Bahama Snow

BAHAMA SNOW

BY

HANK MANLEY

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2004 by Hank Manley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 04/26/04

ISBN: 1-4140-4740-1 (e-book)

ISBN13: 978-1-4184-7417-1 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4184-4253-4 (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4184-4254-2 (Dust Jacket)

Contents

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Other Books by the Author

A Grand Quest

Beyond the Green Water

Special thanks to:

Terri Gordon for her indefatigable efforts turning my indecipherable handwriting into a finished manuscript.

Bahama Snow is dedicated to:

Gretchen, my best pal, fishing buddy, tennis partner, book content consultant, proof reader, inspiration for Rhonda and wife.

~ 1 ~

Monday, 8:30 AM

The blazing June sun was three hours above the Bahama horizon when Morgan Early opened the salon door to his 60-foot sportfishing boat Escapade and ushered the bikini-clad brunette into the cockpit. The thick tropical air immediately grasped at their skin, cool from the air-conditioning inside.

A rising tide flooded the Bimini harbor with ocean water so clear the dock pilings, fish and bottom detritus were plainly visible in the twelve-foot depth. Just past the deep-water channel in front of the docks of the Big Game Club, the shallow flats known as the Great Bahama Bank, so incongruously plopped in the ocean just fifty miles off Florida’s shore, stretched east one hundred miles before bumping into the Berry Islands and Andros at their other extremity.

It’s unbelievably beautiful, gushed Tracy Holcombe. I’ve never seen water so clear.

I love it, too, acknowledged Morgan. I never tire of looking at it myself.

I don’t want to leave. Let’s stay. Let’s stay forever, Tracy declared as she sidled up to him, rose up on her bare toes, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips. Morgan could detect a hint of flowers in her freshly shampooed hair.

He returned the kiss and thought, sure, why not? Become a Conchy Joe, bum the islands with Tracy, or somebody, fish all day, and make love all night. But the thought passed quickly. He broke the embrace, and Morgan felt compelled to acknowledge her words.

It’s a fabulous thought, Tracy. Tempting. But you have a job, and I have charters this week…

I know, I know. Reality, she sighed. It’s just that I’ve been so happy these last two days. I don’t want it to end.

And Morgan had been happy too. At least he had enjoyed himself. Who wouldn’t with Tracy? He looked at her, stretched now on the covering board of the cockpit, her firm legs smoothly ascending to her scant bikini bottom which barely hid a petite triangle of closely cropped pubic hair. Her brown eyes smiled beneath the Marlins baseball cap as her lips pursed around straight white teeth. Her tanned skin glowed in the piercing rays of the sun, the beams dancing through her tossled hair.

Getting ideas, Morgan? she purred. What’s it been, half an hour since your last piece of ass?

God, Tracy, you tempt me. You really do, Morgan replied. But we’ve got two and a half hours back to Palm Beach, and I’ve got things to do this afternoon before tomorrow’s charter.

Yeah, and don’t forget about your hockey game tonight, she mock pouted. Got to save your strength for that. There goes our date tonight!

In truth, there was no date for the night, but Morgan elected to keep silent on that matter. And he was looking forward to the game. Ice hockey was one of his passions that thankfully he could indulge twice a week since the opening of the rink a few years ago.

I’m going to check out of the marina. Make sure everything’s put away in the galley and head, said Morgan as he lightly stroked one of Tracy’s legs before jumping to the dock and heading for the office. She responded by hopping off the covering board and flashing a white buttock at him on her way into the salon.

*   *   *

Morgan paused a little way down the dock to gaze back at his boat. We really got this one right he thought, recalling back four years when he had hired Rich Scheffer to build Escapade. And now Rich was busy selling boats as fast as he could build them under the Tribute brand.

After graduating from the Naval Academy in 1990, Morgan had served his six-year tour as an officer in the United States Marine Corps. That year, 1996, he chuckled in reflection, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he pushed his blond hair back behind his ears and resumed walking to the dock office, had been unbelievably lucky. Thinking about the fledgling internet that seemed to be on everybody’s mind those days, Morgan had tried to visualize a way to make money from the whole phenomenon. With thousands of domains entering the arena daily, how could any single entity ever hope to be found. Addresses, he concluded. Addresses that people would remember and that would be descriptive of what the site offered.

And so Morgan had registered six domains with the most sexually explicit and graphic titles he could conceive. And he waited. Within a month he had declined to sell each of the sites several times over until he finally was offered a package deal from a group in Los Angeles for $2,750,000. This offer he didn’t refuse.

Moving to South Florida to escape the dreary winters in the north, Morgan gravitated to the ocean and discovered a love of deep-sea fishing. That’s when he decided to give his new friend Richie the opportunity to build him a beautiful, fast and comfortable charter boat. Richie had exceeded their highest dreams.

*   *   *

Morgan flipped the ignition switches and mashed the start buttons, firing the two twelve cylinder 1500 horsepower German diesels to life. Tracy, still wearing her tiny blue bikini, uncleated the stern and spring lines and flipped them into the cockpit. Then she nimbly jumped aboard and hurried to the bow of the boat where she removed the bow lines from their pilings.

Good job, called Morgan as he bumped the boat into forward and eased out of the slip. Stern clear of the pilings, he pulled the starboard engine into reverse to pivot Escapade ninety degrees to the east, around the outermost dock, and another ninety degrees to gain the southerly channel leading to the ocean.

Look! Look, shouted Tracy as she finished coiling the bow lines on the foredeck. And immediately ahead of the boat, in the crystal turquoise waters of the Bimini harbor, swam two large spotted eagle rays. Their graceful wings propelled them effortlessly into the swift tidal current.

They’re awesome, she yelled. See their heads and beaks?

Aptly named, the magnificent eagle ray, so unlike his saucer shaped cousin the common stingray, sported a distinct head and beak that looked astonishingly like that of the American national bird.

Down the harbor eased Escapade, yellow hull and yellow house sides, gleaming white deck sparkling in the sunlight. Forward past the Compleat Angler Bar and Hotel of Ernest Hemingway fame, past the dilapidated green building that housed the End of the World Saloon, the sand floor drinking joint decorated with the undergarments of hundreds of inebriated females, past the Chalks seaplane ramp and finally past North Bimini itself. The waters now shallowed and sea grass was visible, bent sideways in the tide. To starboard ran a narrow sandbar parallel to the white, sandy beach of South Bimini, defining the path to the sea. Finally, at the southern terminus of the sandbar, now quietly lapped with wavelets, Morgan turned Escapade west to seaward and applied power. Three thousand horsepower quickly lifted the magnificent boat on a plane, a rooster tail of pure white foam arched from the stern, and as the depth plummeted to one hundred feet, then one thousand, and the water turned from emerald to cobalt, Morgan eased the helm to 340° for the seventy-five mile run to Palm Beach.

The Gulf Stream, occasionally boisterous in heavy breezes from the north, on this day was kitten soft. The gentle southeast wind tiptoeing across the water raised hardly a ripple. Two man-o-war birds circled overhead searching for tiny bait fish they could pluck from the ocean’s surface.

We could run at any speed, observed Morgan, with an ocean this flat. Escapade was rocketing along at thirty-eight knots, her engines barely breaking a sweat at 1800 rpm. Light clouds of steam puffed from the huge exhaust pipes only to disappear when released from the vacuum behind the transom and whisked away by the rushing air along the hull sides.

Tracy stared at the color chart plotter that showed Bimini, the South Florida coast to Palm Beach, and the green rhumb line that was their course to the inlet. She pointed to a line of information bannered at the bottom of the screen of the sophisticated navigational device.

Time to go, she read. Do we really have less than two hours before we hit Palm Beach?

Yeah. That’s the time to go at this speed. There’s our present speed and the miles to go. And there’s our estimated time of arrival.

Morg, slow it down some. What’s the rush? It’s so perfect out here. Let’s take our time. Tracy felt a strong compulsion to delay their return to Palm Beach, and reality, as long as possible.

You’re right, he agreed. I just love to go fast, but what the hell. Savor the moment. As Morgan eased the throttles back the boat speed slipped to thirty knots and the time to go climbed accordingly.

*   *   *

Tracy was twenty-two and had grown up in Texas on a small ranch north of Dallas. In her sophomore year at Southern Methodist, she had met the team’s senior quarterback and fell immediately in love. The relationship lasted until the spring. He left for Germany to play in the European Football League with aspirations of returning to the United States to try the NFL. Tracy vowed to remain loyal and in love. The quarterback remained loyal and in love about twenty-four hours until he met a raven-haired zaftig fraulein in a Munich brauhaus. When four months had finally passed with no call or letter, Tracy had abandoned hope and swore off not only football players but men in general for the remainder of her matriculation.

After graduation she took a vacation with a car full of girlfriends. The drive down Route A1A from Homestead to Key West sold her on Florida. Her friends could return to Texas with the wind and the barren plains. For Tracy, she had discovered the ocean, banyon trees, tropical breezes and long lush evenings. The weather and the life-style ignited a new spirit in her soul, and she wasn’t going to leave. Besides, Florida’s three football teams could whip anything Texas had to offer, anytime.

Morgan and Tracy had nodded a greeting a few weeks earlier at the bar adjacent to the Pirate’s Loft restaurant. This was a popular drinking spot with the local boat crews, and every evening could be counted on for a full house of fishing enthusiasts. The dark wood walls were jammed with photos of leaping marlin, sleek sportfishing boats, and grinning crews hefting surfboard sized checks emblematic of winning big money fishing tournaments. Tracy had been drinking a long neck beer and talking animatedly with two of the deck hands.

The next week Morgan saw her again, but this time the adjacent bar stool was available. He slid into place and smiled hello.

It turned out she had only been in town a month and was working at MacGregor Yachts, the best brokerage firm in the area.

Casual initial questions between the two slowly gained weight. After three beers apiece it did not seem at all inappropriate for Morgan to ask if she was seeing anyone special, or if she would like to have dinner some night, or if she had ever been to the Bahamas. The enthusiastic answers were no, absolutely, and holy shit, do you really mean it.

*   *   *

So what goes on at the dock when you don’t have a charter? Tracy asked, spinning the companion seat on the bridge to face Morgan.

"Cleaning mostly. Maintenance if something’s broken. Preparation for the next charter. And lots of grab-ass and beer drinking when the work’s done.

"Some of it’s pretty juvenile, but some of it’s pretty funny. Last week the captain of the Foxy Lady played a joke on his mate. The captain never likes to leave the bridge when fishing, so during the day when he has to take a leak, he goes in a zip-lock bag. Everybody knows this, so the captain gets the charter to microwave a zip-lock of Gatorade and slip it to him on the bridge. Then he calls down to the mate for something, and when the mate looks up from the cockpit, the captain accidentally spills the bag of warm Gatorade all over him.

The mate is convinced he’s covered in piss, and he is yelling, you cock sucker" at the captain and starting to charge up the bridge ladder. But the boat’s an old charter boat with a hatch over the ladder hole. The captain stands on the hatch and the mate’s shoving up from below trying in vain to get his hands on him.

"Finally, they calm the mate down and tell him the joke, but he’s furious. So the next day I see the mate on the dock. He tells me the captain is in the water scrubbing the waterline, and I’m to signal when he’s just in front of the toilet overboard exit. I watch and wave at the right time, and the mate runs below and pushes the flush button in the head and dumps in a whole can of pea soup.

The stuff blasts out the side of the boat, and the captain is convinced he just got shit all over. He comes flying out of the water, scrambles on to the dock, leaps into the cockpit and rips at the salon door. But it’s locked, and the mate is inside laughing and holding up his middle finger.

Tracy dissolved into fits of hysteria in her seat. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to hold her sides and wipe her eyes at the same time.

Stop! Stop! she managed to utter through the laughter. How ridiculous. But funny.

Boys with too much time on their hands, Morgan observed. But it makes the day pass, that’s for sure.

Tracy hopped off her seat and checked the plotter. Thirty-five miles to go. Just over an hour. Turning to face Morgan, she slid between his seat and the steering wheel. With her hands on his cheeks she stretched toward him and lightly kissed his lips and looked him deep in the eyes.

Thank you for a wonderful weekend. I enjoyed every minute.

Morgan regarded her closely. He could see the sincerity in her expression and it touched him. But how much? He liked Tracy. The sex had been wonderful. She was attractive and fun. But he wasn’t convinced for the long term. Some ingredient was missing. A depth too reachable. Morgan had been wondering if a true soul mate really existed for him.

I loved having you with me, Tracy. You were great company. What was left unsaid seemed infinitely more than he dared say.

She threw her arms around his neck. He could feel her pert breasts brush against his chest as she dropped her chin on his right shoulder and gazed distractedly behind the boat. She held this pose for several seconds, releasing long, freighted sighs.

~2 ~

Monday, 9:30 AM

Morgan suddenly felt Tracy tense. Her arms unlocked from around his neck and straightened. She stood erect and stared aft. She took a long intake of breath.

What’s that? she pointed.

Morgan pivoted and stared in the direction of Tracy’s finger. A boat. It’s just a boat.

It seems to be heading directly for us, Tracy said. And as Morgan continued to look, the approaching craft obviously was on a direct intercept course, although three or four miles away.

Morgan pulled the binoculars from the locker below the console, rolled the serrated center ring, and focused them on the approaching craft. Cigarette boat of some kind, he muttered. Dark hull. Coming pretty fast. I wonder…

Maybe they’re going to Palm Beach, too, offered Tracy hopefully.

No. If they were heading to Palm Beach they wouldn’t be intercepting our course. They’d be more parallel. Could be they’re headed for Boca or Boynton, Morgan mused aloud, but then where are they coming from? That’s what puzzles me.

Are you scared?

Scared? No. There’s nothing to be scared of, Tracy. I’m curious, though. Morgan turned to the helm and fell into thought. His hand reached for the single throttle lever now set to control both engines’ speed. We can see in a minute if they really want to cut our course, he said as he advanced the master control handle. A high pitched whine was instantly audible, much like that of a jet aircraft, as the sequential turbochargers kicked in, additional fuel poured through the injectors, the diesels’ rpms jumped to 2150 and another four hundred horsepower came on line. The boat responded with a perceptible leap forward and a slightly flattened running angle. The speed indicator quickly climbed from thirty knots to forty.

Morgan re-hoisted the binoculars and trained them on the approaching boat. Lips pursed, a frown began to crease his brow. Tracy saw at once the concern on his face.

What is it, Morg? What do you see? The first note of fear was now present in her voice.

Go below right now and get some shorts and a shirt on. Then get right back up here, he said in a flat tone that invited no dissent.

Why, Morg? What’s going on?

Tracy. Just do what I ask. Please, he said calmly. If we’re going to entertain visitors, no sense riling them up with your charms hanging out! And hustle back. This last order given as he again lifted the binoculars and studied the approaching craft.

The closing rate had decreased markedly as Escapade’s speed leaped by ten knots, but whoever was behind them had altered course to maintain an intercept heading. I’ve bought some time, Morgan thought, but this guy will catch me. Hopefully we’ll be in VHF radio range beforehand. The decision to break out a weapon seemed now a mere detail.

Tracy breathlessly returned to the bridge in shorts and a tee shirt. Morgan took her hand and led her to the sitting area forward of the helm station. He reached for the microphone that hung suspended from the overhead radio box and placed it in her hand.

Everything’s going to be fine, he assured. It’s probably just a couple of clowns looking for a race. But we’re going to play this for real just in case. Here’s the mic…

In case what, Tracy gasped, reading the concern in Morgan’s voice. What could it be?

In case it’s some assholes who want to play games with us. But they’ll find to their sorrow they’re screwing with the wrong guy. This last sentence was uttered in a lower voice, through clenched teeth, with a hardness Tracy had not seen or heard before from Morgan. It stunned her for a moment, but at the same time it buoyed her courage. For all his gentleness and kindness, there was a steely strength enmeshed just below the surface.

Take the mic. Press this button to talk. Release it to listen. The radio’s on channel 16. You can hear it from overhead. I’ve got the volume up. Call the Coast Guard until they answer. We’re probably out of range now but keep trying until you get through. The boat’s on autopilot to Palm Beach; so don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.

Wait! Morgan! Where are you going? Don’t you leave me! Tracy screamed, panicked. The thought of being alone, even for a moment, almost froze her in terror.

I’ll be back in a minute, Moran said as reassuringly as he could. I’ll be right back. And get on that radio. Stay down. And then Morgan disappeared down the ladder.

*   *   *

From under the master bed, secreted in a clever hidey-hole, Morgan snatched his Uzi semi-automatic rifle. The Uzi is not a beautiful weapon. Flat silver in color save for the black plastic pistol grip cover and forward barrel hold, it boasts neither wood nor elegant shape. The receiver is square with ribs, totally lacking in subtlety and style. The weapon is cocked by a large, crude serrated and notched bolt on a slide directly atop the chamber. The shoulder stock is folded twice and tucked awkwardly beneath the rear sight.

It is a heavy piece, attesting to its ability to do serious and lethal work. As toy-like as it might appear from a distance, once held, the shooter knows this is a weapon capable of quick and bloody results. There is a double safety system. A triangular button is pushed from S to F for fire. But the user must squeeze a slide behind the pistol grip while pulling the trigger before the weapon will fire.

Morgan reached in again and pulled out a single thirty round magazine. He banged this against the heel of his hand to ensure the individual squatty little 9 mm shells were loose and would feed smoothly into the receiver.

With a sharp snap, he ratcheted the magazine home. Pulling back the bolt and letting it fly forward with a metallic pop, Morgan felt the first live round peel off the top of the magazine and thunk into the chamber. Locked and loaded, the Uzi was now a terrible killing force, capable of spitting death as fast as the trigger could be pulled. With a flip of his thumb and a slightly muted snick of metal on metal,

Morgan engaged the safety and headed back to the bridge, weapon at port arms.

As he cleared the ladder and Tracy saw his face, she broke into a wry smile. God, she thought, he’s been gone an eternity. But in an instant this expression was replaced by a gasp of terror.

What’s that? she pointed at the Uzi. Oh my God, it’s a machine gun!

Sort of, Morgan acknowledged with a shrug.

Morgan turned aft and fixed his eyes on the approaching dark hulled pursuer now about a mile away. With a bemused smile he noted that a freshening mid morning breeze had roiled the Gulf Stream slightly, making the smaller boat’s job of overtaking them a much more bone-jarring affair. The larger and heavier Escapade roared across the mild ocean chop unaffected. Who’s got the more stable shooting platform, huh boys, he thought? If it looks like there will be shooting, you’ll be looking to hang on while I’ll be looking down my sights trying to decide which nipple to blow off your chest.

How you doing with the radio? Anybody come back to you?

Nobody answers, Morg. God, what’s going to happen? Isn’t there anybody in range?

On the weekends the ocean’s full of boats. Monday…well, just keep trying.

How about a cell phone? We could call.

The cell phone’s no good past a couple of miles offshore. The VHF’s our best chance to reach anybody.

Morgan could clearly see the speeding boat without the binoculars now. It looked to be about thirty-five feet in length with three large Mercury outboards on a transom bracket. The hull was dark blue and unmarked. At the center console helm station stood two men in blue jeans and white tee shirts. No official identification was apparent: no sheriff’s department emblem, no famous Coast Guard red stripe, no marine patrol lettering. This does not appear to be an official visit, Morgan concluded. Glowering at the