Red Heroin

by Jerry Pournelle

  Roger made up his mind, and stood to come aft. He was concentrating on me, and while he was watching I put the tiller over to weather. Witch came right around, her stern went through the wind, and just as Roger took a step toward me the wind caught the main and swept the boom across the deck. It caught Roger on the shoulder, knocking him over to the rail, and the boat, caught broadside to the wind, heeled just as he came up against the lifelines.

  He might have made it if he'd let go the gun. The stupid fool tried to keep it instead of grabbing with both hands, and the boom swept him right into the water.

  I noted that the boat still had a mast. Hitting Roger must have slowed the boom enough to keep it from slamming to a stop with enough force to pull the stick out of her. I still wasn't out of trouble, though. The end of the boom dug into the water, and the rudder couldn't hold her. I frantically pulled in on the mainsheet, thankful for the two double blocks in the system. As we went through another jibe, I got some line in so that it wasn't so bad. I still had that sailboat all over the Straits, and the two foresails up didn't help a bit either, but things were a little more under control. After the second jibe, I let her come on up into the wind, hauling the boom in as fast as I could, and got her onto a beat. Then I adjusted the foresails, put the helm down, and tacked, leaving the staysail cleated to windward. I'd lied to Roger about not being able to stop a sailboat in the wind, of course. Sailboats have been heaving to for centuries, and while some modern yachts won't do it, a cutter almost always will. The theory is that the sails cancel each other out. Hove to, the tiller could be lashed down to leeward and she'd handle herself long enough for me to do something about all that sail area.

  I ran forward and got the jib set to windward, cleated it, and took the staysail down. I didn't do anything fancy, just lashed it with the bow mooring line I'd left coiled around the cleat. I'd rather have had a good stormsail set where the staysail was, and get the jib off entirely, but I didn't have much choice. Once the staysail was down, though, Witch heeled a lot less hove to, and I could sail her.

  I put her into the wind, looking for Roger. With his life jacket on he had a chance, and when he went over I'd thrown him a seat cushion, one of those floating things the Coast Guard grudgingly approves in lieu of real life preservers. There was a slim chance I'd find him.

  The fishing boat was closing fast, and I wasn't about to let those guys catch me if I could help it. Witch couldn't outrun them, but she could sure get to shore before they caught me. It was less than a mile to the end of the spit, and the shore wasn't very inviting, but it was the only thing I could think of to do.

  I still wanted to find Roger, though. Shearing wanted to talk to him, and I owed him something too. We were out of the tide rips, so he had a chance, even if it wasn't a very good one. I tacked upwind, trying to follow the reverse of the course I had been steering when he went over. The trouble was that I wasn't too sure what course that was. The pair of uncontrolled jibes, plus the time I had spent hove to so I could get the boat in a condition I could handle, had made it hopeless to simply sail back up my own wake, even if that had been possible. With all the wind and that much sail up, Witch was heeled over with her lee rail almost under. I would have liked to have a reef in the main, but that would have taken fifteen minutes or so, and he would have been long gone by then, even if his friends hadn't caught me.

  I saw the cushion. There wasn't a sign of anybody near it. Thinking it might have drifted faster than he did, I went upwind of it as best I could. The fishing boat was less than half a mile away, and closing fast now that I wasn't moving away from it. I could make out a shape a mile or so behind that, and the red-green lights told me it was headed straight for me. I decided to take a chance on it being some of Shearing's gang, so I made another quick search, shouting for Roger.

  I thought I heard something. I thought I might just have heard somebody call my name. It was hard to tell. With the boat close-hauled the wind screamed in the rigging and was trying to tear my head off. It must have been hitting thirty to thirty-five knots in the gusts, and Witch was heeling over so far water came over the coaming into the cockpit until I'd luff her up and spill the wind out of the sails. Each time I'd do that in those seas, I'd nearly lose control because she lost speed fast. There was just too much sail up for windward work, and if anything the wind was becoming stronger. Whitecaps were everywhere, and every third or fourth wave was a real breaker. Salt spray blew in my eyes, making it even harder to see, and it was getting dark faster and faster now. I could be in real trouble whether the fishing boat caught me or not. Without lights it might not be able to see me, but I couldn't count on it. Some of those things have surplus radar sets the fishermen rebuild and install, and if this one did they could follow me almost to shore.

  Green water broke over the bow, half tearing the lashed-down staysail loose, and washing a hundred pounds of water across the top of the cabin. Most of it poured in through the open companionway slide, but several gallons got me as well. That did it. If I waited any longer I'd have to heave to and reef, and they'd be on me in minutes. That might or might not be Shearing's people in the cruiser, but it wouldn't matter to me. Roger's friends would remember his remarks about excess baggage, and they might do something about it. They'd have no reason to believe the power cruiser was anything other than a pleasure yacht out to make Port Angeles in time for a late dinner.

  It was tricky enough bringing Witch around before the wind again. I didn't particularly want to be broadside to a breaking sea like the one that wet me down. If it hit just right there was a chance it could tear something loose, like the cabin sides for example. It probably wouldn't, certainly no sea built up by that kind of wind could, but in the Straits the seas aren't just built up by the winds. The tides have a lot to do with it, and I've seen real breakers in twenty knots of wind out there. I brought her around between breaking waves, getting a little more water over the coamings in the process. The scuppers drained it out of the cockpit slowly while I ran off toward the shore.

  The fishing boat stopped where I'd been putzing around looking for Roger. They could have seen him go over, if they'd been looking with a glass. I hoped they'd find him. At that water temperature, you have about one to two hours to live before you lose enough body heat to finish you. A strong swimmer might find his way to shore, but the closer to shore you came, the worse the currents.

  I ran off from them, looking back from time to time to try to see what they were doing. I couldn't spare the attention to really watch them, but I didn't think they'd picked him up. A powerboat came up behind them, went past, and veered out in a direct line with Port Angeles. It was much bigger than the boat that passed me in the Inlet, and I didn't see anything else on the water. It looked like I was all alone.

  I tried to signal the powerboat. I flashed a light at it, waved my arms, and finally when nothing happened I lit off a red flare. It went right on by, a mile away, and I supposed the skipper was too intent on getting through that slop to look around toward the shore. The flare just showed the fishing boat where I was, so I threw it overboard.

  I was rushing down toward the shore now, and although there was still enough light for me to tell where I was, that wouldn't last very long. If I hit rock at that speed it would tear the bottom right out of Witch. For that matter, mud wouldn't be much better with the seas we had. The waves would lift Witch up and drop her again, and no sailboat or any other kind of boat can take that kind of pounding for long. There's no beach either, except at Dungeness Spit, and that was off to windward. With the surf these waves would throw at the cliff edges in front of me, the boat had to survive for me to live through the night. Two hours in the water would finish me as fast as it was going to finish Roger.

  I was mad clear through. I was mad at Roger, the weather, the fishing boat, Shearing, and for that matter, myself. I was even a little sorry for Roger. I had delayed that jibe stunt just a little too long, hoping to get identification of the boat that would meet him. Well,
I'd got it all right. The problem was, what could I do with it?

  As for Roger, I could have got him overboard any time after we rounded Point Wilson. There would have been enough time and daylight to fish him out again, and afterwards I could have run in under the shelter of Protection Island and anchored. Now I was in trouble.

  The fishing boat was bearing down on me, and even without it there wasn't much sea room. To shorten sail, I would have to heave to and reef. But a boat hove to makes leeway, at least a couple of knots, and I was less than a mile from a lee shore. There was some question as to whether I could get the boat to safety even without Roger's friends behind me. I should be able to run along the shore to Port Angeles, although it's not very safe from an easterly or northeasterly storm, but I wouldn't know until I reached there. It didn't matter anyway. Long before I could reach shelter, the fishing boat would catch up with me.

  I didn't look for much help from Shearing's crew. The wind was coming up stronger and stronger, and every other wave was a breaker. Unless they had an experienced sailor aboard, this was no weather for a pleasure-type power cruiser, with its big cabin and high windage areas. The fishing boat, of course, wasn't in any difficulty at all. She'd be rolling heavily now, shaking everybody and everything up, but those boats are designed with Alaska storms in mind, not just the stuff Juan de Fuca can throw at you. Not that old Juan is anybody to have mad at you, you understand. He's got tricks with big tide-augmented seas that even the Pacific Coast can't match. We lose a pleasure boat or two out here every year, when some hardy soul refuses to run for shelter, or gets caught where there isn't any.

  Witch was built to take this sort of thing a lot better than a powerboat, but her designers never intended her to carry this much sail in winds gusting to forty or forty-five knots. I had to get some more sail down or something would carry away.

  Looking behind me, I saw that the fishing boat was still circling around, so that there was a mile or so between us now. It would take some time for them to close the gap, since I didn't think they could get more than three knots difference between our speeds. If I stood still it would take them six or eight minutes to catch me.

  There looked like one chance. Ahead of me about two miles was the pier I had built. In those seas and without a motor, I couldn't put into the dock and tie up, but given a little time I did have a chance of getting ashore. I ran on toward the pier, getting a compass bearing on where I could find it in case it was too dark to see when I reached there. I wasn't sure I wanted a light, because the fishing boat could see me, but in the dark it's hard to sail. It didn't look like I could win either way.

  When I reached the dock, the fishing boat had swung around so that I could see both the red and green bow lights. She was headed directly for me. Two hundred feet from shore, I swung Witch around into the wind, feeling her heel until her rail was under, and tacked, once again, leaving the jib to windward. She was hove to, drifting off to leeward but holding her own for a moment. I opened the forehatch, grabbed my big anchor, and threw it and its chain over. I just prayed I'd judged this whole thing right.

  Now that I was committed, the next thing was to get the sails down. I left them in a shapeless bundle, the jib tied with its own sheet to the stay, and the main bundled in a crazy pile around the boom. I wound line around it to hold it down, and then went forward again.

  I had cut it close, but I was upwind of the dock. By paying out anchor line I was able to move Witch closer and closer to the pier, using the tiller to swing her from side to side as I needed to. It really didn't take long to get her the hundred feet or so to the dock, but it seemed like hours. The water is shallow near the shore, six fathoms, so the waves were building up high, but it was possible to reach the dock from the boat if you jumped just right. I cleated a line to the stern of the boat, held the end, and dived onto the float. My legs went in the water, but I managed to scramble on, all the wind knocked out of me for the moment. There wasn't another boat at the dock; my client was away.

  When I stood up the fishing boat was bearing down on me. With their big engines they could maneuver close to the dock, and I didn't want to be there when they came. I ran along the pier to the shore, reaching it just as the fish boat came along the lee side. The first thing I saw was a man with a rifle.

  He didn't say a word, just took aim and fired. With the boat rolling like that he didn't have much chance of hitting me, but there wasn't any place for me to go. They'd soon get off the boat and finish me. I looked up the stairway to the top, but I didn't think I had a chance of getting there. It would be like giving them target practice.

  Elmer, my client, had a little storehouse hollowed out of the bank next to where his stairway went up. I saw it, thought about it for a second, and grabbed a rock, pounding away on the padlock. While I was doing this the rifleman kept up a steady fire, and his partner brought the boat up to the dock. It didn't look like there were more than two aboard.

  I got the locker open about the time one of them got off the boat and tied up. He waited for his partner, and I figured they didn't know I was unarmed. I scrambled into the little cave, hoping that I wasn't wrong about what I'd find there.

  I wasn't. An open dynamite box, with five sticks left in it, was off to one side, and on a shelf was a little Styrofoam box of detonating caps with fuse. I got my knife out and cut a random length of fuse, shoved it in a cap, and crimped the mess with my teeth. The marline-spike on my pocketknife made a good hole in a stick of dynamite, and I shoved the cap in it. Then I lit the end of another piece of fuse.

  Outside, one of them was still aboard the fishing boat, and as I looked out he played a spotlight directly on the open door of the little dirt storehouse. The rifleman was standing on the dock next to the boat, and made gestures with his free hand to indicate I should come out. They were about forty feet away.

  The fuse hissed away while I got another cap crimped and shoved into a stick. It doesn't really take long, and although I hadn't had any CIA courses, there are few civil engineers who aren't familiar with The Blaster's Handbook. The stuff isn't any more dangerous than any other tool if you know what you're doing.

  When I had two sticks, I lit the fuse of the second by holding my burning fuse against it, giving myself about ten seconds worth of burn time. Then I stepped to the edge of the storehouse and threw it toward the fishing boat, jumping back inside before the rifleman could get a shot at me.

  The wind and my shelter muffled the sound of the stuff going off. When I heard it, I ran out, holding my other stick and the lit fuse. The rifleman wasn't standing there anymore, but somebody was attending the spotlight. It figured that the stick had landed somewhere near the gunman, and knocked him off into the water.

  I used the burning end of the fuse to light the other stick down close to the cap, ran forward, and pitched the stick up on the deck of the fishing boat, right behind the wheel house. Then I lay flat on the dock and waited.

  Unless it's packed in, a single stick of dynamite won't do all that much damage, but it's still a lot of power. It tore the wheelhouse roof off, and I didn't think anybody in there was going to be interested in shooting me. As I got up, the boat drifted away from me.

  They had cleated the boat by taking an end of the mooring lines around the cleats on the dock, then bringing them back aboard and making them fast amidships. This is a convenient technique and pretty standard because it lets you cast yourself loose without any help and without having to jump for the boat after she's loose. My second stick of dynamite had either torn the cleat loose, or cut the lines, because she was drifting away fast now. There wasn't a thing I could do about it. She'd either end up in Port Angeles or on the rocks along the coast before you get there. I didn't see how she could get to Port Angeles.

  As for myself, I wasn't sure I wanted to be on that pier in the morning. Furthermore, I didn't want to abandon Witch. She was riding all right out there, her stern about four feet from the dock, but if that anchor dragged just a little bit she'd poun
d to pieces on the float. I took the stern line I'd made fast on the windward side—the fishing boat had naturally come up on the lee side of the dock, as I would have if I'd had any fuel for the motor—and used it to pull myself back aboard Witch. Then I took in enough line to get her back out away from there, and started to tidy her up. The wind wasn't getting any stronger, and a lot of times in the Straits you'll have something like a gale in the evening, only to have dead calm the next morning. I didn't think this would last. Just in case, I pulled Witch out even farther, let the second anchor over the side, and payed out scope so that both were holding. Then I went below, changed to some dry clothes, laid out my oilskins in case I'd need them, and went to sleep. It was probably a tom-fool thing to do, but after fighting that tiller all day, I would have been ready to pass out even if I hadn't been up all night before.

  Chapter Twelve

  I woke up at four thirty because somebody was calling my name with a bullhorn. As I shook the sleep out of my head, it seemed the seas were a lot calmer, and I didn't hear the angry scream of the wind tearing at the rigging. It was chilly in the cabin after being under the blankets, and I pulled my yellow windproof jacket on before going out on deck.