Killer Aboard: A John Otter Novel

  SEAN BLAISE

  Killer Aboard

  John Otter Book 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Sean Blaise

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  For more information, address:

  captainblaise@gmail.com

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20631724.Sean_Blaise

  www.seanblaise.com

  https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B08GLCWZHQ

  To my wife, Mandy, for being my wall on which to bounce my crazy ideas.

  To Maine Maritime Academy, for giving me the best nautical education money can buy and for giving me a career of such rich experiences.

  To those Captains along the way who showed me what it meant to be a Master at Sea. Chipper, Parrott, Eley, Boomer, Chase.

  To Seamester, for one of the greatest experiences of my life sailing on the real-life Beagle, S/Y Argo.

  To St. Helena, one of the most unique places I have ever had the pleasure of sailing to.

  Author’s Notes:

  Sailing like most things, has a dizzying number of nautical terms which sound like gibberish to people not acquainted with them. I have provided a very small dictionary of the most often used terms in this book below. I have also included a sail diagram of a staysail schooner for clarification.

  For those who are seasoned sailors you may find a disagreement about what each sail name is called. Truth be told, I have heard a staysail called a fore staysail, an inner jib called staysail etc. I have used the most agreed upon and widely used terms for the purposes of this story.

  For those who may not have sailed the oceans here are some good terms to know.

  Port-Left side of vessel when looking at the bow

  Starboard-Right side of vessel when looking at the bow.

  Bow-Front of ship

  Stern-Back of ship

  Leeward- is the side of the ship sheltered from the wind. The side the wind hits last.

  Windward-is the side of the ship where the wind hits first. The Non sheltered side.

  Tack- Turning the bow through the wind.

  Gybe- Turning the stern through the wind.

  Head upwind- Turn the bow up towards the wind. This will bleed off the speed of a sailing vessel and lessen the load on the sails and generally reduce the vessel’s heel.

  Head downwind-Turn the bow away from the wind, this will fill the sails and generally cause the vessel to heel over more.

  Knock Down- when a vessel is so far heeled over it no longer moves forward, it just drifts sideways. Very dangerous as this could cause the vessel to sink.

  Heel- Heeling is the ship “tipping” to one side or the other; it is caused primarily by the force of the wind on the sails; although it can be caused by weight such as crew or excess cargo.

  Heave to - Heaving to is setting the sails so the jib wants to sail one way while the main wants to sail another so, with some rudder adjustment, the boat stands nearly still. Think of it as a sailboat brake.

  Chapter 1

  “One-week, Lubanzi. You’ve got one more week and then you’re fucking dead.”

  Junior slammed his ham-sized fist hard into Lubanzi’s stomach to make his point. Lubanzi collapsed on the concrete floor of the pawnshop with the wind knocked out of him. He was sure a rib was cracked.

  “Junior, I’ve told you already-I’ve got something cooking. You’ll get all your money,” Lubanzi croaked out the words.

  “I give you a job out of the kindness of my heart, and you decide to screw me? You better have my cut, or there’s going to be a big smile on my face as I beat you to death. Goddamn degenerate, get out of my sight!”

  Lubanzi picked himself up off the floor. Still holding his stomach, he stumbled out the door before Junior changed his mind. The truth was, Lubanzi didn’t have Junior’s money-not a single cent of it.

  Lubanzi was broke.

  A Copper filly named Ithemba had seemed less than interested in racing the one-day Lubanzi had bet on her with the cut he owed Junior. The irony was her name meant “hope” in Zulu. Hope indeed.

  Lubanzi hoped he wouldn’t end up dead because of her. He knew Junior meant every word of his threat. One of Lubanzi’s compatriots at the track had rung up a smaller debt than him and Lubanzi hadn’t seen the man since he had failed to pay Junior back.

  Lubanzi also had a bigger problem. Junior was still unaware of what else Lubanzi had taken during the robbery. If he knew-Lubanzi would be dead already.

  Lubanzi jumped on the first minibus he could flag down. He was headed back to his home in a slum outside Cape Town called Santini. The slum was a collection of dilapidated shacks, tin roofs, and garbage in the street. Cape Town’s booming economy hadn’t reached the slum’s streets yet and Lubanzi had a pretty good idea it never would.

  Cape Town was behind in affordable housing by about twenty-five years. After Apartheid had ended, biblical floods of people had moved from rural areas to the big cities, creating an endless need for affordable housing. Lubanzi knew there was almost no possibility that the government would ever catch up to with demand.

  The bus made record time as it somehow avoided an endless stream of mangy dogs running in the street. Lubanzi stepped onto the dusty road and ran into his aunt’s house still holding his bruised ribs.

  “Where have you been?” Lubanzi’s aunt shouted the second he walked in the door. “The sailing school has been calling all morning. Smith vouches for you and this is how you repay her? What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m leaving now,” Lubanzi said. He grabbed the few items off his bed that he had planned to pack before his painful visit with Junior.

  “This is a huge opportunity for you, best not ruin it. If they change their mind, you have nothing! How can you show up late?” his aunt asked again, getting in Lubanzi’s face.

  “I know, I know!” Lubanzi shouted back.

  He instantly regretted his words. One didn’t backtalk the woman who raised you in South Africa. The palm of his aunt’s fleshy hand connected with his cheek a split-second after the words had left his mouth. He saw stars. For an elderly woman, she hit like Muhammad Ali. And there was never just one strike. His aunt believed in landing combos.

  Her blows rained down on him until he managed to squeeze his 6’4’ frame out of the way and held up a hand to hold her at bay. She was winded which gave him a brief reprieve from the blows.

  He looked at her. She was still angry, but he could see something else. She was sad to see him go. How much emotion she felt was hard to know. They had never enjoyed a close relationship. Taking in another hungry child after her sister had died had not been her wish, but he was family. And she had done her best to raise him.

  “Tannie,” he used his pet name for aunt, “I’m going to be alright; I promise.”

  “I know. There is nothing in this place for you but trouble. Go,” she commanded, pointing her meaty finger at the door.

  Lubanzi hugged his aunt and walked toward the door. He wanted to just walk out clean, but he knew he should warn her. It was the least he could do.

  “There will be some men coming by,” Lubanzi started.

  The anger returned to her eyes swiftly. “You’re gambling again? How much this time?”

  “It doesn’t matter; they can’t catch me in the middle of the ocean. They won’t touch you because of Oom.”

  Lubanzi’s
uncle was a South African police officer. Not a high-ranking one, but it didn’t matter. Junior wouldn’t dare harm them for Lubanzi’s debt. South African police were notorious for making anyone who touched a cop disappear.

  “I’ll call you when I get to St. Helena.”

  Lubanzi grabbed his seabag and ran outside. He quickly ducked inside the dog kennel on his aunt’s lawn. He reached under the kennel’s floor and pulled out a worn canvas cloth.

  Wrapped inside the cloth was all he had left--an ivory scrimshaw knife his birth father had left him, a rusted revolver, and a stolen bag of uncut diamonds.

  Chapter 2

  Jennifer stood at the hotel window, looking down at the sailing ship. Its name, Beagle was stenciled on the stern in gold filigree. What an odd name for a ship, she thought. The thought of taking the ship across an ocean made her sweat. She realized she was picking at her nail cuticles again and forced herself to stop before she drew blood.

  Jennifer’s plush hotel room overlooking the Victoria & Alfred waterfront, had an incredible view of the harbor. The view included far off Robbin Island, Nelson Mandela’s prison for twenty years. But Jennifer didn’t notice any of it. She just kept thinking about what they were about to do.

  Jack and Wayland were due to arrive in Cape Town later that day. Greg was already here; he had just gone down to a local sandwich shop to grab them lunch. Jennifer would have normally just ordered room service, as cost had never been a concern. However, her overbearing mother would no doubt check the receipt. Two sandwiches would be a dead giveaway that Jennifer had company. Considering her mother was of the impression that Greg and Jennifer were no longer a thing, that would produce unwanted questions.

  Jennifer stepped away from the window and began pacing the room. She was eager to get Greg, Jack, and Wayland in the hotel room to finalize everything. She could feel the anxiety building in her chest as it always did, and she instinctively reached for her pills.

  Jennifer’s hand hesitated over her bag, before she quickly retracted it. She knew where that slippery slope ended. Jennifer had brought the pills in case of extreme emergencies, not to handle minor anxiety. And who wouldn’t have anxiety thinking about what they were about to do?

  Jennifer, still didn’t love their plan. But there was no option. The only way to get to St. Helena Island without raising her parents’ suspicions was via the school ship.

  The island didn’t even have an airport! Who didn’t have an airport in 2010? A tiny rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean apparently. And she desperately wanted to know if they were right.

  Jennifer sat down on the sofa and pulled out her notes. She could still smell sex on the couch from Greg and her twenty minutes prior. She smiled. That part she liked. A lot.

  Jennifer was the definition of plain-there was nothing at all distinctive or interesting about her looks. Greg was, by any definition, a beautiful man.

  He had large shoulders and biceps, and chiseled abs along with a killer smile. His soft Southern accent was sexy as hell too. Greg’s sex drive was also insatiable, but so was hers. After all, they were only twenty years old.

  It always started with the same lustful look in his eyes, and then before she knew it, he was on her. It didn’t matter where. He had already taken her on the table, bent over the kitchen counter, and in the tub.

  At this point, she had been pretty much squirming in pleasure over every inch of the hotel room. She felt herself get wet again at the thought. She wondered if Greg would be ready for round three? It had been only twenty minutes. He would be, she thought.

  Jennifer and Greg were also making up for lost time. They had been apart for the entire summer. Jennifer had spent it trying to convince her wealthy English parents that sailing around the world was safe, while Greg completed his work-study obligation to pay for the trip. Jennifer was so glad her parents were rich.

  Still, despite her obvious physical attraction to him, there was also an element of Greg that she didn’t like. It was his desperation.

  This was a flippant adventure for her before finishing her Oxford degree and inevitably going to work in Father’s bank. But he acted like his whole life was riding on it. The truth was that Greg was only here because Jennifer had pulled strings and gotten him accepted.

  Greg’s dad was in the US military in London. He was a single father, and not even an officer. Greg was the epitome of poor. Jennifer knew that she was slumming it with him, but it was fun. Her father would never approve.

  Jennifer reminded herself that while Greg was fun, he was also short-term. She made a mental note to pick up additional condoms before they sailed. They had to stop slipping up. There was no need to take any risks that would tie her down to someone like him forever. Unless they found the treasure.

  She opened her notes and laid them out on the floor again. She knew them all by heart. At this point, it was merely an exercise that calmed her nerves.

  All of their research had proven beyond a doubt that it was there. It had to be on St. Helena, in his tomb. There they would find a map that would lead them to even more money than her father had.

  And it would make an unattractive girl from Cornwall,someone important. People would finally take notice of her.

  Chapter 3

  John Otter felt a wave of relief when he finally stepped off the plane in Cape Town, South Africa. It had been a painfully long journey. Miami-New York, New York nonstop to Dubai for thirteen hours. Then, another marathon ten-hour flight from Dubai to Cape Town.

  John reminded himself that he was about to spend a month at sea crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The flights were nothing when compared to that. But there was something about the confines of an airplane that made it seem worse somehow. Maybe it was the lack of salt spray stinging his eyes or the wind in his hair.

  A wave of sub-Saharan heat washed over John the second he exited the air-conditioned airport terminal. It reminded him of his hometown of Miami, but the air had a much dryer feel to it than the sticky humidity of South Florida.

  The acrid smell of something burning hit his nostrils, and it instantly reminded him that he was back in the third world. That smell was everywhere except America and he loved it. To John, it always smelled like adventure.

  John hoisted his canvas seabag over his shoulder and made his way toward the taxicab stand. A throng of cab drivers rushed toward John like paparazzi to a pop star.

  John waved the taxi drivers off and headed toward a large van that had “Ocean Exploration School” stenciled on its side. A woman about John’s age-just on the ‘pretty side of plain’ waited for him. She wore a small tank top that barely covered heavy breasts. John thought the outfit was a little too revealing for first impressions.

  “You must be Director Smith,” John began, reaching out his hand.

  “Captain Otter it’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard endless stories. It’s nice to finally put a face to the man behind them,” she responded with a smile, shaking his hand. Her voice had a touch of Afrikaans accent to it which John liked.

  “I assure you that all of the stories you have heard are just vicious attempts to smear my good name!”

  “Well, we have a long journey in front of us to find out,” Smith said.

  John wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a whiff of a flirt in her statement. He smiled nervously, unsure of the situation and threw his bag into the back of the van.

  Sleeping with the crew was always a terrible idea. And yet, he seemed to do it more often than he liked to admit. A few thousand-mile journey from Cape Town to Antigua, was a long way to go with sexual tension on board.

  Smith started up the van. She headed onto a narrow highway and made a U-turn that John thought nearly ended their lives. He would never get used to driving on the ‘un-American’ side of the road.

  John was blown away by the sight of a massive mountain to the left of the roadway. It was lush and green. It’s ‘peak’ was absurdly flat. A sheet of fog was rolling off its crest into the val
ley below.

  “Wow, that’s beautiful.”

  “If only I got the same reaction from people as Tabletop Mountain does, I’d be a happy woman!” Smith said.

  Definitely flirting, he thought.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Smith asked.

  “Incredible. How tall is it?”

  “Just about 1100 meters.”

  John tried to run the math conversion in his head.

  “Sorry, I always forget you Americans refuse to accept the simplicity and perfection of the metric system. It’s roughly 3500 feet. Not the tallest mountain in the world, or even Africa but Table Mountain is considered to be one of the oldest mountains in the world. It’s about 600 million years old. That makes it older than the Andes or the Alps. Its about six times older than the Himalayas and five times older than your Rocky Mountains.”

  John stared blankly at her face at receiving all that info at once.

  Smith laughed. “Did the geologist just come out?”

  “A little bit.”

  “It’s the fault of the trade. Anyway, students don’t arrive for a few days, so you should take the time to go explore the mountain. There is a cable car to the top. Having a beer while watching the sun set over the entire continent of Africa is not something to be missed.”

  “Sounds amazing. I hope I have the time.”

  “You should make the time,” Smith urged.

  John was a little surprised by her insistence.

  “John, have you ever been to Africa before?”

  “Yes, but only the north coast. A freighter I worked on used to stop in Tangier delivering used car tires from Texas. I’ve also done the tourist thing in Egypt, of course, but nothing else.”

  “In that case, allow me to welcome you to South Africa,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.