Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “I must stay off the main roads.” He thought. “They will look for me there.” The star light was enough to see the dirt road, but little else that lay beyond its edges. A coyote howled in the distance, casting an eerie pall over the land he couldn’t see, and sending a chill up his spine. He turned left, and started northwest.

  It was almost completely dark. Hector stood at the mouth of the tractor path in the vain hope he would glimpse Miguel, but knew he was long gone. He stretched from side to side. His wound was painful, but manageable. Alejandro’s removal of the bullet was crude, but effective. The antibiotic powder and trauma bandage sealed the hole.

  He looked down on Luis body, a promising soldier with a dark obsession. He kneeled, and searched his pockets for evidence and clues. Not that he needed evidence. He had been the judge, jury, and executioner. A lighter, a pack of American cigarettes, a folded roll of money. Thumbing through, it must be several thousand dollars. Pocket money for Luis. He placed it in his vest pocket. Carlos and Guillermo both had families, and could use the money. In his opposite pant pocket, he felt something metallic, and pulled it free. Car keys.

  He stood and examined the keys. There were no vehicles in sight, other than the wrecked ambulance. Alejandro joined him, after securing Carlos and Guillermo’s bodies under ponchos 30 yards from the barn.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Hector started to reply, when the sound came to him from the direction of the tractor path. The unmistakable sound of a car door slamming closed in the distance. He turned swiftly towards the path, the keys still in his hand. Miguel is on foot. Luis had the keys. He spun back to Alejandro.

  “Come with me, weapon’s ready.” Hector grabbed his rifle and jogged towards the path, Alejandro in close pursuit. It was almost pitch black on the path, but they did not slow. Hector flipped on a hand held flashlight, it’s beam bouncing up the trail in cadence with his steps. They could make out a lighter night sky ahead, the end of the trail.

  “Sergeant?” Alejandro was concerned with the lack of noise and light discipline as they pounded up the path. Anyone ahead could easily ambush them.

  “I’m driving him off, Miho. We need the vehicle. I will catch up to him soon enough.” Hector pounded on. Soon, the flashlight beam reflected off the glass windshield of a canvass backed truck. They slowed, then stopped at the truck.

  Hector pounded the hood of the truck, three times flat handed, and thought: “Run rabbit, run.” The noise would carry far. A shot rang in the near distance. Alejandro was baffled by his Sergeants odd behavior in the face of an armed enemy. Hector stopped and listened, Nothing. He turned to the remaining member of his squad.

  “Alejandro, here are your orders. Take this truck back to the barn. Here are the keys. Load our fallen comrades into the bed, as well as all weapons. Leave the cabron Luis as food for coyotes. Buzzards and worms need to eat. Set fire to the barn, destroy all the drugs.” Alejandro nodded his understanding.

  “Now Miho, this is the hard part. Can I count on you to follow my orders?”

  “Always, my Sergeant.” Young Alejandro stiffened his back, and set his jaw.

  “I want you to drive the truck cross country back into Mexico. Take my men home to their families.” Hector reached into his vest. “Here is Luis’ pocket money, Divide it between Carlos and Guillermo’s families. Keep nothing for yourself. You must flee this country before you are discovered. Do you understand?”

  “I cannot leave you Sergeant. Miguel Suarez is waiting for you. I can help.” Alejandro protested.

  “You may help me best by saving yourself from a long prison term, destroying Miguel’s drugs, and returning our fallen to their families. We have illegally invaded a sovereign nation, and fought a pitched battle. Our second today. We have stolen American weapons. I forced an American pilot to land on the highway by holding a weapon to his head. Do as I ask, Miho. Drive to the border carefully. Avoid arroyos. Use your headlights. The country is empty now. Tomorrow it will not be empty, and we will have much to explain. Do you remember your training? How to use your bayonet and sheath to make wire cutter’s?”

  “Si.” Alejandro’s heart ached, but he must not disappoint his Sergeant. He dropped his eyes so his Sergeant could not see his tears. He need not have worried. It was too dark.

  “Good. Now go.” He placed his hand on the young soldier’s shoulder. “Report to your unit when your mission is complete. Tell the major everything we have done. Everything I ORDERED you and your comrades to do. Hold back nothing.” Alejandro raised his eyes to his Sergeant. Hector spoke to him like a father. He handed Alejandro his rifle and magazines from his vest.

  “We will meet again, in this life, or the next. Vaya con Dios, Corporal Dias.”

  Dirt Road, North of I-77, South Texas

  Miguel panicked for the second time today. Moments after slamming the truck door in frustration, he heard pounding footsteps. He turned in circles to detect the direction in the darkness of night. Then bouncing flashlight beams from the tractor path caught his attention. Soldiers! He sprinted 20 yards up the path to the dirt road, angling right with the tractor tracks. He realized he was going the wrong direction, dug in his boots which skidded, almost falling onto his tailbone. His rolled his body, left hand reaching for the dirt as he reversed course and ran the opposite direction His fancy silver toed boots digging for traction. He pounded down the dirt road as fast as he could run, Glock in his right hand as he pumped his arms. He gripped the Glock tighter, as he clenched his fists to run faster. BANG. The weapon discharged. His finger was on the trigger.

  “Oh God, what have I done?” Strange, a Godless murderer, purveyor of liquid death now pleaded to the Heavenly Father for salvation. He ran, and ran, and ran. His vices now betrayed him. His affection for tobacco, women and a soft life stole his ability to put distance between himself and his pursuers.

  Within 300 yards, Miguel gasped for air, staggering on, compelled by fear. His legs were rubber. Stars flashed like strobes in his vision. He finally fell to his knees a mere 350 yards from the tractor path. A fit soldier could cover that distance fast walking in minutes.

  “I must find a place to hide.” He gasped. Miguel looked around. The half-moon had risen above the hills, providing more light. He could see nothing on his knees. The tall grass was eye level. He dragged himself to his feet, and shuffled in a circle. The dirt road behind him was deserted, but for how long? He shuffled to face north. There. Half a kilometer away, the roofline of a house and barn, darker than the brighter night sky. He stumbled into the grass towards safety.

  Hector watched young Alejandro drive slowly back towards the barn along the tractor path. The headlights faced away, the truck in darkness silhouetted by the light cast to either side onto the trees. Soon, it was gone altogether. He is young, but smart. He will make an excellent Corporal. Maybe a Sergeant someday.

  He walked quietly up the path towards the dirt road, pausing as the trees opened up. He watched and listened for many moments. He removed his helmet, and dropped it and his radio in the brush. The night air felt cool on his scalp. He removed his combat vest, taking one 15 round magazine for his pistol. The rest he chucked into the brush. He opened the front of his shirt to the night air, and tore off the sleeves at each shoulder. Next, he sat in the grass beside the road, and removed his boots, and socks, tossing them to join the rest of his equipment. He pulled a bandana from his pant pocket and tied it around his forehead, then stood, and walked onto the dirt road, careful to stick to the edges. The dirt felt cool on his bare feet, like the days of his youth in the high desert and mountains. Tonight, he was Yaqui.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Marina’s, south of Downtown Key West

  Bobby Lee made it to Joe’s Bar overlooking the Sea Breeze Marina. The sandwich board sign on the sidewalk proclaimed their brand promise. “Warm beer and lousy food since 1983.” It was mid-morning, overcast, with a sharp wind out of the south, and already the bar had customers. Welcome to Key We
st. Not bothering to enter, he called Sherrod.

  “Sherrod, I’m here.”

  “Excellent decision, Bobby Lee. You won’t be disappointed. The accommodations for today’s cruise are truly outstanding.”

  “Cut the crap. What’s the dock and slip number?” Sherrod told him, and he ended the call. A coast Guard helicopter buzzed low overhead, apparently checking all the marinas in the bay. Not good. Time was running out. He descended the steps towards the water, passing a bench, and headed out the wooden walkway where the big boats were moored. He found the correct slip, and examined Sherrod’s ride to freedom.

  “She got the House. Ha.” Bobby Lee’s assessment of the boat owner based on the boat’s name was pretty low. “That’s because you were too stupid to move your assets out of her reach.” He climbed the ladder and boarded. Sherrod met him at the door to the helm, as the helicopter buzzed the bay a second time.

  “Get in here, quick! They followed you, asshole! You brought them right to us!” Sherrod was livid. ”Did you know there’s a million dollar reward for anyone who provides information leading to our capture?”

  “Try not to piddle your pants, puppy, or I’ll turn you in myself. They’re buzzing all the marinas. We just sit tight until the weather turns ugly after dark, then slip out.” Bobby Lee responded. “That’ll ground the choppers and any patrol boats outside the bay.”

  He walked to the captain’s chair, sat, and turned the keys to start the engine. The boat rumbled to life. Bobby Lee checked the fuel gauge. Less than a quarter full.

  “Sherrod, how long you been on this boat?”

  “Since yesterday. Why?”

  “You figure it might have been a good idea to check the fuel gauge to see if we even had enough gas to make it to Cuba, or were you going to paddle the last fifty miles?” He turned and froze Sherrod with an icy stare.

  “Oh. Didn’t think to do that. I’m not a boating person.”

  “No shit.” The disgust in Bobby Lee’s voice said it all. “Okay, we need to fuel up. If we move the boat out of her slip to gas up, we’ll attract attention from the Coast Guard overhead. So, well call the harbormaster, and have fuel delivered to us. These uber-boat owners are lazier than fat dogs, and order fuel all the time. Who owns this boat, anyway? What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know his name. We can ask him. He’s down below.” Sherrod explained.

  “What?! Are you fucking kidding me?” Bobby Lee sprang to his feet, and charged below deck, Sherrod on his heels.

  The unhappy and now sober boat owner sat duck taped to a stuffed chair. His arms, feet and mouth were likewise secured with duct tape. Bobby Lee took one look at the boat owner’s predicament, and whirled to face Sherrod.

  “So, you were going to let us sail to Cuba with empty fuel tanks, and a kidnapped boat owner of a pirated vessel below deck. Am I following your plan correctly, jackass? It’s one thing to bribe Cuban officials to turn a blind eye to some Yankee white collar criminals. It’s another thing entirely to expect them to participate in kidnapping and international piracy! Jesus, Sherrod! What did you plan to do with him once we got there?”

  “I thought we could drop him off somewhere on the way.”

  “Drop him off somewhere? Like where? This is Key West, dildo. The only thing between here and Cuba is open ocean. You plan to dump him overboard?” Bobby Lee could not believe this stupidity.

  The boat owner listened to the exchange with bulging eyes, as he learned Sherrod’s plan for the first time. He bounced on the chair cushion and mumbled through his duct tape gag as best he could, desperate to get his captors to let him speak.

  “Looks like he wants to say something, Sher. Might as well let him. Take the tape off his mouth.” Bobby Lee sat on the couch opposite the boat owner. He drew the handgun he had liberated from the police officer near the toll booth. That seemed like eons ago, but was only yesterday.

  Sherrod looked at the prisoner, then back to Bobby Lee in indecision. No choice, I guess. He approached the prisoner, and tried to gently peel the duct tape from his face.

  “Just rip it off, douche bag!” Bobby Lee commanded.

  Sherrod hesitated, then ripped the duct tape off. The owner gasped for air, and panted. Breathing through your nose for twelve hours is not pleasant. He started to plead for his life, but was interrupted.

  “What’s your name, pal?” Bobby asked.

  “Ron, Ronald Duquesne.”

  “Captain Ron. Just like the Kurt Russel movie. Perfect.” There was nothing funny about Bobby Lee’s joke. “Well Captain Ron, we need to get to Cuba on your boat. I assume you don’t really want to come with us. That about right?”

  “No, I don’t want to go to Cuba. Are you going to kill me?”

  “Not unless you want us to.” Bobby Lee replied. ”But, we do need your boat, and a full tank of gas. I assume you’ve ordered a fill-up from the harbormaster before? Guys like you always do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent, we’ll start there. Please excuse my idiot friend for your rough treatment. He doesn’t always think things through. You up for a business transaction?” Bobby Lee asked.

  “What kind of transaction?”

  “Sher, go fetch that suitcase of yours, and find something to write with, and some paper. Captain Ron is going to sell us his boat for $100,000, complete with a signed bill of sale. I see you have a printer on that desk over yonder, Ron. I’ll need to make a copy of your driver’s license to attach to the documents. Nice and legal-like.”

  “My boat is worth three times that!” Ron protested.

  “Well, that’s probably true enough, son. Would you rather go to Cuba?” Bobby Lee paused. Ron made no response.

  “Didn’t think so. Captain Ronnie, let’s get you un-trussed and go make us a house call for a fill-up. Then, we can all have a drink.”

  Coast Guard Helicopter

  over Key West, Florida

  Col. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain remarked during the three-day Battle of Gettysburg, “There is nothing so much like a god on earth than a general on a battlefield.”

  Like a general, being an Admiral had some very distinct advantages. Like the resources of the entire United States Navy and Coast Guard at your beck and call, with the Naval Secretary’s full backing. Steve Phillips was used to command at his previous rank, but an Admiral was a whole new level. When an Admiral said “jump”, people started jumping. Their only question was, “How high, sir?”

  Phillips, Kate, Jimmy and Thuy could communicate with each other through their headsets, as the Coast Guard chopper buzzed the marinas south of town. There was no way to locate Simpson and Swagart from a fast moving helicopter 200 feet in the air. The idea was to make them nervous, and keep their heads down until the ground forces descended on the marinas.

  There were hundreds of large yachts and assorted boats, each capable of the run to Cuba. Shore side, several hundred Navy, Coast Guard, and local police were organizing to spread out to every marina, and question the boat owners. Each man would carry color pictures of the two fugitives. Copies were being printed this very moment. Steve would have preferred boarding each vessel to search, but was assured by Key West’s Police Chief no judge would issue a blanket warrant to search hundreds of private boats without a declaration of Martial Law. That wasn’t going to happen. Under the current statutes, a boat was equal to a private dwelling.

  “Admiral, what’s to prevent any boat from just sailing out of the bay before we have a chance to search them?” Jimmy asked over the comm.

  “Not a daggone thing, Mr. Falcone.” Steve replied. “Except common sense. There’s a hellava storm coming. Seas estimated at six feet, or higher. All that activity down there are boaters battening down the hatches. No one in their right mind would venture out into seas like that, not when they can remain snug at their berths in a protected harbor. And neither can we in this bird. When the storm hits, we lose our eyes in the sky.”

  “What about the larger search and rescue chop
pers, Admiral? They could fly in bad weather, couldn’t they?” Kate asked.

  “Yes ma’am, they can. They burn a lot of fuel. We have one standing by if and when we have to set this little bird down.” Steve answered. “For now, we continue to buzz the boats until the shore personnel deploy.”

  The thunderheads continued to build in the southwest, as white capped waves formed just outside the breakwater. This storm was going to be one to remember.

  Dirt Road, Along I-77, Southwest Texas

  Hector shielded his flashlight with his left hand, holding it low to the ground with his right as he knelt. The sideways light beam vividly lit the contours and ridges in the dirt, particularly Miguel’s boot prints, skidding stop, and reverse course to move north west. There was a perfect hand print where he stopped his fall.