Unintended Bait
by channelD
written for: the NFA Teammate Hurt (but not dead) Challenge
rating: K plus
genre: action/adventure
characters: Tim, Tony, Gibbs (non-slash)
setting: off Gloucester, Massachusetts, USA; late March
- - - - -
Chapter One
"Got your seasickness medication, McGee? Better take it now," said Gibbs.
Tim groaned. As Tony pulled the rented sedan off route 128, Tim was unable to enjoy the ocean side beauty of Gloucester, Massachusetts, because he knew would soon be on a lobster fishing boat; a boat going about 30 miles east-southeast to catch up with suspected criminals.
Tony couldn't resist a gibe. "You really should have brought Ziva along instead of McGee, boss. He'll be so busy ralphing for the first couple of miles that he'll be of no use at all."
Resisting the urge to headslap the driver, Gibbs said, "He'll do fine." He then locked eyes with Tim to make sure Tim understood that that was an order, not a vote of confidence.
Tim sighed. He wished Ziva had come, too. It wasn't for lack of space that she didn't come; a recent foot injury had left her a little unsteady, and Gibbs decided a pitching boat would have her falling constantly. She remained in Washington working on cold cases.
It was a sunny March day; any snow that had fallen in the season was gone except for bits of plowed mounds. Not warm, not yet, particularly here along the coast, where the wind off the water was reluctant to release the landlubbers to the soft pleasures of spring. The temperature hovered in the upper 40s(F), and no storms were forecast. It would be a simple matter of meeting the fishing boat and taking the suspects into custody.
They pulled into the appointed meeting place at the appointed pier. A woman they recognized as Lavonne Anderson from her NCIS profile greeted them as they got out. "Welcome, Agents Gibbs, DiNozzo, and McGee. I'm Lavonne. I've got your boat lined up, and you're ready to roll. Or whatever the term is. Set sail? No, that sounds too poetic." She shrugged.
"You're not a native?" Tony grinned. "That doesn't sound like a Massachusetts accent."
She made a face. "Bless NCIS for putting us where we're needed, so they say. I'm from Huntsville, Alabama and would much rather be in the Southeast, but instead they put me in the Newport, Rhode Island office—servicing all of the Northeast and parts of Canada, thank you—and right now I'm on assignment in Maine. Which is where I have to get back to."
"Can you brief us on lobstering?" asked Tim. "We were rushed up here, and didn't get a chance to bone up on it."
"Baby, all I know about lobsters is they taste real good with lots of melted butter. You'll have to ask the captain of your boat for details."
They grinned, thanked her, and waved to the captain on the boat she indicated.
- - - - -
The Geneva Marie was a tidy, trim-looking 42-foot boat. Tony and Tim watched Gibbs' face as his gaze swept the boat and saw that he approved of it. The captain, one Peter Yorrick, was a friendly enough fellow around Gibbs' age, and a fellow Marine; a Maine native who said "Ayep" a lot in place of "yes". He wasn't out fishing, he said, because one of his mates was off getting married and the other was recovering from appendicitis, so he was happy to help out NCIS and relieve his boredom. They all boarded the boat, and tried to get comfortable. Tim already felt ill.
Gibbs happily took the helm and pointed the boat out to sea while Yorrick talked to Tim and Tony about the task of lobstering (staying in range so Gibbs could hear, too): "There's two ways of catching lobstahs. Some people don SCUBA gear and catch the critters by hand. That's fun if ye like SCUBA'ing a lot, but fer the volume, setting lobstah tracks beats it all whole, ayep. Ye kin catch mebbe seven, ten lobstahs a day by hand; using pots might get ye a hundred. So most serious fishermen use pots."
"Pots? The same pots you cook lobsters in?" Tim asked.
Yorrick laughed. "Nay, nay, nay. Another name fer these pots is 'traps'. In this area, and up to the Maritimes, a lot of us fishermen call 'em 'pots'.
"Now our bait is ready fer the pots afore we leave the docks. Herring we use; pickled herring. We put it on the skewer like so. It's called the 'bait box'. Close the pot—" he demonstrated on a wire cage about four feet long—"and the trap is tied with bait cord—" he pulled a length of twine from a pocket—"with a little leather toggle. Thet also ties the pot shut. The pot is then attached to a long, long, length of line, and at the other end of the line we attach a buoy so we know whar the pot is. We hoist the pot overboard, and the next day we kin haul the pots up to see if we caught anything."
"We have to wait a day until we can eat??" Tony looked hungry.
Gibbs ignored him. "How do you prevent too-small lobsters from being caught?"
"Ye can't; not really. But the pots do have a hole in them so small lobstahs thet are clever enough can get out. We measure borderline catch when we bring the pots up. Lobstahs too small are released to the ocean; same with females with eggs. It's one of the few types of fishing that actually seems to be sustaining itself, so it's a good job, and a year-'round one, ayep."
- - - - -
Yorrick took the helm back and urged them all to don the spare bright orange jackets he had on board: they were warm, waterproof, and certainly visible. Out on the ocean, despite the sun, it felt much cooler than it had on land...which was now invisible, somewhere far back there. Not long after Tim's stomach settled down, or seemed to, anyway, the captain took up his binoculars and slowed the engine. "Thar's your boat thar yonder. The Sharona."
Gibbs took the binoculars and frowned. It could be any boat lobstering…but if they could get close, so much the better. "Thanks, Yorrick. You take cover. We'll take it from here." He handed the binoculars to Tony and took over for Yorrick at the helm.
Tony was a city boy, but was always good at improvising. Without knowing much more than what he'd seen in the movies, he grabbed the megaphone. "Ahoy, the Sharona! We are federal agents. Prepare to be boarded."
The two men on the Sharona, reservists suspected of the shooting of a sailor in a bar fight and robbery, were in the middle of pulling up their pots. They couldn't easily gun the boat and just flee.
Gibbs pulled the Geneva Marie alongside; the side opposite the lobster working area. This will be one of the easiest apprehensions our team has ever had, he thought. In fact, the suspects already had their hands in the air. Tony, then Tim, clambered onto the Sharona, guns drawn, and cuffed the suspects.
"Oh, man; how're we supposed to climb onto your boat when we're handcuffed??" one of the perps growled.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Tony cooed. "We'll just attach you to a line and tow you back to port; how would that be?"
Tim snorted, and stepped around one of the men to make way for Gibbs. The plan was that Gibbs would come on board and take this boat back to port, with Tim and Tony watching the suspects, and Yorrick would take his own boat back.
An unexpected swell made the boat pitch then, and Tim stumbled into a pot line, which got wrapped around his foot. He flailed, and knocked a pot on the railing over the side of the boat. The line on his foot flipped up to his ankle, where it tightened, and the electric hauler let the line out rapidly. Tim was yanked over the side and pulled into the ocean's depths almost before Tony and Gibbs could cry out.