Hey Guys,
Here are the next two chapters in this early adventures of Mac and Wood. I’d originally thought to release a chapter a month. Several of you, pointed out that the story would be too hard to follow in that format. I’ve decided to accelerate things and try and get you at least two chapters a month. I’m also going to compile the book as I go, so it will be easy to catch up. For now you can read chapter one here.
This is an organic project, so I am open for your ideas and suggestion. Let me know if you see a plot twist, have an idea, or spot and inconsistency.
Chapter 2
Wood stalked the aisles of the lumber supplier, shaking his head as he checked the prices. Nothing was cheap in the Keys, especially not when it had marine as part of its name.
He grabbed the stainless-steel hardware and took it to the lumber desk.
“Wood,” The mans said.
“Peacock.” He could have said “Shithead,” but the man’s name made him smile as it was. “What else?”
“That special order rebar come in?”
“Yeah. Should I get some wine and cheese or you gonna be a big boy when you see the
bill.”
“Just put it on my account. That way it’ll blend in with the rest of it.” He pushed the
hardware toward the man behind the counter. The price of the materials was factored into his bids and contracts, but it still irked him that it cost so much.
Peacock handed him a receipt, called one of the yard workers on a walkie-talkie, and directed him to drive around back.
“Yeah, I know. Been here once or twice.” He glanced back at the salesman, noticing the relief on his face. This would easily be his worst encounter of his day, and Wood wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Don’t look so damned happy to get rid of me. Might have to come back.” Wood marched out the door with a smile on his face. He got in the truck and drove around to the loading area behind the building, where he was considerably nicer to the two guys who helped load the epoxy-coated rebar onto the bed of his truck—at least they worked for a living.
Wood followed the access road out of the lot and turned left onto US 1. Traffic was fairly light this early in the morning. It was just a little after seven, early for the island community. Careful to follow the 45 MPH speed limit through Big Pine so he wouldn’t kill any of the precious Key deer, he accelerated once he was on the bridge across Big Spanish Channel. Mac was already waiting at the boat ramp on the other side and helped him transfer the rebar onto the barge.
By 7:30 they were on the water, and a few minutes later Wood dropped the spuds to anchor the barge by the cofferdam. He peered over the steel walls. “See that Travis. Told you she’d hold.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Mac said.
“Might as well get to work, then.” Wood stepped over to the cooler and cracked a beer. His theory was that it was the first and last beers of the day that mattered. Anything in between didn’t count. He tipped the can toward Mac as he tossed him a Gatorade. “Better stay hydrated.”
Mac set the bottle aside and started to assemble the equipment he would need to start to repair the piling. When he was ready, they set it in the bucket of the excavator and moved back to the side of the boat and looked at the work to be done.
“Thing spalled out pretty bad,” Wood said.
“Looks like what we saw when we dove on it. No surprises.”
They had dived on the pilings in question before preparing their bid. Most people think
the concrete does all the heavy lifting in construction, but it is actually the rebar, in this case 3/4-inch-thick steel rods that were welded into a cage. The concrete filled around them and made the structure. Spalling occurred when the concrete shell deteriorated and allowed saltwater to reach the steel, which then rusted. The reinforcement lost its strength, and also expanded which in turn cracked the concrete allowing more water in. Once the process
started there was no easy fix. The new epoxy-coated rebar would prevent that, but it was expensive and hard to work with.
Mac donned his overalls, to protect him from the concrete and ragged steel, and his hip- high waders, then climbed onto the bundle of tools. Wood got into the cab of the excavator. The machine started with a belch of black smoke. He waited a minute while it warmed up, then glanced over at Mac, who gave him a thumbs-up and lifted the bucket from the deck. He swung the boom outboard and lowered the bucket with Mac and the tools into the cofferdam.
He would have preferred that Mac had some help—for both their sakes. But after six years, Travis was the only steady worker he’d ever hired. Boy was smart, worked hard, and knew how to fish. The majority of his workforce was temporary—picked up and discarded, usually by mutual agreement, after the job was done. A few were still around and willing, but he’d have to go on a bar crawl to find them.
The sound of the jackhammer meant that Mac was at work. “Dangerous” was an understatement for this kind of work, and this was a tricky part. They’d shored up the adjacent sections of the bridge to take the weight from the piling, but those supports were in the water. The real concern was the effect of the vibration of the jackhammer as Mac chipped the concrete away from the corroded rebar. The action of the jackhammer transferred to the bridge through harmonic waves, which caused the structure to resonate in the water. The sound worked on the rebar as well, creating waves of its own, but at a different frequency. The disparity was enough to create leaks in the temporary steel walls. Small leaks were fairly common and wouldn’t be a big deal, but a breech would be disastrous.
Wood sat on the edge of the barge watching Mac working below. He was there for safety, as well as if Travis needed anything. Until the rebar was exposed and cut away there was nothing he could do. That gave him time to think, and when he had that luxury lately his thoughts drifted to the island.
He had plans. Dredging the channel being first. Second was a pair of concrete runners and a winch in the brush to pull his boat out. A house was next. It would be a simple affair. Solar powered and on stilts. The plans in his mind were refined enough that he wouldn’t even need to put them on paper.
The problem was ownership. They, whoever they were, didn’t list those islands in the newspaper. The island fell outside of the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge, but he was pretty sure the federal government owned it. He’d thought about hiring a lawyer to figure out how to deal with the bureaucracy, but there weren’t any lawyers he trusted. His best bet was Ned, a friend and professor of antiquities at the University of Florida who lived in Key West.
Ned had helped identify some of the artifacts that he and Mac had found in the waters under the bridges. The channels had been there for years, and the deep-water ones had carried boats from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico ever since the Tequesta Indians had been here. They’d even uncovered an almost intact pre-Colombian Mayan canoe. The guy was trustworthy. One of the few that Wood allowed that monicker.
“You with me or what?” Travis called up from the hole.
Wood snorted and brought his attention back to the work. “What?”
“Who’s going to inspect this?”
“You think I got an engineer in my pocket?” Structural welding needed to be observed as
part of the inspection process. That meant for every hour Mac would be welding, an inspector at two or three times Mac’s hourly rate would be looking over his shoulder. “We’ll get everything ready and weld the cage on the barge. We can do it in two halves and use couplers to put it together down there.” It would be bad enough having an inspector around, let alone inside the cofferdam.
“I’ve gone as far as I can then. Haul me out of here.”
Wood climbed back into the excavator and waited for Mac to load the bucket. A thumbs- up signaled he was ready, and Wood gently eased the bucket out of the hole. He swung it around and set it on the deck of the barge.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going down to Key West to see Ned. You start on the cage. I’ll be back to pick you up in a couple of hours.”
“What about the inspector?”
“Yeah, that’s my problem. I’ll get someone out.” Wood figured that as long as they observed part of the process and could clearly see the rest of the work, they would approve it. He hopped out of the excavator and headed to the skiff.
Glancing back, he saw the spark and flash as Mac began to weld. He pulled alongside the boat ramp thinking he was lucky to have a guy like Travis, someone who cared not only about his trade, but about the business. Once he got the island squared away, he’d decided to consider a partnership. They already split the profits for their occasional salvage work, but this was Wood’s business.
Wood left the boat in the water and took the keys with him. He hopped into the truck and pulled out of the parking lot that led directly to US 1, or the Overseas Highway, depending on who you were talking to.
The ride to Key West passed through Big Pine Key, then Little Torch, Ramrod, Summerland, Cudjoe, and finally Sugarloaf Key. This area, known as the Lower Keys, was mostly residents with some small RV parks and lodges mixed in. Past Sugarloaf the small stores, boatyards, bait shops, and mom-and-pop restaurants yielded to an area that had remained largely unchanged from the early days of pirates and sail. Birds were the predominant population, covering the mangrove-lined shoreline and islands dotting the backwaters on both sides of the highway. It wasn’t until Boca Chita Key, where the Key West Naval Air Station was located, that man held a foothold.
Wood drove through Stock Island and passed over the Cow Key Channel Bridge connecting the Lower Keys to Key West. Wood had been stationed here during the Cuban Missile Crisis. He’d seen the island attempt to transform itself from a navy base to a tourist haven.
The changes didn’t sit well with him. Cruise ships had become increasingly frequent, and Duval Street, once Hemingway’s playground, had turned into Margaritaville with the opening of Jimmy Buffett’s restaurant. The island had gone through enough iterations over the centuries that Wood expected this one to pass as well.
He took a left at the light at the end of the bridge and a right on Flagler Street. Just before the Casa Marina Resort, he took a right and entered a quiet neighborhood comprised of mostly two- or three-story narrow Victorian homes. Bright pastel paint and gingerbread trim hung from every corner and crevice gave the street a tropical feel. From a contractor’s perspective, Wood never cared for the look. Even well-painted wood rotted here. He knew several painters and carpenters who worked house to house keeping them up.
Wood pulled into the narrow driveway, parking behind a bicycle, or actually a tricycle, with a large basket hung behind the seat. He got out and walked to the door.
Just as he was about to swing the knocker, the door opened.
“Son of a bitch, you trying to scare me?”
“Seen you comin’, old man.”
“Don’t old man me, last I counted you were a year or two older.”
“Come on in, then. You could have used that fancy phone of yours to call.”
Wood brought his hand to the holster, hanging next to a pager on his hip. “Damned thing
costs more to use than the gas to drive down here.” Mel, his daughter, had talked him into the cell phone, but he rarely used it. He stepped into the doorway.
Ned led him to the office, a small room facing the street. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered the walls and a desk, overloaded with books and papers, sat in the center of the room.
Wood removed a pile of paperwork from what looked like one of the dining room chairs and sat.
“You find out anything about that property?” Wood asked. “It’s complicated.”
Chapter 3
“The feds are trying to incorporate the island and the Content Keys into the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge. That’ll shut you down in a heartbeat.”
Wood looked straight at Ned, as if he was the cause of his problems. “They’ve already got thousands of acres in that thing. Got to be something we can do.”
“You know the pendulum is swinging toward preservation. I’m not sure why that area wasn’t included in 1938 when they set the refuge up.”
“There’s got to be a way to stop them. My place is miles from there.”
“You should stop calling it your place and really stop working on it. Did you get a permit for dredging that channel?”
“Did it on the weekends. No one knows, beside Travis.”
“You’d be surprised. You know what it’s like trying to keep a secret here. Half the commercial guys out of Marathon go by there.” Ned paused. “And you aren’t exactly friendly with that group.”
“I’ve got all the friends I need.”
Ned sighed. He’d know Wood for long enough to see through the posturing. He waited for a long minute. “It’s not lost yet. They’ve got to open this up for public comments before they can do it.”
“Find out the when and where. I’ll be there.”
“Are you sure that’s in your best interest? I think we need more of a plan than you going in and ranting about this or that.”
“You got one?” Wood asked.
“Thinking on something. What if we did let them have the Contents. Like you said, your place is miles from there, while the Content Keys are adjacent to the existing refuge.”
Wood shook his head. “Slippery slope. They’ll come for me after that. Just as soon put a stop to this business now.”
“I hear you, but you’ve got to be patient.” Ned held up his hand. “And don’t tell me you’re playing some kind of long game here, shoot-from-the-hip Woodson.”
Wood shook his head in resignation. “You think it’ll work?”
“I know some people.”
“Maybe you give me some names and I can ... what do you call it, lobby them.”
“We need to do this my way, and by the way, we only have a week to the public hearing.” Wood shifted forward in the chair. “When were you planning on springing that little
tidbit?”
Ned held out his hands in surrender. “How about we just make a plan? I’ve done some
research on these things.”
“I have, too. Who do we have to pay off?”
“Come on, Wood. You want my help, settle down and take it.”
Wood shifted in the chair. “Okay, let’s have it.”
“This is something Mel might be able to help with, actually. She still at UVA?”
“Law school. Don’t know where she got that gene from.”
“Does she have an internship lined up for the summer?”
Wood pursed his lips. “To be honest, we don’t talk about that kind of stuff much.”
“Ask her. If we can get her on the staff of the chairman of the Senate Environment and
Public Works Committee, it would be helpful.”
“I’m not sure I want to lay this on her. She seems to want her own life.”
“She also likes to get her teeth into things and if she agrees, there is no one better. That
work she did with me for her senior project was impressive.”
“Apples and oranges. She likes to preserve things—like my island. I don’t think she’d be on my side.”
“Try. She’s also against government overreach. This could be seen that way.”
“Can’t hurt to ask. What can I do?”
“Nothing stupid. Stop working out there.”
Wood sat still for a long minute. “Alright. We’ll play it your way—for now.”
“Good. This is the right way to handle this. Now, about that artifact you brought down
last week.”
“Worth anything?”
Ned cocked an eye at his old friend. “It’s not always about the money.”
“Just mostly. Come on. What did you find?”
Ned stood and moved to a bookcase, where he took down a small, rectangular-sized
object wrapped in a cloth. Holding it in one hand, he moved a pile of papers out of the way and placed it on his desk.
“You found this in the Big Spanish Channel?”
“Right. Where me and Travis is working. Pier we just finished up. Third from the center span.” Mac had found the object when they set up the cofferdam.
“Please don’t tell me it’s historically significant or human remains.” Either would involve the state, which would shut down the project.
“It’s not remains, if that makes you feel better, and historically significant is open for interpretation.”
“You gonna tell me or not?” Wood asked.
Ned removed the cloth that was covering the item, revealing the glint of silver from a spot that had been cleaned. “I’d guess there were too many of these for this one to be significant. Might pay some bills, though.”
“After I split it with the state.”
In the scope of the nearly five centuries of European occupation of the Keys, the bridges were relatively new. Built in the early part of the century originally for the railroad, most were going on eighty years old. Finding human remains or antiquities was far from a rarity when working underneath the structures. Pirates and smugglers had used the channels separating the Keys for centuries. Passing through one in the wrong conditions, which usually meant a hard tide against a strong wind, could create standing waves tall enough to capsize the typical-size vessel capable of escaping into the backcountry.
“If it had markings, we’d have to turn it in, but this appears to be plain silver.”
“The whole thing?” The shape of the rectangular bar had attracted Mac’s attention. Even with barnacles covering it, the lines were too straight for nature. “Can you date it?”
“Civil War, from the barnacle growth. That’s good for you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Under the radar. Just hope it’s pirates and not from a wreck. Clean that bar up and no
one will know where it came from, whereas Spanish reales are easily identifiable.”
“People melt them down all the time.”
Ned lowered his glasses on his nose and gave Wood a look that clearly said that was
sacrilegious. “I’m just guessing Civil War era from the growth. Note the use of era. That’s important. Could be years before or after.”
“What’s it doing in the middle of nowhere?”
The glasses remained in place. “In case you forgot your history ...”
Wood sat back, knowing a lecture was coming.
“Florida seceded and joined the Confederacy, but Key West was a Union stronghold,
mainly because Captain James A. Brannon, who might have won the war for the Union, took control of Fort Zachary Taylor. Reinforcements were provided, and the city, though the mood was thoroughly southern, stayed in Union hands.” Ned had slipped into lecture mode.
“Key West was the most strategic point within the confederacy. The federal government holding it during the entire war and its ability it use the island as a naval base was one of the determining factors in the outcome of the war.”
“What’s that got to do with this?”
“Just thirty years prior to the war, Key West was the wealthiest per capita city in the country. That means there was probably a whole lot of gold and silver here. To avoid it falling into Union hands, some of the wealthier people either tried to hide it or ship it to the Bahamas. In either case, with the Union blockade, the Lower Keys would have been a likely place to move things.”
“I guess that makes sense. Pirates and smugglers have been using that area for centuries.”
“Exactly. The Confederacy utilized Florida for cattle and materials. Only 15,000 soldiers were sent by the state. Because of that, they focused their efforts on the interior.”
“Okay, so you’re saying that some rich southern guy from Key West wanted to protect his silver, and we found part of it?”
Ned sighed. “Yes. All you have is an old silver bar. Maybe there’s more, maybe there’s not. I did you a favor and weighed it.”
Wood shifted forward in the seat. After working with building materials and tape measures for years, he eyeballed the bar as about seven inches by three inches, and a little under an inch thick. It was heavy for that size. Ned had scraped most of the growth off and it still felt like it weighed more than five pounds.
“Just over a hundred ounces. Maybe worth five hundred dollars.”
Wood smiled, then stood and covered the barnacle-clad block. “I appreciate this.” “How are you going to handle it?”
“No idea.” He pointed a finger at his eye. “But you can be sure I’ll keep an eye out.” “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure thing,” Wood paused. He picked up the bar. “And thank you. Best news I’ve had in a while.”
Wood left the room and waited in the hallway for Ned. They said their goodbyes at the door. He carried the package and placed it on the passenger seat, then walked around the truck and climbed in on the driver’s side. He headed out of Key West.
As he started to cruise back to the boat ramp, he thought about the area where the bar had been found. It was always possible that it was a one-off that could have been tossed overboard from a boat or even a train. The only thing he could do was to take another look and hope there was more—without finding a wreck.
Everyone in the Keys knew of Mel Fisher’s discovery of the galleon Señora Nuestra de Attocha a few years ago. The find had made the treasure hunter rich beyond his wildest dreams. That had, of course, led to other speculators. Wood had avoided the latest gold rush. The problem now was the wrecks themselves.
When a wreck was located, it needed to be reported. That stopped everything until the government sent someone to take a look. Wood’s relationship with Ned and his stature as a marine archaeologist had fast-tracked some of the artifacts that Wood and Mac had found. It was one thing finding a wreck, and another to recover anything. Even before the wreckers prowled the reefs here, the Spanish often hired or forced the natives to dive on the shallow wrecks. Many of the wrecks had been almost entirely salvaged shortly after they had sunk.
Wood knew better than to conceal any findings. Divers, either spear fishing or lobstering, often dove on the bridges. A construction site, shut down for the day or weekend, acted like a magnet. Beside the curiosity factor, the disturbed seabed attracted the lobster, crabs, and fish the divers sought. Concealing a wreck of any size would be impossible.
Wood reached the boat ramp at Scout Key, set the bar on the floorboard of the truck, and locked the doors. Leaving the truck, he hopped aboard the skiff and started the engine. With the barge situated just a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bright flash from the welder.
Usually this would have made him happy, but with the information he now had, he wanted Travis back in the water.
I like the story line and the history that you have brought into it. I have a silver pendant from Mel's Atocha (sp). I bought it because it is the replica of our family tree.