Bahama Payback

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Hank Manley. All Rights Reserved.

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

First published by AuthorHouse 03/18/05

ISBN: 1-4208-1744-2 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4208-1743-4 (dj)

ISBN: 9781463473587 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004099699

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

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Other Books by the Author

A Grand Quest

Beyond the Green Water

Bahama Snow

Very special thanks, again, to

Terri Gordon for typing Bahama Payback, and for all your diligent work promoting Bahama Snow.

Bahama Payback is dedicated to

my son, Trip. Thank you for taking care of the business, allowing me the time to write.

 ~ 1 ~

THURSDAY, 9:00 AM

Midshipman Tommy Pindar sat rigidly in his wooden chair, his back straight, his eyes riveted to the empty metal desktop in front of him. Twice earlier he had sprung to attention, banging his knees on the underside of the desk when an officer had entered the reception area of the Royal Bahamas Defense Force headquarters. His nervous salutes had been returned with desultory flips of the right hand.

I sure wish somebody would give me something to do, the young Bahamian thought. My first day of active duty after three months of intensive training, and here I am guarding this desk. His eyes wandered to the large window on the south side of the building. In the boat basin behind the headquarters complex bobbed the five gray boats of the Royal Bahamas Defense Force fleet not presently out on patrol, tugging gently on their dock lines in the light July breeze.

The ringing of the telephone on Midshipman Pindar’s desk startled him out of his brief reverie. He reached for the black instrument and nervously cleared his throat before answering, Bahamas Defense Force Headquarters. Midshipman Pindar speaking.

You got a pencil and paper, Midshipman?

Who may I say is … stammered Tommy Pindar, desperately trying to follow protocol.

But he was interrupted by the slightly muffled voice on the other end of the line. Write this down. You ready?

Sir, yes sir, replied Midshipman Pindar, fumbling to extract a pad and pencil from his desk drawer. Just a second. Okay, I’m ready.

Twenty-four degrees, forty minutes north, seventy-eight degrees, twenty-eight minutes west. Got that? asked the voice in Midshipman Pindar’s left ear.

Yes sir, I’ve got that, said Pindar. But what do …

Repeat it back, said the voice, cutting Pindar off in mid-sentence. Midshipman Pindar carefully repeated the latitude and longitude coordinates to the caller.

Okay, continued the voice on the phone. That’s Sandy Cay, off the west coast of Andros. Send a patrol boat. There’s ten million dollars worth of cocaine and eight dead guys. Go clean it up!

Sir! Sir, please, beseeched Midshipman Pindar. Who’s calling? I need to know. My commanding officer, will …

Goodbye, Midshipman Pindar.

The connection ended, and Midshipman Pindar sat motionless, the phone frozen in his hand, a dial tone buzzing in his ear, terrified of what he knew had to be his next action.

*          *          *

Midshipman Pindar gently, almost reluctantly, hung up the phone. In spite of the well working air-conditioning in the building, he felt a light film of perspiration burst on his forehead.

Midshipman Pindar’s eyes roamed across the expanse of the large general office area. In the farthest corner, protected by a rotund black woman plopped behind a heavy wooden desk, loomed the forbidding door to the office of Commodore Jerome MacArthur, the highest ranking officer in the Royal Bahamas Defense Force, the Bahamas’ only military organization.

Tommy Pindar snatched his notepad from his desk, stood, quickly re-bloused his uniform shirt inside his regulation trousers, and slowly began to walk across the black and white checked linoleum tile floor in the direction of the Commodore’s office. Approaching the stern woman wearing the insignia of a Senior Lieutenant seated before the large door, he halted and saluted.

Sir, he began but then quickly amended himself by saying, ah ma’am, sorry ma’am. I needs to speak to …

What you got, Midshipman? said the large women, obviously too busy to be trifled with the petty concerns of this fresh faced youth. You can’t be jus’ expectin’ to talk to da Commodore ‘bout ever’ damn ting on your mind.

Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am, Midshipman Pindar acknowledged. But dere’s dead people at Sandy Cay. An’ cocaine. An’ I thought da Commodore ought to …

What you talkin’ boy? Dead people? Cocaine?

Yes, ma’am, nodded Pindar. I jus’ got a call an’ …

Placing her two large palms on her desktop, the Senior Lieutenant guardian of the gate hefted herself from her chair. Dis better not be no joke, she said turning to the door behind her.

Rapping twice, the woman turned the knob, pushed the door half open and peered inside. Sir, dis boy jus’ got a phone call. Maybe you should hear what he got’s to say.

*          *          *

Tommy Pindar had seen Commodore Jerome MacArthur three times previously; twice when the head of the Defense Force visited the recruit class during training, and the most recent occasion when the Commodore had presided at the graduation ceremonies. All three sightings had been from a relatively long distance. Now, Pindar stood at rigid attention just one foot in front of MacArthur’s massive mahogany desk, and perhaps four feet from his legendary superior. He was shocked at the size of the man.

Jerome MacArthur weighed three hundred twenty pounds. He stood six foot five inches tall. Midshipman Pindar could only guess at the height based on the tightness with which the Commodore’s legs were wedged under his desk. MacArthur had dark chocolate colored skin and a completely shaved head that sat atop a neck that commenced at his ear lobes and sloped to the middle of his broad shoulders.

At ease, boy, MacArthur commanded in a low grumble.

Yes, sir, squeaked Pindar. Thank you, sir. The young Bahamian moved his right foot exactly twelve inches to the right and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes remained locked straight ahead, deliberately and correctly ignoring those of his Commanding Officer.

Well? growled MacArthur.

Oh! Yes, sir, began the Midshipman. Well, sir, just now …

Look at me, boy, directed Jerome MacArthur. You ain’t trainin’ no more. You got some ting to report, start reportin’.

Sandy Cay, sir, said Midshipman Pindar. Off Andros. I got da position. Here, I got da position, right here on …

I knows where Sandy Cay be, barked Commodore MacArthur. What about it?

Da guy on da phone, Pindar began again. He says deys dead men dere. Eight of ‘em. An’ cocaine. Ten million dollars worth! I thought it be important …

Dead men! screamed MacArthur as he heaved himself to his feet, lifting the inside edge of his desk with his thighs. Dead men on Sandy Cay?

Midshipman Pindar looked up at the bulging eyes of the Commodore. Jerome MacArthur’s large nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. Two thick rolls of skin were suddenly apparent on the back of MacArthur’s neck as he tilted his head and looked toward the ceiling.

Yes, sir. Dat’s what he say, confirmed Midshipman Pindar. An’ ‘bout ten million dollars …

Who say? demanded MacArthur. Who dis guy who called? What’s his name?

I … I … didn’t get no name.

Goddamnit! Didn’t dey teach you nothin’ ‘bout answerin’ no phone? You always supposed to get da name o’ da caller, Midshipman.

Yes, sir. I knows dat, offered Pindar in a weak voice, his eyes downcast, fear coursing through his veins. I axed him his name. Twice I axed him. But he never say.

Jerome MacArthur dropped his head, catching his brow in a meaty right hand. He slowly turned his head from side to side, scrubbing his eyes against his extended forefinger and thumb.

Midshipman Pindar stood motionless. He allowed his eyes to wander briefly, taking in the Commodore’s pristine, white shirt so heavily starched the creases down the center of his chest pockets looked capable of cutting butter. Against the wall, behind MacArthur’s desk, was a giant map of the Bahamas stretching from Walker’s Cay, the northern most Abaco Island, southeast through New Providence Island and down to Ragged Island just off the coast of Cuba. To the left of the map stood the beautiful blue, black and gold flag of the Bahamas. The colors had been carefully chosen: blue for the surrounding waters, black for the color of the vast majority of the people and gold to represent the bounty of the country.

He be Bahamian?

The question startled Midshipman Pindar. Sir? Who be Bahamian?

The caller, Midshipman, barked MacArthur. The caller be Bahamian?

I don’ know ‘xactly, managed Pindar. Da voice kinda muffled like. Like maybe der be a rag o’ some ting on da phone. But I guess, he continued, it be a white man. Sound mo’ like dat.

Jerome MacArthur fixed his eyes on Midshipman Pindar. You done right, comin’ direct to me, boy. Now go back to your post. I’ll look into dis Sandy Cay business.

 ~ 2 ~

THURSDAY, 9:30 AM

Commodore Jerome MacArthur asked his secretary to summon his second-in-command, Captain Cyphus Lightburne, to his office. Hanging up his phone, MacArthur began to slowly unbutton his crisp white uniform shirt. Shrugging the garment from his broad shoulders, the Commodore carefully draped it over a hanger and placed it on a rod in a gun-metal gray hanging locker in a corner of his office. He then withdrew a faded but heavily starched blue denim work shirt, dumped his right arm in a sleeve, and pulled it across his back.

MacArthur looked up when he heard the quick taps on his door followed by the appearance of Captain Lightburne’s angular, liver-spotted, mocha-colored face.

Come on in, Cyphus, Commodore MacArthur said in a heavy tone. We gots problems, I do believe.

Captain Cyphus Lightburne looked up at his life-long friend, worried by the pained expression evident on the big man’s face. Seeing the change of clothes from command whites to working blues, he suspected a problem of sufficient importance to call for personalized attention.

What’s going on? asked Captain Lightburne carefully. To the best of his knowledge there were no pending issues that would stimulate the commanding officer of the Defense Force to make an on-site inspection.

Sandy Cay. We just got a call …

But Cyphus’ gasp of surprise interrupted the Commodore. Oh, no. Is it something ‘bout da boys? Anybody be hurt?

We don’t know nothin’ fo’ sure, continued MacArthur, now sitting in his chair and exchanging his size fifteen, gleaming black patent-leather shoes for a pair of soft-soled, well worn boots. But get yourself ready. We goin’ dere, you an’ me, right now.

Who called, Jerome? managed Cyphus Lightburne, shaking his head in wonder at the suddenness of the Commodore’s decision to charge immediately off to the remote island of Sandy Cay, nearly one hundred miles distance from the Defense Force headquarters on New Providence Island. What dis caller say, ‘xactly?

Dey dead, Cyphus, said the Commodore looking up from his boot laces with large, misted eyes. Dey all be dead.

Dead? shouted Captain Lightburne in total disbelief. Our boys be dead? Dis must be some joke.

I hope you be right. But I got a bad feelin’ ‘bout dis, Cyphus, said Commodore MacArthur, releasing a long breath past his open lips. Placing his palms on his knees, he lifted himself from the chair, his face showing strain as if the weight of the world rested on his broad shoulders. Get yourself dressed. I’ll see you down at da docks in five minutes.

*          *          *

The Royal Bahamas Defense Force fleet consisted of twelve boats ranging in length from forty-one to ninety-one feet. The boats were not named; their size was their sole designation, preceded by the letter P standing for patrol craft. Commodore Jerome MacArthur exited the headquarters building of the Defense Force and strode briskly and surprisingly light-footed for such a large man across the parking lot and toward the docks of the former Coral Harbor Marina that now sheltered the Defense Force fleet.

He approached patrol craft P-41, a forty-one foot vessel under the command of Acting Commander Roland Jackson. Acting Sub Lieutenant Darrell Rolle was topside, diligently performing his duties as officer of the deck. He snapped to rigid attention and swung a smart salute as the Commodore prepared to board.

Welcome aboard, Commodore, the Sub Lieutenant said in his best military voice, eyes straight ahead, heels touching, toes apart exactly forty-five degrees. Acting Commander Jackson is below. If the Commodore wishes, I’ll go below and summon him topside.

Stand your position, Lieutenant replied Commodore MacArthur returning the salute. I’ll call him myself.

Thrusting his large head down the companionway, Commodore MacArthur shouted down the steps to Acting Commander Jackson, busy with routine paperwork at a small gray desk below decks.

Commander Jackson, the Commodore boomed. Soon as Captain Lightburne be here, we goin’ to Sandy Cay. Get dis boat ready to move.

Startled by the shouted orders from above decks, Acting Commander Jackson slammed shut his notebook, stuffed his loose paperwork inside, and spun in his small chair to look up the steps. Yes sir, Commodore, he managed. We be ready to depart in two minutes.

*          *          *

Patrol craft P-41, its normal crew of four plus the two highest ranking officers in the Royal Bahamas Defense Force, exited the harbor and turned immediately to the west toward Blackbeard’s Bluff on the northwestern corner of Andros Island. The turquoise waters gently lapping the southern shore of New Providence Island quickly gave way to the inky blue depths of the Tongue of the Ocean, and the low silhouette of the gray patrol craft easily negotiated the two foot waves pulsed from the east by the gentle trade breezes.

Commodore MacArthur politely declined the offer to assume the helm. You jus’ get me to Sandy Cay fast as you can, Commander, he replied to Acting Commander Jackson’s inquiry. I be good on da aft deck. And there Jerome MacArthur ensconced himself, thick forearms resting on knees, wide back slouched in a curl, bare pate glistening in the fierce sunlight, dark smudges of moisture shadowing his shirt, and black eyes boring holes in the wake behind.

Cyphus Lightburne, now attired in working denims and boots, stood beside Acting Commander Jackson. Arrayed before the pair were the electronic instrumentation panels that monitored the speed, temperatures, load and fuel burn of the two MTU German diesels. Beyond these displays were impaneled a graphic color chart plotter, radar, depth sounder and rudder angle indicator. The present location of the craft was indicated on the displayed chart by a small circle. The course appeared as a green rhumb line leading to the outside of the harbor at Blackbeard’s Bluff. Piloting the boat was as simple as keeping the circle moving along the green line. All the information for the present positioning of the boat was beamed to a small antenna, roughly the size of a bicycle helmet, from half a dozen satellites in stationary orbit high above the earth.

Ahead of the helm station, on the forward deck, stood a thirty caliber machine gun on a pedestal with an ammunition box astride that carried a twenty-seven foot long belt of shells. This weapon, originally mounted on American PT boats during World War II, had given rise to the expression give ‘em the whole nine yards, as the gunner would fire continuously until the belt was exhausted.

Captain Lightburne knew the Commodore wanted to be left alone. He knew MacArthur far better than any other person would ever know him, man or woman. The relationship, born in the back streets of Nassau when each was a child without a father, a situation so very prevalent in the Bahamas, was built on the rock solid foundation of loyalty. Young Cyphus, physically vulnerable, would nonetheless summon surprising strength and blind courage in support of any action Jerome MacArthur might take, any jeopardy he might subject them to, any nefarious scheme he would conceive. And Jerome, in reciprocation, stood as an unwavering shield in front of his smaller friend.

Jerome MacArthur had been the leader of the little two man gang. Of that there was no dispute. From his large head, even then as urchins of the street, flew the grand ideas to wheedle money from others. Whether it was peddling oregano as marijuana, stealing deposit bottles from the back of one store to be redeemed at another, or luring unwitting young males from the cruise ships with promises of special delights, only to forcibly relieve them of their cash in an alley, the genesis of the schemes was Jerome. But the little polish of technique that ensured success, the attention to detail that kept the authorities at bay, and finally, the subtle feel for when to fold a caper and move on, this was the genius of Cyphus. And Jerome, though silent on the topic, recognized completely the value of his friend’s contributions.

It was Cyphus, of course, when the boys were approaching twenty, who first suggested they should think about professions involving less risk, more security and the hope of ultimately far greater rewards. For after all, Jerome and Cyphus, while successful, were really no more than petty criminals.

Why not get a job, suggested Cyphus, the absolute brilliance of the idea overwhelming even himself, where they give you a gun, they give you authority, and they show you where the serious money is being made. We’ll join the Defense Force, he proclaimed!

This was back in 1977 when the Bahamas became a nation, smoothly and peacefully moving to full independence from the rule of Great Britain. As a consequence of no longer falling under the mantel of British protection, a fledgling Royal Bahamas Defense Force was formed to serve the new country.

Jerome and Cyphus were in the very first class of midshipmen. There were several bright, conscientious and ambitious candidates in the class that, though ranking higher than Jerome and Cyphus at the time, for reasons never fully understood by the British officers who initially commanded the force, dropped suddenly from the program. The two friends then finished at the top of the class, Jerome first and Cyphus second.

After graduation into the Royal Bahamas Defense Force, the two friends’ careers marched smartly along through the transition from British Commanders to Bahamian eighteen years ago. Jerome MacArthur eventually ascended to the top position as Commodore with his inseparable boyhood pal second-in-command as Captain.

 ~ 3 ~

THURSDAY, 12:30 PM

Patrol craft P-41, Acting Commander Roland Jackson at the helm, anchored in six feet of water directly off the western tip of Sandy Cay. The generator housed on the end of the island stood silent, its fuel supply exhausted.

Jerome MacArthur and Cyphus Lightburne climbed aboard a twelve foot long inflatable craft launched from the patrol boat and headed slowly along the south shore of the island. Sub Lieutenant Rolle manned the tiller of the 40 horsepower Yamaha outboard. When the small craft was within 100 yards of the beach, the young Bahamian was forced to put the engine into neutral and tilt the power head forward which lifted the propeller into a shallower running position. Putting along at idle speed, the propeller gurgling the water in its near exposed position, the three men were able to run the bow of the inflatable up on the beach at the southeast corner of the island.

Stay in da boat, Sub Lieutenant, ordered MacArthur. Da Captain an’ me, we’ll go ashore alone.

Commodore Jerome MacArthur stepped over the inflatable’s cylindrical side and headed up the beach toward the cinderblock house. Captain Cyphus Lightburne trailed in his wake a step behind.

Immediately ahead, heavy wooden furniture lay scattered about, bullet ridden and splintered. And there, face down, next to a shattered chaise, lay Jerome MacArthur’s oldest son. The Commodore reacted with a gasp, first at the horror of seeing his child’s riddled body, the black blood dried in pools around him, but then at the stench of the corpse which was in a serious state of decay after two days in the harsh Bahamas sun.

Ants, crabs and other strange insects crawled in and out of the various holes in the body. Flies buzzed and swarmed in small clouds, particularly around the sources of bleeding from the perforated corpse.

Turning his head from the gruesome sight, Jerome MacArthur felt his stomach heave violently, and he fell to his knees, placed his palms in front of him, and emptied the contents of his stomach on the soil of Sandy Cay. Oh, Jesus, wailed the Commodore. Who da fuck do dis? Who kill my boy?

Captain Lightburne reached his arm across his face and buried his nose and mouth inside his elbow to staunch the reek of rotting flesh and copper-smelling blood before it arrived at his nostrils. He angled away from his friend, leaving Jerome MacArthur to mourn his son on hands and knees.

Ahead lay two more bodies, heads surrounded by additional swarms of flies. The first corpse lay in a pool of blood. It had been punctured multiple times in the chest, the shirt front blotched with blood. In addition, the front of the right foot appeared to have been shot away, and when Cyphus peered directly down at the face it was obvious another large caliber bullet had removed the forehead.

The second body, lying on its side, appeared to have been shot only once as a single bullet hole was evident in the area of the left temple. A puddle of blood under the head attested to the prodigious size of the exit wound. Both bodies, Cyphus suddenly registered, were white! What the hell were dese white boys doin’ here, dressed, now that he began to look more closely, not like any Conchy Joe white Bahamians, but like Americans? Yes, look at the creased pants and the heavy, soft soled black shoes! Dese guys look like cops, American cops, or DEA maybe.

Jerome MacArthur retched twice more, his stomach empty but the convulsions unstoppable. Finally, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staggered to his feet and headed in the direction of Cyphus Lightburne who was standing beyond the bodies of the two white men looking down at another black corpse. The Captain turned at the Commodore’s approach and held out his arms lamely in an attempt to halt his friend’s progress.

Don’ go dere, he implored, eyes welling with tears. It be Slap. He dead, too.

Hearing the news that another of his sons had been slain, Jerome MacArthur dropped his head into his huge hands and let his emotions release, spilling tears and shaking his shoulders with wracking sobs. Cyphus, he muffled into his palms. I gonna kill who done dis. I gonna kill dem with my own two hands. You mark my words.

Jerome, dey be two white boys over dere, Cyphus pointed, his voice low and scratchy, for he now feared his own son, who he knew was on the island with the Commodore’s two boys, was soon going to be found dead as well. Maybe dey done kill our boys. Den our boys kill dem ‘fore dey die. Maybe dey all jus’ shoot each other.

Maybe it be true. Maybe dat’s the way it be, thought Jerome. A Kalashnikov AK-47 did lie beside his oldest son, Red Dog. And it had been fired. The magazine was half empty, and shell casings were scattered among the wooden deck furniture.

Bitch Slap still held his assault rifle in one hand where he had fallen. By the ruts in the sand beneath his body, it appeared Slap had been cut down while running and had plowed to a stop when a host of bullets riddled his body. His weapon, too, had been fired.

The larger white man held a Glock 9 mm pistol in his right hand. Three rounds had been fired, hardly enough to account for the riddled bodies of MacArthur’s sons.

Inside the house three more Bahamians were discovered, dead, along with two more AK-47’s and three MAC-10’s. On a long table against a wall in the living room, stacked in neat bundles of vacuum sealed bags, sat ten million dollars worth of cocaine that the sons of Jerome MacArthur and Cyphus Lightburne, along with three of their compatriots, were to deliver to American runners off the shores of Palm Beach, Florida. This activity was all under the secret direction and protective guidance of the Commodore and Captain of the Royal Bahamas Defense Force.

*          *          *

Cyphus’ son,