Wood's Wreck by Steven Becker Page A

his arm around his right side and grabbed the regulator, stuck it in his mouth, and submerged. 
    Sitting below the waist-deep water was a battery-powered scooter, which he lifted out of the sand. He squeezed the trigger and the small unit pulled him through the murky water of the lagoon, around the switchbacks, and into the open water of the Gulf. This part of the trip always seemed like a Disney ride as he passed twisted mangrove roots with fish darting through them. He checked his compass and changed direction, checking his watch to estimate the distance he would travel. 
    He could have done this by muscle memory after so many trips, but even in the short distance to his destination, a few degrees off course and he would miss the traps. Surfacing was risky, as there were occasional boats in the area and it was unusual—but not unheard of—for the law to be prowling around out here. 
    When his watch hit five minutes, he started to look around. The bottom was a desert covered in turtle grass, with a few small coral heads scattered throughout. In the distance, he could just make out the line to one of the mooring balls for the coral farm. He laughed into his mouthpiece, almost choking as he took in sea water, at Cayenne’s folly. But it provided the perfect cover for planting the casitas. 
    Once a year, some alphabet agency came down and inspected the farm, allowing plenty of notice for him to move all the structures. Otherwise, the local law enforcement generally left the area alone. He reached the first line, checked his compass again and turned ninety degrees to the north. A minute later he came to the area where the casitas should have been and looked around. In the distance he saw an irregular object standing in the sand, and used the scooter to check it out.
    The trap was perpendicular to the sand, and empty. Alongside it was another, upside down on the bottom, and empty as well. He cursed into his mask knowing that someone had gotten into his traps. He had cut a deal with the desperate Cannady woman that had allowed him to place several traps in her coral farm and split the proceeds with her. They were lucrative, but he knew she was always desperate for cash. She was also the only one that knew about the traps and he suspected it was her that had cleaned them out. 
    He went back to the mooring line, and took another bearing. The scooter took him to the second position a minute later and he relaxed as he saw the antennas sticking out of the concrete roof. One of the things the CIA had ingrained in him was redundant systems, and he applied this to everything he did, including poaching. 
    He set the scooter in the sand and hovered over the bottom to approach the lightweight concrete slab elevated off the seabed with 4-inch cinder blocks. He unclipped two mesh bags and a tickle stick from his belt, and let all the air out of the BC. The negative buoyancy allowed him to hug the sand, and he got as low as he could, opened the bag, and stuck the stick into the structure. 
    Some lobsters retreated backwards into the deeper part of the structure, but the ones in range of the stick turned and swam tail first into the open bag. He guessed there were at least fifty in the bag, and that was only the first pass. Others scattered into the waters, beyond his reach. He let those go, knowing they would return, and moved to the next structure, where he repeated the procedure to fill the second bag. 
    A half hour later he grabbed the two loaded bags and clipped them to his BC. He retrieved the scooter, checked his air, and turned back toward the inlet to the cove. The original plan was to harvest what lobsters he could and then destroy the traps, but he started thinking that even if the Feds found the casitas, there was no way to tie them to him . 
    If they didn’t find them, they would be full again within the week. If they did, they were in her permit area and she would be responsible. Sure, she would accuse him, but all he