Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Any of you see the boss?” Juanico asked as he approached the men, but his question was greeted only by shaking heads. “Anybody been all the way across to the other cove?” Again all the heads shook in the negative. He turned and headed for the faint trail Dan had taken. “Don’t nobody do nothing. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

In the hour it took Juanico to return from finding Juan Baptista de la Vega dead and nearly headless from the fire in his skull, he had formulated a plan. He came out of the jungle directly behind the main house, went inside and loaded a pistol then tucked it into his waistband. With Vega’s machete and club in hand, he walked into the cluster of lounging men. “The boss is dead,” he announced. “I’m in charge now.”

Five ugly, bearded faces turned to stare at him. Tiago got to his feet, took two steps toward Juanico and adjusted his slouchy hat. “Who says?”

Juanico reached to the small of his back, drew the pistol and fired. The bullet smashed into Tiago’s chest and the man pitched back and fell like a tree, dead before he hit the ground. “Any more questions?” Juanico looked from man to man, but no one said a word or made a move.

“Now, here’s the deal,” Juanico began. “I was sneaking around last night and heard Ruiz talking with the guy we took prisoner. I got good ears, and I heard the man say there’s eleven million dollars in the box over there.” He waved toward the container. “All we gotta do is go in and get it.”

Every man sat up and looked intently at Juanico. “I went to have a look while everybody was out hunting in the bushes, and it looks like Ruiz had cracked open one of the locks. The bolt cutter is still there, laying on the barge where he dropped it.” He swung the pistol around, aiming at each man in turn. “Now, we’re going to work together, and nobody is going to get any more than anybody else. There’s five of us here, and we’re gonna split the loot square. I ain’t like de la Vega, to take more than my share. But I’m the boss now,” – he paused to stare them down one at a time – “unless any of you thinks otherwise.”

Flies were gathering in the bloody wound on Tiago’s dead body as it lay in the heat of the rising sun. Without a word, the men got to their feet and followed Juanico to the barge. “As the boss,” Juanico said, tucking the pistol back in his waistband, “I think it’s only right that I work right along with you boys. We work together and we share the treasure. Any complaints about that?”

A mumbled chorus of agreement sounded through the crowd. Juanico smiled. “Then I’ll take my turn right now.” He picked up the bolt cutters and spread the jaws around the next lock. After snapping the jaws through the lock, he handed the cutters to the next man. It took only a moment to break each lock, and quickly the men gathered around to throw open the four vertical latching bars that held the container doors shut.

With a creaking, metallic squeal, the latches were released, and a shallow stream of water poured out as the doors were swung wide. The men rushed toward the opening, but Juanico pulled the pistol and fired a round into the air. “Back off, men,” he yelled. “One at a time, and I’m first.” He stepped up into the chaotic mess inside the container. A nylon cargo net was draped across a jumble of boxes and plastic totes, but many of them had burst open and there was stuff strewn about under the net. Juanico released the net from the tie-down hooks and kicked a few boxes out to make room for him to move around inside.

The men tore into the crates as if they were treasure chests. After clearing away a few of the water-soaked cardboard boxes and plastic totes, Juanico ripped into one box after another, hoping to discover bales of plastic-wrapped money. Finding nothing but household goods and clothes, he fired off a nonstop string of cuss words in Spanish until all the men stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

“Hey, boss,” one of the men said. “We ain’t found the money yet, but even this stuff will be worth something. We can take it around to other islands to sell.”

Juanico stopped cursing and stared at the man, as if he had lost his mind. Then he thought about it. “You’re right. Lay this stuff out on the barge. Organize it in piles, according to what it is.”

“Where’s the eleven million, boss?” one of the men shouted.

Juanico shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. But I ain’t done looking yet.”

For the next ten minutes, he continued shoving one box after another toward the open doors, and the men formed a bucket brigade of sorts to move the cargo quickly onto the barge to be sorted into piles. After he had made his way ten feet into the container, he could see something different behind the wall of boxes and totes. It was yellow and white and looked like corrugated metal siding.

“There’s something else in here,” he called out. “You two,” – he pointed quickly to the men closest to him – “get in here and start moving this stuff away. Time for me to take a break.” He stepped out of the container and wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. Already the day was hot, and there was no air movement inside the container to cool things down. Even beneath the shady canopy of overhanging trees, the tropic air was stifling.

With two men working, all the boxes and totes were quickly moved away, revealing the front wall of the travel trailer. “Hey, boss, now what?” one of the men asked. “This thing is so wide we can’t go any farther.”

Juanico hopped up to take a look, and could see that the trailer filled the interior of the container from wall to wall. “We gotta pull it outside.” He looked around and saw the crane winch at the front of the barge. “Antonio, bring the winch cable in here,” he ordered, and moments later the cable was strung to the trailer’s hitch A-frame. “Okay, start it up.” He stood at the lip of the container opening and waved his arm up and down. The winch whirled to life, and the cable became taut. “Back off, everybody,” Juanico shouted, and the trailer started to roll toward the doors.

“Maybe the money’s in there, boss,” somebody said, and Juanico just shook his head, hoping for the best. But in the back of his mind, he knew this didn’t look like a shipment of baled greenbacks from Bank of America.

“Whatever it is, we share it equal,” he shouted above the noise of the winch, and all the men cheered.

The winch cranked and the trailer slowly dragged forward until the hitch jack reached the lip of the container. Juanico raised his hand and rotated it in a circle above his head. “Keep going,” he shouted, and the jack slid off the container floor, throwing the trailer nose down on its frame with a crash. “Keep going.” Juanico spun his hand overhead again, and the winch kept churning. Fifteen minutes after starting the process, the forward half of the trailer hung outside the container. It was enough to allow entry through the side door, and to Juanico that was enough.

Four rough-looking men gathered around Juanico as he twisted the door knob and pulled. Cocked at an angle, the trailer walls flexed enough to jam the door tight. “Somebody bring me a pry bar,” Juanico yelled, and one of the men broke ranks and ran to the tool shed. In a moment, he was back with a long bar. Juanico stood aside. “Go ahead,” he ordered, “open it up.” The man with the bar slammed the chiseled end into the crack between the door and the frame, pulled back and the door popped open.

“Santo!” the man shouted, throwing his hand across his face and moving back so quickly that he tripped and fell over. “It stinks. Something died in there.”

Weeks of vomit inside a hot metal box had created a stench like the bottom of an old grave. All the men moved away from the trailer, fanning hands in front of their faces to clear the air. “We will let it air out for a while,” Juanico said. “Let’s go have breakfast and we will come back later.”