Thunder Point

11

It was a beautiful morning when Dillon and Ferguson went down to the dock. Sea Raider was tied up, no sign of anyone around, and Privateer was moving out to sea with four people seated in the stern.

“Perhaps we got it wrong,” Dillon observed.

“I doubt it,” Ferguson said. “Not that sort of fellow.”

At that moment Carney turned on to the end of the dock and came toward them pushing a trolley loaded with air tanks. “Morning,” he called.

“Thought you’d left us,” Dillon said, looking out toward Privateer.

“Hell, no, that’s just one of my people taking some divers out to Little St. James. I thought we’d use Sea Raider today because we’ve a lot further to go.” He turned to Ferguson. “You a good sailor, Brigadier?”

“My dear chap, I’ve just called in at the gift shop to obtain some seasickness pills of which I’ve taken not one but two.”

He went on board and climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, where he sat in solitary splendor on one of the swivel seats while Dillon and Carney loaded the tanks. When they were finished Carney went up, joined Ferguson and switched on the engines. As they eased away from the dock, Dillon went into the deckhouse. He wasn’t using his net dive bag, had put his diving gear into the olive-green army holdall Stacey had given him in St. Thomas. Underneath was the AK assault rifle, stock folded, and a thirty-round clip inserted ready for action plus an extra magazine. There was also his ace-in-the-hole Belgian semi-automatic which he’d retrieved from the jeep. As with all Sport Fishermen, there was a wheel in the deckhouse as well as on the flying bridge so the boat could be steered from there in rough weather. Dillon felt under the instrument panel until he encountered a metal surface and clamped the holster and gun in place.

He went up the ladder and joined the others. “What’s our course?”

“Pretty well due south through Pillsbury Sound, then south-west to French Cap.” Carney grinned at Ferguson, who swung from side to side as the boat started to lift over waves to the open sea. “You okay, Brigadier?”

“I’ll let you know. I presume you would anticipate our friends from the Maria Blanco following?”

“I’ve been looking, but I haven’t seen anything yet. There’s certainly no sign of the Maria Blanco herself, but then they’d use the white launch we saw at Carval Rock. That’s a good boat. Good for twenty-five or -six knots. I don’t get much more than twenty out of this.” He said to Dillon, “There’s some glasses in the locker if you want to keep a weather eye open.”

Dillon got them out, focused and checked astern. There were a number of yachts and a small vehicle ferry with trucks on board crossing from St. Thomas, but no launch. “Not a sign,” he said.

“Now I find that strange,” Ferguson observed.

“You worry too much, Brigadier,” Carney told him. “Now let’s get out of here,” and he pushed the throttle forward and took Sea Raider out to open water fast.

The launch was there, of course, but a good mile behind, Serra at the wheel, his eye occasionally going to the dark screen with the blob of light showing what was the Sea Raider. Algaro stood beside him and Noval and Pinto busied themselves with diving equipment in the stern. Algaro didn’t look good. He had a black eye and his mouth was bruised and swollen.

“No chance of losing them?”

“No way,” Serra said. “I’ll show you.” There was a steady and monotonous pinging sound coming from the screen. When he swung the wheel, turning to port, it raised its pitch, sounded frantic. “See, that tells us when we’re off track.” He turned back to starboard, straightening when he got the right sound again, checking the course reading.

“Good,” Algaro said.

“How are you feeling?” Serra asked.

“Well, let’s put it this way. I’ll feel a whole lot better when I’ve sorted those bastards out,” Algaro said, “particularly Dillon,” and he turned and went and joined the others.

The water heaved in heavy, long swells as they drifted in to French Cap Cay. Dillon went to the prow to lower the anchor while Carney maneuvered the boat, leaning out under the blue awning of the flying bridge to give him instructions.

“There’s what we call the Pinnacle under here,” he said. “Its top is about forty-five feet down. That’s what we’re trying to catch the anchor on.” After a while he nodded. “That’s it,” he called and cut the engines.

“What are we going to do?” Dillon asked as he zipped up his diving suit.

“Not much we can do,” Carney told him as he fastened his weight belt. “It’s around ninety-five feet at the most, ranging up to fifty. We can do a turn right round the rock base and general reef area. The visibility is incredible. You’ll not find better anywhere. That’s why I don’t believe this is the right spot. That U-boat would have been spotted before now. By the way, I think you picked up my diving gloves by mistake yesterday and I’ve got yours.” He rummaged in Dillon’s holdall and found the rifle. “Dear God,” he said, taking it out. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” Dillon said as he pulled on his fins.

“An AK47 is considerably more than that.” Carney unfolded the stock and checked it.

“I would remind you, Mr. Carney, that it was our friends who fired the first shot,” Ferguson said. “You’re familiar with that weapon?”

“I was in Vietnam, Brigadier. I’ve used one for real. They make a real ugly, distinctive sound. I never hope to hear one fired again.”

Carney folded the stock, replaced the AK in the holdall and finished getting his diving gear on. He stepped awkwardly on to the diving platform at its rear and turned. “I’ll see you down there,” he said to Dillon, inserted his mouthpiece and tumbled backwards.

Serra watched them from about a quarter of a mile away through a pair of old binoculars. Noval and Pinto stood ready in their diving suits. Algaro said, “What are they doing?”

“They’ve anchored and Dillon and Carney have gone down. There’s just the Brigadier on deck.”

“What do you want us to do?” Noval asked.

“We’ll go in very fast, but I won’t anchor. We’ll make it a drift dive, catch them by surprise, so be ready to go.”

He pushed the launch up to twenty-five knots and as it surged forward, Noval and Pinto got the rest of their equipment on.

Carney hadn’t exaggerated. There were all colors of coral, barrel and tube sponges, fish of every description, but it was the visibility that was so incredible, the water tinged with a deep blue stretching into a kind of infinity. There was a school of horse-eyed jacks overhead as Dillon followed Carney and a couple of manta rays flapped across the sandy slope to one side.

But Carney had also been right about the U-boat. No question that it could be on a site like this. Dillon followed him along the reef and the base of the rock until finally Carney turned and spread his arms. Dillon understood the gesture and swung round for the return to the boat and saw Noval and Pinto ahead of them and perhaps twenty feet higher. He and Carney hung suspended, watching them, and then the American gestured forward and led the way back to the anchor line. They paused there and looked up and saw the keel of the launch moving in a wide circle. Carney started up the line and Dillon followed him, finally surfacing at the stern.

“When did they arrive?” Dillon asked Ferguson as he shrugged off his jacket and tank.

“About ten minutes after you went down. Roared up at a hell of a speed, didn’t put the anchor down, simply dropped two divers over the stern.”

“We saw them.” Dillon took his gear off and looked across at the launch. “There’s Serra the captain and our old chum Algaro glowering away.”

“They did a neat job of trailing us, I’ll say that,” Carney said. “Anyway, let’s get moving.”

“Are we still going to try this South Drop Place?” Dillon asked.

“I’m game if you are. Haul up the anchor.”

Noval and Pinto surfaced beside the launch and heaved themselves in as Dillon went into the prow and started to pull in the anchor, only it wouldn’t come. “I’ll start the engine and try a little movement,” Carney said.

It made no difference and Dillon looked up. “Stuck fast.”

“Okay.” Carney nodded. “One of us will have to go down and pull it free.”

“Well that’s me obviously.” Dillon picked up his jacket and tank. “We need you to handle the boat.”

Ferguson said, “Have you got enough air left in that thing?”

Dillon checked. “Five hundred. That’s ample.”

“Your turn, Brigadier,” Carney said. “Get in the prow and haul that anchor up the moment it’s free and try not to give yourself a hernia.”

“I’ll do my best, dear boy.”

“One thing, Dillon,” Carney called. “You won’t have the line to come up on and there’s a one- to two-knot current so you’ll most probably surface well away from the boat. Just inflate your jacket and I’ll come and get you.”

As Dillon went in off the stern Algaro said, “What’s happening?”

“Probably the anchor got stuck,” Noval said.

Dillon had, in fact, reached it at that precise moment. It was firmly wedged in a deep crevasse. Above him Carney was working the boat on minimum engine power, and as the line slackened Dillon pulled the anchor free. It dragged over coral for a moment, then started up. He tried to follow, was aware of the current pushing him to one side and didn’t fight it, simply drifted up slowly and surfaced. He was perhaps fifty yards away from Sea Raider and inflated his jacket, lifted high on the heavy swell.

The Brigadier had just about got the anchor in and Noval was the first one to spot Dillon. “There he is.”

“Wonderful.” Algaro shouldered Serra aside and took over the wheel. “I’ll show him.”

He gunned the engine, the launch bore down on Dillon, who frantically swam to one side, just managing to avoid it. Carney cried out a warning, swinging Sea Raider round from the prow, Ferguson almost falling into the sea. Dillon had his left hand raised, holding up the tube that allowed him to expel the air from his buoyancy jacket. The launch swerved in again, brushing him to one side. Algaro, laughing like a maniac, the sound clear across the water, was turning in a wide circle to come in again.

The Brigadier had the AK out of the holdall, was wrestling with it when Carney came down the ladder, his hands sliding on the guard rails. “I know how those things work, you don’t, Brigadier.”

He put it on full automatic, fired a burst over the launch. Serra was wrestling with Algaro now and Noval and Pinto had hit the deck. Carney fired another careful burst that ripped up some decking in the prow. By that time Dillon had disappeared and Serra had taken over the wheel. He turned in a wide circle and took off at full speed.

Ferguson surveyed the area anxiously. “Has he gone?”

Dillon surfaced some little distance away and Carney put down the AK, went into the lower wheelhouse and took the boat toward him. Dillon came in at the stern and Carney hurried back to relieve him of his jacket and tank.

“Jesus, but that was lively,” Dillon said when he reached the deck. “What happened?”

“Algaro decided to run you down,” the Brigadier told him.

Dillon reached for a towel and saw the AK. “I thought I heard a little gunfire.” He looked up at Carney. “You?”

“Hell, they made me mad,” Carney said. “You still want to try South Drop?”

“Why not?” Ferguson looked at the dwindling launch. “I don’t think they’ll be bothering us again.”

“Not likely.” Carney pointed south. “Rain squall rolling in and that’s good because I know where I’m going and they don’t,” and he went up the ladder to the flying bridge.

The launch slowed half a mile away and Serra raised the glasses to his eyes and watched Sea Raider disappear into the curtain of rain and mist. He checked the screen. “They’re moving south.”

“Where are they going? Any ideas?” Algaro asked.

Serra took the dive-site handbook from a shelf, opened it and checked the map. “That was French Cap. The only one marked here further out is called South Drop.” He riffled through the pages. “Here we are. There’s a ridge at about seventy feet, around a hundred and sixty or seventy on one side, then it just drops on the other, all the way to the bottom. Maybe two thousand.”

“Could that be it?”

“I doubt it. The very fact that it’s in the handbook means it’s dived reasonably frequently.”

Noval said, “The way it works is simple. Dive masters only bring clients this far out in good weather. Any other kind and the trip is too long and rough, people get sick.” He shrugged. “So a place like South Drop wouldn’t get dived as often, but Captain Serra is right. The fact that it’s in the handbook at all makes it very unlikely the U-boat is there. Somebody would have spotted it years ago.”

“And that’s a professional’s opinion,” Serra said. “I think Señor Santiago is right. Carney doesn’t know anything. He’s just taking them to one or two far-out places for want of something better to do. Señor Santiago thinks the girl is our only chance, so it’s a question of waiting for her return.”

“I’d still like to teach those swine a lesson,” Algaro told him.

“And get shot at again.”

“That was an AK Carney was firing, I recognized the sound. He could have knocked us all off.” Algaro shrugged. “He didn’t and he won’t now.”

Pinto was reading the section on South Drop in the site guide. “It sounds a good dive,” he said to Noval, “except for one thing. It says here that black tip reef sharks have been noted.”

“Are they dangerous?” Algaro demanded.

“Depends on the situation. If they get stirred up the wrong way, they can be a real threat.”

Algaro’s smile was unholy. “Have we still got any of that filthy stuff left you had in the bucket when you were fishing from the launch yesterday?” he asked Noval.

“You mean the bait we were using?” Noval turned to Pinto. “Is there any left?”

Pinto moved to the stern, found a large plastic bucket and took the lid off. The smell was appalling. There were all kinds of cut-up fish in there, mingled with intestines, rotting meat and oil.

“I bet the sharks would like that,” Algaro said. “That would bring them in from miles around.”

Noval looked horrified. “It would drive them crazy.”

“Good, then this is what we do.” Algaro turned to Serra. “Once they’ve stopped, we close in through the rain nice and quietly. We’re bound to home in on them with that electronic gadget, am I right?”

Serra looked troubled. “Yes, but…”

“I don’t want to hear any buts. We wait, give them time to go down, then we go in very fast, dump this shit over the side and get the hell out of it.” There was a smile of pure joy on his face. “With any kind of luck Dillon could lose a leg.”

The Sea Raider was at anchor, lifting in a heavy, rolling swell. Ferguson sat in the deckhouse watching as the other two got ready. Carney opened the deck locker and took out a long tube with a handle at one end.

“Is that what they call an underwater spear gun?” Ferguson asked.

“No, it’s a power gun.” Carney opened a box of ammunition. “What we call a power-head. Some people use a shotgun cartridge. Me, I prefer a.45ACP. Slide it on the rear chamber here, close her up nice and tight. There’s a firing pin in the base. When I jab it against the target, the cartridge is fired, the bullet goes through but the gases blast a hole the size of your hand.”

“And good night, Vienna.” Dillon pulled on his jacket and tank. “You’re going fishing this time?”

“Not exactly. When I was out here last there were reef sharks about and one of them got kind of heavy. I’m just being careful.”

Dillon went in first, falling back off the diving platform, swam to the line and went down very quickly. He turned at the anchor and saw Carney following, the power-head in his left hand. He hovered about fifteen feet above Dillon, beckoned and started along the ridge, pausing on the edge of the drop.

The water was gin clear and Dillon could see a long way, the cliff vanishing way below. Carney beckoned again and turned to cross the reef to the shallower side. There was an eagle ray passing in slow motion in the far distance and suddenly a reef shark crossed its path and passed not too far from them. Carney turned, made a dismissive gesture and Dillon followed him to the other side.

Ferguson, aware of the rain in the wind, moved into the deckhouse, found the thermos flask that was full of hot coffee and poured himself a cup. He seemed to hear something, a muted throbbing, moved to the stern and stood there listening. There was a sudden roar as Serra pushed his engine up to full speed. The launch broke from the curtain of rain and cut across Sea Raider’s prow. Ferguson swore, dropped the thermos flask and started for the AK in the holdall in the deckhouse, aware of the men on the deck of the launch, the bucket emptying into the water. By the time he had the AK out they were gone, the sound of the engine rapidly disappearing into the rain.

Dillon was aware of something overhead, glanced up and saw the keel of the launch moving fast and then the bait drifting down into the water. He hovered there, watching as a barracuda went in like lightning, tearing at a piece of meat.

He was aware of a tug at his ankle, glanced down and saw Carney gesturing for him to descend. The American was flat on the bottom when Dillon reached him, and above them, there was a sudden turbulence in the water and a shark went in like a torpedo. Dillon lay on his back like Carney, looking up as another shark swerved in, jaws open. And then, to his horror, a third flashed in overhead. They seemed to be fighting amongst themselves and one of them snapped at the barracuda, taking its entire body, leaving only the head to float down.

Carney turned to Dillon, pointed across the ridge to the anchor line, motioned to keep low and led the way. Dillon followed, aware of the fierce turbulence, glanced back and saw them circling each other now and most of the bait had gone. He kept right behind Carney and so low that his stomach scraped the bottom, only starting to rise as they reached the anchor.

Something knocked him to one side with tremendous force, he bounced around as one of the sharks brushed past. It turned and started in again and Carney, above him, a hand on the line, jabbed the power-head. There was an explosion, the shark twisted away, leaving a trail of blood.

The other two sharks circled it, then one went in, jaws open. Carney tugged at Dillon’s arm and started up the line. About halfway up Dillon looked down. The third shark had joined in now, tearing at the wounded one, blood in the water like a cloud. Dillon didn’t look back after that, surfaced at the dive platform beside Carney and hauled himself on board, tank and all.

He sat on deck, laughing shakily. “Does that happen often?”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Carney took his tank off. “Nobody tried to do that to me before.” He turned to Ferguson. “Presumably that was the launch? I expect the bastard came in on low power, then went up to full speed at the last minute.”

“That’s it exactly. By the time I got to the AK they were away,” Ferguson said.

Carney dried himself and put on a tee-shirt. “I’d sure like to know how they managed to follow us though, especially in this rain and mist.”

He went and hauled in the anchor and Dillon said, “I should have told you, Brigadier, I have my ace-in-the-hole stowed under here. Maybe you could have got to it faster.”

He ran his hand under the instrument panel to find it and his fingers brushed against the bug. He detached it and held it out to Ferguson in the palm of his hand. “Well, now,” Ferguson said, “we’re into electronic wizardry, are we?”

“What in the hell have you got there?” Carney demanded as he came round from the prow.

Dillon held it out. “Stuck under the instrument panel on a magnet. We’ve been bugged, my old son, no wonder they were able to keep track of us so easily. They probably did the same thing to Privateer in case we used that.”

“But she stayed close inshore this morning.”

“Exactly, otherwise they might have got confused.”

Carney shook his head. “You know I’m really going to have to do something about these people,” and he went up the ladder to the flying bridge.

On the way back to St. John there was a break in the weather, another rain squall sweeping across the water. The launch was well ahead of it, pulled in beside the Maria Blanco, and Serra and Algaro went up the ladder and found Santiago in the stern under the awning.

“You look pleased with yourself,” he said to Algaro. “Have you been killing people again?”

“I hope so.” Algaro related the morning’s events.

When he finished, Santiago shook his head. “I doubt whether Dillon sustained any lasting damage, this Carney man knows his business too well.” He sighed. “We’re wasting our time. There’s nothing to be done until the girl returns. We’ll run over to Samson Cay, I’m tired of this place. How long will it take, Serra?”

“Two hours, Señor, maybe less. There’s a squall out there off Pillsbury Sound, but it’s only temporary.”

“Good, we’ll leave at once. Let Prieto know we’re coming.” Serra turned away and Santiago said, “Oh, and by the way, phone up one of your fishermen friends in Cruz Bay. I want to know the instant that girl turns up.”

The squall was quite ferocious, driving rain before it in a heavy curtain, but having a curious smoothing effect on the surface of the sea. Carney switched off the engines and came down the ladder and joined Ferguson and Dillon in the deckhouse.

“Best to ride this out. It won’t last long.” He grinned. “Normally I wouldn’t carry alcohol, but this being a private charter.”

He opened the plastic icebox and came up with three cans of beer. “Accepted gratefully.” Ferguson pulled the tab and drank some down. “God, but that’s good.”

“There are times when an ice-cold beer is the only thing,” Carney said. “Once in Vietnam I was in a unit that got mortared real bad. In fact, I’ve still got fragments in both arms and legs too small to be worth fishing out. I sat on a box in the rain, eating a sandwich while a Corpsman stitched me up and he was out of morphine. I was so glad to be alive I didn’t feel a thing. Then someone gave me a can of beer, warm beer, mind you.”

“But nothing ever tasted as good?” Dillon said.

“Until the smoke cleared and I saw a guy sitting against a tree with both legs gone.” Carney shook his head. “God, how I came to hate that war. After my time I went to Georgia State on the Marines. When Nixon came and the police turned up to beat up the antiwar demonstrators all us veterans wore white tee-shirts with our medals pinned to them to shame them.”

He laughed and Ferguson said, “The Hook in Korea was just like that. More bodies than you could count, absolute hell, and you ended up wondering what you were doing there.”

“Heidegger once said that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death,” Dillon told them.

Carney laughed harshly. “I know the works of Heidegger, I took a Bachelor of Philosophy degree at Georgia State and I’ll tell you this. I bet Heidegger was seated at his desk in the study when he wrote that.”

Ferguson laughed. “Well said.”

“Anyway, Dillon, what do you know about it? Which was your war?” Carney asked.

Dillon said calmly, “I’ve been at war all my life.” He stood up, lit a cigarette and went up the ladder to the flying bridge.

Carney said, “Hey, wait a minute, Brigadier, that discussion we had about the Irish army last night at Jenny’s Place when I made a remark about the IRA? Is that what he is, one of those gunmen you read about?”

“That’s what he used to be, though they like to call themselves soldiers of the Irish Republican Army. His father was killed accidentally in crossfire by British soldiers in Belfast when he was quite young so he joined the glorious cause.”

“And now?”

“I get the impression that his sympathy for the glorious cause of the IRA has dwindled somewhat. Let’s be polite and say he’s become a kind of mercenary and leave it at that.”

“I’d say that’s a waste of a good man.”

“It’s his life,” Ferguson said.

“I suppose so.” Carney stood up. “Clearing now. We’d better go.”

He went up the ladder to the flying bridge. Dillon didn’t say a word, simply sat there in the swivel chair smoking, and Carney switched on the engines and took the Sea Raider in toward St. John.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that Carney realized that the motor yacht bearing down on them was the Maria Blanco. “Well, damn me,” he said. “Our dear old friend Santiago. They must be moving on to Samson Cay.”

Ferguson climbed the ladder to the flying bridge to join them and Carney took the Sea Raider in so close that they could see Santiago in the stern with Algaro.

Carney leaned over the rail and called, “Have a nice day,” and Ferguson lifted his Panama.

Santiago raised his glass to them and said to Algaro, “What did I tell you, you fool. The sharks probably came off worst.”

At that moment Serra came along from the radio room and handed him the portable phone. “A call from London, Señor, Sir Francis.”

“Francis,” Santiago said. “How are you?”

“I was wondering if you’d had any breakthrough yet?”

“No, but there’s no need to worry, everything is under control.”

“One thing has just occurred to me. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before. The caretakers of the old hotel at Samson Cay during the war, they were a black couple from Tortola, May and Joseph Jackson. She died years ago, but he’s still around. About seventy-two, I think. Last time I saw him he was running a taxi on the Cay.”

“I see,” Santiago said.

“I mean, he was there when my mother arrived and then Bormann, you take my point. Sorry, I should have thought of it before.”

“You should, Francis, but never mind. I’ll attend to it.” Santiago put the phone down and turned to Algaro. “Another job for you, but there’s no rush. I’m going for a lie down. Call me when we get in.”

Later in the afternoon Dillon was lying on a sun lounger on the terrace when Ferguson appeared.

“I’ve just had a thought,” the Brigadier said. “This millionaire’s retreat at Samson Cay. Might be rather fun to have dinner there. Beard the lion in his den.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “We could fly over if you like. There’s the airstrip. I passed over it on my way here and that Cessna of mine can put down on land as well as water.”

“Perhaps we can persuade Carney to join us? Ring the front desk on your cellular phone, get the number and ask for the general manager’s name.”

Which Dillon did, writing the details down quickly. “There you go, Carlos Prieto.”

Within two minutes Ferguson was speaking to the gentleman. “Mr. Prieto? Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, I’m staying at Caneel. One of my friends has a floatplane here and we thought it might be rather fun to fly over this evening and join you for dinner. It’s a dual-purpose plane. We could put down on your airstrip. There would be three of us.”

“I regret, Brigadier, but dining facilities are reserved for our residents.”

“What a shame, I’d so hate to disappoint Mr. Santiago.”

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Santiago was expecting you?”

“Check with him, do.”

“A moment, Brigadier.” Prieto phoned the Maria Blanco, for Santiago always preferred to stay on board when at Samson Cay. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Señor, but does the name Ferguson mean anything to you?”

“Brigadier Charles Ferguson?”

“He is on the telephone from Caneel. He wishes to fly over in a floatplane, three of them, for dinner.”

Santiago laughed out loud. “Excellent, Prieto, marvelous, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Prieto said, “We look forward to seeing you, Brigadier. At what time may we expect you?”

“Six-thirty or seven.”

“Excellent.”

Ferguson handed the cellular phone back to Dillon. “Get hold of Carney and tell him to meet us at Jenny’s Place at six in his best bib and tucker. We’ll have a cocktail and wing our way to Samson Cay. Should be a jolly evening,” he said and went out.