Wood's Reef (27 page)

Chapter 50

Trufante labored through the chop. The wound from the spear was open and burned from the saltwater, but otherwise he was ok. Mel was out cold, a head wound visible. The bow of Mac’s boat was still 50 yards away, bouncing in the chop. The boat they had been on was completely obliterated. He pushed the seat cushion with Mel draped over it ahead into the waves. With his arms pushing Mel and only one leg for propulsion, he was tiring quickly, and felt like he was going backwards one stroke for every two he took, the tide pulling him in the wrong direction. But he knew better than to stop for breath. The current would pull him farther away as soon as he lost momentum. 

Exhausted, he finally reached the bow of the boat and grabbed the anchor line. For the first few seconds, he felt like he might pass out, sure anyone on the boat would hear him gasping for air. After a few minutes his breath settled, but his arms felt like they were going to fall off. The anchor line was far from stationary, as the boat bounced with each wave. He’d need to make a move fast if they were going to make it at all. He looked over at Mel, still unconscious, and hoped for a piece of line or flotsam to float by so he could secure the seat cushion to the anchor line. But the current had moved the debris pile in the wrong direction. 

He released the anchor line and let the current, now in his favor, push Mel and the cushion towards the transom. He reached the dive platform and tried to lift himself up to assess the situation on the boat. But with one hand holding Mel and the other grabbing the dive platform, he had no leverage to gain a vantage point. He kept as low as possible while he crawled onto the platform itself. His six foot wingspan allowed him to hold the cushion with one hand while the other pulled at the transom, and he peered into the boat. Gillum was at the helm, facing what was left of the speedboat, seemingly entranced by the drifting flotsam and flames. He saw a dock line still attached to a cleat. In order to reach it he would have to release the cushion, leaving Mel adrift, climb over the transom, and get back with the end of the line. All without being seen and without her drifting away. A pretty good trick for a two-legged man, never mind a man with one leg out of commission. 

Fortunately, his good leg was long enough to clear the transom. His hand released the cushion and he lunged for the line. Catlike, he grabbed the end and pulled himself back onto the platform. Line in hand, he slid back into the water and stroked towards Mel who had drifted several feet. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he regained the cushion and swam back to the boat. Tied to the line, he slid both her arms through the handles of the cushion. She was temporarily safe. He climbed back on the platform, staying low, and trying to regain some strength. 

Back resting against the transom, he waited as his breath slowly came under control. He inhaled and set his good leg back over the transom. He tried to lift his injured leg, but it was like a log. Fearing he was about to crash to the deck he reached out, grabbed a trap buoy and tossed it over the side in an attempt to distract Gillum. The Captain looked over the side, his attention on the decoy, as Trufante eased his frame over the transom. Not as quickly as he would have liked, but at least he hadn’t alarmed Gillum. He reached for the bait knife they used to cut chum for the traps and made his move. In what seemed like an eternity, he got his stiff leg over the transom and moved toward the Navy man. 

Gillum heard him and turned. When he saw him, he grabbed for the weapon and fired. The shot went wide and into the water. He fired again, but the hammer just clicked, so he threw the gun at Trufante, who approached him with the knife. 

In the end, Trufante was too slow. Gillum had plenty of time to reach for the gaff, stored in clips under the starboard side. He swung and connected, the blunt end of the gaff striking Trufante on the side of the head. The Cajun staggered and went down. Exhausted from the swim and hampered by his injury, he was no match for the Navy man. Gillum stood over him, adrenaline pumping, ready to land the final blow. Then something struck his head. 

***

Mac looked at the air gauge. He had only minutes left. Left with two choices — facing Gillum on the boat, or the diver in the water — he chose Gillum. The diver posed a bigger threat, trained in underwater combat. He also considered his limited air supply. Cutting the high pressure hose to repel the shark had left the tank on fumes. Gillum, although in possession of a gun, seemed the easier target. And it didn't hurt that he had a score to settle with the Captain. He ascended, careful to surface directly under the boat. His hands kept the bouncing hull from smashing him as he worked his way, upside down, toward the bow. Once at the anchor line, he removed the equipment, inverted his body, crossed his legs over the line, and started to climb, cursing his wounded arm. Although more difficult, the element of surprise and ability to find a weapon other than the small multi-tool he had in his pocket made the bow the best entry point. The transom was too close and visible to the helm, where he figured Gillum to be. 

His feet reached the deck first. He inched his way up the line until he had enough leverage to swing his hips up and push his body forward onto the deck.

Once aboard, he slithered towards the wheelhouse, where he took cover behind a bulkhead. He peered around and waited long enough to see if he’d been discovered. Just forward was an air hatch to vent the cabin. The cover was closed. He opened the multi-tool and chose the file — the thickest and hopefully strongest blade. He inserted the tip in a gap and started to pry. The hatch opened easily, with a little pressure, and he eased slowly through the opening. Inside, he went forward to the bunk, lifted the cushion, and removed an access panel. Inside lay a shotgun. 

There was activity on the deck as he moved forward, using the furnishings for cover. Waiting in the shadows for his eyes to acclimate to the bright sunlight, he watched the two men scuffle. The sun was four fingers off the water, about an hour until it set. Blinding at this angle, he could see the pear shape of the Captain, but not who he was fighting. He moved quickly towards the men. Three steps and he was on them, the butt of the shotgun slamming into Gillum’s head, knocking him to the deck

Trufante regained his senses and squinted up at Mac. “Damn good to see ya.”

“Yeah. What about Mel? What happened to her?”

“Check off the transom. I left her on a seat cushion, tied off.”

Mac covered the distance to the transom in two strides and hopped onto the dive platform. Mel was there, just as Trufante had left her. Hand over hand he reeled in the line, pulling her onto the platform, using his body as a cushion. Even unconscious, her body felt good against him. He put that thought on hold, lifted her over the transom, and carried her to the bunk.

Chapter 51

The radio crackled. Gordon’s voice came over the static. “Woodson, this is Gordon, over.”

“I hear you,” Wood answered.

“I’m sending the chopper back to you. You should see it in a few minutes.”

Wood scanned the horizon, using his hand as a visor to block the glare from the sinking sun. He didn’t see anything, but as he put down his hand he heard the low rumble of the chopper’s engine.

“Can’t see that, can you?” Sue asked.

“No matter.”

“I’ve been watching you. Pretty sure you need glasses.”

“Hell with that. I can see just fine.”

Gordon was back on the radio. “I’ve got the pilot on your frequency. I want to get you guys and the bomb out of there. Can you sling it for him and get the wounded sailor in the basket? There’s only the pilot and one crewman in the helicopter.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that for you.” He felt no urgency in Gordon’s voice. He thought of Mac and Mel out there looking for the other bomb, and here they were just taking their time, screwing around with a harmless one. “Let’s get this moving. You know this things diffused now, don’t you. We ought to be chasing down Gillum.” 

“Roger that. There’s another chopper headed out to look for them. Out.” 

Now the pilot picked up the conversation. “I’ll be overhead in a few. I can drop a sling to you to get the cargo sent up. I want to get the casualties on first. After the slings we’ll drop a basket. Can you signal where you want it?”

“Got it.”

The chopper was back overhead now. Sue waved her arms over her head and yelled at the pilot to drop the basket by her.

“Can't hear you,” Wood said sharply.

She starred him down and focused on the basket dropping from the chopper, swinging in the wind, a tag line dangling from it.

“Grab the small line. You can use that to guide the basket in.” The line was almost there when a gust blew it to the side. She jumped for it and missed. On the ground she grabbed her ankle.

“Can you help me here?” she said from the ground, clearly in pain. 

“Yeah - I got it.”

Wood waited for the line to come close enough to grab. He signaled the pilot when he had it. 

The pilot dropped the cable lower until Wood held up a fist, letting him know it was on the ground. Then the chopper hovered as Wood removed the rigging supplies and dragged the wounded crewman into the basket. With Sue sidelined, he strained with the weight of the man, something moist dripping down his side. He labored to roll the pilot into the basket, the drip turning to a flow as warm liquid oozed from the wound. “Ready to lift.” Wood spoke into the radio.

The basket lifted, swinging in the breeze as it was raised to the waiting copter. A hand reached out of the open door and grabbed the basket as it came closer. A moment later it disappeared inside the cargo hold. A few minutes later the basket reappeared empty. Once on the ground, Sue was able to get in by herself, saving Wood the exertion. He signaled again and waved to her as she was lifted.

Alone now, Wood went over to the bomb and set to work with the rope. The bomb had rigging points welded to it that seemed to be strong enough, even after all the time in the water. He clipped the lines to each point and moved the yoke to the center, anticipating the balance of the bomb. A raised thumb, letting the pilot know he was ready, and the cable dropped from the chopper, just the hook now. Wood retrieved it and clipped it to the yoke, then signaled for the pilot to lift and crawled out of the way. The cable strained as it broke the bomb free of the sand. It started to swing, almost clipping Wood, so the pilot moved out over the water, raising the cable as he went. 

“I’ll drop the hook and harness for you.” The pilot’s voice came over the radio, but Wood shook his head.

“Negative on that. I'm not getting on that thing. I got a boat here,” he answered. 

“I have orders to get you as well. There are some folks anxious to talk to you.”

“This things not over and I’m not going on a joy ride with you guys.” He wound like a pitcher and threw the radio into the water.

He starred at the sky watching as the door to the chopper closed and the pilot set a course for Marathon.

Wood was alone for the first time in days — an awful long time to be around people for his taste. He sat back, temporarily enjoying the quiet and his freedom. But the liquid seeping from his side and the fate of Mel and Mac snapped him out of his revere. He leaned onto his good side and raised the shirt from the wound. The dressing was still in place, but it was covered in blood, yellow pus seeped from the edges of the bandage.

He got to his feet, using the spear gun for a cane. Pain flashed through his side with each step.

He stopped and dug a hole in the sand by the mangroves, well above the high tide line, where he buried the core. The Python trigger went into the backpack Sue had used to bring supplies down from the house.

As he moved down the path, the fire in his side burned more with each movement, forcing him to stop several times. He finally reached the boat and removed the camouflage. Spent from the effort, he leaned back against a tree to catch his breath, and waited until he had gained enough strength to move the boat. 

Once in the water, he would be home free. The wind had quieted and the tide was moving toward the mainland. The ride would be a lot smoother than it had been this morning. It was now or never. His strength was leaving him as he went for the trailer axle. He lifted the bow of the boat off the ground, using the axle for leverage. With a grunt, he pulled the boat forward into the well-worn grooves in the sand. It moved downhill, picking up speed as it rolled toward the water. He couldn’t control it, and had to jump out of the way as it went past. The axles hit the end of the rut and stopped with a bump, launching the boat backward into the water. Wood grabbed the backpack with the detonator and slowly waded out to the boat. Once there, he slid over the side on his belly and got the engine going. He quickly had the boat up and running on a plane, moving away from the setting sun.