Wood's Revenge Read online

  “You can stay here tonight if you want,” Alicia offered.

  Mac pursed his lips and shook his head. As much as he wanted a bed and a good night’s sleep, the clock was ticking. “Thanks, but we need to head back out.”

  “We’re here if you need us,” TJ said. He looked at the trawler. “What’s she draw?”

  “A little over four feet,” Mac said.

  “Why don’t you take the six-pack dive boat. It draws a hair over two feet, and you can tilt the engine if you get in trouble,” TJ offered. “Just filled her too.”

  Mac knew he was right. Where they were headed was not like the more open backcountry near Marathon. Although the entire backside of the Keys was riddled with obstacles, it was much worse where they were headed.

  “I can’t put you out,” Mac said.

  “Those Big Sugar guys’ll put me out of business if you don’t figure this out. The tourists get word of the fish kills, they’ll be no diving here.”

  “We appreciate it,” Mel said, then she said goodbye to Mac. She would be heading to the Florida Coastal Everglades offices outside of Fort Lauderdale tomorrow to see what she could accomplish there.

  Pamela stood on the deck of the trawler waiting. Mac went over and boarded. He told her about the change of plans and brought over some supplies, and the shotgun. He couldn’t help but notice that her demeanor had changed, knowing their path would lead to Trufante. Mac gave Alicia a quick hug and hopped onboard the twenty-four-foot cuddy cabin. He started the engines and waited for Pamela. She said goodbye and joined him by the helm. They cast the lines and headed back out. Immediately he was grateful for the smaller boat.

  “Can you follow the channel?” Mac asked Pamela. Keeping her busy would also keep her focused. “I’m going to enter the coordinates for the other sites.” She nodded and took the wheel. Removing a piece of paper from the pocket of his cargo shorts, he laid it out on the console and started entering the numbers for the other test sites in the chart plotter. After turning the individual waypoints into a route, a line appeared connecting the dots and running up toward Homestead.

  “That’s where we’re going?” Pamela asked.

  “Yeah. Just follow the yellow brick road. Somewhere up this trail, we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

  They stood together in silence as she steered southwest. The Marvin D Adams Waterway they had just used was a faster route, but far better approached from the south where they had come from. Heading north, Tavernier Creek was the safer route back to the bay side. They entered the winding waterway a half hour later and Mac sent Pamela forward with a spotlight. He called out where he expected markers to be and she panned the light across the dark water until the reflectors caught the light. The chart plotter was an aid only; its margin of error of thirty feet seemed minor, but that margin could easily ground them here.

  Finally, after a tense passage, they emerged into Florida Bay. Mac remained vigilant, pointing out the numerous shoals and hazards. He was trusting someone else’s electronics, something he was always wary of, though knowing it was used as a dive boat was reassuring. Most charters in Key Largo took their clients to John Pennekamp Park, and, although beautiful, the diving was a little pedestrian for TJ’s clients. He and Alicia had built a reputation for more adventurous charters using custom nitrox mixes to increase bottom time in deeper water. Some of the sites they dove were like finding a needle in a haystack and required fine-tuned electronics to find them. Still, instead of cutting cross-country, he decided on the marked channel running parallel to Key Largo.

  With Pamela’s help locating the markers, he followed the channel through Tarpon Basin and back into the bay. It was slow, but safe, and when the sun finally broke the horizon, they found themselves staring at the tip of mainland Florida. Mac stopped the boat a quarter mile from the coast in Barnes Sound, to the northeast of US 1. In front of them was a river that was too symmetrical to be natural.

  “Can you pull the canal system up on your phone?” The chart plotter clearly showed the man-made canal in front of them, but had no details. TJ had given them a list of web sites that could help once they were inland.

  “C111. They call it the Aerojet Canal,” she said, working the screen on her phone. “Looks like you could fit a jet in it.”

  He estimated the width to be over a hundred feet. “That’s exactly what it was cut for. They brought the jet engines for the Saturn rockets through here on barges in the sixties. They were too wide for the highways, so they cut this canal through the Everglades.”

  “Tru’s in there,” she said.

  Mac ignored her. He was more interested in the entrance to the canal. The markers stopped well short of it. “How far will this take us?”

  She pinched and panned the screen of her phone. “If they’re all connected, it goes all the way to Lake Okeechobee. But there are some blanks.”

  Mac wondered about the floodgates. He had heard about the mechanical controls to allow excess water through or hold back irrigation water depending on the season.

  “There’s very little detail, but this looks big.”

  Mac steered toward the inlet. The sun had risen enough by now to illustrate exactly what was happening, and it sickened him. A thin stream of brown water was flowing from the canal. He could only imagine what it would be like when the floodgates were open. The famous River of Grass would turn into the River of Death.

  “Come on, Mac Travis. We ain’t got time to sit and wonder why, babe,” she said, humming the Dylan song.

  “Let’s do it.” He pushed down on the throttle, stopping at a fast idle. The depth finder showed eighteen feet and steady, the dredged bottom starting well before the canal entrance. The bottom continued to hold and he accelerated slightly as they met the current from the canal. Pushing through the inlet, he saw several fishermen on the banks, their cars and trucks parked on what appeared to be an access road behind them.

  “Look up there!” Pamela warned.

  He’d lost focus for a second, watching one of the fishermen bring a fish to the bank. Ahead were a half dozen huge culvert pipes.

  “What now?”

  She went back to her phone. “They’re eighty-four inches in diameter. What’s that mean to us?”

  Mac was thankful the cuddy cabin didn’t have a tower. He pushed down on the throttles, wanting enough momentum to maintain steerage, expecting the current to be stiffer as the canal narrowed. As they got closer, he could see ripples on the surface as the water exited the restriction. Powering up again, he slid the boat into the pipe. It was an eerie feeling with only inches to spare on each side, but the culverts were only ten feet long, and he could see light ahead. Before he knew it, they were clear and the canal widened again.

  The waterway stayed dead straight for a few miles, giving him a chance to look at the map on Pamela’s phone. “There’s another test station right up here.”

  Trufante woke in darkness, then remembered the room had no windows. He turned toward the only source of light, a thin band coming from under the door. He moved around, trying to stretch, and gaining his feet he used the wall to push himself up. Just as he rose, he slammed his head into the low ceiling and winced in pain. Ducking now, he went to the light, twice tripping on pipes before he reached it. With both hands he tried to turn the handle, but it was locked.

  In the darkness it was impossible to see if there was another way out, and he started to worry. Sealed inside of a concrete building in the middle of the Everglades was not a good scenario. He went back to the door and froze when he heard something. There were voices outside, and he strained to hear what they were saying. It sounded like a large group, and out of desperation he started banging on the door. The voices were coming closer and he heard something on the other side.

  “Do you think it’s a trap?” someone asked.

  “You know that team plays dirty. Must be one of their guys trying to draw us into the open.”

  Trufante tried to figure out what this army t
alk was all about, and then it dawned on him. “Hey, guys, it ain’t a trap. I’m stuck in here,” he yelled, banging on the door again. He could hear them talking quietly.

  “I’m telling you right now, if this is a trap, the game’s over, and you’ll lose for cheating,” someone said.

  “Right. No cheating. Really, I ain’t got no idea what y’all are up to, but this she-devil of a woman stuck me in here last night.”

  He could hear activity outside the door, then he heard a crash and the door vibrated. It fell away from the rusted steel hinges and light entered the room. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, but when he did he saw a half dozen teenagers surrounding him, each with a weapon pointed at him. The first thing that came to mind were the gang shootings, but after a closer look the guns looked different, and he remembered the conversation.

  “Y’all can put those down ’fore you hurt someone,” he said.

  The leader stepped forward and holstered his pistol. Trufante’s eyes followed the weapon and he relaxed. In a small compartment to the side of the gun were several CO2 cartridges. He looked around at the other weapons and saw the standard paintball paraphernalia.

  “What are you doing here?” the leader asked.

  “Same could be asked about you boys,” he said, with an emphasis on boys.

  “I asked you first,” he said, boldly.

  “Hey, Max, forget this dude. Ethan’s team’s gonna get the drop on us,” one of the other guys said.

  “Y’all need to post some guards. Tell you what,” he said, thinking how he could play this to his advantage. “I help you take down this Ethan cat, and y’all get me back to civilization.” He scanned the gutted building. Conduits and ductwork hung from the ceilings and walls. The electrical panel had been jimmied open and all the copper wire pulled.

  “What do you know about tactics?” Max asked.

  “First Bayou Brigade. Team leader,” Trufante said proudly.

  “Louisiana?”

  “Goddamn Everglades got nothing on the ole bayou. Now do we have a deal?”

  Max looked around at the others. “Sure,” he said.

  “I’ll be needing a weapon then,” Trufante said.

  One of the boys handed him a rifle with a belt of cartridges and extra ammo. “All right, now where’s this Ethan dude at?”

  Just as he said it, an orange splatter appeared on the concrete wall above his head. There was no First Bayou Brigade, and this was the first Trufante had ever seen of paintball. He wasn’t impressed. If it couldn’t take down a gator, what was the point? “Spread out. Everyone at least twenty yards apart. You two, go around the perimeter and find them, then report back.” He took control of the troops.

  Another shot marked the wall behind him. Turning, he fired several rounds and heard someone cry out that they were hit. “Score one for us,” he said to Max. If the circumstances were different, this could actually be fun. “We need to pin them down somewhere, you know, push them into an enclosed space.”

  “The rocket silo,” Max said. “It’s the building over there.” He pointed to a large steel building.

  “Rockets? For real?” Trufante muttered.

  “Don’t you know where we are?” Max asked.

  “No, man. Told you that she-devil locked me up last night.”

  “This is the old Aerojet rocket plant.”

  Trufante gave him a queer look, smiling and showing his grin. He knew this was his best chance to get out of here. “Rally them troops and start moving them toward it.” He leaned over and drew a quick map of his plan in the half inch of dirt on the concrete floor. “This is how we’re gonna do it.”

  18

  Mel said goodbye and thanked Alicia for the ride to Miami International Airport. From here she would rent a car. The ex-CIA agent had offered to accompany her, but Mel had decided it wasn’t worth the risk if identities were checked. It was better to be a private citizen, although she expected there were files on her in more than one government office. After fighting the ACLU’s battles for years, her name was well known in some circles—not always for the right things. Her relationship with Bradley Davies and his law firm probably had a red flag on her as well. As she drove north on I-95, she wondered if her old boss was still locked up and where.

  The town of Davie was just west of Fort Lauderdale and home to the US Department of the Interior’s Everglades Restoration Initiative. Already she had discovered a conflict between the National Science Foundation and the DOI. From her experience with government, this would only be the first of many, and she planned to use one to leverage the information she wanted. She had made several calls to some old contacts to both garner information and to see if she could get an appointment. Exiting I-595 at South University Drive, she breathed deeply, wondering what kind of reception she was going to get. The calls she had made during the two-hour drive had yielded more information than she knew what to do with about the history and political intrigue surrounding Big Sugar.

  It was a twisted relationship, with both people’s health and the environment compromised. She already knew how it started from Alicia’s history lesson last night, but she soon found everything had escalated in the sixties. It seemed the sugar industry paid Harvard scientists to publish a study blaming fat and cholesterol for coronary heart disease while largely exculpating sugar. This study, published in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine, in 1967, helped set the agenda for decades of public health policy designed to steer Americans into low-fat foods, which increased carbohydrate consumption and exacerbated the obesity epidemic as well as selling truckloads of sugar. This revelation was one of the first instances where the Big Sugar companies had worked together to buy influence.

  Leaving the health matters aside, she called another friend, who gave her the political background. She drove with her jaw dropped, almost rear-ending two other cars as she listened to how it had started in the 1800s. Back then, the cornerstone of federal sugar policy was not a dietary guideline but a tariff on sugar imports. The sugar companies again banded together forcing a law that made a distinction between refined and raw sugar. Again this was to their advantage.

  The miles flew by as she listened, and it only got worse. In order to protect domestic refiners, then the largest manufacturing employer in Northern cities, the tariff distinguished between two kinds of sugar: “refined” and “raw.” Refined sugar that was meant for direct consumption paid a much higher rate than did raw sugar crystals intended for further refining and whitening. But by the late 1870s, new industrial sugar factories in the Caribbean began to jeopardize this protectionist structure. Technologically sophisticated, these factories could produce sugar that, while raw by the government’s standard, was consistently much closer to refined sugar than ever before. The American industry now faced potential competition from abroad.

  The country’s largest refiners mobilized on several fronts. They lobbied the United States Congress to adopt chemical instruments that could measure the percentage of sucrose in a sugar cargo, and to deem sugar “refined” only when its sucrose content was sufficiently high enough. Previously, customs officers had judged the purpose of a sugar cargo by its color, smell, taste, and texture, as people throughout the sugar trade had done for centuries. Now refiners argued that such sensory methods were ripe for abuse because they depended on a subjective appraisal. They demanded a scientific standard instead—one that would reveal some “raw” sugar to be nearly pure and thus subject to higher tariffs—and they prevailed. It was amazing to her that this wasn’t publicized. It read like a thriller novel.

  Their plea for scientific objectivity may have sounded sensible, but it masked nefarious aims. If refiners were to bribe a customs chemist to shade his results in their favor—as they were routinely accused of doing for decades, beginning in the 1870s—such corruption would be much harder for the government to detect than it had been when everyone could see and smell the same sugar.

  All the while America�
��s appetite for sugar grew. In the decades after the Civil War, Americans’ per-capita consumption of sugar more than doubled, from thirty pounds in the late 1800s to eighty pounds only thirty years later. As a result, by 1880, sugar subsidies accounted for a sixth of the federal budget.

  Then there were the bribes. Her last call was to a friend at the Miami Herald. He revealed that in the last twenty years the industry contributed almost sixty million dollars to influence Florida elections, and that was the publicly disclosed amounts. Meanwhile, and not surprisingly, state officials had resisted efforts to make sugar companies pay for their damage to the Everglades.

  With a pile of money and some powerful lobbyists, which Mel was not surprised to hear that Davies was one of, Big Sugar succeeded in bringing control of the Everglades back to the state level, where they could more easily manipulate it. Several measures were passed, all watered down and penned by the sugar companies’ attorneys. Cleanup costs were capped, and a proposed area of the middle Everglades was slated for restoration. That was during the Clinton years, and it was no different when the Republicans took control of Congress. Big Sugar didn’t care who was in power. They funneled money in whatever direction they needed to keep their subsidies in place.

  With her head spinning, Mel pulled in and parked. Even for her brain, often tried by the craftiest minds in the legal profession, this was convoluted. Wishing for a change of clothes, she got out of the car and entered the building. In the office of the Everglades Initiative, she looked at the disinterested woman sitting beneath the seal of the Department of the Interior.

  She announced herself and sat down to wait, trying to think if there was any other industry that had their hand in the destruction of the environment and of people’s health at the same time.

  “Come on in, Ms. Woodson.” The woman who opened the door greeted her with a handshake, then escorted her to an office with a generous view of the parking lot.