Caribbean Deep

By Gary E. Brown

Caribbean Deep is the second novel in the Caribbean series featuring Richard Turpin, Willie Jones and Pete Macalister.
Having spent a successful week sport fishing aboard their boat Mordred in the northern Windward Islands, the men are voyaging home across the Anegada Passage when they stop to investigate a faint light in the water. The light is attached to a lifejacket wrapped around a naked girl.
Having pulled the girl from the water, they take her below where they learn she has been tortured and brutalized by human traffickers and escaped by throwing herself overboard.
Fearing for the girl’s life, Turpin radios for medical assistance. His call is answered by a ship carrying a doctor. As the two vessels converge, Mordred is blown apart by gunfire and sinks.
The men survive and trace the ship to Puerto Rico, where they confront the traffickers in a running battle through the streets of Old San Juan, resulting in the death of a young police officer.
Tracked down by a covert law enforcement agency charged with eliminating human trafficking and the horrors of the modern-day slave trade, Turpin and Jones are offered a chance of redemption: Go undercover on the next ship carrying a human cargo bound for America ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary E. Brown
• Release date: May 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310166075

Gary E. Brown

Gary Brown is a journalist and broadcaster. He is the Editorial Director of All At Sea Magazine and the author of the high-action thrillers Caribbean High and Caribbean Deep, and two works of non-fiction: Biscay: Our Ultimate Storm, and The Lucky Lady Cookbook. An avid yachtsman, Gary has sailed across the Atlantic several times. Two of those voyages were made alone. He lives in French St. Martin with his wife Jan, and two crazy cats called Buster and Moggie. Currently he is rebuilding a 30-foot sailboat after it was smashed by a hurricane in 2014.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Line zinged off the reel, the rod bent and Willie slammed into the straps holding him to the fighting chair. Back her down, back her down hard, he roared, and leaned back and rammed on the drag.

On the flybridge, Pete brought the twin throttles back to neutral and then slid the engines into reverse. Mordred shuddered to a stop and then moved rapidly astern. A wave built against the flat transom and threatened to fill the cockpit.

Not too much, boyo, easy, easy. Willie adjusted the drag and reeled in twenty feet of line.

Mordred slowed to a stop. Exhaust fumes curled over the stern and drifted off downwind. I walked to the rail and looked into the distance. The line was slack and there was no sign of the predator. What do you reckon, Willie, what’s out there?

She’s big and she’s strong and right now she’s doing some serious thinking, he whispered, as though afraid the fish would hear him.

Two hundred yards astern, the water swirled and stilled.

Above the turbulence a lone frigate bird made a lazy circle.

She’s coming …

He eased the drag and stripped a few feet of line from the reel.

Again the water swirled. Twice the line tightened and went slack.

The ratchet on the reel clicked once.

The frigate bird stopped its lazy circling and dipped towards the surface.

Pete grinned down from the flybridge.

The reel clicked three times.

Willie touched the brake on the reel.

The end of the rod twitched, dipped and straightened.

I raised my hand to wipe the sweat from my eyes when the rod twisted and the tip slammed down.

Below the surface the hook set deep and the marlin began a frenzied fight.

Willie fought the fish to the point of exhaustion, giving and taking line as it dived deep and then streaked back toward the surface. Twice the fish leapt out of the water and spun, its rippling flanks streaming water, flashing iridescent silver and blue in the sun.

At times, as if by common consent, fish and man rested and I poured water over Willie’s head and kept him hydrated with cold Heineken beer. His hands were cut and bleeding but he waved away the gloves. The muscles in his back knotted and the straps dug deep into the flesh of his shoulders but I knew he wouldn’t give up. She’s eight hundred pounds if she’s an ounce, he said, and I knew he was right.

The western sun turned the cockpit into a sauna.

Willie had been in the chair two hours, coaxing the fish to him on the fifty pound test line.

Three hours into the fight, the fish was within thirty feet of the boat and the battle was almost over. The marlin was spent, its energy gone in fighting the hook and the relentless pull of the thrumming line.

Willie teased another five feet of line onto the reel when suddenly it went slack, then hung straight down ...

Pete looked down from the flybridge. I clutched the transom rail.

Three sets of eyes gazed at the water.

A tremor ran through the deck and then the stern was thrust upwards as the giant blue marlin exploded from the water and jackknifed over the cockpit. The hook shot from its mouth and it fell backwards in a rainbow of spray.

Go, you magnificent fucker, go. Willie threw off the straps and launched himself towards the stern. He went into his war dance, spinning and stomping and punching the air.

I laughed. Happy, Willie, with no trophy to hang on the wall? I said.

He looked at me. Win, win, boyo, a beautiful creature like that. He slapped me on the back and snapped open the lid of the cooler. More beer, he sang.

Pete put the engines into gear and we turned south towards Anegada, happy to spend a few more days at our temporary base behind the reef.

CHAPTER 2

The sun kissed the horizon and began its slow melt into the sea. It was so fiery red I thought it would spit steam as it went down. Pete pressed the footswitch on the bow and the power winch slowly brought the anchor home. The chain rattled around the pawls and the seventy-five pound CQR slid into the stainless steel chock at the stem-head with a satisfying clunk. He turned and waved towards the flybridge and Willie pushed the engine controls forward, making the twin caterpillar diesels grumble. Beneath the stern the props dug in and with a sudden swirl of bubbles the boat began to move.

Pete removed a piece of line from the guardrail and lashed the anchor in place, then dropped the cover over the footswitch and made his way towards the cockpit. A few minutes later he appeared next to me on the bridge carrying three ice-cold Heinekens from the fridge in the galley. He popped the tops and handed them around.

The tide was low, exposing the outer reef. Beyond the jagged coral, a flat sea ran all the way to the horizon, something rarely seen in the northeast Caribbean in December. It was a beautiful evening—perfect conditions for fast motor boating—but not just yet. Evenings like this you savor before bringing up the revs and roaring off into the night.

We all felt the magic: a freezer full of Mahi-Mahi and Wahoo, ice-cold beer, the powerful engines rumbling beneath our feet; there was nothing to say, so we smiled instead.

As we threaded our way through the narrow anchorage, we passed another sport fishing boat, this one a big Striker out of Florida. The ladder was down at the stern and as we drew abeam a guy climbed out of the water and onto the swim platform. He was naked. A woman looked down at him from the bridge; she was wearing a tiny thong and a silly grin. She tossed the guy a towel. As we went by, she took a sip from a cocktail, raised her arm and jiggled her glass and ample breasts in our direction.

Willie let out a whoop and pushed the throttles to the stops. Gradually the hull climbed onto the plane, and with hardly a ripple astern we shot down the narrow opening in the reef towards the open sea.

Astern the cabin lights aboard the Striker came on as the lovers settled down for the night. Ahead the sun disappeared with a mysterious green flash and Willie set the automatic pilot on a course for home.

A lazy day spent swimming and drinking beer had made us drowsy. St. Peters lay a hundred and thirty miles to the southeast, and the island of Anegada was disappearing into haze as Pete and I finished our beers and made our way down from the flybridge. Willie had insisted on taking the first watch and we weren’t going to argue.

Mordred’s saloon and galley was beautifully appointed and there were three nice sleeping cabins, one forward, one aft and one amidships. But tonight, before taking a nap, we had some business to settle.

We sat at the table and Pete dealt a hand of poker. I already owed him three million dollars, so losing another couple of bucks wouldn’t make much difference. Of course I might win, but only if I could work out just how the hell he was cheating. Even Willie couldn’t work it out, and he owed Pete more than I did!

Playing cards while running at thirty knots is not something you get to do often; usually the boat slams from wave to wave and you’re hanging on for dear life. Tonight the flat sea made it possible. The boat was carving through the water like a shark after prey and if not for the muffled roar of the diesels beneath our feet, and the occasional slow roll as the automatic pilot made tiny corrections to the course, we might have been tied to the dock.

I was down another seventy thousand dollars, which meant I was going to have to borrow more of Pete’s matches at exorbitant interest rates, when Willie walked into the saloon carrying a bottle of water. He stopped, looked at my hand, and then moved around the table and looked at Pete’s. You never learn, boyo, unless there are five aces in a deck, he’s cheating again.

Rubbish, roared Pete.

I jumped to my feet and snatched the cards out of his hand. I slammed them down on the table and spread them out: ace of clubs, ace of hearts, a three and two tens.

Pete scooped up the cards. Willie, you’re an asshole, I’ve killed people for less. I could have been four million up, now you’ve ruined it.

Willie took a long pull from the bottle of water and grinned at him. One of these days we’ll find out how you’re cheating and then you’re screwed.

In your dreams. Here, before you take me on again, practice on each other. Pete stood and stacked the cards. I’ll take a turn up top, and get your own damn matches, all these are mine.

Willie laughed and threw himself down on the starboard settee. Nothing out there, we’ve got the ocean to ourselves, boyo. Two minutes later, he was fast asleep.

I put the cards back into the box, tucked it behind the fiddle-rail on the bookshelf and headed for the galley. The fridge was still stacked with Heinekens; for a second my hand hovered over the nearest one but then moved on. My drinking was getting out of control, so I followed Willie’s example and grabbed a bottle of water.

Through the saloon doors, I could see our wake chasing us across the sea as bright as a streaking comet on a moonless night.

The bulkhead clock told me we had been running for two hours and I didn’t need the chart to tell me we were in the middle of the Anegada Passage. I should grab some sleep but nights like this were too rare so I went outside and lowered myself into the starboard fighting chair and lay back to count the stars.

For thousands of years man navigated by the stars but now, with Global Positioning Systems, few sailors even know their names. Tonight each star and planet shone with a brilliance seen only from a dark ocean or the center of some endless desert. My friend Polaris was preening in the north, and my favorite constellation, Orion, rising in the east. Below Orion, Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, shone like white fire. Three meteors streaked across the heavens in quick succession—the souls of dead sailors on their way to Fiddler’s Green.

I slept.

The bottle of water slipped from my hand and hit the deck. I woke for a second then dozed again, scrunched down in the comfort of the thickly padded fighting chair.

Nothing wakes me faster than a noise that suddenly is no longer there. When the diesels shut down, I was instantly awake. That was the easy part. When I tried to leap to my feet, the vertebrae in my lower back creaked in protest and a twinge of pain ran through my dodgy knee. By the time I’d straightened myself out, Willie had beaten me to the steps and was already on the flybridge.

I hauled myself up the ladder and stood alongside Pete. What is it? I said.

Don’t know, Dick. For the last few minutes I’ve been seeing a light over to port, about thirty degrees off the bow. One minute it’s there, and then it’s gone. It was too dim to be a navigation light. I slowed down to get a better look.

Pete brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes, scanned the horizon, and then handed them to me.

Could be the reflection of a bright star, or perhaps a star low on the horizon, I said.

Don’t think so, although I admit I’ve been fooled before. Something about the light made me think it was flashing, but maybe you’re right.

Let’s take a look anyway. Alter course and run towards it.

Pete eased the throttles forward, but kept the speed low and the hull off the plane.

While Pete and I looked over the narrow windshield of the flybridge, Willie took the binoculars and climbed up to the spotting-tower some eight feet above our heads.

I checked my watch and looked at the GPS. Hold this course for half a mile then shut her down again. I leant forward and checked the radar, which showed nothing but a light rain shower some twenty miles astern. I adjusted the range, bringing it down to five miles, and then tweaked the gain to get rid of the clutter. But there was nothing out there, just an empty sea.

Ten minutes went by. The boat plowed a straight course, the automatic pilot doing a better job than a human hand. Pete kept watch to starboard and I scanned the sea to port. When we’d ticked off half a mile we dropped the revs to idle and let the boat wallow.

Pete took a long look over the bow then turned to me. What do you think, did I imagination it?

Don’t know. Hate to think some poor sod out there needs help and we can’t find them. Let’s go another mile and then alter course for home. I’ll make a note in the log and report the position to the coast guard when we get in. There’s not much else we—

Willie rattled something on the aluminum leg of the spotting tower and his voice drifted from above. Port bow, a light, five hundred yards off. It’s faint but definitely flashing. Let me drive from up here, I can take us straight to it.

Okay, she’s all yours, I shouted and instantly the engines rumbled to life and the boat swung slowly to port.

I left Pete on the bridge and pulled myself up the ladder to the spotting platform. Willie had one hand resting on the throttle levers and was using the engines to steer the boat.

I followed his gaze, but saw only empty sea.

"It’s out there, Dick. I saw it. There. There! Shit." He hauled back the throttles, bringing the boat to a halt.

Something flickered on the periphery of my vision, and then was gone. It wasn’t in the direction that Willie was pointing, but the boat had turned slightly as it stopped.

Over there, Willie, whatever it is, it’s over there. He slipped the binoculars from around his neck and passed them to me. I brought them to my eyes and adjusted the focus. The boat rocked slightly as if hit by a wake. Finding anything at sea is difficult even in a flat-calm. We were chasing shadows.

… Then I spotted the body off the starboard bow.

The light was attached to its lifejacket and the batteries were almost flat.

We slid down the ladder to the flybridge. Pete took a quick look at the compass and nudged the engines into gear.

Willie and I went forward with the gaff. The corpse slowly turned until its back was toward us and I was relieved not to see the face, at least not yet. If it had been in the water for any length of time, it wouldn’t be pretty.

I made a cutting motion with my hand and Pete gave the engines a burst astern and then knocked them into neutral.

Willie lay on the deck and reached down. He hooked the gaff into the back of the lifejacket and pulled. The head rolled back, the eyes shot open and a hand clamped around the handle of the gaff.

It was a young woman and she was alive. Her mouth went under and I leapt over the rail and grabbed the back of her lifejacket; it was the only thing she was wearing. She was limp, which made it easy for me to drag her along the hull to where Pete and Willie had the gate in the transom open and the swim-ladder down. They dragged the woman out of the water and lay her on the deck.

By the time I reached the top of the ladder; Willie had her lifejacket off and was breathing into her mouth. She coughed and spewed out a lungful of water. Willie pressed an ear against her chest and listened. Then he pounded on it three times and went back to mouth-to-mouth.

Suddenly her eyes flew open. Willie turned away as she vomited. When he looked back, she was breathing.

Easy, easy, Willie said. He scooped her up in his arms and with Pete leading the way, carried her into the saloon and then down the steps to a bunk in the aft cabin.

I left them to it, climbed back to the flybridge and scanned the horizon. I checked the radar and brought the range back up to twenty-two miles. A few sweeps told me we had the ocean to ourselves.

What was the woman doing in the water and why was no one searching for her? I unhooked the microphone from the clip next to the VHF radio, depressed the button, and broadcast a PAN-PAN message. VHF has a range of about twenty-five miles but our antenna was on the top of the spotting-tower and with the radio set to full power; our signal would carry much further.

I broadcast our boat’s name followed by our position taken from the GPS, then repeated the message twice. I told the ether that we had pulled someone out of the water and needed immediate medical assistance. My transmissions were met with silence. Half way through my third attempt, Willie appeared at the top of the steps and said I better come down to the cabin.

As I turned, the radar alarm chirped a warning. I stopped and pressed my face against the hood. At first I saw nothing then—on the third sweep—a blip appeared to the northeast, right on the edge of the outer ring. The next few sweeps showed an empty ocean. Then the blip reappeared. The return echo was too weak to track, so I reduced the range to eighteen miles, made sure the alarm was set on loud, and made my way below.

Pete was tending the injured woman; he had a bowl of antiseptic in his hand and was squeezing the milky liquid out of a piece of lint.

I’d fished her out of the drink, but this was the first time that I’d really looked at her. She was covered with a sheet and only her face was visible. She was Asian—possibly Chinese or Vietnamese—and young, mid or late teens. Her dark hair was matted with fuel-oil and the reek of it hung heavy in the cabin.

Pete dabbed antiseptic on a gash across her cheek. She’s not doing well. I think she’s swallowed some oil along with the water. She came round for a few seconds and screamed something in what sounded like Chinese and then passed out. She might have fallen off a cruise ship or a yacht, but why would she be wearing a lifejacket and nothing else? And look at this. He rolled back the sheet and pointed to her breasts. They were covered in small, round burns. She’s got them on her buttocks, too, and she’s covered with bruises. She’s been tortured; someone’s been using her as a goddamned ashtray.

I reached down and picked up her right wrist. Water had wrinkled the skin, but you could see where a rope had bitten deep into the flesh. It’ll take us three hours to get to the nearest island, if she can last that long. We’re as close to home as anywhere, so let’s go for it. Once we’re in VHF range, we should be able to arrange for a doctor to come out and meet us. Do what you can, Pete, Willie and I will drive the boat.

As I turned away, the radar alarm chirped a warning: something had entered the eighteen mile zone.

I scrambled to the flybridge and checked the radar screen. The blip was now much stronger and the return echo showed a ship heading towards us.

Before opening the throttles, I unclipped the microphone and rebroadcast our position and an urgent request for a doctor. Nothing. I slammed the mike back into the clip and was reaching for the throttles when the speaker on the radio crackled to life. A voice, heavily distorted, said they were responding to our call for a doctor. Through the static, I understood they were calling from a ship approximately seventeen miles north of our position. I responded, told them they were visible on radar and that we were a sports fishing boat and would alter course towards them at a speed of thirty knots.

I waited for a reply but all I got was more static.

CHAPTER 3

Ships usually cruise at around eighteen knots, add that to our thirty and we had a closing speed of forty-eight knots. I checked the radar and did the math: we would rendezvous with the ship in about twenty-two minutes. If they had a doctor on board, then it was the girl’s lucky day.

Finding the ship was easy; the radar led us straight to it. But it wasn’t until we were less than a mile away that we spotted its dark shape against the horizon. I was hoping for one of the many cruise ships that made the Windward Islands part of their regular run. Cruise ships have excellent medical facilities onboard. But at night cruise ships are lit up like small cities and the ship on a converging course was showing no lights.

I looked at Willie and he lifted the binoculars to his eyes. Without waiting for him to speak, I hauled back the throttles and slowed down.

Freighter, he said, it’s difficult to see how big from this angle. Try the radio again.

I knocked the engines out of gear and unclipped the mike. The green light on the front of the radio confirmed my transmission, but all I got in reply was a long burst of static and a single broken word that sounded like ‘doctor’.

The bow-wave told me the ship was creeping towards us. When the distance was less than half a mile, I became edgy and tightened my hand on the throttles, only to relax a few seconds later when the ship’s bow wave fell away and she began a wide turn to port.

The freighter was in darkness, from stem to stern, but in the starlight I could see she was a medium-sized container ship; what’s known in the business as a ‘feeder’. By ocean going standards it was quite small, yet much bigger than the usual inter-island freighter. A few containers were stacked on deck and two large mobile gantries sat amidships. The bridge and living quarters were aft. Ships like it could be seen from St. Thomas to Hong Kong, they usually ran with a crew of eighteen but few, if any, carried a doctor.

She was less than two hundred yards off when the thump-thump of her powerful engine melted away and she drifted to a stop.

It was difficult to make out the color of her hull and what first appeared to be navy-blue or black was, in fact, dark red. If she had a name, it wasn’t visible, and she flew no flag. Two crewmen were fussing with something on the metal guard rail that ran from the bridge to the stern of the ship, and I got the impression they were lowering a boat.

There was movement behind me and I turned to find Pete at the top of the steps.

"How’s the