Revenge in the Keys Read online

  MATTHEW RIEF

  REVENGE IN THE KEYS

  A Logan Dodge Adventure

  Florida Keys Adventure Series

  Volume 3

  Copyright © 2018 by Matthew Rief

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  MAPS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Logan Dodge Adventures

  Gold in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 1)

  Hunted in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 2)

  Revenge in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 3)

  If you’re interested in receiving my newsletter for updates on my upcoming books, you can sign up on my website:

  matthewrief.com

  MAPS

  PROLOGUE

  Keroman Submarine Base

  Lorient, France

  July 16, 1944

  There was a strong easterly breeze through the humid evening air, carrying the smells of the ocean mixed with lingering gunpowder. Vice Admiral Heinrich von Gottberg stood atop a tall fortified spire, wearing his midnight-blue double-breasted jacket and matching peaked cap. His gray hair was barely visible as he stood against the concrete railing, holding a pair of binoculars in his right hand and a half-burned cigar in his left.

  The night sky was dark as a crypt and deathly quiet, but Gottberg knew that the stillness would not last for long.

  With dreary eyes, he looked out upon what remained of the city and the concrete bunkers below. The base was comprised of three main bunkers, aptly named Keroman I, II, and III. He stood atop Keroman III, the largest and newest of the bunkers, which was 170 meters long, or just short of two football fields, and 138 meters wide.

  Allied raids against the base and the surrounding city had become common. The bunkers had withstood over thirty bombing raids during the past two years, but the city of Lorient was in shambles. With the successful invasion of Normandy by Allied forces, Gottberg knew that it was only a matter of time before Keroman was surrounded.

  He took in a deep breath, sighed, and set his binoculars on top of the concrete ledge in front of him. Moving his right hand up to his face, he tilted his head down, closed his fishy blue eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Three months, he thought. Three months of sleepless nights. Three months of waiting. He felt the sagging, rippled skin that formed dark bags under his eyes.

  A moment later, the sound of the distant humming of propellers ripped a hole in the quiet night air.

  “Where is the shipment?” he said to a dark-haired seaman named Theodor Franke, who stood stoically behind him. His voice was stern and low, hardened from years of giving orders and inhaling tobacco fumes.

  “They are five minutes out,” the young, energetic man replied.

  Looking out at the cloud-covered night sky, he inhaled and let out a deep puff of smoke, knowing that five minutes would be too long. As if to solidify his thoughts, a bright yellow flash illuminated the blackness, and the loud ground-rumbling sound of an explosion rattled the air.

  “Man the flak guns!” he barked to Theodor. “Concentrate on protecting the supply trucks.”

  The young man turned, grabbed a radio headset that was resting on an oak table and relayed the orders. As he set the radio back onto the tabletop, a loud, high-pitched siren rang out over the air.

  Through occasional breaks in the clouds, Gottberg could see them. A swarm of B-17 flying fortresses soaring high above. Soon their payloads would rain down in waves, destroying everything that wasn’t protected within the bunkers. But Gottberg knew that the shipment had to reach the base safely at all costs.

  “Send two platoons out of the bunkers,” he ordered. “Assemble them at the northwestern outpost.”

  Theodor’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The northwestern outpost had been all but leveled, and no soldiers had left the safety of the bunkers during a raid since he’d been ordered to Keroman over two years earlier.

  “Sir, I—” the young man stammered.

  Gottberg shot him a stern gaze and cut him off. “That’s an order, seaman! And have them bring heavy machine guns.”

  Trying to stop his hands from shaking, Theodor grabbed the mouthpiece and relayed the order. It pained him to do it. The soldiers inside the base had grown close, and he knew that he would be sending many of his friends to their certain deaths.

  Gottberg understood the magnitude of the order that he was giving, but he had his orders as well, and they were directly from the Führer. The cargo being transported was vital and was to be loaded onto the most advanced U-boat they had at Keroman and sent underway as soon as possible.

  Karl Dönitz, the commander of the Kriegsmarine, had one final plan against the Allied forces. An attack on US soil with a biological weapon deadlier than any ever produced. With the end of the war dawning upon them, they would strike the Americans right through their hearts, bringing the war to their soil.

  Only seconds later, the dark sky came alive with activity as B-17s swarmed high above like a kicked hornets’ nest. The German soldiers manned their heavy-caliber flak guns atop the bunkers, riddling the sky with holes. They hit an occasional B-17, causing it to retreat or rain down towards the ground like a falling meteorite. But every time the German soldiers hit one, it seemed as though five more took its place.

  Bombs fell from the sky in heavy sheets, creating a massive vortex of fire and heat as they exploded atop the bunkers and what remained of the surrounding city. Despite the urging of his subordinates that he should head inside, Gottberg remained atop the spire, holding his binoculars pressed against his eyes.

  If this mission fails, I go down with it, he thought as he stared through the magnifying lenses.

  Suddenly, Gottberg spotted a dim and distant flickering light on the road leading into the bunker from the northeast. A few seconds later, more lights appeared, and he realized that it was three trucks driving full speed in his direction.

  “Where are the platoons?” Gottberg fired at Theodor. “They should be out there by now.”

  As if summoned by his anger, the two platoons he’d ordered appeared in his view. The one hundred soldiers sprinted to the west and took fortified positions inside a destroyed brick outpost, firing hopelessly into the air at their assailants over seven thousand feet above them. The flyboys took the bait, and a long row of bom
bers changed course and dropped their ordnance right over the German soldiers below. The sight was gruesome and nightmarish. The entire mass of soldiers vanished in a bright, loud fiery haze of flames and screams.

  Theodor collapsed to the ground and pressed his hands to his ears, unable to control his emotions as the two platoons were blown away. Gottberg didn’t flinch or turn his head in the slightest. He kept his vision trained on the three trucks and gave a sigh of relief as they drove through the massive metal gates and entered into Keroman III. His plan had worked.

  Turning around, Gottberg flicked what remained of his cigar and stormed right past Theodor. Entering the bunker, he moved swiftly down the concrete stairs and met with the trucks at ground level. The soldiers inside the bunker didn’t seem to notice the bombs exploding directly overhead. The bunker had a double-reinforced concrete roof over seven meters thick, and they knew that nothing the Allied bombers had was capable of making so much as a dent in it. From the ground level, the explosions were little more than distant thunder.

  Gottberg moved straight for the officer in charge of the transport.

  “We need this loaded up right away,” he said, surprising the ensign who’d just spent over forty-eight hours driving over damaged and dangerous roads. “Pen six is just that way. The boat is crewed and ready to depart.”

  It took just thirty minutes for the soldiers to move the weapon from the trucks and into the forward torpedo room of the U-boat.

  Lieutenant Otto Dietrich, the commanding officer of the boat, had been up since three in the morning, working alongside his sailors to make sure that their boat was ready to get underway. The engines were not a hundred percent, and they were having issues with the navigation equipment, but Dietrich would not let that stop them. His boat was the most advanced in the history of undersea warfare, but its construction had been rushed and off-the-books, naturally resulting in glitches here and there. Everything about the boat was secret. Even the hull number was known only to her sailors.

  After verifying that their newly acquired cargo was secured, Dietrich did one final walk-through of the boat before meeting Gottberg up on the gangway.

  “The tide is low,” Dietrich said, glancing over his shoulder at the calm waters of Lorient Harbor, where the Blavet River met the Bay of Biscay. “And she draws more of a draft than other boats. She will not be able to fully submerge until she’s clear of the bunker.”

  Gottberg realized what the lieutenant was getting at and looked back at him with a stern gaze. “The orders are to leave immediately, Lieutenant.”

  Dietrich nodded. He didn’t understand or like the idea of cruising on the surface with packs of B-17s soaring overhead, but orders were orders. It wasn’t for fear of his life. No, he’d accepted the fact that the odds of his surviving the war were slim to none. It was the mission that he cared about.

  “Aye, sir,” he said.

  An abnormally loud rumble resonated from the world above them as a bomb exploded nearby. The bunker shook slightly, the metal gangway creaking against the hull of the U-boat.

  Gottberg pulled Dietrich in close and stared into his eyes. “This mission cannot fail, Otto.”

  The younger officer nodded. “It shall not.” Then, turning to a few of his men standing topside, he said, “Prepare to make way. We deploy now!”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, every system was operating and the electric engines were running. Soldiers pierside cast the lines, and the U-boat cruised quietly out of the stall into the darkness beyond. Once in the deeper water of the harbor, air vented from the ballast tanks and water took its place, causing the boat to submerge.

  Gottberg stood and watched as the boat quickly vanished into the night. Then, turning to a soldier behind him, he said, “Relay a message to Berlin. The Ghost is underway.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  South of Islamorada, Florida Keys

  November 2006

  By the time Owen realized that he was being followed, it was already too late. Standing at the stern and facing aft over the transom of his fifty-eight-foot Grand Banks Eastbay, he focused his brown eyes on a distant white glow on the northern horizon. It was a large boat, and it was moving quickly towards him, cruising full throttle through the moonless Caribbean night.

  Grabbing a high-powered monocular, he took a closer look at his pursuers and realized that it was an Interceptor Border Patrol boat, speeding towards them at close to sixty knots. Even with the upgraded pair of fourteen-hundred-horsepower engines, he knew that there was no way that they could outrun it.

  “Shit,” he said as he lowered the monocular.

  His first mate, a young Jamaican man named Joseph, was standing at the helm up on the flybridge, his body twisted back to look at the light.

  “Ow in da hell we nuh see dem on radar?” the young man asked, staring back in awe at the ever-approaching light.

  There were a number of possible reasons why they’d missed the boat. Perhaps their equipment was faulty, or maybe it was their pursuers speed, or the design of their boat. But none of that mattered to Owen. No, there was no time to think about that. He needed a plan, and he needed one fast.

  “Joseph, what’s our depth?”

  A moment later, the young man replied, “Fifty metas, Captain. We’re right along di ledge.”

  Owen’s heart raced. He knew that the patrol would be on top of them in less than a few minutes and that, given the high number of drug runs over the past year, they would do a full search of his boat. He had little doubt that they would find the fifty million dollars’ worth of gold bars, cash, and diamonds stowed away in the main cabin.

  “Ease back on the throttles,” Owen said. “Then turn hard to starboard and face them.”

  The young man did as his captain instructed, slowing the twin Caterpillar engines and bringing the yacht to a stop with the bow facing directly towards the pursuing patrol boat.

  Moving swiftly towards the sliding glass door leading into the salon, he looked up at Joseph and said, “Good. Now get down here and give me a hand.”

  Stepping inside, Owen walked over the immaculate lacquered teak flooring of the salon, which looked more like an expensive Paris boutique hotel than the inside of a yacht. He passed by a pair of barrel chairs on the port side flanking an entertainment center, and a settee on the starboard side beside an intricately designed table. A blue Stidd chair served the lower helm station, facing an array of electronics and the finely polished helm.

  Moving down the five steps leading to the main passageway, Owen headed all the way forward and into the main cabin. He switched on the lights, knelt at the base of the walkaround queen island berth and rolled up a red Persian rug, revealing a hatch roughly five feet long and four feet wide. Sliding his index and middle fingers under the metal ring, he pulled it up, hinging it all the way open and letting it rest on the foot of the bed.

  Inside the storage area was a large metal box, just a few inches smaller than the space it occupied. Kneeling on the port side, he reached for a metal handle and adjusted his fingers to get a good grip.

  “Joe!” he yelled, and a second later he heard his mate’s footsteps as he ran through the salon and down the passageway.

  “It’s nearly here, Captain,” the young man exclaimed.

  Owen ignored him and pointed at the other end of the metal box. In the blink of an eye, his mate dropped down, gripped the handle with his right hand and gave Owen a nod.

  “Okay, on three. One… two… three!”

  The box was heavier than either of them had expected, and they grunted, using all their strength to lift it out of place and set it on the teak floorboards beside them with a loud thud. The box had been filled with cocaine when they’d first installed it two weeks earlier. It was after their exchange in Miami that it had been filled with an assortment of diamonds, US dollars, and gold bars, making it much heavier.

  Breathing heavily, Owen said, “Okay. Now all the way aft.”

  Joe’s eyes went wide. “Wah wi
a guh do?”

  Owen knew that they had no choice but to get rid of it. Hiding the loot in the large metal box under the floorboards had worked for the routine customs inspection they’d undergone back in Miami. But this boat was chasing them down in the middle of the night. These guys will search for hours, he thought.

  “Just lift,” Owen said, bending down as if he were a weight lifter going for a record deadlift.

  Gripping the handles tightly, he counted once more and they lifted the box, heaving it down the narrow passageway and up the small set of stairs into the lounge. Their fingers screamed and it felt like their shoulders were going to pop out of their sockets, but they both held on. Shuffling quickly through the sliding glass door, they took two more steps, then balanced it on the transom, letting the boat support its weight as they both caught their breath. At fifty-four years old, Owen surprised even himself with how much strength he had retained from his younger years.

  After a moment, Joseph looked at Owen and shook his head. “Captain, wi cyaa just—”

  “We can’t let them find it,” he fired back, motioning at the patrol boat. The engines were getting louder and louder with each passing second. Owen knew that the consequences of being caught would ruin their chances of taking down their targeted group of drug smugglers. If found, the loot could be linked to the transaction in Miami, which would mean a complete waste of their undercover operation. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

  Checking the lock and making sure the box was sealed tight, he stepped over the transom and onto the small swim platform. Grabbing one side of the box, he looked up at Joseph expectantly. Reluctantly, the young man grabbed the box, whose contents were worth over fifty million dollars, and together they heaved it over the side and into the water with a big splash. Leaning over the edge, Joseph watched as the shining steel rocketed towards the seafloor, vanishing in just a few seconds.