Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) by Wayne Stinnett
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
Ads: Link
don’t want word to get out that you’re aboard.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Pat replied, climbing down. “I’m just about done in.”
Standing, Andrew started to follow, and I took over the helm, Chyrel plopping down in the second seat. “I’ve been listening to NOAA,” he said. “Hurricane Bertha is headed for England, but she’s dragging some weather up out of the Gulf. I checked the forecast in the Beaufort area and heavy rain and thunderstorms are expected in the morning, then off and on for the next two days.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Can anything else go wrong on this mission?”
“See you in a couple of hours,” Andrew said as he went below.
Checking over the gauges, controls, and screens, I satisfied myself that everything was in order, both engines running at nearly full throttle now for almost four hours. I wasn’t concerned about the boat. The engines had been recently serviced and still had very low hours, since I rarely charter anymore. Looking at the chart plotter, I saw that we were only fifty miles from the outer markers for Port Canaveral, and we were traveling at an astonishing fifty knots, with throttle to spare.
I nudged the throttles slightly, feeling the stops and hearing the superchargers wind up. Seas were rough in the Stream, but nothing Gaspar’s Revenge couldn’t handle. When I glanced at the GPS again, it displayed the speed as fifty-seven knots.
“We must have a bit of a tailwind,” I said as Chyrel sat hunched over her small tablet.
“Yeah, fifteen knots out of the south,” she mumbled, switching screens. “Here’s a weather radar image out of Orlando.” She held the small device out in front of me. The red and yellow bands, indicating heavy rain, extended diagonally from the central west coast of Florida to Jacksonville.
“Can you put that in motion?” I asked, already knowing what it would look like. Chyrel tapped the screen a couple times, then held it out again. The loop showed the line of thunderstorms maintaining its southwest to northeast line, pulling moisture out of the Gulf of Mexico and dumping it on the peninsula. As the storms moved northeast, the line of storms steadily drifted, moving from the Keys to Canaveral and advancing northward with little change.
“When is it predicted to reach South Carolina?” I asked.
Tapping the surface to switch screens again, she said, “Tomorrow morning. About the time we get there.”
“Well,” I said, throttling back a little, “it should be an interesting ride come sunrise.”
An hour later, we were tied up at the commercial fuel dock, Tony and Art taking on the duties of filling the tanks as Andrew climbed up to the dock to meet with the Customs man. True to his word, Dave Parsons was there, dressed as though he was going into the office.
I quickly shut down the engines and joined them on the dock. “Good to see you again, Gunny,” Parsons said, extending his hand.
“I thought you were retiring,” I said, taking his hand.
“I was supposed to. But I don’t like loose ends. A case I thought was all wrapped up came unraveled, so the Army let me extend for six months to see it through. This is Customs Agent Timmons.”
I took the other man’s hand, and reaching into my back pocket, I handed him everyone’s passports. “I’m Captain McDermitt, Agent Timmons. I think you’ll find everything in order.”
“Yes, sir,” Timmons replied. “We received word from on high that you were in a hurry, so this is just a formality.” He quickly stamped all five of our passports in the appropriate places and handed them back. “Do you have anything to declare?”
“Nothing at all,” I replied, stuffing the passports back into my pocket.
“Have a safe trip, then,” the Customs man said and started toward a small building set back from the fuel dock.
“Word from on high?” I asked Andrew, thinking Deuce might have pulled some strings.
“That would be my doing,” Parsons said.
“That won’t be a problem,” Pat replied, climbing down. “I’m just about done in.”
Standing, Andrew started to follow, and I took over the helm, Chyrel plopping down in the second seat. “I’ve been listening to NOAA,” he said. “Hurricane Bertha is headed for England, but she’s dragging some weather up out of the Gulf. I checked the forecast in the Beaufort area and heavy rain and thunderstorms are expected in the morning, then off and on for the next two days.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Can anything else go wrong on this mission?”
“See you in a couple of hours,” Andrew said as he went below.
Checking over the gauges, controls, and screens, I satisfied myself that everything was in order, both engines running at nearly full throttle now for almost four hours. I wasn’t concerned about the boat. The engines had been recently serviced and still had very low hours, since I rarely charter anymore. Looking at the chart plotter, I saw that we were only fifty miles from the outer markers for Port Canaveral, and we were traveling at an astonishing fifty knots, with throttle to spare.
I nudged the throttles slightly, feeling the stops and hearing the superchargers wind up. Seas were rough in the Stream, but nothing Gaspar’s Revenge couldn’t handle. When I glanced at the GPS again, it displayed the speed as fifty-seven knots.
“We must have a bit of a tailwind,” I said as Chyrel sat hunched over her small tablet.
“Yeah, fifteen knots out of the south,” she mumbled, switching screens. “Here’s a weather radar image out of Orlando.” She held the small device out in front of me. The red and yellow bands, indicating heavy rain, extended diagonally from the central west coast of Florida to Jacksonville.
“Can you put that in motion?” I asked, already knowing what it would look like. Chyrel tapped the screen a couple times, then held it out again. The loop showed the line of thunderstorms maintaining its southwest to northeast line, pulling moisture out of the Gulf of Mexico and dumping it on the peninsula. As the storms moved northeast, the line of storms steadily drifted, moving from the Keys to Canaveral and advancing northward with little change.
“When is it predicted to reach South Carolina?” I asked.
Tapping the surface to switch screens again, she said, “Tomorrow morning. About the time we get there.”
“Well,” I said, throttling back a little, “it should be an interesting ride come sunrise.”
An hour later, we were tied up at the commercial fuel dock, Tony and Art taking on the duties of filling the tanks as Andrew climbed up to the dock to meet with the Customs man. True to his word, Dave Parsons was there, dressed as though he was going into the office.
I quickly shut down the engines and joined them on the dock. “Good to see you again, Gunny,” Parsons said, extending his hand.
“I thought you were retiring,” I said, taking his hand.
“I was supposed to. But I don’t like loose ends. A case I thought was all wrapped up came unraveled, so the Army let me extend for six months to see it through. This is Customs Agent Timmons.”
I took the other man’s hand, and reaching into my back pocket, I handed him everyone’s passports. “I’m Captain McDermitt, Agent Timmons. I think you’ll find everything in order.”
“Yes, sir,” Timmons replied. “We received word from on high that you were in a hurry, so this is just a formality.” He quickly stamped all five of our passports in the appropriate places and handed them back. “Do you have anything to declare?”
“Nothing at all,” I replied, stuffing the passports back into my pocket.
“Have a safe trip, then,” the Customs man said and started toward a small building set back from the fuel dock.
“Word from on high?” I asked Andrew, thinking Deuce might have pulled some strings.
“That would be my doing,” Parsons said.
Similar Books
