Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “What happened?” Kate purred. She sure as hell wasn’t making it easy to carry on a conversation.

  “What you might expect. As soon as my betrothed got a whiff of marriage, the full court press was on for me to leave the service. She liked the uniform, but had no interest in a nomadic military lifestyle. Said I was too smart to waste my talents on Navy pay.”

  “Hmmmm. You do have exceptional talents.” Kate continued her ministrations.

  Whadaya’ say we skip the chit chat, and commence a boarding excercise.” Steve closed in to start the festivities, Kate rising to meet him. The phone on his desk rang urgently, a sure sign the mutual assault would be postponed to a later date.

  Marina, south of Downtown Key West

  Around 2:00AM, Sherrod and Bobby Lee walked Captain Ron down the pier in pouring rain and gusty winds towards the bench where Sherrod had laid in wait for a drunken boat owner the night before. Ron purposefully didn’t make it easy on them, dragging his feet, and burping into their faces every chance he could. His breath smelled like the entire Chinese Army had marched through his mouth, barefoot.

  “Good God! This jerk is rank!” Sherrod turned his head in disgust.

  “Just dump his ass on the bench, and let’s go. He’s far enough from the water not to drown, unless he passes out on his back with his mouth open. Then the rain will get him.” Bobby Lee was done with Ron. He made sure a copy of the bill of sale for the She Got the House was in a zip-lock bag in Ron’s pocket.

  They unceremoniously dumped Ron on the bench, and shoved him onto his side so he wouldn’t drown from the rain.

  “Should we cover him up?” Sherrod asked.

  “Hell no, he’s too pickled to catch hypothermia. Come on.” Booby Lee led the way back to the boat, double time.

  Ron waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps in the rainstorm, and sat up. Sherrod was just boarding his yacht, Bobby Lee cast off he mooring ropes, and pushed off the slip with a boat hook. They were running lights out. The bow of the boat moved away from the pier, and the engines rumbled to life. The boat was barely visible in the torrential rain.

  Ron stood, tipsy, but no longer wobbling. He watched his floating home put distance between itself and the pier, and move into the darkness. Turning, he spied the Harbormasters office not 200 feet from his position. It was closed, of course. But the exterior phone in a sheltered nook with a roof was monitored 24/7 in case a boat owner had an emergency. Ron started for the phone.

  Bobby Lee strained to see through the front window, wiper blades flashing, barely keeping up with the rain. The boat was large enough not to be effected by the strong wind gusts, but wind driven seas would be another matter once they cleared the break water. His only point of reference to steer was the luminescent white caps of the high sea waves. That’s where the mouth of the sheltered harbor was located. That was his aiming point. He maintained enough speed to hit the first waves head on, not sideways to minimize the boats roll. Once clear, he would adjust speed to maintain headway into the winds, waves, and rain. Their ride would be up and down, as the bow rose, then crashed down after each wave. Rolling side to side bled off speed and rudder control, and would make everyone seasick very quickly.

  “Sherrod, grab your nuts, and secure your butt! This rodeo is getting’ started.” Bobby Lee commanded with a maniacal laugh like a bull rider. Sherrod took a seat in a captain’s chair next to a standing Bobby Lee at the helm, and fastened his seat belt. He randomly thought of his college history class, decades ago. British cannonade teams had a prayer they said after they fired their first shot at Napoleon’s guns, revealing their exact position to the enemy. Napoleon’s expert cannon batteries were about to return fire, which was deadly accurate most of the time. “For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful.” Stupid, but the storm roared like cannons, and the rain hammered the yacht like canister shot. Sherrod felt under attack.

  The yacht cleared the breakwater, and was exposed to the raging sea for the first time. The first wave hit the bow, raising it ten feet, passed beneath, allowing the bow to slam back down in a trough. No sooner had the yacht regained some semblance of level, then the next wave caused the same. It was like riding a slow motion Brahma bull, up, then crashing down. Repeat, and repeat again. In between the mountains and valleys of water, Bobby Lee turned on the cabin lights, and bow spotlight. The bow light gave a brief warning of the next crashing wave, and allowed him to steer into the waves rolling in from the south southwest. Their course and heading was determined by the wind and sea until they cleared the storm. They could take a bearing and adjust their heading once clear. If they got clear.

  The first hour was agony. Bobby Lee grappled the wheel like a Sumo wrestler trying to throw his opponent. Sherrod clung to his seat, eyes clamped tightly shut, causing him to become horribly sea sick. His vomit covered his shirt, and the deck immediately below his perch. Climb, then fall, roll and pitch, correct heading into the waves. On and on. It was war. Man and yacht against the sea, and the yacht appeared to be holding her own, if not winning.

  Bobby Lee was elated. “Sherrod, you little piss ant! Look at us! Look-at-us! We’re winning! We’re kicking Mother Nature’s ass! Ha Ha! Look at the radar! Look at it! This shit storm is coming at us at twelve knots, and we’re charging it at twelve knots. Another forty minutes, and we’re clear. You understand me? We’re almost clear!” Bobby Lee could not contain his elation at having faced and overcome the worst Nature could throw at him. It was a primal roar, a prehistoric challenge to the beasts lurking just outside the firelight.

  Sherrod moaned from his seat, strapped in, head and upper body swinging randomly with each pitch of the boat, fingers and knuckles white from gripping the arm rests, vomit clinging to his chin and down his shirt front. If this was victory, he wanted no part of it. Just let it end.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Abandoned house off I-77, Southwest Texas

  Hector spied the rabbit, tangled in the brush. He approached, gently captured the animal, and carefully removed the cordage attached to the rabbit’s leg.

  “I need my flashlight back, little brother. Thank you for helping me. I could not be in two places at once.” He gently placed the frightened rabbit on the ground, and released it. It quickly disappeared into the brush. He walked back to his dangling prize. Miguel swung by one leg in the morning breeze, still unconscious from the whack to the side of his head Hector administered with a broken axe handle he found in the barn.

  “Are you embarrassed, compadre? Your face is very red.” He asked, but Miguel did not answer.

  “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back.” Hector rose from his crouch, and padded into the trees to the east. He moved carefully, his bare feet feeling the soil and leaf litter, avoiding the sharp stones and thorns. It was a careful pace, but a steady pace. His eyes scanned the ground for sign, and were lifted every few paces to scan the trees and rocks for movement. The sun was rising, burning off the morning chill. Dew on the plants was not an issue, the air was too dry. He could find moisture for his lips in yucca, or prickly pear, but he sought something more substantial. He spied a small round stone, bent to retrieve it, and wiped the dust from the surface before popping it into his mouth. Sucking the stone wedged in his cheek would activate saliva. Saliva would moisten his mouth, and assuage his thirst temporarily. He moved on, slowly, steadily, searching for animal sign.

  He topped a small rise with thinning trees, crouched to approach the crest, then crawled silently to peer down the other side. A hunter never reveals his presence when cresting a hill until he knows what’s on the other side. Silhouetting yourself against the sky on a ridgeline revealed your presence for miles in all directions. This was the third hill he had carefully crested and scouted.

  The animal he sought had bifocal vision. Nature had designed different eye placement on predators than she did on prey animals. Prey animal’s eyes were on each side of their head, allowing up to 270 degrees of peripheral vision. So mu
ch better to spot the movement of predators closing in. Deer, rabbit, antelope, songbirds, even bison, horses and cattle had prey eyes. Predators had eyes set in front of their heads, so had limited peripheral vision. Compensation for limited peripheral awareness came from the bifocal effect. Two eyes, trained on the same object allowed depth perception. The ability to judge the distance to your prey often determined the success of a quick charge, dive or sprint. Too far away, and the prey can escape. Eagles, falcons, owls, wolves, lion, bear, coyote, and men have predator eyes. Hector’s prey this day was not prey at all.

  At the bottom of the hill Hector spied what he searched for. A seep from the lower sides of the arroyo. Water. Water attracts prey to drink. Prey attract predators. But it wasn’t just the water he sought. He looked for sign of the most destructive, and dangerous predator in North America, and he found it, forty yards downhill from the seep. This is where the animal he sought returned every evening before dark. He back crawled from the crest until he could stand unseen, and turned back to the farmhouse to prepare.

  Naval Air Station Key West, Florida

  “Copy that. I want the Bayboro team with NCIS personnel in the mess hall in ten. I want an inventory of all floating and flying assets available to meet me. See to it.” Steve, now an Admiral on duty once again, hung up the phone.

  “What’s happening?” Kate propped herself on one elbow in his bed, a breast tantalizingly popping into view.

  “Swagart and Simpson. They stole a yacht and slipped it out of South Shores Marina under our noses. They have a forty-minute lead on us. Time to catch some bad guys.” Steve responded, already reaching for his pants. Kate was on her feet, dashing past Steve in a flash to use the bathroom.

  “How do you gals do that? Just running through a room, buck assed nekid’ with no thought of modesty?” He called after her.

  “Trying to get you to chase me.” Kate called from the bathroom. “Did it work?” Kate called.

  Steve dropped his chin, looked down at his equipment, and chuckled quietly.” Yes. Yes it did.” He whispered to himself.

  The Admiral and Kate quick walked in lockstep into the mess hall without breaking stride. NCIS Agents Beth and Chris were gathered with Jimmy, and Thuy waiting for them.

  “With me, people.” The Admiral called the troop to follow. Kate almost had to jog to keep pace with him. Jimmy smirked and started to say something, when Thuy elbowed him hard in the ribs, causing him to double over, his words lost in expelling air. Beth grabbed Jimmy’s collar, and jerked him along. “Move your ass, Falcone.” She launched Jimmy in front of her. Agent Chris fell in beside her.

  “Anything I should know, Beth?”

  “Not if you want to retain a promising career in NCIS.” Beth replied. End of conversation.

  The Admiral led the group to the base communications center. The officer on duty snapped to attention upon his entry. “Officer on deck!” she announced. The half dozen com techs present jumped to their feet, and stood at attention.

  “As you were, ladies and gentlemen.” Steve turned to the duty officer. “Report, please.”

  Ensign Samantha Carson brought up her clipboard. “Yes sir. At O-one fifty we received a call from the Harbormaster night crew at South Shores Marina. A boat owner reported he was held at gunpoint on his yacht, the She Got the House by two individuals he recognized as Bobby Lee Swagart, and Sherrod Simpson. They forced him to refuel, and sign a bill of sale for his boat. They then held him captive below decks until one hundred hours, escorted him off the boat, and slipped their mooring out of the bay. They did not give him the $100,000 payment as detailed on the bill of sale. He reported they are heading to Cuba, and intend to use the storm as cover, sir!”

  “Nicely reported, Ensign Carson. Short, factual, and to the point, just the way I like it. Do you have the inventory of assets as I requested?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” Samantha, recently promoted from the ranks to ensign soaked up the Admiral’s subdued praise like a sponge. She handed over the printout, maintained a professional military expression, and ramrod straight posture.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise.” The Admiral commented. “When did the Bertholf arrive?”

  “Last night, sir. When the Secretary heard you were coming to Key West, and the weather reports, he ordered the Berholf here, sir.” Samantha replied.

  “Somebody is thinking ahead. Looks like we’ll be riding in comfort on this fox hunt.” Steve remarked. “Where is she now, Ms. Carson?”

  “Here sir, just off the jetty. I’ve sent for a covered launch, to transport you and your team to the Berthholf. It is awaiting you now at the jetty.

  Steve looked the ensign up and down with a raised eyebrow, turned to his team, and said, “Let’s go hunting.” He headed for the door, and remarked over his shoulder. “You seem to have read my mind, Ensign Carson.” He stopped and turned to face her. “Well done.” Samantha beamed. Praise from Admiral Phillips, hero of Gulf Storm was better than winning the lottery.

  “Good hunting, Admiral.” Sam wished she could live this moment for the rest of her career.

  Down the hall, the Bayboro team followed Steve. A seaman in Navy blue camo led them towards the jetty. All were donning rain gear for the trip across the field to the jetty and waiting launch. Kate walked with Steve, the rest of the team giving them space. Their secret was widely known from their simple body language, and also highly approved in the ranks.

  “I think you have another fan in Ensign Carson, Admiral.” Kate whispered. “She’s very pretty. I think she’s a bit star struck.”

  “Work, work, work.” Steve responded. “Will it ever end?” He glanced at Kate. “Ensign Carson is a junior officer, and seems to be off to a very good start in her career. That’s worth cultivating. Take care of your people, and the mission accomplishes itself.”

  Cuban Straights, Gulf of Mexico

  Bobby Lee felt something was wrong. The winds had abated significantly, though it still rained hard. Waves were still an issue, but were long rollers, not the wind driven white caps that crashed against the bow. Instead of steering straight into the oncoming seas, the rollers allowed him to correct their course back towards central Cuba. Havana lay almost directly due south, ninety miles from Key West. They had pushed through the storm, but had traveled much farther west in their effort to take on the high seas head on. The course change was how he noticed the yacht wallowing, and an unresponsive tiller.

  “Sherry, wipe that shit off your face, get over here and take the wheel.” Bobby Lee ordered.

  “Wha..what. I’m going to be sick. I don’t think I can stand.” Sherrod still looked green.

  “You’re gonna’ be dead soon if you don’t get your ass in gear. Now move it!” Bobby’s fear was evident in his voice. “I think we’re taking on water.”

  This revelation sparked Sherrod out of his funk. He quickly detached the captain’s chair seat belt, and tried to stand. The combination of hours of sitting, combined with severe sea sickness and a rolling deck sent him flying across the bridge. As the yacht crested the roller and lurched the other way, he slid on his rear across the vomit slicked floor, crashing into Bobby Lee’s legs. A powerful hand grabbed his collar, and jerked him to his feet like a rag doll.

  “Take the wheel. Both hands, dipshit!” Sherrod was shoved against the wheel, grabbing it, more to balance himself against the rolling sea, than to steer.

  “See this instrument?” Bobby Lee pointed to the dash. “Keep that needle between two and three o’clock. You know how to read a clock, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Sherrod responded meekly. ”Are we going to sink?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out. Two, and three o’clock. Got it?” Bobby Lee waited just long enough for Sherrod to nod yes, then headed for the stairs leading to below deck. The lights from the bridge cast enough to see the top several steps leading to the salon, but no further.

  Bumping from wall to wall with the roll of the boat, Bobby Lee started below. At t
he fifth step, his foot felt water up to his ankle. The next step, the water climbed his leg up to his knee, and the final step, water rose to his thigh. He felt along the wall for the light switch.

  What greeted him was every blue water sailor’s nightmare. The salon was awash with thirty inches of seawater. As the boat rolled with the waves, the water rushed to one side to a depth of almost five feet, carrying the divan and bar stools with it. Half empty liquor bottles from the bar bobbed everywhere. He smelled smoke. The engine compartment was surely under water, and managed to keep going only because the roll lowered the water level enough for air to suck into the carburetor from the intake to fire the piston’s a few more times, before the intake was submerged again on the back roll. That wasn’t going to last long. He spun, and pushed through the water headed back up the stairs.

  Bobby Lee burst onto the bridge, headed for the dashboard GPS. He would have instruments only until the engine died, maybe a little longer from the batteries, until they short circuited. He frantically keyed the instrument.