Chapter 22
Trace and the rest of their squad were briefed in the old chapel at the base camp they’d called “Sparrow Lodge” after the mythical pirate. They’d spent nearly a week clearing jungle foliage and debris blown over from the recent hurricanes. The island had taken a direct hit, and power hadn’t been restored to some of the remote parts until recently. The international team of health workers was still finding bodies of dead animals and missing humans.
That didn’t stop the resilient people from making merry, and everywhere work crews were painting new signs or sidewalls of shops and houses with their characteristic bright turquoise and hot pink colors so prevalent on the island.
The campsite had been abandoned when it was determined it would take more than the property was worth for the church to restore it, even though the chapel was nearly three hundred years old. Uncle Sam made some brownie points with the Archdiocese and, at the same time, garnered one of the highest peaks on the island with a view of the blue Caribbean Sea from any direction. A tracking station would be installed, and it even had an old concrete landing strip created back in the forties when a variety of underworld figures populated the island. With enough manpower, it could be fortified just like a real fort. Two military transport Jeeps were abandoned, and Coop got them running in no time. Luckily, the stored gas cans were uncontaminated and could be used.
The stones used to create the chapel were embedded with shells and fossils of sea creatures from eons ago. It was porous and chalky, so it also housed varieties of geckos, as well as mossy lichen that would squeeze through the tiny cracks in the stone. The damp, musty smell was more like the hull of an old sailing ship than a church. Part of the roof had been blown off, which allowed a family of birds to nest in the large wooden cross well-fastened above the baptistery.
“One of our first building projects, now that the clearings have been created, is to fix this roof. In the coming months, the rainfall will begin, and it will make this building uninhabitable,” Kyle said.
He had opened up a metal tripod, which contained some enlarged photographs on poster paper, all clipped at the top to hold them in place.
“We’re here to find this man.” Kyle pointed to a picture of a dark-faced man with a grin that seemed to extend from ear to ear. His gold teeth on his upper jaw were embedded with dollar signs and pairs of dice. Trace had thought, at first, he had bugs on his teeth until he’d looked closer. His teeth were stained red from chewing local fruits with the bright red seeds like pomegranate. He wore a top hat made of bright red satin, patched and woven with feathers, shells, and sticks painted various colors.
“This is King Henry. He likes to tell people he runs the island. And if he doesn’t run some portion of the island, then it’s not worth it,” Kyle said.
“This,”—Kyle flipped the poster over, revealing a medium-sized cruise ship painted with huge murals of sea horses and rainbows—patterns more befitting a child’s nursery than a ship in the middle of the ocean—“is where he lives. His ship, the Queen Amalie, was sunk at sea in a terrorist attack off the coast of West Africa. He brought it to port some ten years ago and has completely remodeled this ship, adding a communications tower and helipad.”
Distinctively, it flew the flag of St. Croix, but it also flew a bright red and black pirate’s flag, the skull and crossbones twice the size of the other one. On the skull’s head was a crown, worn cocked at an angle screaming defiance.
“Right now, King Henry has the run of the British as well as the US Virgin Islands. His tentacles are deep. He’s got a network of agents who work on all the islands in the Caribbean. The Queen Amalie travels between Florida, Puerto Rico, South America, and Cuba, buying and selling wares. He has eluded raids and capture. He berths most frequently on St. Croix, so part of our mission here is to track his comings and goings. He rarely is seen on land. We think he traffics in drugs and recently has expanded into the human slave trade.”
The team shifted, stretching their legs on the uncomfortable stone benches. Kyle’s voice echoed off the barren walls.
Trace hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since they arrived. The jungle night sounds woke him up constantly, and the blowup mattress sprung a leak that he was still trying to figure out how to fix. If they made it to town soon, he’d just buy a couple of thick comforters, if he could find them cheap enough, and use those until the jungle moisture saturated them.
The jungle won out over everything.
The old stone structures looked like barracks at one time, room enough for a group of five or six. Windows would have to come later. For now, nothing was air or water tight. They all had to get used to the wet jungle breeze covering everything by morning.
His phone reception was non-existent, since so many of the cell towers had to be rebuilt after the two hurricanes. He would have to wait until they went into town before he’d be able to get through to Gretchen.
At night, they made a bonfire. So much foliage and debris had been removed and piled up they had more than enough to burn for their entire stay. It became a nightly tradition. Kyle and the others, who had worked missions in Mexico, spoke about the drug trade. Since Trace’s SEAL Team in Little Creek was mainly tasked with the African theater, they rarely saw any action in Mexico or South America. He listened and learned.
The next day, nine in their squad ventured into the town of Frederiksted, where all the larger ships docked. They’d been told King Henry might make an appearance at midnight.
Kyle asked them to split up into groups of no less than four and to wander the streets, looking for bars and restaurants that would make good meeting places. They were to listen for any talk of King Henry and any pictures or evidence that he frequented the town or had friends there.
Trace found a vendor who sold blankets and bedspreads, so he could supplement the flattened air mattress. He carried the large parcel around with him all afternoon. It was hot and sticky, but well worth the price for a good night’s sleep. Everywhere he went, people stared at him.
Nearing midnight, Trace spread the blankets on the beach, and they sat, drinking local beer and dining on jerk chicken and hot “mystery” sausages. The Queen Amalie arrived about a half hour later, pulling quietly, with its lights dimmed, up to the pier that had earlier been occupied by a Scandinavian cruise ship. The sounds of music and heavy partying echoed off the water and against the boarded up village of vendors and stores just past the pier.
Light was scarce, but Trace followed the shadows back and forth with night vision binoculars. He saw partygoers entering and exiting the ship in various stages of drunkenness. Small groups of men and women or couples—all well-dressed guests—passed by a line of crew members dressed in white. A police car drove halfway down the pier, its blue lights flashing, which blocked out the effectiveness of the scopes. It stopped next to the gangway, and he could barely make out two people in the vehicle, but neither of them got out.
“We should get a closer look,” Trace said.
“Let me check this out,” said Coop, taking the goggles. “Hey, Lannie, I think King Henry just stepped off the ship and got in the police cruiser.”
“No shit?” Kyle used his scope to verify. “I’m not seeing it. You sure?”
“He’s got everything but the hat. I’d bet all of my allowance on it.”
Coop passed around the NVG. Several others confirmed what Coop had seen. Trace repeated his request. “We gotta get down there to get closer.”
“Fredo, you brought the camera, I hope?”
“Yup, boss. If we could get them to turn off those damned lights, we could get some real clear pictures you could upload. I think Trace is right. Just send a couple of us.”
“Alright. Fredo, you give the camera over to Danny, if you don’t mind. Trace, you, T.J., and Danny go down there. See what you can shoot.”
“I got you covered, boys,” Armando said, pulling out his Desert Tech SRS–A1 recon scout rifle and snapping his scope in place. “You show me the sign, and I’ll lighten the crowd size.”
“Just don’t get caught, that’s all,” added Kyle. We need a couple of pix, and then you’re back here in five, ten at the most, you hear?”
“Copy that.”
All three of them inserted their Invisios and did a sound check. Fredo gave a thumbs up, and the three took off down the beach. A metal culvert bisected their approach, but gave good cover. Trace checked the upper pier for snipers or spotters. Danny did the same.
“I think we’re okay,” T.J. said. “We want to come up that ladder to the dock. It’s so dark I don’t think anyone will see us. But you see the flare of a flashlight, we flatten, okay?”
“Roger that,” Trace said. “Why did I have to open my big mouth?”
Danny grinned and slapped his back silently, whispering, “Because you’re the new guy, that’s why. New guys go first. Didn’t they teach you that in Little Creek?”
“Hey, they told me the West Coast guys never saw much action. I thought I was going back to kindergarten.”
“Fuck you, Bennett,” Kyle whispered, listening to their chatter. “Just get your butts on that pier and do your thing. This ain’t no coffee break.”
They ran in a crouching gait until they hit the concrete piles. Danny scrambled up the ladder without making a sound. T.J. went next.
When Trace reached the top of the decking, Danny and T.J. were kneeling behind a row of oil drums. The flashing lights on the police vehicle made it impossible to use their night gear. For mere seconds at a time, they had a distorted view of the guarded gangway, the line of revelers, and activity on board the ship. Cabin lights randomly dotted the profile of the ship. Sounds of music got louder and then faded as doors to the interior were opened and then closed. Trace thought there could be hundreds on board, plus the crew.
With the sound of Danny’s camera recording the scene, the back door of the blue and white police cruiser opened and someone slid into the seat. Danny positioned his camera and got a couple shots. In the strobe, a face was illuminated. There was no mistaking it.
King Henry and a woman in a dancer’s costume sat side by side. He lit a cigarette for them both and handed her one. The glow on the lighter confirmed what they’d seen.
“You get that?” T.J. asked as the car sped off without a siren.
“Sure thing. So he gets a police escort. Wish we had something to follow him.”
Trace was thinking he’d love to get on board that ship and do some playing around. “Kyle, can we attempt to board? With our target on land, they’re not going anywhere.”
“Not tonight, Trace, but thanks for volunteering. Let’s get this info uploaded and call it a night.”
Danny was the first one over the edge, followed by T.J. Trace slipped his binoculars back into his front pocket. The Velcro opening made too much noise, and in the next instant, he froze.
One of the security detail had him nailed with a flashlight. Two other guards came up alongside them and began running in his direction, guns drawn.
“Stop!”
“Fuck,” Trace muttered.
“Give me the sign,” answered Armando.
“Hold it, Armani. Not yet.” Trace heard the tension in Kyle’s voice. But he knew it was the smart play not to go firing off rounds and causing a scene.
“They’re asking me to stand,” whispered Trace.
“You dumb sonofabitch. You got your wish. Now let’s see how you manage to get out of this one. Be cool, and for fuck’s sake, don’t lose your Invisio.” Kyle followed up his command with a string of swear words.
Trace stood, as he was told. He didn’t have anything but his dog tags and a wallet with little cash. He was grateful he didn’t have a firearm, but it made him feel naked.
It wasn’t the kind of naked he’d been looking forward to.