one last time the wisdom of it all before turning the boat out from the south leeward edge of Brigands Key. Celeste was still miles out at sea, churning for the island, packing hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour winds. The leading edge wouldn’t hit for another four hours, plenty of time to find whatever the hell it was they were supposed to find. It could be done. Lost Expedition had ridden plenty of storms in its day.

  Madness. Those storms were thunderstorms, mean sons of bitches to be sure, but kittens against the hurling waves fueled by the coming hurricane.

  The boat lifted and slammed down again, laboring forward. He had the powerful engines open full, but they were making half-speed at best.

  But turning back was out of the question. Always had been. Kyoko had just one chance, and that lay with Grant succeeding. She wasn’t going to die if he had a breath left to fight for her.

  He pushed aside thoughts of what lay ahead in the furious open sea.

  He peered at his watch, though reluctant to take his eyes off the pounding waves for even a second. “Give me a reading,” he shouted.

  Charley wiped the glowing screen of the GPS with his sleeve. “Getting close. Half a mile.” He pointed. “Got to correct, ten degrees starboard.”

  Grant made the correction and felt the impact immediately and nervously. He’d been holding as best he could to a line slightly off straight into the waves, letting the boat pierce them and ride over them. Moving even slightly farther to starboard allowed the waves to crash into the port side. Lost Expedition rolled and shuddered.

  “Hell of a boat, huh, Charley?”

  Charley didn’t answer.

  “Take the wheel, Charley.”

  “You crazy? I can’t handle this storm.”

  “Time is of the essence. We’re passing my spring right about now, and we’re a couple hundred yards from the target coordinates. I want to be ready to go soon as we get there. Take the wheel.”

  Charley shook his head vigorously.

  Grant released the wheel and stepped back. The boat lurched and rolled.

  Charley grabbed the wheel and shoved it back, nose into the waves. “Don’t do that!”

  “You’re a natural-born sea captain, kid. You’ve got to navigate and steer at the same time now. But I got faith.”

  Charley shrugged angrily away but leaned into the wheel and glanced at the GPS. “Getting close,” he grumbled.

  Grant peeled off his wet clothes and pulled on a swimsuit. He went to the locker underneath the cabin, dialed up the combination, and removed scuba tank, regulator, BC vest, weight belt, mask, fins, lamps. He moved quickly, trusting in his maintenance of the gear. The tank, the only one he’d kept juiced, had a couple thousand psi, maybe a half-hour’s air, if he didn’t go too deep. That should do; if he wasn’t back in a half-hour, he was most likely already dead.

  He shouldered vest and tank on, fitted his belt, pulled on the fins, and took a good spit into the face mask and rinsed it clean. “Ready here, Charley,”

  “And…” Charley said, squinting at the GPS, “ready here. Right smack dab over the target.” He reached for the ignition key.

  “Uh-uh,” said Grant. “Go another twenty yards west; the current is gonna push me east, no matter how hard I swim. Then leave the engine running, throttled way down. The wind and waves will shove you hundreds of yards in minutes without power, and in this storm you’ll need to correct constantly to stay nose up into the waves. Plus, boats are finicky; you kill the engine, it may not start up again.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Charley, I’ve got a half-hour’s air. Check your watch. After thirty-five minutes, get the hell out of here and go find your girlfriend.”

  C
harley nodded, and positioned the boat another twenty to the west. “What you think is down there?”

  “You know what it’s all about. Treasure. Gold, silver, jewels. That was Roscoe’s passion. This area wasn’t on the Spanish Main but pirates plied these waters. Could be a pirate’s wreck. Could be a Confederate blockade runner, full of goods bound for England or full of gold back from England. Could be a cargo-hauler. Almost all wrecks have monetary value if you know what to look for. But this can’t be just any old wreck, to inspire kidnapping and murder. Roscoe finally found the strike he’d been after, but someone got the drop on him.”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “My middle name.” Grant pulled the mask down onto his face and took the mouthpiece in. He hooked the lamp onto his vest and switched it on. He stepped over the transom, seated himself on the dive platform, gave a thumbs up, and pushed himself off and into the sea.

  A wave tumbled him end over end, disorienting him. The tank shifted on his back, throwing his balance further. The regulator hose twisted around his neck. He shoved the tank back, just as another wave rolled him. He had to get below the storm right away or this mission was still-born. He righted himself and kicked hard down into the ink of the night sea.

  Below the surface the waters pushed and surged but were child’s play compared to the tempest on the surface.

  He became aware of his heart thudding in his chest.

  Calm down, damn it.

  Grant gripped the lamp and pointed downward. All he could see was blackness, a peculiar clear blackness, with flecks of white drifting and surging through.

  The primeval gut-fear of the unknown ran through him. Blackness, water with no bottom.

  Down he went, fighting the current, sweeping all directions with the beam of his lamp.

  He knew the depth before getting off the boat. Eighty-three feet. A good fifty feet deeper than Grant’s Eye. Whatever it was, it rested at the foot of a slope.

  The slope came into view. To his right, the craggy limestone plunged into the depths at forty-five degrees. Sea fans clung to it, waving in the currents, and sponges and urchins gave it an otherworldly beauty, brilliantly colored, starkly shadowed in the glow of the lamp.

  He followed it downward.

  Forty, fifty, sixty feet. Equalizing the pressure in his head. Seventy...

  And then he saw it.

  He stared in disbelief, forgetting to breathe.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The wreck lay on its side, split wide in the belly, its profile as recognizable as if it were a page in a book. The long slender hulk, rusting, covered with growth, torn and gaping amidships, the jutting prow, the tower, the shattered deck gun...

  A German U-boat.

  Grant was a student of ships and the sea. He knew the maritime history of the Gulf of Mexico as well as anyone. This ship shouldn’t—couldn’t—be here.

  He shook himself. This was nothing he’d imagined but this wasn’t the time to wonder how it got here.

  He kicked down to the U-boat’s bow, touched the bent railing that lined its deck. A cloud of white drifted from it, the steel rotting and coated with the slippery growth of the sea.

  He gripped the rail and pulled himself along. Instinct urged him to hurry the hell up, but reason kept his brakes applied. It would do no good to rush through and miss something vital. He paused and surveyed the sea bottom nearby, looking for anything that may have spilled free of the wreck. Finding nothing, he continued.

  The deck gun lay half-buried in silt, intact, undamaged except for the corrosion.

  He moved on, stunned by the immensity of the vessel. He had thought that World War II-era U-boats were not that big, but this craft stretched into the blackness.

  Amidships, the conning tower jutted from the deck. Corroded spears of steel—the periscope and antennae—projected sideward from it. Aft of the tower was more weaponry, a two-barreled anti-aircraft gun.

  He swam through the spires atop the tower, found the hatch. He tugged at the door. It refused to budge, fused by years and rust to the tower itself. He gave up and moved down the tower to the deck.

  There, just aft of the tower, yawned the submarine’s death wound.

  He shone the lamp into the hole and looked down the length of the hull toward the prop. There were a few small holes but no other breaks in the hull big enough for passage. And only a few pieces lay strewn along the bottom. Not much point continuing to the stern. This was it.

  He again shone the lamp into the black gash. The gash was perhaps six feet wide. Inside, shadows danced in light.

  Now or never. He pulled himself inside, careful not to snag his gear on the jagged metal.

  The interior was a tangle of twisted metal. He peered fore and aft. Submarines were notoriously cramped even in the best of times. When they’ve been shipwrecked at the bottom of the sea for six decades, they’re nearly impassable.

  Nearly.

  As he wriggled his entire body within, a brown wisp swirled and drifted up around him. Just what he needed and feared most. The wall of the sub below him had silted up. He reached down, fanned it, and put his hand into the silt. His hand sank into the mud to his elbow.

  The diver’s nightmare. Many times, he’d explored submerged limestone caves under Florida, and many times he’d pulled the bodies of drowned divers free. Most had become disoriented in the twisting labyrinths of caves, their disorientation heightened by the clouds of silt they’d inadvertently kicked up, reducing visibility to zero. Lost and blind, underwater, underground. The very definition of terror.

  This drowned sub mimicked those conditions, amplified by a hundred, with jagged edges ready to slice him up.

  Despair crept into his thoughts. Success was an impossibility. Everything looked the same inside the sub and he still had no idea what he was looking for.

  Was Kyoko’s kidnapper simply mistaken, simply expecting a treasure-laden merchant ship?

  Did U-boats carry valuables? Maybe in movies, carrying the hoarded gold of escaping officials of the Third Reich. But that was Hollywood. Real warships carried weapons of war, provisions, sometimes cargo, sometimes spies. They weren’t operated for profit; they were operated for mayhem.

  He glanced at his pressure gauge. Sixteen hundred psi left.

  He had little idea of the layout of a U-boat, other than generally. The torpedo tubes would be forward, although some U-boats could also fire torpedoes from the stern. Engine rooms would logically be close to the stern and the propeller. Command and control would be amidships, under the conning tower. Right where he was.

  He began to pick out details around him that verified the control center. Dials, gauges, and switch-panels, obscured by growth, lined the wall. Grant wiped one gauge clear, exposing the intact glass and needle within. A few words written in German showed through.

  He moved along, studying the instruments. He pulled his way around a collapsed section and squeezed through an open hatch.

  Jumbled along the bottom were the bones of five human skeletons. Their skulls gleamed a sepia color in the beam of his light. He instinctively recoiled from the bones and brushed against a tangle of pipes. A skeleton, held together by a tatter of rags, fell apart from the pipes and clattered into him. The skull fell against his face mask, loosening it, and sank to the bottom.

  Steady now…

  He shook the bones free, adjusted his mask, closed his eyes for a moment. Claustrophobia, his old inner demon, threatened to take him.

  He desperately wanted to remove himself, calm himself, steady his pulse. But the situation forbade it. Put it behind you. Think of Kyoko...

  He moved on.

  His light flickered and went out.

  He shook it. It blinked once and went dead again.

  He was immersed in total darkness, in a tomb of human skeletons at the bottom of the sea, at night in a hurricane.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charley fought the boat with all his strength. He’d piloted boats bigger and sm
aller than this before in bad weather, but this was a whole new level of fury.

  The sea morphed and grew with each passing minute as Celeste thundered ever closer. The wind whipped and thrummed, not consistent with the waves, pushing him one way while the sea tried to push him another. Plowing ahead from the island to get here was bad enough, but the momentum of the boat had given it stability. Trying to keep Lost Expedition hovering over one point in a pitching sea was another thing altogether. He could only run the engine at a low throttle to keep it from moving while the elements lashed at it.

  A sudden strong gust swept the boat’s stern wildly, pushing the beam nearly broadside to the waves. He strained against the wheel, forcing it back, just as a ten-footer reared and slammed into the boat. Spray flew into his face and eyes, the salt stinging. He spat, dragged his forearm across his eyes.

  The boat heeled over crazily. This is it, we’re going over, he thought. He spread his stance wide, gripped the windshield, and shoved the throttle lever forward. He needed momentum or the boat would capsize with the next wave.

  The engine roared and Lost Expedition lunged. He regained control of the boat and turned into the next wave just before it struck.

  In ten seconds, he moved fifty yards. He had to get back on point, back over whatever the hell Grant was diving on. He cupped his hand over the LED screen of the GPS to guide him back.

  The GPS screen was dark.

  Cold fear kicked him in the pit of his stomach. He was navigating blind. He glanced at his watch. Grant would not be back for another fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  Immersed in impenetrable darkness, Grant glanced back in the direction he’d come. Pointless. Light was absent, except for the ghosts of light that played in his eyes and mind.

  He was out of reach of the gash in the hull, it being back one compartment. He might be able to feel his way back to it, but that would be exceedingly risky. It had been hard enough picking his way through the tangle of metal with the light.