Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  When Bobby Lee and the Suit had changed into greasy coveralls, they left the motel room and headed for the van. Leroy, keys in hand started for the driver’s seat, and was jerked back by Bobby Lee’s beefy hand on his shoulder.

  “Where do you think yer going, Leroy?”

  “Wherever you tell me to, boss.” Leroy had hoped he could tag along as a driver. There would be opportunities on the road to take these two out, and grab the suitcase.

  “Give me the keys, and get lost. Your job is done.” Bobby Lee snatched the keys from his hand, his face inches from Leroy’s nose. “I don’t give a shit where you go.”

  “That’s cool, dude. That’s cool.” Leroy bobbed his head, stepping back with arms raised in surrender. Anyone who tangled with Bobby Lee in his prime ended up a sack of broken bones. He may be a pencil pusher now, but Leroy knew Bobby Lee was still a very dangerous man when all riled up.

  Bobby Lee and the suit climbed into the van, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.

  Leroy’s attention turned, as the interrogation room door opened, and two military looking types entered with the police detective. The guy and the woman took seats opposite him, the detective stood next to the door. They said nothing to him for a long time, just looked him in the eyes. His patience worn thin from nicotine withdrawal, Leroy challenged his new visitors.

  “Who the fuck are you two, and who do I need to talk to to get my goddamn REward money. I been held against my will for hours on end. I’m tryin’ to do my civic duty and this is what I git’ for my trouble. This is bullshit!”

  The new dude stared at him for a while longer, then inhaled deeply through his nose, and spoke. “There will be no reward money, Leroy. At least none you’ll ever see. You aided and abetted a fugitive from justice. Two fugitives from justice.”

  “An’ that’s what I’m tryin’ to make right. I know where they headed. Soon as I have a deal, I’ll tell ya’ll. Ya’ll can catch em’ easy if ya’ know where ta’ look.”

  “No, I think you’ll tell us right now.” Chris spoke quietly, as if he knew something Leroy did not.

  “That’s it, I’m outa here!” Leroy slammed the palms of both hands on the table, stood and made a show of heading for the door to add drama to his bluff. The police detective stepped in front of him, blocking the door. Leroy whirled to face Chris. “What the hell is going on here? I’m trying to hep!”

  “Leroy, my man, I’m a Federal Officer with NCIS, as is my partner. The two fugitives you helped escape are wanted by Homeland Security. Demanding a reward for your crimes is like pissing up a rope, so have a seat.” Chis replied. Leroy slowly took his seat, and Chris continued.

  “Under the Patriot Act, we’ve reserved a room with no view for you at the Marine base in Guantanamo, where you will not be comfortable with the style of questioning, and especially not comfortable with your cell mates. We can hold you there indefinitely. So, I’ll ask you this once, and once only. Where are Bobby Lee Swagart and Sherrod Simpson? You have ten seconds to answer.”

  The seconds ticked by. Leroy’s fearful eyes darted around the room, and to the faces of the agents, looking for some way to escape. “Time’s up, have a nice trip.” Chris and Beth both rose from their seats, and started for the door.

  “Cuba.” A deflated Leroy stared at the table, and said, “They’re headed to Key West, then Cuba. They’re in a white van that left six hours ago.”

  Chis and Beth, both standing in the doorway turned. Chris smiled and replied, “Well isn’t that special Leroy. Looks like you and Bobby Lee are both headed for the same island paradise.”

  “He smells like a wet dog,” Beth said under her breath.

  Kate, Thuy and Jimmy watched the performance from behind one way mirrors in the adjoining room. “Let’s rock and roll.” Jimmy said. There was no hint of his smartass persona.

  Matamoras, Mexico

  Miguel paced impatiently. Angel had returned from his hour long observation of the crossing, and reported no movement other than the two Gringo guards hanging around. That was a full hour ago. Luis had yet to report.

  “You could try the radio, boss.” Angel suggested.

  “Don’t be a fool! They are certain to be listening.” Miguel paced again. It bothered him Luis did not return in an hour, as ordered. It bothered him more why. He could send a man to find Luis, but he did not know which building he may have entered, or which floor he may be on. He could have been captured, but Miguel did not believe this was the case. Luis would have put up a good fight before he went down. Luis was a warrior. There was no sound of gunfire that surely would have resulted if Luis had been discovered.

  Suddenly, the radio in his hand clicked once. He held it in front of his face. Someone had hit the transmit button, but no voice came through. Luis. He’s telling me to be patient. Miguel thumbed the transmit button on his radio twice. Click, click. I hear you, compadre.

  Luis climbed down the stairs to the first floor, and exited into the rear alley. For the past two hours he had watched, and waited, until something caught his eye, and aroused his suspicions. A building set far back from the crossing, maybe a half kilometer. There appeared a tiny flash that came on and off like a small strobe light. It was just to the building’s side, about 3 meters off the ground. He was changing positions, moving a block further west to get a better angle. He needed to confirm what he thought he saw.

  Sergeant Gonzales’ radio chirped.” Report.”

  “Sir, the Cartel scout on the west side of the crossing has left his building, and is moving further west. If he moves farther, our soldiers on the side of the highway will be seen.”

  “Negative, soldier. They cannot be seen. The Lieutenant and I personally inspected the fighting holes. They are well camouflaged with cut scrub overhead.”

  Lieutenant Parrott interrupted,” Maybe we should alert the men in the fighting holes to remain still. There’s no wind at all. If the bushes shake or even wiggle, they could be spotted.”

  “Good idea, Lieutenant.” I will tell my men, you tell yours.”

  The order was relayed to the Mexican Army soldiers and Marines in the fighting holes, with instructions to pass the message quietly down the line. The Cartel was too far away to hear muffled voices.

  Marine Private First Class Tommy Stanley was dripping wet with sweat, as he struggled against the heat. He was so excited to finally go on his first mission, as he was fresh out of boot camp. His fighting hole was perfect, and invisible to anything that ran, walked, crawled or flew by. As he climbed into his position his heart tingled with adrenalin and anticipation of his first action. That was over three hours ago. Now, his well-crafted camouflage served as the lid for the pressure cooker the hole had become. No wind, not even a breeze could enter the shallow hole.

  He squirmed around trying to find a more comfortable position, which was impossible. “Damn, it’s hotter than a popcorn fart.” He whispered to no one.

  “Tommy, lie still. We’re under observation.” A voice 15 yards away stage whispered.

  “Yeah, OK, just trying to get comfortable.” he loud whispered back. He let his helmeted head fall forward onto the front lip of the hole, and breathed out of his mouth. ”Great. Now I can’t even move for God knows how long.”

  He held that pose for maybe 2 minutes, until the warmth of his breath increased the temperature noticeably around his face. As he raised his head, he came eye to eye with a snake twelve inches from his nose, its flickering tongue sensing his body heat. Tommy’s eyes grew as large as two boiled eggs. He whipped his left arm to cover his face. His BDU’s were rolled up past his elbow due to the excessive heat, exposing the flesh of his forearm.

  Action is always faster than reaction. As swift as the snake’s strike was, Tommy’s move was just fast enough, as the startled snake bit his left forearm just below the elbow. He involuntarily let out a scream, more from panic than pain, rose to his knees throwing the brush cover off his hole, using his ri
ght hand to grab the snake and pull it off his left forearm. He threw it as far away as he could.

  “Quiet Tommy! What the fuck you doin’?” came a harsh whisper from the next trench. It was Jontray, the black kid he met in boot camp four months ago, who had become his best friend in the world.

  Tommy lay on his back, holding his forearm tightly, and trembled. “I’m bit Jontray. A snake bit me.”

  Luis had found a suitable building, and was on the roof when the brush on the side of the road violently exploded skyward. That was no armadillo. It was, however his second discovery from his new vantage point. By moving 100 meters west, and gaining the roof of a four story building, the flashing light had revealed its source. It was the sun’s reflection off the rotating propellers of a helicopter hidden behind a building a half a kilometer north of the crossing. The engine was being kept warm, ready to leap into the sky within a second’s notice. The two border guards parading around the crossing were the bait for the trap.

  “Ingenioso.” Clever.

  Chapter Seventeen, USCGC Bertholf, Gulf of Mexico

  Commander Phillips left the bridge after briefing his first officer on the orders of the day, and headed to his cabin. He was exhausted, having slept in one or two hour naps for the past 5 days. The end was in sight. The bloom’s northern migration had been stopped dead in its tracks, and had actually been beaten back south thirty miles. It now measured just eight miles wide, and 27 miles long. A half dozen more flights, and it would be completely gone.

  Thankfully, no more pilots had died, and the civilian casualties had stopped. Those already infected were getting proper medical treatment. The Navy had established four field hospitals in Mexico from just north of Ciudad Victoria, south to Ciudad Madero, the hardest hit coastline. The Mexican authorities had mobilized medical personnel from Monterrey, Saltillo, and Veracruz. All were working around the clock. The price paid for the disaster, 371 Mexican civilians dead, 3,043 infected and in the hospital. For the Americans, three dead fishermen, one evacuee shot by police, and a dozen or so assorted car accident and heart attack victims during the evacuation. Then there were 73 dead pilots. The economic impact would be measured by the billions. It could have been much worse.

  His thoughts turned to Kate. Kate, Jimmy and Thuy had caught rides with the Coast Guard to Tampa to join the hunt for Swagart and Simpson hooking up with NCIS agents and Tampa Bay Police Department on a lead on their whereabouts. He hadn’t heard much about their progress since. He entered his small cabin, strode to the tiny desk attached to the bulkhead, and sat down with a long sigh. He had been offered the captain’s stateroom by the ship’s commander, but refused. He would not kick a woman out of her bedroom just because he had temporary command of this operation. As far as he was concerned, he was in command, but a guest on her ship.

  “I need to establish contact with the people hunting Swagart and Simpson.” he spoke to himself. I need to establish contact with Kate is what he really hoped. What a remarkable woman. Smart, successful, and damn attractive. She tried very hard to conceal her figure in lab coats and sweatshirts, but some things stick out, and just can’t be hidden for long. He looked forward to making additional first hand discoveries of this terrain in the future. How she had managed to keep a ring off her left hand with all that going for her was beyond his understanding. Well, time to make it happen. He reached for the phone, and dialed the communications deck.

  “This is Commander Phillips. Connect me with Tampa NCIS. Ring back when you have them on the line.”

  Overseas Highway US 1, Toll Booth on Long Key, Florida

  Sherrod hadn’t said a word in 50 miles, not even his usual bitching and moaning since they started the trip. The 115-mile long Overseas Highway connected the Florida Keys to the mainland, hopping from one key to the next, rising 30 feet above the ocean on concrete pillars. His silence suited Bobby Lee just fine. He chuckled again, recalling Sherrod standing in the empty bay of the speeding van trying to pee into the Big Slurp cup Bobby Lee brought along for that express purpose. When Bobby Lee needed to pee, he pulled over, stepped out of the van, and did his business on the guard rail. The cup was for Sherrod.

  Sherrod was unable to balance with a hand on the side wall inside the bumpy van. He needed both hands to do his business. One to hold the cup, and one to hold his little pony. Bobby Lee simply couldn’t resist as he watched Sherrod trying to keep his balance in the rear view mirror. He waited until Sherrod had filled the cup full, and was shaking his little rascal, when he jerked the wheel quickly to the right, swerving just enough for Sherrod to lose balance, and dump half a cup of piss down the front of his stinky coveralls, and all over the van floor.

  “One hand for the truck, and one hand for your business, Sher ol’ son! Ain’t that what them sailors say?”

  Sherrod sulked ever since. All he could think about was beating Bobby Lee’s head in with a ball bat. His daydream was interrupted as the van noticeably slowed. A toll booth was coming up. Traffic was sparse, but several cars waited in line to pay.

  “You best climb in back and cover yourself with that tarp. Two of us together is gonna’ look suspicious.” Bobby Lee ordered.

  “That tarp is covered in urine.”

  “So are you. Move!”

  Sherrod moved. He had indeed learned one thing in his brief and ugly relationship with Bobby Lee, do what he says if you want to remain healthy. Simon crawled in back, and covered himself with the disgusting tarp. It was their turn to pay, and the van inched forward.

  Bobby Lee carried some traveling money on him, about $5,000 in case he needed to grease some palms on the way to Cuba. Sherrod also carried traveling money in his suitcase, about $120,000. He was going to need to buy his way into Cuba upon landing. Bobby Lee had already shown Sherrod how to wire transfer his ill-gotten fortune to offshore banks. The trouble was, Bobby Lee was not about to part with his cash, and dummy Sherrod’s cash was all in crisp new $100 bills. Neither man carried credit cards or a driver’s license. Getting pulled over or stopped was going to be a problem.

  As they pulled forward, almost all cars used the Easy Pay Pass lane that scanned the vehicle window decal digitally, and debited their account. One lane on the far side was reserved for cash customers. There were always a few who resisted new technology, or didn’t have a bank account to debit. As they approached the attendant, the sign read, “Please use the smallest bills to pay. Attendant cannot make change for large bills.”

  Bobby Lee knew how to play the role of a stupid, swamp stomping cracker when he wanted authorities to dismiss him quickly. Now was a good time to do so.

  “How ya’ll doin’?” Bobby said as he handed over a crisp, new hundred-dollar bill from Sherrod’s stash. The damn fool wasn’t smart enough to withdraw used bills.

  “I can’t make change for that, mister. All the cash goes straight into a lock box through this slot. You have to pay with a smaller bill.” The toll booth attendant was obviously annoyed.

  “Ain’t got one. My pappy give me that an’ two others jus’ like it to pick up a barrel of varnish down’n Key West for our boat yard.”

  “Mister, the toll is $18.00. I can make change up to fifty dollars. Changing this bill requires thirty-two dollars I don’t have. You’ll need to pull over while I call my supervisor.”

  That was the last thing Bobby Lee wanted to do, with the Feds probably hot on their trail by now. He had to move.

  “Ya’ll jus’ keep the change.” Bobby Lee hit the gas.

  The booth attendant watched the rust bucket van pull quickly away trailing blue smoke. There was no law against overpaying your toll. But the attendant had lived in South Florida all his life, and had hundreds of encounters with swamp rats like this fool over the years. He once saw two swamp rats go at each other with knives over $2.00 in a card game. That boy in the van looked and spoke the part, and he sure as hell smelled the part. But driving off from $32 dollars, not a chance.

  He reached for his phone.

  Naval
Helicopter

  Over the Atlantic North of Long Key

  Chris and Beth spoke over their headsets. The rest of the passenger’s headsets were linked so they could talk amongst themselves. Helicopter props beating the air into submission raised a pretty loud racket. Jimmy, Kate, and Thuy passed the time talking. Rather, Jimmy did most of the talking, answering Kate’s questions. Thuy, smarter than all of them, just listened.

  “Jimmy, why do you hate politicians so much.” Kate asked.

  “My father. He chose a dark road.” Jimmy replied.

  “What do you mean? I thought he was a small time farmer dusting crops for extra cash.”

  “That’s how he started out. Pillar of the community, deacon of the church, a real holy roller, and family guy, everybody’s good neighbor, give you the shirt off his back. He found another way to make extra cash.”