The water was gin-clear as he snorkeled to the sleek red-hulled ocean racer tied to the dock.
He glanced upward, water blurring the bottom half of his mask and looked around. No one was on the next boat and no one aboard the racer could see him. He took a breath and followed the chine of the boat to the exhaust pipe, feeling the new, smooth paint on the hull. Just forward were the engines. He carefully attached the plastic explosiv with underwater adhesive, then slowly, without making a ripple, came up for air.
Through water droplets clinging to the mask, he could still see that no one was paying attention to him. The owners, with their flashy gold jewelry and dark tanned bodies, were still boasting about their last deal, getting ready to move on toward the States.
He quietly snorkeled back to the swimming ladder on the dock, mingling with others enjoying the underwater panorama, chasing the tiny tropical fish that clustered around the grass-clad pilings. Nice work, he thought, climbing the dock ladder.
The engines started, disrupting the usual quiet of the island, the lines cast off. The boat eased away from the dock, then rocketed toward the cut and to open water. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust pipes from fuel feeding the hungry engines.
As the vessel cleared the opening between the islands, he saw it turn north. And then, as planned, it violently exploded, sending a black plume of smoke billowing on the prevailing breeze. The illegal cargo was burning as were human beings who made their living destroying others. It was quick, clean and only he saw what happened.
Pete Mathews smiled as he put the cap back on the vessel's gas tank. Wouldn't it be nice, he thought, relishing his disgust with the crew, if it could really happen, if I could get away with it, if it would only stop, if the island could return to Paradise .
Instead, the sleek gas-guzzler loaded below the water line started its engines, roared off through the cut and went on its way. Again. Like the boat before it. And the planes. And the mother ships. Like the pirates of yesteryear but with faster boats, faster women and faster highs.
Welcome to de Islands, thought Pete, as he coiled the fuel hose on the dock, then walked back toward the club.
He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the plots and schemes that could easily become reality if he were to give in. He knew all about underwater demolition and explosives. It was his MOS in the marines, blowing bridges and unfriendly vessels.
Ever since Woody Cameron had bought Smugglers Cay things had changed.
Pete sat down on the front porch of the club, stroking his graying beard, watching the natives clean fish and crack open conch shells, and the yachtsmen working endlessly on their prized vessels. Woody had arrived on a laid-back day. Pete closed his eyes and reminisced as if it were yesterday instead of almost six months ago.
He was sitting in an old barrel chair at the Sandy Cay Club sipping his coffee, only half-listening to the low-key banter of yachtsmen already at the bar. Some boats had been fueled and watered and were on their way.
It was a typical June day, slow paced, even tempered, with the humidity intensifying the brilliant sunlight that was already reflecting a myriad of blues in the harbor. A few boats swung lazily at anchor on the incoming tide, and the cruising crowd, slowly multiplying at the straw-wrapped bar, sipped pineapple juice laced with rum.
Jackson, the native dockmaster, sat next to him, glancing at an old newspaper. Seagulls loitered on the dock pilings.
As usual, he and Jackson were dressed almost identically navy club T-shirt over worn jeans, Pete with leather boat shoes, Jackson in canvas sneakers. There the similarity ended, he thought, smiling. Pete's rugged white complexion was weathered by the sun, while Jackson's smooth black skin revealed a comfortable adaptation to his native land.
Twenty years in the tropics had drained much of the early ambition from his body, whereas Jackson, a youthful thirty, had keen senses and remarkable drive.
They had both been working since seven that morning, fueling boats, checking the generators, watermakers and the bar inventory that never coincided with the receipts.
Both heard the drone of a small plane as it approached the island.
"You spectin anyone?" Jackson asked Pete, in the lilting island dialect. "De club plane not due til tomorrow."
Pete had gotten up, pushing open the screened door. "No, but then who knows? Probably some tourist to join this alert crew." He cocked his head toward the bar, brightly decorated with yacht burgees and marine articles that had been donated by boats passing through. They hung from the rafters and were posted to every available space. Odds and ends which washed up on the beach shells and driftwood, glass balls and sea fans, lined the ledges of the open screened walls.
The plane came closer, and within seconds, buzzed the club. "I ll go," he had said. "Keep an eye on the cash box."
He walked toward the aging vehicle, twenty years ago called a Jeep, lovingly renamed Cyclops when it lost a headlight years ago. Pete chuckled to himself as he checked the gas in the cork-stoppered bottle. He climbed onto the rusting seat, turned the key and listened to the gears groan as he swung the wheel forward. The metal and wood hulk seemed to leap onto the path that wove through the tiny native village to the airstrip.
Pete mused as to who was on the plane. More new faces. A lot of new people had been coming lately. He remembered when few people knew of the island, when a visitor a week was an event. Times were changing. Since the airstrip had been built, people just came to drink rum punch, to look for excitement and happy times in the tropics.
He turned toward the airstrip. Three people and a pile of luggage were already spilling out of a small single engine plane. Pete stared at the man who stood grinning and sweating.
I ll be damned, thought Pete, recognizing the familiar face. The loudmouth from Sand Dollar Island. Pete forced a smile, his clear blue eyes piercing through the fat little man with the short leg and booming voice who limped toward him.
"Heya, Pete! How ya doin , mon? Remember me? Woody Cameron here. Met you last year when we swung by these parts. Going to be regulars now. Neighbors." He grinned a bloated smile and turned to his quiet companion, a woman of slight frame Pete also recalled meeting.
"Grab that bag, Laura," boomed Woody. "That one. Yeah, Pete, we re here to stay. You ever meet the wife?" He motioned toward Laura and kept on talking. "We bought Smugglers Island, old man. Going to make it come alive. Big bucks. Paid big bucks for it. More will come. Hurry it up, Laura. There they are." He grabbed a stack of papers and waved them in front of Pete. "Mine island," he grinned.
The pilot brought over the last carton from the plane and Woody off-handedly introduced him as Jock.
While Woody talked, the pilot lethargically loaded Cyclops. Pete began grinning, a slow-to-begin grin that defied what he really thought of the pompous little ass spouting off good neighborly sentiments. Pete hadn t liked Woody the first time he met him and the feeling was reinforced the more he talked.
Laura, a shy, quiet woman, just stood, watching as Jock loaded Cyclops and Woody talked. Pete wondered how she put up with him.
Jock nodded sheepishly as the last box was loaded, then he locked up the plane. He was tall, slightly overweight and slovenly. What a contrast to the club s pilot, thought Pete. Jock wore a faded yellow shirt, khaki shorts and dirty sneakers without socks. Charlie would arrive tomorrow in a crisp white shirt, shoulders properly decorated. Pete turned to Laura as she carefully climbed aboard the makeshift wood box bolted to Cyclops.
"Think you ll be happy anchored to a rock with this guy?" he asked. There was no disguising his sarcasm.
"Ah just go where mah Woody takes me," she smiled, a thick southern accent reflecting genteel upbringing. "It looks like a lovely place."
