Where the fuck was that weasel Baylor? he asked.
Baylor watched the disaster on his hotel room television. The moment he saw that Mitchell had stripped down to his underwear, he knew the current plan wasn’t going to work. If the canister wasn’t found on his person, then the allegations of it being planted were going to be too loud. He had half a mind to text Mr. Lewis and ask him to go in after the drowning men and throw the canister in the water to be discovered. The problem at that point would be that what they found in the canister wouldn’t be found in the men’s lungs.
The FBI was going to want to do their own tests on the blood and tissue and match it to the material in the canister. It would be apparent to them that whatever caused the reaction wasn’t the same as what was in the spray can. He needed to figure out a strategy for the patient zero hypothesis that could minimize blowback and protect Great Wall.
He called Mr. Lewis to give him instructions on how to proceed.
After rescuers had pulled all of the law enforcement personnel from the water, the search continued for Mitchell Roberts. Rescue divers searched the bottom of the waterway in a spiral pattern moving outward around the bay and Intracoastal. The outgoing tide gave them a half-mile radius to search, and that was growing by a mile every hour.
City and county police were sent to watch along the waterfront to see if he climbed ashore anywhere. Marine Patrol and Coast Guard boats were brought in to canvass the area while helicopters from four agencies swept the area around the bridge and surrounding city looking for any sign of Mitchell.
47
Naked and exhausted, Mad Mitch climbed onto the dive platform of the newly christened “Monkey’s Paw.” Two miles away he could hear the helicopters as they buzzed around the South Bay bridge and the manhunt continued. He had very little time until the search extended outward and law enforcement started stopping vessels in the water near him.
The necessity of an escape plan came to Mitch after he listened to the paranoid Dr. Lovestrange on Rookman’s show. Up until the FBI negotiator had tried to patronizingly convince him that an armored car was going to serve as an airtight transport, he was fully committed to the idea that they believed him or, at the very least, were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
The attack on the bridge proved otherwise. Mitchell had been lied to. He still wasn’t sure if it was out of incompetence or the machinations of someone trying to cover up something. The effect was the same. Mitchell couldn’t trust anyone.
The idea for the escape came to him when he was looking for a boat to steal. Originally he thought of taking a bigger yacht in the event he got stuck in a prolonged standoff. What attracted him to the Donzi was the piece of equipment that had just saved his life.
The SBS 730 was an underwater propulsion device used by very rich scuba divers, the military and drug smugglers. Shaped like a cross between a torpedo and a jet ski, it could go up to eight miles an hour underwater and had over a twenty-mile range. What made the SBS 730 unique was that it had its own sonar system, making it possible to navigate in the limited visibility of the waterway and Intracoastal. The unit cost half as much as the boat Mitch had stolen to get it.
Before Mitch tied the johnboat to the shore by the bridge, he found the exact middle and dropped the SBS 730 overboard tied to a weighted-down duffle bag filled with dive gear.
When he had no other option except to jump, he made sure to land on top of his underwater stash. He hit the water after a few milliseconds of panicked freefall when he wasn’t sure if the extension cord was going to break like it was supposed to.
Once he hit the water, he swam straight down ten feet to the muck-covered floor below. It took him a frantic minute before his hands found the propulsion unit and his duffle bag with the compressed air tank.
He hadn’t gone scuba diving in years, but his instincts kicked in and he remembered how to clear the mask and strap the tank on underwater. He ignored the sound of bodies hitting the surface overhead and focused on getting away as fast as he could.
Somewhere in the two miles between the South Bay bridge and the powerboat he lost his underwear in the turbulence as the propulsion unit carried him through the water. Adding just one more indignity to his plan.
To get back to the boat while underwater, he relied on the sonar and compass as he looked for the mooring lines of boats he remembered passing on the way in. Finally he reached the Monkey’s Paw and surfaced near the dive platform. Before he struggled to pull the SBS 730 on board, he ran to a dive locker and found a diving suit to wear.
Looking down at the skintight suit, he wished he could have worn that instead of his underwear when he tried to surrender on national television.
Although he had narrowly escaped that time, Mitchell was sure they’d cast a tighter net the next time around. He had to make sure that when he surrendered it was to the right people. He started up the boat and had to decide which way to take it.
He had three options. Going farther up the Intracoastal and away from South Florida meant traveling through less-populated areas. The advantage was that it was away from where he’d been. The disadvantage was that there were fewer side canals and avenues to escape.
He could take an exit that led straight out to sea and follow the shoreline north or south. But that would put him well within the Coast Guard’s crosshairs and only give him the beach as an escape.
His other option was to head back south. There were numerous canals and natural harbors where he could blend in and make it ashore if he decided to abandon the boat.
It felt like backtracking. But backtracking from what? He’d never had a final destination. Heading to a more populated area might give him more options for surrendering. He felt safer knowing that millions of people would be watching from news helicopters.
He also had to deal with a limited amount of fuel. If he ran out, he’d rather take his chances stealing another boat than getting stranded nowhere near another escape route. There was also the idea that they wouldn’t expect him to go south since his travels had all been to the north.
Mitchell pulled up anchor and pointed the boat toward the south. He sat back in the cockpit chair and tried to look like just another boater out for an afternoon trip.
Fifteen miles away, Mr. Lewis was planning his own afternoon trip. He’d received new instructions from Baylor. It took him a half-hour to arrange it. Fortunately, he had a number of associates in the South Florida area who could help facilitate what he needed.
When he pulled into the hangar near the small private airport near the Everglades, his associate Mr. Travis was finishing marking up the tail letters of the helicopter. He pointed out a long case to Mr. Lewis.
He walked over to a table covered in tools and opened the case. Inside was a sniper’s rifle with a high magnification scope.
“It’s going to be a bitch to shoot that from the air if he’s on the water,” said Mr. Travis.
“The current plan is to have you drop me near an overpass so I can shoot from the ground as he passes by. If that doesn’t work, we have other options.”
Mr. Travis stepped back to look at the new lettering on the tail. “If they run it, they’ll know it’s bogus.”
“I’m not worried about that right now. Every bird in South Florida is going to be out looking for him. I just want plausible denial about where the chopper came from,” replied Mr. Lewis.