All Ahead Full

Book 22: Caribbean Adventure Series

by Wayne Stinnett

Genres: Action & Adventure; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Jesse McDermitt discovers an environmental nightmare of deception and greed taking place in Central America. A cartel is branching into smuggling things other than drugs. And they’re doing it quite effectively.

The Honduran rain forests and its inhabitants are at peril. The cartel needs hidden places to grow coca, used in the manufacture of cocaine. The exotic and endangered hardwood trees are cut and sold on the black market, along with any creature found dwelling deep in the humid jungle.

Environmental activists in the area who try to intercede are swiftly dealt with in the manner the cartel deals with anyone who stands between them and the almighty dollar—with a sharp machete.

Having so many moving parts and numerous smuggling routes, can Jesse and the crew of Ambrosia, on a dive vacation in the Bay Islands of Honduras, be able to make a difference? Or will the beautiful reef surrounding the island of Utila be Ambrosia’s grave?

Release date: December 6, 2021

Publisher: Down Island Press

Print pages: 233

Sample

Chapter One
December 2, 2021

The plaintive chuffing of a jaguar could be heard somewhere deep in the dense jungle. Its short, throaty, almost barking sound only carried for a short distance, whereas the great cat’s roar resounded loudly for miles.

To most, the roar was a terrifying noise, especially at night. Few knew of the chuffing sound the big cats made while preoccupied. But it was a sound that Aldrick knew well.

The Río Plátano was the ancestral home of many indigenous, primitive tribes, going back to the beginning, when early man first arrived in the Americas. Aldrick had been born not far from where he now hid, crouched among the giant roots of a ceiba tree, waiting for activity on the trail. He’d felt safe in the jungle at an early age, away from his parents and the nomadic troupe they called home. Even as a little boy, he’d somehow sensed it was the place his people ought to be, not penned up in boxes called houses. He’d reconnected with his ancestral home thirty years after leaving, and had instantly felt the pull of his roots.

The jaguar, feared by nearly every animal in the jungle, was king. On a trip into the Amazon, Aldrick had once seen a female jaguar leap into the river from a high ledge and come up with a large black caiman in its powerful jaws. The jaguar was the third largest cat in the world and the second most dangerous predator in the Honduran jungle. The people Aldrick was waiting for in near total darkness were at the top of that list.
Lately, Aldrick had seen more and more drug activity in the reserve. The trail he was watching was a secret to most, but he’d learned of its existence shortly after the men had hacked their way to the interior. 

Aldrick knew about their other trails as well.

The chuffing of the lone jaguar was close, but Aldrick felt no fear. He could already hear the narcotraficantes coming down the trail. They were in a lot more danger than he was.

They were moving and making noise.

Just to be sure, Aldrick reached into the side pocket of his vest and withdrew a small box. He opened it and drew out a fragile glass tube, then put the box away and tossed the vial lightly onto the trail, where the glass broke soundlessly. Then he sat back and waited.
Aldrick had discovered the trail two days earlier and had set up a blind on a slight rise, tucked among the buttress roots of a ceiba tree.

The massive roots, some half a meter thick and often standing two meters in height, spread out across the ground in serpentine wall patterns, supporting the tree’s great weight.

The date and time of movement along the trail had been recorded in a small notebook, along with Aldrick’s observations of what the men carried and an estimate of weight. Though he was Tawahka, one of the many indigenous tribes of Honduras, he was a well-educated man.

Spending many days in one place was nothing new for Aldrick. He’d spent eight days in one spot before, just watching the goings-on in his beloved rainforest. He knew the flowers, the trees, the insects, animals, and birds. He knew the sounds of the forest and how they changed from day to night. He was at home there.
Aldrick was moving toward the late years of life, growing older and wiser with the years. He’d attended university as a young man; his natural curiosity and intellect giving him an edge over the other students, even though he was perceived by some as being from a backward, primitive culture.

After receiving double degrees in biological science and environmental studies, he’d worked tirelessly, pushing for laws to protect the ecosystem, demanding to be heard. But because of his heritage, his protestations over logging and poaching went largely ignored.
So, he’d returned to the ivied halls, studying, learning all that he could while earning multiple doctoral degrees.
While the world paid little heed to an educated young man, as a tenured professor of biology in his middle years, they’d listened. Laws were passed protecting the forest and all its inhabitants. But there were always those who simply ignored the laws. Or worse.
Over the last several years, many of his peers—environmental activists and scholars—had been murdered. The killings served to shut the collective mouths of the conservation community in Honduras. The situation was akin to a sealed cesspool, the pressure of bio-decay building until it was about to explode.

Money and greed were winning, but up until the killings had started, activists like Aldrick were beginning to make inroads, finding favor with certain newly-elected government officials. The situation was starting to change.

Education among his people had mostly been parent-to-child. The young of the troupe were taught to survive and the whole tribe took part, teaching and learning from one another. Children learned to fish the rivers and hunt small game in the forest. They were taught what berries and nuts to gather and which ones to avoid. But even with no formal education, his people knew that this world was their home. Those in the cities, with all their education, technology, and toys, treated Earth as if they had somewhere else to go. The pacified indigenous tribes in the villages weren’t much different. It was at one such village that he’d learned of a long lost brother, now locked in a struggle against extinction.

The drug cartels had clear-cut large parts of the primordial forest to make room for the coca plants. The coca grew well in the rich, dark soil and men became wealthy. They soon found that some of the trees they’d been slashing and burning were actually quite valuable in their own right.

Everything in their world revolved around money.
So, the cartels went into the lumber business, finding that harvesting the trees of the forest was nearly as profitable as making cocaine. The mahogany, cocobolo, rosewood, and ziricote trees were highly prized. The fact that they were endangered and protected didn’t matter to the drug barons. The animals of the forest were likewise captured or killed, then sold on the black market.

When the voices of environmentalists became too loud, the drug cartels had upped the ante, sending men to hunt down and kill the people involved in protecting the natural resources. They preyed on innocent people, like a jaguar would stalk the agouti or tapir.

Various predators lived in the rainforests. Each relied on different skills and senses to find their prey. The harpy eagle, one of the most common large raptors in Honduras, relied almost exclusively on their keen eyesight. The jungle was also home to many species of owls, which also relied on sharp vision, especially at night, but they also had excellent hearing. Bats depended almost entirely on their hearing ability. Turkey vultures could track their injured prey for miles just from the smell.

But the jaguar used all its senses to find its food. Keen eyesight, even at night, coupled with exceptional hearing and sense of smell, put the jaguar at the very top of the food chain. As dangerous as men can be, most cowered in fear at the sound of an adult jaguar roaring in the night.
Even the great cat’s sense of touch was tuned to the vibrations it felt through the ground or tree branch on which it stood, giving it an edge over its prey. And few animals weren’t on the jaguar’s menu.

Aldrick heard the soft sound of a rotten twig snap. He froze, holding his breath in mid-exhale. The sound was close, just a few meters off to his left. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black apparition move slowly past his hiding spot. He heard the chuffing sound again, very faint, then a low growl, which was barely discernable over the sound of the men twenty meters away. Aldrick didn’t flinch or turn. To do so would mean a grisly death.
Finally, the jaguar, an almost completely black female he’d observed many times, moved into the view of the night-vision goggles he wore under his hat. She paused, crouched low, and Aldrick could see her nose twitching as she homed in on the scent he’d thrown.

The great cat moved closer, its shoulders rolling with each step, totally focused on the approaching men. 
The lead narcotraficante passed the spot where the glass vial had landed. Aldrick counted four men, each carrying a small pack on his back. He estimated the packs contained about ten to fifteen kilos, based solely on how the men moved. The first of the four was armed with a rifle. He reached a bend in the trail and disappeared, the light from his flashlight appearing and disappearing as he moved away through the thick jungle.

The jaguar began moving faster. Aldrick had watched them attack other animals; stalking slowly until they were close enough, then moving faster and faster, as fewer obstacles separated them from their quarry. The last ten or fifteen meters were a sprint, as they stretched their bodies to gobble up the distance.
The last man in the line didn’t even hear her until the jaguar made its final soundless leap, tackling him from behind, its fangs sinking deep into the neck and shoulder as its hind talons tore into the man’s pack, clothing, and flesh. The animal didn’t snarl or growl. It was simply working—killing its prey as swiftly as possible.

A primal scream split the air as blood and white powder flew everywhere. The next man in line simply dropped his pack and ran headlong into the man in front of him.
The jaguar’s victim died or passed out in mid-scream. The great cat didn’t need to release or adjust her bite, but simply lifted her head high, holding her prey by the collarbone, and dragging the limp body between her legs into the night. She didn’t care whether the man was dead or unconscious. He would be a meal for her and the two cubs Aldrick knew she had in her den, just two kilometers upstream.

It was over before the man with the rifle could even turn around, and by the time he got back to the bend in the trail, the jaguar and her dinner were nowhere to be seen.
Aldrick had watched the event unfold in just a matter of seconds, aided by the night-vision goggles. They allowed him to see clearly and be able to write in his ledger. He scanned the jungle and trail. The only thing left was the white powder scattered everywhere, blood dripping from a few leaves, and the man’s hat, lying in the middle of the trail where he’d died.
 
Chapter Two
December 6, 2021
Utilla, Bay Islands of Honduras

The sun felt warm on my skin, as did the sand. Not hot by any stretch. After all, it was winter. But temperatures in the tropics at this time of year rarely rose above eighty-five degrees, and that wouldn’t be until later in the day.

The breeze was refreshing to the skin as it came across Blackish Point. Beyond the point was Rock Harbor, where it picked up a little chill from the water, which was a few degrees cooler than the air. 

The wind carried the typical scent of the tropics—fragrant flowers, salt, and decaying seaweed. There were other scents on the breeze—exotic smells, barely discernable or unidentifiable. Those fragrances were carried, scattered, and intermingled with others across thousands of miles of ocean.

I lay on my back on the warm sand, feet pointed toward the water, letting the sun and wind dry my skin. The sun had risen a couple of hours earlier and the sky was a deep cerulean with no trace of clouds or moisture. Though I had my dive watch on, I wasn’t interested in the time. I was relaxed beyond belief, not a worry in the world.

Hearing a splash, I raised myself up onto my elbows, looking out toward the water. Savannah had her mask perched on her head, carrying her fins in her left hand. She lifted her knees high, like a majorette in a homecoming parade. It was the unhurried walk of a woman who was in the moment, comfortable in her own skin. It made for quite a sexy exhibition.

She wore a blue bikini, cut high over wide hips. Her long, blond hair was dark and wet, hanging down over her shoulders, and dripping rivulets of water over her tanned, flat belly. She moved with the grace and ease of a world-class athlete.

I smiled as she came up the beach toward me, her hips making a figure-eight motion as her feet churned through the powdery sand.“You look comfortable,” she said, laying her gear on top of mine in the dive bag. “But you’re going to be covered with sand.”“I can return it to the sea with a quick dip.” I said.

She dropped to her knees beside me, tucking her feet under her as she used a towel to wring the water from her hair.

“I could literally stay here forever,” she said, turning her face toward the sun and arching her back.

I admired her long torso. Savannah never had to work hard to stay in shape. She ate healthily and exercised moderately, but in a swimsuit, her body was as breathtaking as the first time we’d met twenty years earlier.

I turned my head and looked out over the water. She was right. Utila was everything a tropical paradise was supposed to be. Palms swayed in the light air, the fronds rustling gently. The water near shore was turquoise but quickly gave way to indigo in the depths not far from shore. We were the only people on the white-sand beach.

Surrounded by warm, crystal-clear water, Utila was situated about halfway between the Tropic of Cancer and the equator, so the climate was always comfortable if you didn’t mind an occasional warm, tropical rain.
It was the third largest of eight islands and fifty-three small cays that made up the Bay Islands of Honduras. The islands were the hilltops of an emerging ridge, surrounded by abysmal depths.Almost completely ringed by a near-shore reef, Utila, as well as the largest island, Roatan, were a scuba diving and snorkeling wonderland, with nearly every dive site accessible from the beach.Whether it was the coolest winter night or the warmest summer day, shorts and a T-shirt were perfectly comfortable.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “A person could definitely get used to this.”

“But,” she said.

“I know. We have to get back to Ambrosia.”

The former yacht, now research vessel, lay at anchor in sixty feet of water, just a quarter mile off the beach. The outflow of sediment from Turtle Harbor to the south created a relatively shallow, sandy shelf. Just a few hundred feet beyond her, the bottom dropped precipitously to two thousand feet or more. The near vertical wall, topped with a fringing reef, and surrounding the seven-mile-long island, was one of the main attractions for divers.

We’d stopped in the Bay Islands for some well-deserved rest and relaxation. The crew needed it, and I was quickly finding out that I did, as well. After a grueling two-month assignment in the Mediterranean, I was happy to be back in the Caribbean. Our next assignment was weeks away, on the Pacific side of Central America. Since most of the crew were divers, I’d decided on the Bay Islands of Honduras, particularly Utila, since I’d never been there.

“It will be lunchtime soon,” Savannah reminded me.

“Marcos and Grady promised lionfish tacos.”

I turned to face her. “Do you have any regrets?”

Her blue eyes met mine and she smiled. “Regrets about what?"

“Life aboard Ambrosia? Raising a son at our age? Being married to a notorious boat bum?”

“None,” she replied. “Do you?”

I grinned. “Actually, I kinda like being a notorious boat bum.”

“Is something bothering you, Jesse?”

“I wouldn’t blame you for having second thoughts,” I said. “This is a lot different from your life on Sea Biscuit.”
She pointed out toward the boat. “Do you not see that? Compared to Sea Biscuit, Ambrosia is like living in both the Verdier houses, all rolled into one.”

When we’d visited her hometown before the assignment in the Med, we’d walked up and down Bay Street in downtown Beaufort, and strolled through the neighborhood called The Point, where all the old mansions stood. She’d told me something about every house we’d passed. Not about friends she’d known, who’d lived in them when she was a girl, but the historical aspect of the homes. When we’d walked past a beautiful estate and she’d called it the Verdier House, I’d told her I was confused, because she’d earlier called another house on the main drag by the same name.
She’d explained that the father had built his house on Bay Street in 1804, and his son had built a house on The Point ten years later. Both were magnificent homes. Yet both were built for just a single family.

“Ambrosia has a lot more people,” I reminded her.

“It can get small,” she said. “But sitting on the foredeck at night puts everything right back into perspective.”

“What about starting over as parents?”

“I’ll admit, it wasn’t what I’d envisioned earlier this year. But no, I love Alberto and can’t imagine a life without him in it. To be honest, I felt a little lost when Flo left for college. All I’d been for nearly two decades was a mom. It’s been the one constant in my life for so long. But it is kind of odd to still be a mom so late in life.”

“Come on,” I said, rolling forward and up onto my feet.
She wasn’t far off the mark, and I was older than her. There were only two children aboard Ambrosia, Alberto and Fernando, who was the son of the assistant engineer. Trading parenting advice with a man who was younger than two of my daughters was awkward.
I grabbed the bag and slung it over one shoulder as Savannah got up from the sand. We walked down to the shallows and rinsed each other off. She only had sand on her knees and shins, but my whole back was covered. Still, I made sure to rinse her legs all the way up to her thighs.

We walked along the shallows, back to where we’d left the stand-up paddle boards. I put the gear bag on mine, just forward of center, and climbed on.

The two of us paddled lazily back out toward the boat in water that could barely muster a six-inch roller. We could see the bottom and watched as fish darted around and between us.

“Is that really all that’s bothering you?” Savannah asked when we were halfway.

“Nothing ever really bothers me,” I said. “I just don’t want you ever to be unhappy.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said. “And you know I’d tell you if I were.”

It took a little more than five minutes to reach the work platform at the stern of the boat. I’d lowered the aluminum platform until the deck was awash as soon as we’d anchored the ship and launched the tenders, to make it easier for divers to get in and out of the water. We only had to step off the paddle boards onto the deck before the skeg hit the edge.

The garage was open, as it had been since shortly after we’d dropped anchor. The storage area under the cockpit contained two twenty-four-foot tenders, two personal watercraft, a dozen paddle boards and kayaks, as well as enough dive gear to put half the crew in the water at once. There were also two hookah rigs for bottom-cleaning, and air compressors for refilling tanks and providing air through hoses to the hookahs. 
We carried the boards into the garage and Savannah pulled on a tank dress she’d left folded on a shelf and I threw on a dry Salt Life T-shirt.

Inside, I noticed six dive tanks being filled in the cooling tub. Compressed air is hot, so putting the tanks in a water tub kept the temperature down. Cooler air was denser, so the tanks could be filled to a higher capacity.
I checked the gauges, and they were all nearly half full. The compressor was set to shut off automatically at 3,000 psi.

“Everything okay?” Savannah asked, putting the paddles into a large barrel with several others.

“The tenders are still out,” I said. “Just wondering who was filling the tanks.”

We left the garage and went up the starboard steps to the cockpit above it, where we found two of the crew relaxing in the shade of the hardtop.

“How was the snorkeling, Captain?” Jocko Landris asked, his smile nearly as broad as his shoulders.
Jocko and the woman he was sitting with, Emma Hall, were both from Bimini, though Jocko was originally from Florida. He was a big man, easily over 250 pounds, but he had the calmest, most serene demeanor of any man I’d ever met.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” I replied. “I thought you two went on the morning dive?”

“We did,” Emma replied. “But we decided to just do one tank. The others dropped us off on the way to the next dive site.”

“That explains the tanks in the water tub,” Savannah said.

“I got it set to stop at three thousand,” Jocko said, looking at his watch. “Then I’ll monitor them and top each one up to thirty-two hundred.”

“They’re about half full,” I said, then we continued into the mess hall.

Jocko was a deckhand, doing all the jobs that required muscle. Not that he was lacking in brains; he was smart, very articulate, and held a divemaster certification, as well as one for equipment specialist. He’d told me once that his parents were both large people, as were his brothers and sisters. The man could probably bench-press a Harley-Davidson.

Emma was a Bimini native and worked on the mess deck, which was run like a restaurant, with a full menu for breakfast, lunch, or dinner every six hours. She and another woman were both hostess and servers. With forty-one people on board, mealtime usually had twenty or so crew members rotating through the mess hall during the two-hour meal.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the morning?” Savannah asked, as we both sat down at a table.

I looked over at her, grinning. “Oh, I can think of a couple of things to do that might be fun.”