The Manta – Part 17 of 17

© 2011 by Henry Melton

They surfaced, far enough to be out of gunshot range. He handed her the sat phone and the list of numbers.

“This is the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. How may I help you?”

“This is Brenda deMay. I have just escaped the turtle poachers who have kidnapped me. Their ship is disabled at ...”

She gave the GPS co-ordinates and told them to hurry.

Explanations could wait.

She handed back the phone. “Can we get back closer?”

“Why?”

“They know they’re trapped. As soon as they get word from their spy in the police department, they’ll dump all the turtles–try to get rid of the evidence.”

He took them down and she was right. Turtles were being tossed by the bucketful overboard into the shark infested waters. Some were instantly gobbled up, but there were so many, fleeing in all directions, that most were escaping.

Nemo frowned. “I wish you had a camera.”

She looked up. “We do have a camera.”

He looked puzzled, “We do?”

She grabbed the laptop and fired up a program. A tiny light appeared above the screen, and she was staring at her bruised and damaged face.

She shifted her position, and the towels draping over her shoulder to look reasonably decent, and then clicked the record button.

“This is Brenda deMay reporting. I have just escaped a crew of sea-going poachers that have been collecting and killing the endangered sea turtle. Just moments ago, they realized that their ship has been disabled and have begun dumping the turtles as the Cayman Islands police race to my rescue.”

She turned the laptop around so the built-in webcam could pick up the carnage. Letting the camera run for several minutes, there were some dramatic shots–some of the sharks crunching the turtles in their teeth. Many of turtles swimming close to the Manta in their race to escape.

Finally, she turned it off. 

“I can’t watch this any more.”

“I’ll move us away again.”

As they started to move, there were bullets zipping into the water. A couple even got close enough to bounce off the hull, but by the time they reached that depth, the shells had spent their energy.

“Is turtle poaching even illegal here?”

She nodded. “Yep. Fines, imprisonment, the whole thing. Besides, I claimed kidnapping. That should get a response even if there is some problem with the turtles.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “When I Karl and I were tracking you down....”

“You were working with Karl?”

“Yes. Neither of us knew you were missing for several days, until I called your office. He though you’d come to visit me.”

She frowned. “I guess I’d better put in a call to him as well, before he fires me.”

###

She made the call. He was greatly relieved to hear from her.

“I’ll be sending video, once we get network. And Karl, although I will be taking a break, don’t you dare give my job away to someone else.”

Nemo put the Manta on a slow autopilot course for Grand Cayman as soon as the shooting between the police and the poachers was captured on the laptop video. The poacher’s ship would have to be towed to harbor.

“Lie down on the couch.”

“Oh?”

“Just do it.”

He checked her out from toenails to split ends. He had no bandages other than what he made himself, but he got her various wounds cleaned and sacrificed the edge of one of the blankets to bind the worst of them. The bruises would have to heal by themselves.

“This is just to get me naked.”

“Hmm. Stay put.” He dabbed at the cut by her eye. “Without cosmetic surgery, this will definitely scar.”

“Maybe I’ll leave it. Make me fierce.”

He asked, “Do you want to be fierce?”

“I...” she paused, and tears started flowing. “I was so scared.”

He held her tight. “Do we have to go back to the land yet? I could just coast out here and take care of you.”

###

He made a call. He explained the situation.

“She’s been traumatized–kidnapped, beat up, threatened with rape, trapped in a dark hold, with people who would kill her without a thought. She’s perfectly willing to give a statement and by trial date, she’ll be ready to spit in the eye of a dragon, but right now, she needs to stay with me, calm and protected.

“I can’t come ashore–I’m a US citizen, but my passport is in the bottom of the sea off Antigua. If we could arrange to meet a boat...”

###

It was a spectacle. The Manta coasted to a stop in the shallow waters dubbed ‘Stingray City’ where dozens of tourist boats were already there so that people could swim with the stingrays.

The Manta was like the creatures’ giant-sized brother, almost too big for waters.

Brenda, dressed in Nemo’s old clothes, while he wore his white suit, stepped out on the wing as a RCIPS officer in uniform stepped over from her boat to join them. Nemo apologized for the lack of chairs, but they got down to business. Brenda made her statement before the police camera and signed papers. With thumb drives, they made copies of the videos and swore oaths they were true copies.

By the time the police were done, the TV crew from channel 27 appeared.

Brenda and Nemo were both star attractions, and he was glad to be able to say, “Enough” after a few brief statements. The cameras followed them inside and kept rolling as the Manta slipped away.

###

“Where are we going?” she asked, as she changed out of his clothes and into the lacy nightgown he had kept ready for her.

“I thought Miami? Although we could go by way of China if you wish.”

“Jacksonville. Definitely Jacksonville. You need to have a serious talk with Frank Hancock, and I need to be there to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of you.”

She described the situation, and although he was willing to let it ride, she insisted.

“You need me to take care of you.”

“I thought you wanted to get back to your job.”

She stretched out, with her head in his lap. He straightened her curls.

“Well both, actually. I’ll be all over the Caribbean, and so will you. We work well together. I can help you and you can help me.

“I want us together. Maybe not every day, but why can’t we be partners and lovers and friends?”

He smiled. “You know, there’s a word for that. There’s even a ceremony that goes with it.”

She felt a wave of confusion and panic. He stroked her good cheek and held her hand.

He pressed his case. “It won’t be traditional. Neither of us could fit into that lifestyle. You can keep your professional name, and I’ll probably do the same.”

“Nemo?”

“Yeah. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“You know they’ve named your volcano Nemo’s Seamount on the charts?”

“No, really?”

“What else could they call it?”

She put her hand to her bruised face. “You know I’m a mess. Are you really sure you want marriage?”

“You know my history. Do you think I could settle for anything less? I’d love it.”

He kissed both cheeks. “I love you, Brenda, Girl Reporter.”

“And I love you, Captain Nemo.”

A long while later, she asked, “How long will it take to get to Jacksonville?”

“Several days. It’s over a thousand miles. We have to go around Cuba and then up the Florida coast.”

“We could stop by Key West and visit a county clerk, couldn’t we?”

“Yes, we could.”

“Any way we could make the Manta go faster.”

He chuckled, “Yes. How do you feel about roller coaster rides?”

“Life with you is a roller coaster, Nemo. Let’s go!”

The Manta – Part 16 of 17

© 2011 by Henry Melton

She’d tried to make a pet of one of the turtles, one with a bite out of his foot, but they churned so much in the tank that she only saw him for a moment and then he was gone.

She sighed and plopped back down on her bench. She’d need to refresh their water in another twenty minutes or so. She was surprised they’d survived as long as they had without her. She guessed her arrival had relieved one of the goons of the babysitting task.

Tap, tap.

She frowned. That sounded close. What could it be? The anchor chain?

She listened.

Tap.

Tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

That was no random noise. Someone was tapping. She moved her head. It was louder. She stepped a few paces down the walkway and listened, but it was much softer. It had to be just outside.

Hesitantly, she went back to the place it was loudest and tapped ‘shave and a hair cut’. A couple of seconds later, the person outside repeated it.

A person, outside. One of their divers?

I tiny voice in her head screamed that it was Nemo, but she couldn’t let her believe it. He was over a thousand miles away, near Antigua. What would he be doing here?

Chasing me?

Has he come to rescue me?

If so, how?

“Nemo,” she said.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

He would have his hydrophone thingy. Wouldn’t he? Could he actually hear her through the hull?

“Okay. One tap for yes. Two for no. Is this Nemo?”

Tap.

She gripped the railing as all the strength drained out of her.

“Are you come to rescue me?”

Tap.

“How?”

There was no response.

“Do you have a plan?”

Tap tap.

She swallowed as tears threatened to overcome her, just from the idea that he was out there for her. Romantic Nemo, king of the sea, was one of those ideas she had to force out of her head. It was plain she’d gotten herself trapped so far from hope of rescue that she had to face facts. Drown in the tank with her turtles or allow herself to be carted off a life she dare not dwell on.

But she was a survivor. She’d considered escape. She’d made plans. Unfortunately none of them had a chance of working.

Not until now.

“Nemo, don’t think of coming on board. There are about five men with guns.”

Tap.

“If I can get to the deck, I could jump into the water. Could you rescue me then?”

Tap.

They had locked her down here, but they told her not to even think of trying to escape. They were far from land, far from any other boat. She’d drown, if the sharks didn’t get her first.

She had to make them leave the hatch unlocked. The latch was simple, but the handle was on the other side. It moved a metal tab to grip the edge of the portal.

Can I wedge it? She circled her limited domain. There was a pair of work gloves.

If they were distracted...

She went back to the Nemo spot.

“Are you there?”

Tap.

“Can you make some kind of distraction? And I don’t mean one that gets them shooting at you!”

There was a long delay. He was thinking. Then came, Tap.

“Good. How quickly can you put it into action?”

Tap Tap Tap

“Sorry. Is it greater than one hour?”

Tap.

“Two hours?”

Tap Tap.

“Okay, come tapping when you’re ready.”

###

He swam back away from the hull. It had taken nearly the full two hours to get everything set up, and he was sick to his stomach. It was complex, and depended far too much on the turtle poachers making mistakes.

But they had to be nervous, this close to shore.

Now he had to wait, counting in his head, while Brenda did her part.

###

“Help!” she shouted, banging on the locked hatch. “Help! I’m drowning.”

There was no response, she banged harder, until her hands were bloody.

The hatch gears moved.

“What’s going on!”

She screamed, clearly in panic. “The fill valve is stuck. The hold is filling with water! I’m trapped.”

He swore and came down the hatch, knocking her aside. “Get of the way!”

He pushed by her, nose wrinkled at the smell. He found the water valve, and it was indeed stuck. Sea water was pouring in and the turtle tanks were sloshing over their sides. Some were moving around on the deck.

He put his weight behind the valve, and with a twist, it released, as a scrap of cloth caught in the mechanism came loose.

“Get this cleaned up. And get all those turtles back in their tanks.” He struck her on the side of the head and she fell to the ground. 

He was half way up the ladder when he heard a huge bang, metal on metal, as if something had rammed the ship.

Voices cried out in the distance. He was out and slammed the hatch shut. He gave the wheel a tug, but he was so distracted he didn’t notice that it hadn’t spun.

Brenda saw the gears grip the jammed glove, and then release.

It worked. 

Her head still rang from the blow she’d received, but there was no time for babying herself. She edged the hatchway open an inch. There was no one in the corridor. Hopefully they were all outside looking to see what had caused the impact.

She just hoped they were all on the starboard side as planned. She raced out the port side.

“Hey! The girl’s making a run for it.”

Brenda had played this scene in her mind a dozen times. If there was a quick shot on deck, she’d crumple at the railing and never see Nemo, or anyone again.

She banged her knee on the railing, but it was just spice for the adrenaline in her blood.

Bang! There was a shot, but it missed.

And then she was over the side.

Splash!

The man with the gun looked over the railing. He couldn’t see her.

“The sharks’ll finish her.”

He waved his arm in a circle up to the man in the pilot house. “Let’s get out of here.” Something was going on, and he didn’t like the smell of it. 

The anchor chain rumbled to life.

###

She looked dazed. Nemo grabbed her and jammed a regulator in her mouth. She gripped it and breathed hungrily.

She’s bleeding! A cloud of red surrounded her and he couldn’t see where the wound was.

He looked around. He had seen sharks, big ones, in the area as he made his preparations. Blood in the water would call them.

He pulled her along, swimming as hard as he could.

Brenda’s eyes widened and she fought him for an instant. Then he saw, there was a shark coming.

He said, “Blood!” in a splash of bubbles before he took the regulator back to get a breath for himself.

Brenda ripped her blouse wide open. Buttons drifted down.

What?

She stripped it off, and he saw it. The blood was coming from the fabric.

He helped. Jeans, underwear, everything, they left it staining the water red as they swam quickly to the airlock.

A swimming set of teeth tore into the clothes, shaking them, frustrated.

Another shark came to join the party, but they were inside.

They collapsed on the deck when the airlock was clear. He had left towels out for her. She clutched them to her.

“Just stay put. I need to get us clear.”

He snapped the fishing line and banked the Manta clear of the ship, and the collection of sharks swirling below it.

“They’ll get away,” she said.

“No they won’t.”

The anchor chain was rumbling and he watched as the fishing net and the airdrop parachute tied to it pulled a collection of rocks and shells and sand and the remaining aqua scooter he hadn’t used to ram the ship’s hull with, into the propellers. By the time the anchor rose, with bottom silt and sand still washing free of it, the net snapped.

There was a rumble in the water and the propellers started to turn, wrapping the parachute and net and debris tightly around the shaft, jamming it so tight the propeller couldn’t move.

“Let’s get some distance. They could still send down divers.”

Brenda smiled, staring at the swirling sharks. “Let them.”

###

The Manta – Part 15 of 17

2011 by Henry Melton

“The Caymans have a good thing going with the sea turtles. We thumb our noses at the endangered species requirements, within our own island. We grow them like a domestic animal, and turn a large number of them back to the wild. We harvest some–you’ve seen the braised turtle on our menu. With the local sales and the tourists able to see them at the farm, it’s enough to keep it going. It’s good for the turtles, it’s good for us. It’s crazy the rest of the world doesn’t get on board and let us export.

“But there are rumors, just rumors, that some drug dealers or someone like that has set up an operation somewhere offshore that traps the turtles we release and harvest them for the shells, outside the export controls we have in place at the harbor and the airport.”

He shrugged. “If you have something valuable that’s illegal, someone will try to find a way.”

“Did you tell this to Brenda?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. A bit of it.” He shrugged. “She’s pretty.”

“I know.”

###

A clue in hand was worth more than a day’s walking aimlessly around the island, hunting tips the police had already discovered.

But I’ll have to wait until morning. I won’t be able to find the Manta in the dark.

He found a secluded spot on the beach where he could hear the waves. He made a pillow of his suit and watched the occasional cloud move past the stars.

It had hurt, every time the waiter mentioned Brenda in the past tense. It was like he knew something even worse, but feared to tell him.

Of course I could just be imagining it.

I lost Sally. I don’t want to lose Brenda.

The two women were not much alike. Brenda was a red-haired adventurer, not like gentle dark-haired Sally, always quiet, always ready to retreat behind her clipboard.

He dozed off, dreaming of better times.

###

Gulls and itchy skin woke him. It was already later than he’d planned. The morning sun was a couple of hours high.

He brushed the sand off and took his bundle of clothes down to the water and tied the water-tight bundle around a rock, testing it to make sure it would sink. He’d hate to lose his new clothes because he couldn’t pull the bag down with him.

The water was crystal clear, and that certainly was one of the magnets that drew the divers out in droves.

But as he approached the place where he expected to find the Manta, he was worried to find a boat anchored nearby. He took a deep cleansing breath, and went straight down.

There were two divers in tanks circling around the ship. One was brushing sand away from the window to peer inside. He was nearly at the airlock before they saw him.

Not attackers. Just divers.

One of them saw him fumble with his package and moved closer and pulled his regulator from his mouth and offered him air.

Nemo shook his head and did the OK hand sign before he pulled out the little cylinder that worked for him as a key. He fitted it into the hole and opened the airlock outer door.

The friendly one obviously wanted to be invited in, but he had no time. He grabbed his own snorkel line mouthpiece for air as the airlock purged the water.

Inside, the divers watched him through the window as he set down his package and went to the control console.

Tap, tap, tap.

He looked. One was holding a slate board. On it was written NEMO?

He smiled and nodded with a thumbs up. He opened the laptop and typed in huge letters, STAND BACK, TAKING OFF. He showed it to them.

They moved back a few feet. He carefully blew some air into the ballast tanks and the Manta lurched up in a haze of sand. He moved off, banking toward deeper water.

If I thought I could remain secret, this kills it. They’ve got a story for their buddies now.

It made it even more urgent that he find Brenda fast.

###

An offshore place to collect turtles–that meant somewhere off the West End. If they were still there, they’d probably be far enough from the shoal waters to avoid divers for the same reason–to keep their actions secret.

He began moving in widening arcs. He tried to keep low, so surface boaters wouldn’t see him. He also tried to steer wide of divers, but there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t notice. The Manta was never designed to be hidden. No camouflage. Brenda had mentioned that.

He didn’t really think the small dive boats were likely worth a look, but what did constitute a likely place to collect turtles?

He walked over to the book shelf and pulled out one of the marine biology texts.

Sally wrote this. How did I keep myself from thinking about her all the times I read it? The name was plain to see on the cover. She had rejected the idea of putting an author’s photo on the cover.

He quickly found the section on sea turtles. She had sections on diet and behavior, and many photos. He’d read it like a robot, how many times? This time he couldn’t read the words without hearing her voice.

Setting it down, he went back and turned on the hydrophones and turned up the sensitivity until the system was on the verge of feedback. He adjusted the frequency shift.

Parrot fish were clattering away, eating algae from the coral. Motors from boats rumbled. The cabin was alive with the sounds of the sea.

While cruising five miles out, he heard a metallic thumping, and under it, the clicking of hundreds or thousands of turtle beaks.

###

He crept in slowly, staying deep. It was them, he was sure of it. Secured in three hundred foot waters were a pair of aqua scooters and a large folded net. When the turtles were released to the wild, divers could sweep the area and snag hundreds. This was likely the best turtle netting area in the world.

What do I do now?

He could move off, and call in their location on sat phone.

But could the local police do anything. Was this in their jurisdiction? And what were the chances they had a local contact with the police? Could he risk it?

Even if the police moved, the turtle-nappers likely had some kind of early warning system. They could move off, or dump the turtles well before a ship could arrive.

What are the chances Brenda is aboard?

She couldn’t be shut up. If police were coming, her fate was a bullet and a weighted chain over the side.

So, first order of business–find out if she was there.

###

The criminals had divers, but they weren’t in the water. If they had some kind of detection system below, he hadn’t triggered it.

He drifted higher. He cranked the hydrophone system up higher, listening for any other sounds among the turtles.

There were footsteps, even the sounds that had to be voices, but muffled and distorted by the system, he couldn’t make out any words.

What if I put a microphone directly in contact with the hull?

It would be risky.

He moved gently under the hull of the ship. He went outside and attached a fishing line between their anchor chain and the Manta. He could snap it easily if he had to make a dash for it, but it would keep the Manta from drifting away.

He found a diver’s headset gathering dust in the closet–a project he’d been working on for Sally years ago. With a hydrophone microphone, he had a system he could use manually. 

He drifted to the hull and like a doctor with a stethoscope, he listened. He moved a few feet and listened again.

Near the waterline he heard men talking, mostly English, but with a heavy island patois. They were talking food, and cards. He listened as well as he could.

It took him a moment to realize one of them had mentioned ‘da stinky girl’ and her scar. His heartbeat was so loud the hydrophone was picking it up.

In a little bit, he was sure she was on board. Now, how to find her.

With a little more guessing and a little more listening, he identified the hold where they said she was hiding and feeding the turtles.

There was a shifting noise. Someone was moving.

Brenda is right on the other side of this metal.

His heart pounded.

###

The Manta – Part 14 of 17

© 2011 by Henry Melton

The Manta’s new batteries went flat right when he’d expected. It was so nice to have a power system at the peak of its performance.

But right now, he had to keep from tumbling.

With the water pumped out of the ballast tank, the Manta was rising from the dark depths at an uncomfortable pace. He made tiny adjustments to the ailerons to dampen out some instability.

He dared not shift his own position either. Climbing so fast air bubbles were created from nothing in his wake, he had to stay right on the edge of stability. Those vertical fins had been an extra, when he designed the Manta. They distracted from the elegant look of the wing. Certainly the real manta ray had no little fins sprouting from its back. But without them, he’d never be able to climb at this speed.

The darkness was dropping away like a sunrise in fast-forward. He gripped the railing tighter.

Like a whale breaching, the Manta popped through the surface, and even cleared air for a heart-pounding instant, before slapping the surface and skidding along like an unmanned surfboard.

Finally, the slush and sway told him that he’d come to a stop. The windows were still seeing spray splash down.

Nemo dashed to deploy a sea anchor so he could extend the tail.

He was dead in the water until the batteries recharged.

Residual juice was enough to give him a GPS reading. Over two hundred and eighty miles on that last charge. It was still going to be a very slow crossing from the East Caribbean to the West, but he couldn’t go any faster.

He’s considered all options.

He had no money, and even if he could talk resources out of Frank as he suspected he could, his passport was long gone. Likely he’d dropped totally off the radar–a dead man. He had no visas, no official presence. Other than swimming ashore like he did last time, he’d be lucky if they let him on any of the islands.

But suppose he could cross that legal barrier. Taking an airplane, without the Manta, would mean he was just a homeless traveler. He could never air-ship the Manta without disassembly, it was too wide.

Much the same applied to catching a ride on a ship. The Ocean Ray had a special rig to handle the Manta. That didn’t exist any more.

Besides a commercial liner wasn’t all that much faster than the Manta.

He smiled.

No, making his own way across let him arrive unannounced, like he did on Antigua. With clothes, he could move around incognito. With the Manta, he could investigate off-shore locations, hoping the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service would do all they could on land.

Like Brenda said, the Manta was his freedom. And he had to have freedom to act.

###

“I should never have let this happen.”

“What do you mean?” he asked the editor.

“I sent her into a potential active crime scene, and she’d not a crime reporter. Science and human-interest. That’s her job, not dealing directly with people who might pull a gun on her. And I let her go alone.”

“Is that usual? A reporter on assignment as an individual?”

He hesitated, “Well, actually yes. I mean, it’s not uncommon for a photographer and an investigator to work as a team, but normally, a reporter works alone.”

“Karl, if you made Brenda take a bodyguard, she’d freak on you.”

He sighed. “I know. It’s second guessing. It’s an editor’s hazard. But she was always right on top of everything, and I fell down on my side of the job. We should have had a solid check-in schedule, and I should have acted the instant she went silent.”

“I did have a phone schedule with her, and I got distracted. My fault as much as yours.”

The editor didn’t let himself wallow more than a couple of minutes. In spite of everything, and Brenda’s priority, he had dozens of other tasks demanding his time.

Nemo claimed his charging was done and he had to go.

But some of the details the man revealed were disturbing. The RCIPS were not hopeful they would find her. There were a huge number of people leaving Grand Cayman every day–air liners, cruise ships, private charters and just individual travelers. It was a small island with a large tourist presence.

There were regular missing persons reports, not all of them unplanned. It was a usual story for someone to drop out of sight, and Grand Cayman was nice place to do it.

But there was a hint that there were more women going missing than was usual.

###

A hundred gallons of fish guts came splattering down into the trough, and Brenda immediately stuck her hands to the elbows in it. With wooden paddles, she pushed the stinking, gagging mess down the metal channel, trying to keep the feeding channels from clogging. There were a dozen large tanks filled with all sizes of sea turtles, and she had to do her best to see that all were fed, and none were poisoned by an over abundance.

It was a nightmare sweatshop version of the feeding tanks she’d seen in the official turtle farms. Theirs were bright and sunny, these were dark and dank. Theirs were spacious and had plenty of room to walk about and see all stages of the turtles’ development in clean water ponds, she had to wedge herself between the wall and the tanks, with barely room to breathe. Theirs fed the turtles a carefully designed food in tidy dried pellets, Brenda recalled them fondly as she shoveled the fish guts. 

The official turtle farm was right next to a lovely restaurant where she’d watched the sunset. Brenda was so hungry the fish guts were tempting. Almost. And she collapsed between feedings on a metal bench.

But there was one advantage. None of the other crew were the least bit interested in feeling her up. They couldn’t get close enough without gagging.

She sagged on the bench. The turtles’ future was bleak. Grow big enough to harvest for meat or shell in the dark tanks, and then face the knife.

Hers wasn’t much better. She’d overheard their plans. When her face healed, they’d rinse her off, paint some cosmetics on her, and put her on a plane to meet her new owner. She suspected she’d be learning a new language soon, if her owner allowed her to talk.

###

Nemo circled Grand Cayman at a respectful distance. Close to shore, the waters were full of scuba divers and snorkelers, and kayakers. And around the Georgetown port, there were even tourist submarines to look out for.

But one thing he had discovered as he recharged off the coast of Jamaica, with an appropriate antenna on the spine, he could pull WiFi signals from the land. It took some hunting to find ones with no password, but he could hover about three feet below the surface with the spine up like a periscope and browse the net.

He pulled detailed maps and identified places Brenda’s article mentioned. He’d be retracing her steps.

At least that was the plan.

But the first step was to find a place to hide the Manta close enough so he could get ashore. That was going to be a tough one.

Rounding West End, he saw a southern stingray bury itself in the sand. It was an idea. The problem was to avoid all the enticing dive spots he saw marked on the chart he’d downloaded.

Waiting until dark, he found a particularly dull stretch of sand ‘downhill’ from the inner bay and settled in. The hull color and the white coral sand weren’t too different, but he spent some time shoveling sand all over the wing area. He couldn’t risk the snorkel this time, as it was practically identical to a dive buoy and would likely attract others to see what was interesting below.

He swam ashore with nothing but his change of clothes, snorkel, mask and fins. For all the bad things that could be said about his hermit lifestyle, he was an excellent swimmer.

Taking advantage of a tourist shower on a pole, he found a changing booth and was soon walking the road toward the restaurant Brenda had mentioned.

No one thought it odd when a man in a white suit and carrying snorkel gear came in for dinner. His server was friendly, and when he mentioned coming because of the article by Brenda deMay, he found out that he wasn’t the only one.

“Is it true that she’s gone missing?” asked his waiter.

“So I’ve heard. The police are looking for her. So is her newspaper. I hope she didn’t get caught up in the turtle scandal.”

At first the waiter disclaimed any idea that there was a problem with the turtles. But it was after sunset, and the crowd had thinned out considerably. When Nemo appeared to be content to let his prime rib settle until the place closed, the man dropped by again and pulled up a chair.

“You talked like you knew her.”

“Oh yes, I do. She’s a friend. And she’s done me a big favor. I’m looking for her.”

“Are you a reporter too?”

“Not a reporter, not a policeman, not anything official. I’m just a friend, seriously worried about her.”

The waiter leaned a little closer. “I liked her too, and I’d hate to think she was caught up in anything seedy.”

“If you know anything, I’d treat it as a personal favor if you’d tell me.”

###

The Manta – Part 13 of 17

© 2011 by Henry Melton

The phone buzzed, shaking him out of the nightmare.

“Hello.”

“Nemo, or is it Oscar? The hotel didn’t have a record of her checking out. They sent someone up with a key. It looks like her place was ransacked. Some of her luggage was still there, but her papers, her computer, and her camera are all gone.”

“She wouldn’t have left her camera.”

“I’d agree with you there. I’ll get the local police on it. I don’t know what else to do right now.”

###

He remembered Grand Cayman. A fancy place. I won’t fit in there. But I have to go.

He rubbed his beard. Maybe he needed a trim. 

She called the pilot ‘Joe’. The airport at Antigua might have information on him. It’s worth a shot.

###

The dark haired boy saw a snorkeler coming ashore and raced across the sand, conch shell in hand to try to get him to buy it.

But Leon’s run faltered when the swimmer shifted his load. It was a huge shell, nearly four times the size of his conch. Still, he might want to buy something else.

“Hey mister. Where did you get that shell?”

He looked scruffy and his beard looked like it had been roughly cut.

“Out in the water–deeper than usual.” He nodded to the conch. “Do you sell shells to the tourists?”

“I’ll sell anything. Beads, shells, coconuts. I can get you a map of the shipwrecks or a taxi.”

He shifted his load as he hooked his snorkel, mask and fins to his belt. “I’m short on money. Take me to someone who’ll buy my shell for a good price, and I’ll give you a percentage.”

Leon hesitated as he balanced the idea of trying to buy it himself, versus taking the percentage.

“I’ll take it for twenty, American.”

He chuckled. “I can get much better than that. What do you say, twenty percent?”

Now he was talking real money. Faces flickered through his head. Who would pay the most?

“Come with me. I know a man.”

“I thought you might.”

###

The shopkeeper looked more like an island version of Abraham Lincoln, tall and angular, than one of the seedy types in a Humphrey Bogart movie, but it was the latter image that came to Nemo’s mind as the merchant examined the shell.

“Where did you get this?”

He waved his hand in a general direction. “Oh a few miles that way. It wasn’t the largest shell in the bed, but I hesitated to take one that was still growing.”

He was a little giddy from moving around among all these people. It took practice to ignore all the individual movements, and he very much lacked it. He fought the urge to turn and watch people pass by on the street.

Experienced hands scratched at worm holes that testified to his story.

“I would pay 2000.”

Nemo was watching Leon’s face. “Is that US or East Caribbean?”

“Um. Perhaps 700 US.”

He frowned. “I really need more than that.”

“Don’t we all?” the merchant smiled. “Do you have anything else to sell?”

“Oh, lots. I just grabbed the first thing handy.”

“What kinds of things?”

“More shells, of course. Mollusks and sea turtle.”

The man frowned. “You do know that any trade in sea turtle products is forbidden.”

“Except in the Caymans.”

“Well, yes, of course.” That government had rejected the sea turtle ban and instead had aggressively farmed them, allowing turtle products internally as a way to make the turtles pay their way out of endangered status. As a result, the turtles they released to the wild had boosted the overall population.

But any export of sea turtle products from the Caymans was strictly forbidden.

Nemo shrugged, dismissing the idea. “I’ve always had the idea that when the critter no longer needed its shell, there’s nothing wrong with making something of it.”

The merchant sighed. “Yes, I know. I have seen turtle-shell items and they are quite exquisite. But to be caught making such a transaction is not worth it to me.”

Nemo nodded. “Then how about these things.” He pulled a couple of manganese nodules from his bag. “You know what they are?”

Eager hands fingered them and hefted them to test their weight. “Whose water’s?”

“A n’ B.” There had been a lot of interest in the metal balls that grew on the ocean bottom, mainly for the nickel in them. But what with the cost of deep sea mining, and the payoffs to the international community for harvesting in international waters, the big mining operations bailed out. “The bed is in pretty shallow waters, too.

“Tell you what. I’ll throw in these, you pay me 1000 US for the shell, and maybe we can do more business in the future.”

As they walked away, Nemo counted Leon’s share of the cash. “I cut your in for a bigger deal. You point me to a barber shop and a place where I can buy some decent clothes.”

###

“No, Saul. I told you not to do that!”

King slapped the big man’s hands away from her and examined Brenda’s face. The bruise ran down the left side of her face from a cut near her eye down to her jaw. She glared at him.

“Someone called in the police. We’ll either have to get rid of her or move her.”

“She called me stupid.”

“Well, so do I! Now we can’t sell her until her face heals up. I had a buyer, now I’ll have to cancel.”

He locked eyes with his captive. “You know, you’re not helping yourself by taunting Saul. It’s all your own fault for sticking your nose into other people’s business.”

He could tell that she was thinking up something particular clever to say, but he didn’t have the time.

“Saul, get Woody on the line. I think we’d better use Miss Girl Reporter here to feed the turtles.”

###

Bathed, beard trimmed to a shorter length, and in a white suit with a matching hat, Nemo walked onto the grounds of VC Bird airport. From Karl’s report, this was where Joe the pilot refueled before taking Brenda to the Caymans. It was a long shot, but if he could find out anything about Brenda’s plans, it would be some light in a very dark tunnel.

He had the urge to race to rescue her, but without some knowledge it would all be a waste of effort.

The little charter companies had ticket offices and he located the one she took easily.

“Hello, sir.” The attendant in her uniform and tilted cap was cheerful and pleasant. Not that she distracted him from Brenda in any way, but today had been a revelation. There were so many pretty girls in the world.

“Hello, I was told a friend of mine was chartered between here and the Caymans by a pilot named Joe.”

“That must be Joe Tomlinson. He runs banking charters and ferry runs to many of the smaller islands that don’t support long landing strips.”

“Banking charters?”

“Oh, yes. Some of our clients are Americans who fly here and to the Caymans to take advantage of our favorable tax laws.”

After a long chat, he came away with the impression that Joe was a favorite of a number of businessmen who liked to move cash off shore without necessarily filing all the paperwork that would be required taking a regular commercial airline out of Miami International.

He’d seen the seaplane. It would he handy to pick up a ‘businessman’ with a suitcase full of undeclared cash and ferry him to a place where a suitcase full of cash was business as usual. He had no solid proof the man was crooked, just a feeling.

A second stop by the shell vendor’s shop led to a mention of a couple of names that just might be interested in good quality sea turtle shells. There was a bigger market for the stuff than he had originally been led to believe.

###

“Leon, can you take me on a little boat ride?”

“Yes, sir. How far?”

He changed back into his shorts and packed his new clothes in tightly sealed, collapsed plastic bags and met Leon at the beach.

As they motored out into Fort Bay, Leon looked puzzled as Nemo strapped on his swim fins and prepared his snorkel. “Are you taking your new clothes under water?”

“Right over there. See the buoy flag?”

The boat slowed to a stop. “Sir, how long will you be down?”

“Oh, I’m leaving. Thanks for your assistance. He handed Leon a few bills and then went over the side. From nowhere, he pulled a net out of the water and Leon helped him stuff the clothes bag into the net, and then he and his purchases went out of sight into the water.

Just a moment later, Leon jerked when the buoy slipped below the water as well.

“What is going on?”

He hurriedly dug into the gear that came with the rented boat and strapped on goggles. Leaning far over the edge, he dunked his head, just in time to see a giant devilfish sail silently away.

###

The Manta – Part 12 of 17

© 2011 by Henry Melton

He was back on the island, treating himself to a nice grilled grouper with jam glaze when he suddenly remembered that she hadn’t called in days.

He checked the phone and put it back on the charger.

I can afford to do that now.

The next project was to take the leftover pieces and put together a secondary power system for the island–something to have packed up and ready, just in case.

It was a shame Brenda wasn’t calling, but perhaps he’d done something to offend her.

Food stocks were getting low, so he returned to his regular kelp beds and harvested enough to make a batch of his staple flour he used for breakfast and the times when fishing was poor. There were also salvaged canned goods from recent shipwrecks and her gifts, but as Brenda said, his diet was poor. 

He shredded the kelp and followed a finger stained recipe written in a feminine hand that he'd been using forever. 

For some reason he paused when he pulled out the fragile sheet. By this time, he knew the steps by heart anyway, so he carefully put the page back in a safe place. 

Wednesday again. Why am I paying so much attention to the calendar? Maybe it’s that computer. I should turn off its calendar display.

Then it occurred to him, hadn’t Brenda called on Wednesdays?

But noon came and there was no call.

I’ve got it wrong. There’s something I’m supposed to remember. What is it?

Maybe Brenda would know.

He had written down her office number when he tracked her down the first time to report the volcano. He punched the buttons.

“Hello, is Miss deMay there?”

There was a silence. “Who is calling?”

He had a moment of panic. “Uh... Nemo?”

“Oh, you mean she isn't with you?”

“No. I haven’t seen her since ....” He strained to remember. “She was going to interview turtle-breeders.”

“That was a week or more ago. She turned in that report and then went missing. I just thought she’d gone to spend time with you. I was about getting ready to track her down and threaten to fire her.

“Are you sure you don’t know anything more?”

“No. Sorry. I’d thought she was just busy at her job. Now I’m worried.”

“Me too. Call this number if you find out anything. I’ll check my sources as well. Can I call this number and get you?”

“I’m underwater most of the time, but you can try. I’ll check in when I can.”

###

I need more information. He looked at the laptop. Where can I get a network connection?

He stowed the island project just well enough so it wouldn’t be ruined by rain and made a run for the oil platform.

He was pushing it, but he was surprised at how much faster the Manta could travel when he had enough energy to push the ballast pumps faster. Faster rise and sink times meant more thrust on the wing.

He surfaced near the platform, intending to call for the man he talked to the other time. But the laptop flickered an icon. There was a wireless connection coming from the platform. The computer automatically connected, and there were suddenly a dozen alerts, warnings of various systems coming awake that hadn’t bothered when there was no network.

Frustrated, he clicked the little boxes until everything settled down.

Okay, Brenda said there was a website.

He pulled the old newspaper and found the highlighted box that advertised the paper’s companion on the web. He connected and began reading every article that had her name.

He was coming up to speed, when he made the mistake of reading the article that had pictures of him. There were comments, several of them, that claimed to identify him.

His eyes blurred.

“No! No time for that.”

He forced the noise growing in his head off to the side.

I have to find out what happened to Brenda. That’s the only thing that matters.

The memory of signing a paper forced its way back.

There was a scribble.

“You did it! I’m so glad.” The signature said Oscar Gerber. It was his.

No time. Deal with that later.

Brenda got the power system for him from Frank Hancock.

###

Frank picked up the phone.

“Sir, there’s a call for you, from Oscar. Oscar Gerber.”

“Put him on.”

“Hello, Oscar! I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Um, Frank. When did you last see Brenda deMay?”

The voice was Oscar’s, but he sounded different. A lot of years and a lot of miles, he guessed.

“It was over a week ago, when she picked up that power system for you. How is that working out for you, by the way?”

“Fine, Frank. But she’s missing. What can you tell me?”

“Oscar, I have no idea. I don’t know what she told you about the stocks, but certainly we wouldn’t do anything illegal.”

“Huh? No, Frank. I’m not saying that. I just want to know everything about Brenda.”

“Oscar, I’m afraid it’s very little. She came here, asked about Sally, haggled for the power system. She delivered it to you, and then faxed me the document from some hotel on Grand Cayman.”

Sally. It hit him like a brick to the head. He staggered, but he didn’t drop the phone.

Stay focused.

“What hotel?” It was almost a whisper.

“I can look it up. Hang on.” There was the sound of a file cabinet being opened.

“It was the Meridian Grand Cayman.”

“Thanks Frank.”

Before he began the next step, the phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“This is Karl Hansen, Brenda’s boss. She took a chartered plane from Jacksonville Florida, two of them in fact, to a spot near Antigua.”

“That was me.”

“Good because she didn’t charge those to the paper. But she did charge one part of the flight. She stopped in Antigua, apparently to refuel, and then turned around to go to Grand Cayman, which is where I told her to go to research stories of turtle poaching.”

“Turtle poaching. Really?”

He could hear the man shrug. “It’s news. That’s what we do. Grand Cayman has a big sea turtle breeding facility. Reports were that a lot of the turtles that were being released to the wild were going missing–more than normal losses. She went to do a little research, and turned in a story about the turtle farm and such as background.

“And that’s the last I heard of her.”

“So, did she go off to do another story?”

“She didn’t charge a flight to the paper. As far as I can tell from her expense account, she’s still on Grand Cayman. That’s why I thought she went back to you. She’s pretty good about paying for personal things.”

“She stayed at the Meridian.”

“Hmm. I don’t see that. I’ll call and check. Can you stay by the phone?”

“Yes.”

It was unbearable to wait. His memory played back her voice complaining about waiting.

He pulled out his charts and estimated how long it would take for him to get to Grand Cayman with the Manta. It was days, at best. Even at his new best speed, he’d still have to take breaks to recharge. And this would be over unfamiliar waters. Deeper waters than he was used to. No settling down on the bottom to anchor for the night. Not unless he wanted to do so in Cuban waters.

Is the US still hostile towards Cuba? Maybe it’s all changed. Who knows?

How much time could he afford to waste by the oil platform to find out simple common knowledge that he’d skipped over these past ... how many years?

He checked the calendar, and felt the weight of lost years.

I’ve been like a man in a coma. All because of ... Sally.

There was a flash of memory. Racing back to the Ocean Ray, trying to dock with the ship while it was still sinking. Seeing the flames running over the surface of the water. Pushing into dead corridors in scuba gear. Finding her. She’d barricaded the door to keep the fire out. She’d drowned instead.

Oh, my dear Sally. So afraid of drowning that you couldn’t go into the water.

What did I do? Why did I make you go?

He remembered a noise. A strange wailing noise. His own screams of madness into his scuba mouthpiece.

###