Yellowstone: Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

In addition to having the usual boat services like fuel and repairs, there were several restaurants, including live entertainment, and a three-level mall alongside the marina, featuring duty-free shopping as well as basic sundries.

  They had accumulated a lot of cash, allowing them to purchase supplies and clothing, even at tourist prices. Plus, Ashby would feel better if the hull was checked out by a professional and repaired correctly.

  While she was scanning through the VHF frequencies with one hand, she turned her attention to the news with the other. A disturbing story crossed her MacBook’s screen, and she took the time to read it.

  Apparently, a fight had broken out at the border crossing in San Diego earlier that day, resulting in a temporary closure to American refugees traveling south. Frustrations were high because the Mexican government had increased the immigration fee twentyfold, while requiring the travelers to pay in Mexican pesos only, or precious metals like minted gold and silver. Now it would cost nearly $360 per person to enter Mexico by vehicle, regardless of your intended length of stay.

  This sudden change in immigration rules created tension between the government in Mexico City and Washington. As the two sides looked for a diplomatic solution, a currency black market emerged on the U.S. side of the border. Black-market traders walked between the vehicles, offering their services. Rather than get out of line, Americans were willing to trade their U.S. dollars for Mexican pesos at an exorbitant rate of exchange.

  Ordinarily, one dollar would be exchanged for approximately twenty pesos. This twenty-to-one exchange rate became even money under the circumstances. The American dollar had become increasingly devalued as the economy collapsed following the Yellowstone eruption.

  If they didn’t have sufficient dollars to trade for pesos, all manner of barter was arranged. Eventually, the heat of the moment, and the summer, caused tensions to boil over, resulting in the San Diego border checkpoints to be closed altogether. The reports indicated similar issues were being experienced at El Paso and Brownsville in Texas.

  Ashby stopped the digital dial on a VHF channel with an American speaking. She set aside her laptop and listened in.

  “… reports of violence against American tourists dominated our ham radio network today as the drug cartels have turned their attention from exporting drugs to the U.S., to feeding off the personal devastation resulting from Yellowstone.

  “The Mexican government has devoted their resources to collecting revenues at the border and controlling the influx of refugees. Those who manage to get through are vulnerable to carjackings, murder, and more.

  “If you are in the States, with plans on driving through Mexico toward the south, you need to find a way to hide a weapon in your belongings. I know, I know. The importation of guns into Mexico will land you in one of those cockroach-infested jails. That’s the least of your worries. The criminal element in Mexico is having a field day, as they see easy pickings rolling down their highways.

  “Make no mistake, they see you coming, and it’s a long drive to Guatemala. Beware is the word of the day.”

  Static filled the air, so Ashby turned down the volume slightly. She hoped that Baja California was immune to the criminal violence since it was separated from the mainland by water. The static stopped as the man continued to relay his thoughts.

  “No part of Mexico has been spared from this lawlessness. Even Cabo San Lucas is under a curfew, as locals have taken advantage of the lack of police presence to better their lives at the expense of tourists.

  “Luxury hotels have been raided by flash mobs. Stores have been looted by young people carrying knives and swords. Even the mega-yachts at the marina have been attacked, although the crews have effectively fought off the young people seeking to board them.

  “Guns are truly mightier than the sword.”

  Ashby rolled her eyes and sighed. She turned off the radio, as she’d heard enough. She opened up her laptop again and began searching the internet for marinas along the Pacific coastline besides Cabo San Lucas. It was time to find a plan B.

  Chapter 14

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Baja California

  “Where do you have in mind?” asked Jake.

  Ashby walked him through the various options before settling on her first choice. She handed him the MacBook. Jake took it with his left hand and took another swig of coffee with his right. He considered the coffee grounds to be one of the best finds on the yacht, at least at that moment.

  Ashby continued. “My suggestion is Escalara Nautica located at Santa Rosalillita.”

  Jake looked at her and smiled. “That’s a mouthful.”

  “I’ve been practicing it, waiting for you to wake up.”

  “You came and woke me up, an hour early, I might add,” said Jake with a chuckle as he turned his attention to the website.

  “I was excited,” said Ashby as she snuggled up next to him. “In reality, I missed you.”

  Jake read about the marina aloud. “The Escalara Nautica, which is Spanish for Nautical Ladder, was a megaproject started two years ago. It connects twenty-two ports spaced roughly one hundred nautical miles apart around the Baja California peninsula. The network includes marinas, docking, fueling, and basic shopping for boat provisions.”

  He set the MacBook on the top of the instrument panel and plugged the coordinates into the chartplotter. He studied the Doppler radar for weather and other boat traffic within a fifty-mile radius. Then he expanded it to encompass the one-hundred-mile radius that included the marina at Santa Rosalillita. There were remarkably few ships of any appreciable size within their range, and none within fifty nautical miles. If they continued to maintain their speed of ten knots, they’d reach the marina in just over eight hours.

  “There, done. I’ve set our course for the Escalara Nautica.”

  “Sounds exotic, doesn’t it?”

  “Sexy, even.” Jake turned to Ashby and reached around her waist.

  She giggled and pushed him away. “No sirree, Captain. Hands on the wheel and off the merchandise.”

  Jake persisted. “Here’s the way I look at it. You woke me up an hour early, and now you think you’re going to bed an hour before your shift was supposed to end. As far as I’m concerned, there’s an overlap of at least half an hour where we will be sharing the same bed.”

  Ashby laughed. “You’re such a boy.”

  “That I am. And rule number one of this ship is the captain is always right. I am the captain, you’ve said so yourself. Therefore, I am right. Yes?”

  “No, but it’s your lucky day. Thirty minutes and that’s it. Yes?”

  “I’ll take it,” said Jake with a smile as he grabbed Ashby by the hand and led her below.

  PART TWO

  Bienvenido a Mexico

  Chapter 15

  Escalara Nautica

  Santa Rosalillita, Baja California

  The first harbor and marina planned for the Escalara Nautica project was located at Santa Rosalillita. The small fishing village located midway down the Pacific coastline of Baja California was an area revered by surfers. The exposed reef that juts out into the Pacific is known as the wall, a point break that provides surfers the added thrill of unexpected windswells from the north that could send them racing into the middle of a rip or pummel them against the rocks.

  After Escalara Nautica was announced, the outrage was immediate. A harbor capable of holding large yachts was planned, which would change the face of the coastline and alter the surfers’ paradise. The goal was to entice American yachts to sail the three hundred miles south from San Diego to Santa Rosalillita, load their vessels on large vehicular transports, and cross the narrow peninsula to get dropped in the water again at Bahia Los Angeles, the premier location for exploring the incredible Sea of Cortéz that separates Baja California from mainland Mexico.

  Despite the typically chilly waters thanks to the cold California current hugging the shore at that part of the peninsula, surfers would tr
avel south from Tijuana, stay in small three-wall shacks, and ride the waves. After the construction commenced, the protests and vandalism began. The outrage was so great that the American investor group got cold feet and pulled out of the project after dredging had commenced.

  The result of the dredging, to the delight of surfers, was the harbor’s unplanned sandbar, which created a newly formed wave to ride. Tourism grew, as did the town. The surfers, known for their partying ways, looked for ways to fuel their marijuana habits. The need for weed was just a gateway to all the illegal narcotics readily available in Mexico, which opened the door for the drug cartels to gain a foothold in the region.

  Criminals fed off chaos. Government disarray created a vacuum, a void, that was quickly and easily filled by criminal enterprises ready to pounce. The same was true in the small fishing village of Santa Rosalillita.

  After the tourist dollars began to pour into the region, the conservationists’ efforts to preserve the pristine coastline adored by surfers withered under the weight of land speculation. The local ranchers and ejidos, community-owned and managed properties, salivated over the possible land deals as developers came to Santa Rosalillita, cash in hand.

  Escalara Nautica was back on the table and quickly came to fruition several years prior to Jake’s entry into the man-made harbor. The harbor was new, but the underlying criminal element of the small town was not. The drug trade flourished as wealthy Americans whet their appetite for illicit drugs they couldn’t purchase in the States. With every vessel that entered the new harbor, dozens of sets of eyes scanned its decks to determine if this was a potential customer.

  After the eruption of Yellowstone and the increase in lawlessness throughout Mexico, the eyes began to search with a different intent—prey upon the weak.

  Ashby stood on the foredeck, the wind blowing her blond hair past her shoulders, whipping her blouse open from time to time. Jake cautiously guided the Grand Banks 60 alongside the longest dock, which jutted out into the harbor.

  And a dozen onlookers bared toothless grins, salivating at the opportunity that had just presented itself.

  Chapter 16

  Escalara Nautica

  Santa Rosalillita, Baja California

  At this hour, the docks at Santa Rosalillita were abuzz with activity. The Mexican government, under the control of leftist President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, formally closed the border after tensions had boiled over with the U.S. president. He ordered the Mexican Navy to block all ports of call, and he enlisted the help of the drug cartels to assist in maintaining security at its border entry points.

  Obrador had been elected in a platform that promised to change the dynamic between the government and the cartels. You can’t fight evil with evil, he’d stated during the campaign, as he planned to focus on stopping the violence while opening the dialogue for legalization of certain drug-related activities.

  He argued that the two hundred thousand dead Mexicans at the hands of Mexico’s militarized assault was a direct result of Washington’s pressure to control the drug cartels, which ostensibly stemmed the flow of drugs into America. His position was simple—we will no longer kill fellow Mexicans because America cannot control its drug use.

  In the two hours prior to the arrival of My Wet Dream at Santa Rosalillita, the orders were given and the Mexican military moved with remarkable speed to comply with the presidential directive.

  So did the drug cartels.

  With only a quarter of a million service members, the Mexican military forces were ill-equipped to control the entirety of its territory. The shared border with the United States and other Central American countries was twenty-five hundred miles. The coastlines measured nearly six thousand miles. With the Mexican Navy dedicated to operating its minimal naval fleet, the coastlines were of particular concern to the president. The naval personnel were ordered to patrol the coastal waters while agreements with the cartels were made to monitor the small towns and ports of call along the country’s coastlines.

  Over the years, Jake had docked the twenty-three-foot open bow powerboat assigned to the Yellowstone Law Enforcement Rangers after he’d pulled lake patrol duty. He’d once said that if you know how to dock a boat like an expert, you’ve probably embarrassed yourself many times along the way.

  He continued closer to the pier at a slow rate of speed. He recalled rule number one of docking a boat—never approach the pier any faster than you’re willing to hit it. The wind blowing into the harbor didn’t help him with the arduous task. He’d throttled back completely as the stiff breeze forced him toward the dock. He kept his wheel centered, only using the power of the engines to move the yacht closer to the dock.

  The chaos unfolding at the marina didn’t help. The kids were running up and down, waving their arms. Some were shouting to Ashby in Spanish while others stretched to grab the dock lines she’d tossed to them.

  Ashby positioned the yacht’s fenders to provide protection as Jake got closer. He was certain that an expert captain could’ve whipped the yacht right into place in less than half the time, but Jake resisted the self-imposed pressure, to avoid looking like a novice. The yacht was their ticket to freedom and safety, and he didn’t want to risk damaging it.

  Jake left the engines running until he had an opportunity to inspect the dock lines. Once he was comfortable they were well secured, he shut off the engines and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Buenos días señorita!”

  “Eres muy hermosa!”

  “Bienvenido a Mexico!”

  Ashby and Jake walked along the rail, smiling and waving to the children. “They certainly are friendly,” said Ashby.

  “Oh yeah, and next, they’ll have the paw out,” said Jake somewhat sarcastically.

  “Do you mean looking for a tip?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s the Mexican way,” started Jake as he led Ashby into the salon. He changed his tee shirt to a longer one that covered his paddle holster, and Ashby did the same. He then stepped into the guest stateroom and pulled out the drawer that held their American currency. He used Ashby’s Corona Beer messenger bag to stash several thousand dollars in hundreds together with several gold bars. Jake expected this shopping excursion to be expensive.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Ashby.

  “Oh, I really shouldn’t talk this way. When I was a kid, my family took a trip to Monterey, Mexico, with my father while he was negotiating to buy a manufacturing plant that complimented his business. My mother and I toured the city, and every thirty feet was a shoeshine boy begging to shine my shoes for a few pesos.”

  “C’mon, that’s cute,” interjected Ashby.

  “Sure. They’d call out shoeshine, shoeshine, trying in their best broken English to convince me they were the best shoeshiners in all the land.”

  “Did you let them do it?”

  “Nah, I was wearing white Converse sneakers,” Jake said with a laugh as he closed the access door to the sleeping quarters and locked the door. He then retrieved the keys to the yacht and stuffed them in his pocket. He joined Ashby at the rear of the salon and took a deep breath.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked as he handed her a stack of twenty-dollar bills.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Tip money.”

  “A twenty? That’s a little much.”

  “Not from what you heard on the radio,” said Jake. “It’s only worth a dollar now.”

  Ashby shrugged and took her stack of twenties. The two descended onto the transom and stepped up onto the dock, where several willing hands assisted them. Jake and Ashby immediately began to dole out the twenties as they pushed their way through the crowd and toward the gas pumps in front of the harbormaster’s office.

  Several small stores encircled the parking lot of the marina. The simple signs were hand-painted in Spanish—Restaurante, Mercado, and Tienda de Surf. Jake pointed toward the right, where several older men stood near a sign that read Gasolina.

  “Bue
nos días,” said Jake, which drew laughter from the men. Jake looked puzzled as he awaited their response.

  “Buenas tardes,” a heavyset man smoking a cigar responded with a huff as he pointed toward the setting sun.

  Jake was unaware he’d wished the man good morning, when evening was more appropriate. Jake was, however, keenly aware of the disdain shown by the men for the two Americans. His guard was immediately raised as his level of situational awareness kicked into high gear.

  He abandoned his attempts to endear himself to the locals and dropped the Spanish. “Diesel?”

  “Sí.”

  “How much?” asked Jake as he flashed a wad of twenty-dollar bills.

  The men burst out into laughter. The heavyset Mexican pulled a twenty out of his pocket, took a deep draw on his cigar to expose a flaming red cherry, and stuck a corner of the bill into the hot ash. After a couple of puffs, the bill began to smolder and caught on fire. He held it out toward Jake and chuckled. “Here, you can have more of your American money. It burns, yes?”

  The three men roared in laughter as Jake looked to Ashby. He had been afraid of this, but he had no choice but to persist.

  “How much?” he asked again, never breaking eye contact with the men.

  “Gold only. Do you have gold, gringo?” the man asked with a snarky tone.

  “Yes. How much?”

  The man spit onto the dock and then stomped the flaming image of Andrew Jackson. “This way.”

  As he walked past them, he intentionally brushed up against Ashby. Jake saw her cringe and slide her hand toward her pistol. He quickly reached for her hand to escort her up the ramp to the harbormaster’s office.

  “Let’s go, dear,” he whispered with a firm grip on her right hand. Now that Ashby had successfully trained with the sidearm, it was apparent she had no compunction in using it. “We’ll pay for the fuel, pick up some supplies, and get the hell out of here before dark.”