Retribution Road by Jon Coon (e reader comics .TXT) 📕

Well-constructed wooden boxes were placed to cover the pallets and then the trucks rolled beneath a large hopper and were partially filled with white shell used for road construction. Louisiana was known for using shell rather than gravel.

Last, heavy tarps were spread over the shell, and the trucks pulled out onto the highway. DEA vehicles followed … well behind them.

In Apalachicola, Florida, oyster capital of the universe, it was oyster boats that met the sub, and oyster trucks that made the haul.

It was Crystal River, Florida where things went wrong.

The sub surfaced in sight of the Crystal River Nuclear Power Plant and was met by a large, offshore charter dive boat. The dive boat’s captain sat in his wheelhouse chair watching the loading process but kept one eye on his radar. He watched a large blip, thirty miles out, stop and sit quietly. Captain Billy, a twice-busted drug runner, guessed immediately the radar blip was company they didn’t want. He ran down the stairs to the deck and told the sub captain what he feared.

The sub captain remembered the pep talk Caldera had given before their departure and how important the shipment was to the welfare of his family and friends. The cargo was only a third unloaded, and the blip wasn’t moving.

The crew immediately reloaded the drugs, and within a short while, the sub, with its full cargo, dove and set a course for open sea. Captain Billy had the crew scrub down his deck and then, as if running with a full load, set a course for his Crystal River dive center.

As soon as the dive boat began its run, the blip followed, still keeping its distance. Two hours later, the dive boat moored in its marina slip, and the bus to haul the stash arrived. Billy waved them off without a word. The bus from Nashville, painted with colorful dive scenes, pulled out of the shell parking lot to make a disappointing trip back north. On board, DEA agent Robin Watts rode in the darkness and hit a text code on her phone: The op is blown. Warn the others.

Tom had been sitting anxiously in the hangar by his computer and sat phone. When the phone buzzed, he grabbed it and waved to Gabe, who was already headed his way. Tom put the phone on speaker and answered.

“Captain Bright, this is Lieutenant Stone from the Coast Guard. Sir, I’ve been told to tell you we lost the sub at Crystal River. We still have the tracker signal, but she headed back to deep water without unloading her cargo. Our captain is uncertain what you want us to do now?”

“Looks like our intel operation is blown, Lieutenant. She’s carrying six tons of poison. My suggestion is if you can find her and she refuses to surrender, sink her. And get a fix on her final resting place. We might need to raise her later.”

“I’ll pass your recommendation on to our captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

“Lieutenant, will you keep me informed?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll contact you as soon as we’ve resolved the issue.”

The blip on the radar screen became a battle stations assault vessel. Sirens roused the crew to “general quarters,” and the ship surged to full power. They covered the thirty miles in less than forty-five minutes, and with the tracking signal, were on target in an hour.

“Invite them to surface,” the captain said calmly to the lieutenant.

“Aye, sir. Sending the invitation now.”

A depth charge set to blow safely above the sub was launched. The blast shook the ship and sent green water high into the air.

“I believe the invitation has been received, sir.” The lieutenant grinned, and the captain nodded.

“She’s on her way up,” the sonar man reported.

“Launch the boats. Let’s take this one alive.”

“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant said. “Sir, permission to leave the bridge?”

“Granted. Good hunting, Steve. Be safe.”

The cutter launched two ribs, fiberglass hulls, Kevlar tubes, big engines. Once in the water, the ribs waited alongside the cutter until they saw clouds of bubbles rise and then the sub broke surface. The hatch opened, and men in life jackets emerged and jumped overboard. Strangely, the last man out closed the hatch.

“They’ve blown the buoyancy,” the lieutenant shouted. “Try to—”

Too late. A series of small explosions rocked the sub, and she dropped quickly out of sight.

“Mark our location and depth,” the lieutenant ordered.

“Got it, sir. Depth 171, and I’ve set a GPS waypoint. Sir, what shall we do with the survivors?”

“I know what I’d like to do.” He scowled.

“Yes, sir, but isn’t that illegal?” the twenty-something bosun’s mate replied.

Four go-faster boats waited for the sub. Fifty feet long with four 300-horsepower outboards, there wasn’t a boat on the water that could touch them. Built for one thing and one thing only—cargo hauling at high speed—they sat riding the Atlantic swell halfway between Key West and the Dry Tortugas. Alerted to the problem at Crystal River but confident they could outrun anything the Coast Guard or DEA threw at them, they waited, and soon the sub, unaware of the problems encountered by their sister ship, surfaced in the rolling blue swell.

After a brief discussion, the decision was made to transfer the cargo and take their chances. The first two came alongside, and the crews went to work. They offloaded six tons of product in two hours, and the 1200-horsepower bullets blasted to a secluded coastal marina where a giant forklift raised them from the water and placed them on racks in an enclosed boat barn. When the doors closed, the boats were unloaded, and in the process, DEA agent Kevin Jones slid small transponders into the duffel bags used to hide the drugs. Laundry trucks pulled into the boat barn, and the duffel bags were added to the bags of hotel and restaurant linens ready to be delivered. The Miami/Fort Lauderdale hospitality industry was about to get a lot more hospitable.