Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  All but the last screw was out. Felix stopped for a second to wipe his brow. The sweat was starting to drip down and make the Phillips-head screwdriver he was using slippery. He had refrained from using the screw gun on such a precarious task. The last screw was in tight but with a little effort, it backed out of its twelve-year nest of Fiberglas. With the last few revolutions, Felix removed the remaining fastener with his fingers. He then took a flat-head screwdriver and pried one end of the panel up from the console. Years of dirt and salt were built up around its edges. The panel came up without much resistance for the first few inches, and then it stopped. It appeared to Felix to be hung up on something internal. At the risk of breaking it, the timid laborer simply put the panel back in its place.

  He stopped for a second to think about what he was doing, something he was not accustomed to doing during his two-year tenure as the official Indian mold waxer. Underneath the console was a piece of teak, ten- by-twelve-inches with four screws securing it. Felix got down on his back and began removing them. They all came out with very little effort, but as the piece of wood came loose, more salt and debris fell from the seam directly into Felix’s lap. He removed what he could with his hands and then peeked under the console. It was obvious now why the instrument panel was tied up. The large amount of wires going to the gauges, switches and other fused circuits were wrapped up with more wires originating from a black box mounted on the bulkhead. Pissed off, Felix took the largest flat-head screwdriver he had and pried the box from the wall. It immediately dropped down, hanging by the many wires that connected it to the rest of the boat. Felix took a pair of electrical dykes and snipped the wires clean as the box dropped to the deck. The more he looked into the hole, the more he could not believe all the tangled mess of circuits and multicolored wires. He followed the wires he had just cut and saw mounted, not six inches away from the first one, another identical black box; this one with a set of switches and a key lock. Again, Felix took his large screwdriver and pried it clean from the bulkhead. It, too, dropped to the deck. He then, out of frustration, threw both of them out of the cockpit listening to them hit the hard concrete surface below. The panel was now free and he continued to remove it slowly but surely, making sure not to chip any of the edges or crack the delicate plastic

  * * * * *

  Thanksgiving

  Joel sat comfortably in his assigned airline seat 16-C, a window seat midway along the length of the McDonnell Douglas MD-80. The ride was soothing. He laid back and enjoyed the ride with the bright glow of a Florida sunset on his left and an empty aisle seat to his right. He could stretch out and relax. Joel hated planes that were filled to capacity. He usually ended up sitting next to a smoker who, despite the fact that all flights were designated as nonsmoking, still had the stench of the cigarette residue on his clothes.

  With a long and stressful first week behind him, Joel could now sit back and relax. The whine of the twin turbo fans mounted to the plane’s tail made the ride that much more comfortable.

  Seated across from him on the opposite side of the plane was a young family of three. Mom and Dad, both fifty pounds overweight, both munching on blue packages of salted airline peanuts, sat taking intermittent sips from plastic cups of beer. Seated between them was their child, a small boy who appeared to be about two. He was dressed in a pair of bright blue overalls and wore a blue and white pinstriped Atlanta Braves baseball cap over the blond curls on his head. Pinned to the front of his overalls was a plastic pair of “wings” with the airline’s logo embossed in the middle. The boy munched on his own bag of peanuts and can of cola.

  Joel looked over at the boy who was occasionally returning glances. He winked at the blond-headed boy who in turn repaid the gesture, squinting the entire left side of his face in the process. In a matter of a few seconds, the two had connected only adding to Joel’s feeling of peacefulness.

  The ride continued as the plane descended into the Atlanta area. The pressure against his eardrums disrupted a brief nap he had managed to catch. He immediately readjusted his tray table and put away the magazine he had been looking at. To his left, his new “friend” had become agitated and was starting to cry. The boy’s parents became frantic with intolerance.

  “Shut up boy, will you!” the mother insisted, poking him in the ribs, further agitating the boy who continued to cry, now only louder.

  “Your momma said to shut up boy!” the father added, grabbing the boy’s small head in his large hand.

  “What’s the boy’s name?” Joel asked, reaching over the unoccupied aisle seat next to him.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Did our boy wake you?” the mother asked, apologizing.

  “Oh no, he’s not a problem. What’s his name?” Joel asked, this time with a more insistent tone.

  “Justin,” she said.

  “Justin. Hey buddy, are your ears hurting you?” Joel asked.

  The boy stopped crying as he turned to look toward the unfamiliar voice.

  “Do they hurt?” Joel asked again.

  The boy nodded yes as he put his small hands over the sides of his head.

  “Drink some soda and swallow a lot,” he instructed.

  “Don’t spill now, boy!” the mother blurted out.

  Justin tipped the can of cola back, holding it with both hands. The bubbly fluid rushed down the back of his throat as he swallowed frantically. He then put the can down and continued to swallow, sticking his chin forward with each contraction of his throat.

  “Now, doesn’t that feel better?” Joel asked as the boy smiled and nodded yes.

  “Thank you mister. Justin can get real ornery when he wants to. You got a real way with youngins,” she replied.

  “It was nothing. Glad to help,” Joel said.

  The plane landed soon after and Joel took his time exiting through the crowd of people, some hurrying to catch a connecting flight, others content to be back on the ground. He was just happy to be back home.

  •

  Two hours later, the red, white and blue logo of the Cable Satellite Public Affairs Network, better known as C-SPAN, appeared in the left hand corner of the console-mounted TV screen in Pat Stephens’s den. The channel carried presidential speeches, Senate and House Committee meetings and other public issue talks, both domestic and foreign. Today’s presentation was of the House Ways and Means Committee debates over the new anti-drug bill that was in front of Congress for a final vote. The session was an extended one and Congress was under significant pressure to wrap up their business and go on to bigger and better things. The proponents of the bill, mostly Democrats, saw the solution in education and long term rejuvenation of the American intellect, thereby giving young people more options and choices in life, and, in turn, less drug use. Reduce the demand, and the supply will therefore also dwindle. Funding, according to the proponents, should go to public education programs. Government supported education to the second year of public college, drug abuse centers, along with detoxification facilities were all part of the plan.

  Opponents of the bill were against spending any more money on domestic programs altogether. They felt the budgets of the Justice Department, Customs and DEA were all over-funded. Stephens characterized them as religious zealots who wanted to go to Peru and Columbia and decimate the populous, thus reducing the supply. The opponents were right-wing conservatives who believed the military could solve all the world’s wrongs and for whom the budget was a priority. At the sake of his conscience and his career, Stephens supported the crime bill.

  Jhenna rubbed her husband’s tired shoulders while Joel sat on an opposite couch. Behind them a brisk fire crackled in the hearth. A fresh snow had fallen two hours before and Stephens’s den, which was at the extreme end of their large house, warmed at a slower rate than the rest of the home. It was a flaw in the design and one Stephens contemplated civil action over but the three-year statute of limitations ran out and the couple had no choice but to accept the flaw.

  Congressman Bing Maxwell of Ka
nsas was speaking. An opponent, he was the leader of the opposition mainly because of his charismatic nature in dealing with people. Stephens often thought the plump congressman was a TV evangelist in another life.

  “We must agree that this poison must be taken out at the root. It is a travesty that we should let the influence of drugs continue with all the smugglers and cheap street dealers making their profits. I know it sounds corny, but as Sheriff Andy Griffith used to say, nip it in the bud. We have experienced soldiers. Men and now, God help us, women trained to fight and protect our nation’s interest. They are in a stand down mode and are ready to intervene in a moment’s notice.”

  “This guy’s insane,” Stephens said aloud as the congressman continued.

  “We must turn these dedicated professionals loose and remake havoc among the various drug communities presently in control of Central and South America.”

  The House Chambers filled with a mild but steady applause as the congressman from Kansas collected the notes and left the podium. The camera switched to that of the Speaker, the Honorable Stu Abrams from New Hampshire.

  “Thank you Congressman Maxwell. We are planning on breaking for lunch at around 11:45. Congressman Sikes, I don’t want to cut you short, so if you need more time, you can start after the recess,” the lead congressman said, directing his voice to a small, suit-clad man who was now standing at the threshold of the bench.

  “I think I’ll have enough time. My dad used to say, keep it short and simple.”

  “A new standard for us all I hope,” the Speaker replied as Sikes assumed his place behind the podium.

  “The flow of drugs affects no other state in a more devastating fashion than my state of Florida. We are amidst a battleground being fought off our many diverse coasts, a losing battle at that. The anti-drug crime bill is not just a good idea - it’s a great one. We, as responsible Americans, need to attack the drug problem at the grassroots level: the desire, the want, the need, and the addiction. As responsible Americans, we need to give our young people the options they need to make a better life. Our children need to know they have a potential in life and that the decisions they make will affect them directly. At the same time, we need to draw tight the purse strings surrounding our borders and fortify the forces offshore and in the air channels. We need to maintain these federal forces. The DEA, U.S. Customs and Coast Guard have been doing a bang up job. Let’s not leave them out in the cold now. Thank you Mr. Speaker.”

  The chambers were a grumble of voices and shuffling paper as those who were seated rose to exercise the lunch recess.

  RAP RAP RAP

  The wooden gavel summoned attention as the Speaker peered over the chamber floor.

  “We’ll recess for ninety minutes and resume at 1:15.”

  A C-SPAN commentator interrupted detailing and summarizing the congressmen’s opposing views. After that, the schedule of the day’s programming was displayed and Pat Stephens clicked the set off with his remote. Jhenna held him tight from behind as he sat quietly in the leather office chair.

  “I’ve been asked to speak to the committee next week. Sikes called yesterday. He’s really pushing hard for this,” he said.

  “Honey, that’s great!” she answered.

  “I really think this is the progressive thinking we need to solve these complex problems. These damn zealots like Maxwell. They should be thumping Bibles down in Mississippi somewhere. This is what I need to increase my visibility.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing,” she said, rubbing her hand over his chest.

  “What we don’t need right now is anything to mar the public’s opinion of the federal forces abroad,” he declared, tensing up at the last minute before turning the TV back on and changing the channel to CNN. They were running a story about a Florida treasure salver who had found a long lost Spanish galleon; a ship that was transporting gold to Mother Spain back in the early 1600s. The vessel had been caught in a storm off the coast of the Florida Keys and sank, killing all on board.

  The salver had spent twenty years and over three million dollars of his own money looking for this treasure. Everyone around him was inspired by his spirit that started each morning at 5:30 when he would say: “Today is going to be the day.”

  He kept up the fight, even when it took the life of his beloved wife in a tragic diving accident. He never gave up. Then one day, his funds depleted and his heart broken, he did what he had come to do. In ninety feet of water, on a reef called the Elbow, he found the remains of the ship and its sixty million dollars of gold, silver and other jewels, the largest treasure find in American history. And that’s when his real troubles began. The State of Florida made an immediate claim on the treasure, threatening to jail the salver if he didn’t immediately turn it over. They had offered to give him ten percent of the value of the find based on its museum value (which the state calculated at ninety thousand dollars), giving the salver a finder’s fee of nine grand for his troubles. The story went on to tell more of the life and death struggle of the man, a struggle that had started in the ocean and ended up in the courts.

  “I know that place,” Joel said.

  “What place?” Pat asked.

  “The Elbow. It’s a reef off Key Largo.”

  “Find any treasure, hotshot?”

  “Like I’ve got the time to look for treasure or anything else for that matter,” he said before the three moved to the living room while Jhenna got their dinner ready.

  Joel couldn’t get enough of his sister’s cooking. He had consumed two plates and was still planning on dessert. “So tell us about the Keys,” Pat said.

  “They’re okay. The poor man’s Hawaii and all that.”

  “What’s the office like?” Jhenna asked.

  “Good bunch of guys. My FTO is a little strange though, but, well maybe it’s me,” he said.

  “Strange? How do you mean strange, Joel?” Pat asked.

  “On some nights the guy is like a superhero or something. Really eager,” Joel replied, pausing to bite a biscuit, his fourth. “Others, he just ignores obvious targets. The other night we were out over the reef and this smuggler, Alazar, who everyone says is dirty, was there with an obvious crew waiting for a load and this guy turns the other way and heads for shore. The look the two of them gave each other was real spooky. I felt like a third wheel. What’s up? I kept asking myself.”

  “Jordan Cheney told me a little about what and how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Joel said, looking cross-eyed over at Jhenna who had a smile on her face.

  “You sank a boat?” Pat asked.

  “A truck too,” Joel responded.

  “I heard it was a boat.”

  “I did that too.”

  “You sank a boat and God help us, a truck?”

  “It’s all very explainable.”

  “Don’t bother. Cheney filled me in already.”

  “Oh, great,” Joel uttered with concern.

  “He said the boat had a faulty steering cable and the truck popped out of park and rolled down a boat ramp - all very explainable. No need to get so defensive,” Pat said with half a smile on his face.

  “That was his personal truck. He’s gonna hold it over me forever,” Joel said.

  “He sounded relieved to me. Something about wanting a new one anyway.”

  “That’s a load off my shoulders. He’s really not mad?”

  “But, Captain Crunch, just the same, let’s not destroy any more of the government’s equipment, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you guys ready for pie?” Jhenna asked as she went into the kitchen.

  “Our sources tell us there is a network of agents who are protecting a group of major organized traffickers.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open,” Joel promised.

  “Would anyone like ice cream with their apple pie?” Jhenna asked as she returned with dessert.

  “None for me,” Joel replied.

  “Me
neither, babe,” Pat said.

  “So Joel, when are you going to call Cathy?” Jhenna asked as she gently placed a slice of warm pie onto Joel’s plate.

  “As your attorney, I advise you not to answer that Joel!” Pat interrupted abruptly. “He doesn’t want to go out with your fat friend…Do you Joel,” Pat continued.

  “I, I don’t really know,” he answered in his best nonpartisan tone.

  “She’s a very nice girl and I want nothing but the best for my little brother,” she said, dumping Pat’s pie on his plate, splashing it in a heap upside-down.

  * * * * *