Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6) (14 page)

I watched as she did the math in her head. “Wow, that’s like ten thousand dollars, at least.”

“And a good deal at twice the price. You’ve worked hard.”

She smiled and leaned on my shoulder as we watched the last of the sun slip quietly into the sea.

We turned in shortly after supper, since we actually did have a charter the next morning. A regular client from Miami was coming down to do an underwater photo shoot and had booked me for the whole morning.

I was out of bed at zero four-hundred, with the smell of fresh coffee wafting in from the galley. After hitting the head, I let Pescador out and poured a cup, then stood looking out the window facing the island’s interior. There was a light on in both the west bunkhouse and the Trents’ house.

Hearing footsteps coming up the rear steps, I opened the door and Carl walked in behind Pescador. “Charlie said breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Want some coffee?” I asked, seeing him eyeing the machine on the counter.

“Leaded?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a grin, pouring a mug for him. Charlie had started limiting the man’s caffeine intake.

He took a drink and asked, “What time you think you’ll be back?”

“Not sure,” I replied. “This photographer is doing something new, not just taking pictures of pretty fish. He’s bringing two models with him.”

“Models?”

“Yeah, underwater models. No idea what he has in mind, but he wants a deep reef with gin clear water.”

Thirty minutes later, Kim and I were aboard the
Revenge
and heading northeast in Harbor Channel, while Pescador looked on from the pier. It was still two hours until sunrise, but the client was meeting us at the
Anchor
at zero six-hundred. He wanted to be set up on a reef in forty feet of water as the sun was coming up. Something about filtered light. I was planning to take them to the far side of the G Marker, where a few low, broken finger reefs extended out to a depth of forty feet. If that didn’t work, there was always Looe Key, a large reef off of Big Pine, but it was further away and we might not make that by sunup.

Arriving at the
Anchor
, I saw the lights on inside and left Kim to tie up while I went to find our client, Peter Simpson. There was a rental car in the crushed-shell parking lot, a big white Crown Vic, so I figured they were inside having breakfast.

I was surprised to see Deuce’s boss, Travis Stockwell, sitting at the bar, sharing a large platter of fish tacos with Rusty. “Morning, Jesse,” Rusty said. “Care for some breakfast?”

“Thanks, Rusty,” I said, “but we ate before we left the island.” Then I turned to Travis. “What are you doing down here?” I asked, probably with a bit too much suspicion.

“Relax,” he said, noting the misgiving tone in my voice. “I knew you’d be here this morning and just wanted your opinion on a couple of things.”

Taking the stool next to him and accepting a mug of coffee from Rusty, I turned to the former Colonel.

“My opinion? Since when does a bird Colonel need the opinion of a fisherman?”

Stockwell had taken over as Associate Deputy Director about a year ago, when the guy that had once held that position went rogue and nearly got the President killed. We got along pretty well from the start. He’s an easygoing man in his fifties, but more fit than most men half his age.

He’d served with the Army’s Third Ranger Battalion in Somalia at the same time that I was there and had been retired for a few years when the DHS Secretary tapped him for his current position just above Deuce as the head of the Caribbean Counter-terrorism Command.

He turned toward me and arched an eyebrow. “Even us political appointees retire and go fishing sometimes.” He had my attention then as Rusty just stood behind the bar grinning. “The fact is, my appointment was an emergency stopgap after Smith’s sudden departure.”

“You? Retiring? Thinking about just dropping out in the Keys, are ya?”

“That’s part of what I wanted your opinion about. How do you think Deuce would like living in Washington?”

The realization of what he was asking and why Rusty was just standing there with a goofy grin on his face suddenly hit me like a broadside wave, causing me to nearly choke on my coffee.

“You’re retiring and recommending Deuce for your position?”

Stockwell nodded. “He’s got the right temperament for the job, his people will do anything for him and he’s a bit more imposing than me.”

“Right on all counts,” I said. “No disrespect.”

“None taken. Deuce has a way of filling a room with his presence without saying a word and when he does say something, it’s short, to the point, and people listen. He’s been well received the few times he’s been up in Washington, and last but not least, the President likes him.”

I looked over at Rusty, who was still grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Okay, what gives? You know he won’t be comfortable up there, Rusty. Neither will Jules.”

“He’s also recommending you to take over Deuce’s team,” Rusty blurted out, laughing, as Kim came through the door.

“Not a chance,” I said as Kim approached the bar.

“Not a chance of wh—?” she started to say, but I interrupted her.

“Wait a minute,” I said, turning to Travis. “How’d you know I’d be here this morning?”

He smiled slowly. “All the other team members check in twice a day, but you’re sort of in a different classification and I’d never ask you to do that. So, we monitor your website’s calendar. You never charter two days in a row, rarely more than two a week, and the dates are booked weeks in advance.”

“There’ve been plenty of times that I’ve booked a client and didn’t update the site.”

“Not lately,” Travis said, glancing at Kim. “No doubt Miss McDermitt’s influence, I presume?”

I introduced her to Travis and she sat on the stool on the opposite side of me. Rusty had a mug of coffee and a plate in front of her before she sat down, and though she’d already eaten, she took two fish tacos from the tray.

“You also refuel after you get back in from a charter, which is wise. Your boat holds seven hundred gallons of diesel fuel. Rusty’s tank here only holds a thousand and you’re the only boat that buys diesel from him. Since diesel can be used in a truck bomb, like Oklahoma City, bulk deliveries are monitored. If you forget to mark your calendar as booked, a fuel delivery here means you’re going somewhere.”

“And you think I’d be interested in taking over Deuce’s job watching when people buy fuel?”

“You know that’s not part of his job, Jesse. That’s what low-level statisticians in the basement of the Pentagon do.”

Kim put down the taco she was eating, wiped her mouth and said, “Would Dad have to deal with politicians? Cause if he would, that’s, well, it’s just not gonna work, and besides, you can’t offer enough to change that. We like our life just the way it is, right, Dad?”

I grinned at my daughter, “I couldn’t have said it better, kiddo.”

“Well, that’s out of the way, then,” Travis said with his palms up. “You are the logical successor, all the people in the team like you, but if you’re not interested, well, I made the offer. So that takes care of the official reason for my visit.” He smiled and leaned toward me. “Now, tell me about living down here.”

Just then the door opened and two young women walked in, followed by my client and his co-diver. I got up and met Peter halfway across the bar, shaking his hand.

“Good to see you again, Jesse. You remember Tom, don’t you?”

Tom Schweitzer was a long-time dive client and was now working as Peter’s underwater photography assistant. I shook his hand and he introduced me to the two women, Annette and Mitzi. The two girls headed straight for the taco platter.

“Where are you taking us, Jesse?” Peter asked. “I have something a little different in mind today.”

“I thought we’d stop on the offshore side of G Marker for starters and if the water or light isn’t good for you, we can go to the finger reefs on Looe Key.”

“G Marker should work perfectly,” Peter said thoughtfully. “I’ve dived it a time or two. I think the relief on Looe Key will be too much anyway. I want low relief, like a patch reef would provide. How soon should we leave?”

“Still an hour before daylight,” I replied, motioning toward the bar and coffeemaker. “It’s only twenty minutes to get there. Have a cup of coffee and I’ll stow your gear aboard.”

“I’ll get it, Dad,” Kim said as she nodded to the two men. “Good to see you again, Mister Simpson. Tom.” Then she was out the door.

“She’s going to allow you to retire early,” Peter said.

I led the way to the bar, where Annette and Mitzi had already started in on the fish tacos and coffee. Both looked to be in their early twenties. Annette had shoulder-length blond hair and Mitzi, longer dark hair. Both were rail thin and God only knows where they were putting the food, because they were wolfing it down like they’d been starved for days.

“Got room for a passenger?” Travis asked when I sat down next to him, the two girls having taken up my and Kim’s stools.

“I’m not interested in any more sales pitches, Colonel.”

“I know,” he said. “Wouldn’t think of it. I just happen to have two whole days free and really would like to see how you live down here.”

“You dive?”

“Yeah, I’m certified,” he replied. “Not to the level you or some of the other team members are, probably not even as capable as your daughter, but I’m comfortable in the water.”

“You’re hired for the day,” I said, sliding a dollar to him. “Kim has some admin work to do and you can help Peter and Tom, freeing her up to do that while we’re out, instead of waiting and doing it tonight.”

He picked up the dollar, stuck it in his pocket and said, “That’s it? No resumes? No interviews?”

“Down here, we like to do business on a man’s word and a handshake.”

“You have a swab, then,” he replied, holding out his hand, which I took. “But, I think next time I’ll want a raise.”

I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, I have all the gear you’ll need.” Then I turned to Peter and said, “We’ll be ready to go in fifteen minutes, Peter. Or any time after that that you’re ready.”

As Travis and I walked out of the bar, Kim was just stepping aboard with the last dive bag from Peter’s van. We helped her stow it aboard and I explained that the Colonel would be assisting Peter and Tom today, freeing her up to do some accounting chores and try to book another empty spot we had on the calendar.

“And be sure to mark it booked when you fill it,” I said, grinning at Travis. “Don’t want Big Brother to lose track of us.”

Ten minutes later, we were idling through the canal to open water. The powerful spotlight on the roof reflected off the low early morning fog hugging the water, illuminating the boats tied up along both sides from above and below. Stockwell was wrong about mine being the only boat that bought diesel here. With winter fully upon us, Rusty’s little marina was full to capacity. Most had no intention of going out, they just liked living on their boats in a warmer climate, but all fueled up on arrival and a few had diesel engines. Rusty had a guy that sold him diesel at cut-rate prices, whenever his tanker truck had leftover fuel after making his usual deliveries. It was just fifty or a hundred gallons now and then, but it kept his tank topped off most of the time.

I knew the fog would end just beyond the canal, and the forecast called for a cloudless day. With Kim entertaining the four guests in the cabin, Travis took her usual seat in the second chair and looked longingly at the boats tied up in the canal. He leaned over to try to see the instruments, but eight feet above the water, little light spilled onto the bridge.

I reached up to the console above the windshield, toggled the switch for the red overhead lights and pointed to the angled console in front of him. “Radar screen on top, sonar screen below it. Switch on the radar and set it to a five-mile range and set the sonar to forward scan.”

With the subdued light, he had to lean closer and put on a pair of reading glasses to make out the controls, but soon had the radar up and running, the image on the screen distorted by all the trees along the edges of Rusty’s property.

The sonar was sweeping forward, showing the bottom contours ahead of us. Travis looked over my plane with an appraising eye as we passed by it.
Island Hopper
was tethered on the canal bank near the mouth of the canal, an overhead light pole illuminating its bright red aluminum skin and the nose art I had a friend paint on the cowling. It was in the old WWII bomber style, but instead of the pretty girl straddling a bomb, she was lying back on a leaning palm tree, with a green flash sunset in the background and
Island Hopper
scrawled below it.

When we cleared the small jetty, the low fog disappeared and the radar image cleared up, showing nothing ahead in the darkness. I idled forward another fifty feet or so, then pushed the throttles slowly forward to the halfway point. The boat settled slightly in the stern, the big propellers pushing all the water out from beneath the hull and lifting the bow, accelerating upward as well as forward. In a few seconds the long foredeck came back down as the big boat stepped up on top of the water, planing out on the mirror smooth surface.

“Whoa,” Stockwell sighed. “That’s a shitload of power. What’s a boat like this set a man back?”

“About half a million,” I replied honestly, knowing that if anyone was able to, the man sitting beside me probably knew my finances better than anyone else could. Probably better than me. “A bit more when you add in specialty stuff.”