Devil's Harbor

by Alex Gilly

  “Their patrol zone extends to about here,” he said, pointing at an area twenty miles east of their position. “If they get to the end and turn back, they’re on routine patrol. If they cross it, then it means they’ve spotted us and want to know who we are.”

  He saw Linda bite her lower lip, her face lit by the display’s glow. Finn rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, then looked at the screen again. The Pacific Belle was about twenty miles off the southern tip of San Clemente, an island the navy used as a ship-to-shore firing range. The waters around San Clemente were a no-go zone. The course they’d plotted to Two Harbors took them up San Clemente’s eastern side, clear of the island. But if they stuck close to its western shore, he realized, its mass would block them from the Interceptor’s radar.

  “Set a new course,” he said, pointing at the ocean side of San Clemente.

  “We’ll be in the no-go zone,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  “The navy won’t like it,” she said.

  “We’ve just come through a goddamn hurricane. If anyone asks questions, we say it blew us off course.”

  Linda nodded. One thing about Linda, he didn’t have to explain things twice. She adjusted their course and pushed down the throttle. The engine’s rumble, so ubiquitous that Finn’s ears had tuned it out, increased in pitch, and the Belle picked up a knot and hit her top speed of fourteen, bashing awkwardly through the waves.

  Now all they could do was wait until they reached the island. Finn lay back down on the bench.

  * * *

  He woke of his own accord. Or rather, in his sleep, he noted the change in the boat’s rhythm, and woke to check it out. He got to his feet and looked at the display. They were running north half a mile off the western shore of San Clemente. The island was refracting the swell, changing its direction, which was why Finn had noticed the change in the roll of the hull.

  He peered into the darkness to starboard and just made out the lights of a radio tower high on the island. He checked that the VHF was on channel 16. The navy would want to talk to them; it was important that they could.

  “What happened with the Interceptor?” he asked.

  “We got around the point before they got to the end of their sector, so I didn’t get to see.”

  He nodded.

  A voice crackled through the VHF: “Unidentified vessel, unidentified vessel, this is U.S. Navy calling, identify yourself, over.”

  Finn turned up the volume and picked up the transmitter. “U.S. Navy, U.S. Navy, this is fishing vessel High Hope, over.”

  “High Hope, High Hope, you are in a restricted zone, repeat, restricted zone.”

  “U.S. Navy, acknowledge we are in a restricted zone. We were blown off course by the storm; we have an injured crew and are returning to home port of San Pedro, over.”

  A moment passed. Finn held his breath.

  “High Hope, do you require assistance, over.”

  Finn laughed and said, “U.S. Navy, no, thank you.”

  “High Hope, try to exit the restricted zone as soon as possible, over.”

  “U.S. Navy, wilco, over and out.”

  * * *

  By ten, they had cleared the northern point of San Clemente. They were on schedule to make their midnight rendezvous with Cutts at Two Harbors.

  Finn went out on deck. They were well out of the storm now and for the first time in two days Finn could see stars and the waning moon. He went below and found Navidad sitting up in a bunk.

  “You all right, kid?” said Finn.

  She looked at him without reacting. Fucking Linda, with her big heart, he thought. What if Cutts double-crossed them and killed them both? What would happen to Navidad then? He smiled at the child, and she smiled back. At least that didn’t need translation, he thought.

  He went into the galley, opened two fifteen-ounce cans of chili, and heated the contents in a pot on the stove. He filled a bowl and devoured it with six slices of bread. He’d had no idea how hungry he was until he started eating. He grabbed a can of Coke and took it with him back up to the wheelhouse.

  Linda was at the helm. Finn checked the screen: they were halfway across the stretch of water between San Clemente and Santa Catalina. There was a lot of chatter on the radio—more than there should have been at this time of night. Finn turned up the volume. They were talking about a suspicious boat. He leaned forward and listened carefully until there was no doubt.

  “They’re looking for us,” he said.

  “What’s this Bertholf they keep talking about?” Linda asked.

  “The Bertholf is a big coast guard cutter, four hundred twenty feet long with a 57-mm gun on her foredeck. A warship, basically.”

  Linda looked at the radar screen. “Where is she? I don’t see her.”

  She sounded surprisingly calm. Finn wasn’t. While the Belle could never outrun an Interceptor, she could certainly outrange one—Interceptors burned fuel like they owned their own oil fields. But the Bertholf was another matter; the cutter could travel at twice the Belle’s top speed and, compared to the Belle, her range was limitless. If the Bertholf started after them, they would never make it to their rendezvous.

  He pointed at San Clemente. “She must be in the lee of the island. We won’t see her…”

  “Till she comes out of the radar shadow. Okay.”

  Linda pulled back the throttle, taking all the way off the boat. “Let’s go fishing,” she said.

  Finn had no idea what she was talking about. “Linda, if she finds us, that’s it. We can’t outrun her. We’ll never make it to Two Harbors, not unless we make ourselves invisible.”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  Finn followed her out onto the deck. Linda switched on the high-intensity lamp on top of the mast, flooding the deck with white light. She opened the fish-hold hatch and told Finn to steer the gantry crane over the hold. Once the crane was in place, Linda grabbed the hook and told him to lower the block into the hold. She climbed in with it.

  “All right, bring it up,” she shouted from below. He hit the rubber-encased Lift button and watched the roll of black neoprene he’d found when he’d searched the Belle rise out of the hold. Linda climbed out and wrangled it over the edge of the fish-hold cover.

  “What is it?” he said.

  She grinned. “An invisibility cloak.”

  “What?”

  “See those diamond-shaped tiles? They’re carbon black. The same stuff the air force covers their Stealth fighters with. We set it just like a seine, except out of the water instead of in it.” Linda was obviously enjoying Finn’s amazement. “You’ll see. Bring it over to starboard,” she said.

  Finn maneuvered the boom over, following Linda’s hand gestures, until the roll was hanging over the starboard rail. She signaled for him to hold it there, then ran a line through a series of eyelets along the bottom edge of the material and back through a block at the stern before tying it off. Finn looked on in astonishment. Linda took the crane’s control unit from him and expertly hoisted the pole until it was level, then swung it aft. Like a bullfighter’s cape billowing out in slow motion, the black material swathed the Belle’s superstructure and hull down to about four feet off the water, all the way around her stern from one bow to the other.

  Linda switched off the masthead light and made the Belle dark again. Finn followed her back into the wheelhouse. He looked at the speedometer. They were doing just three knots. Linda explained that they had to go this slowly on account of the sea jumping up and tugging at the Belle’s skirt. Any faster and the sea could yank it off.

  “But it makes our radar profile so faint, no one notices us. Like we’re hidden behind a mask.”

  Finn could only shake his head in wonder. He looked through the forward window. The skirt blocked their lateral and rear views of the water, but they could still see the narrow track directly ahead of them through the gap between where the skirt began and ended at the bow.

  “Where’d yo
u get it?” he said.

  “It used to belong to the navy,” she said. “Cutts got hold of it, he says from a materiel guy down in San Diego. Calls it his ‘modesty skirt.’”

  Finn had to admit, he was impressed. When he looked at the radar screen, however, he knew that the biggest test of the “modesty skirt” was quickly closing in on them. Linda had made it clear that she’d never encountered the Bertholf before. The cutter was the coast guard’s newest flagship. Finn knew from talk around the Air and Marine Station that she was equipped with all the latest technology. She had emerged from the lee of the island and was bearing down on them from their stern quarter. Linda had turned off all the navigation and interior lights. The only light in the wheelhouse now came from the navigation-system screen. Finn and Linda stood side by side, watching the green dot get closer. Compared to the Belle, the Bertholf was racing across the sea, even though she was ten times the Belle’s size. In no time, she was within a half mile. Had it been daylight, they would’ve been able to read each other’s numbers. Linda dimmed the screens and killed the engine. Its steady throb disappeared and gave way to the sound of the sea slapping at the Belle’s hull. Finn stood next to Linda in the dark, listening. She reached for his hand. They drifted together. For two long minutes, all he heard was the sound of his own breath. Then there was the slow crashing of the Bertholf’s huge bow heaving down on the sea, shouldering it aside. Finn held his breath, as if that were enough to give them away. The four-hundred-foot cutter couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred feet away. And it was getting closer.

  Another minute passed. Linda’s hand became clammy. He couldn’t hear her breathing, and figured she was holding her breath also.

  Finally, he heard the regular sound of a ship’s twin screws turning. If they could hear the screws, they were behind the boat; the Bertholf had passed by the Pacific Belle. He whistled. The coast guard’s newest, first-in-class cutter had passed within maybe a hundred feet and hadn’t looked twice. He thought about Diego, about what he’d have to say about that. He let go of Linda’s hand.

  “So you’re the phantom.”

  “What?”

  Finn rubbed his chin. “That night. Diego and I were looking for a phantom.”

  After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  Finn was struck; she’d never used his first name before.

  She stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry for Diego. For everything. I’m sorry for the whole nightmare.” She put her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry, too. But it’s almost over,” he said.

  She rested her cheek on his chest. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  By eleven thirty, when they were within sighting distance of Catalina, Finn and Linda brought in the radar-absorbing skirt. It had done its job getting them past the Bertholf. Now it was just slowing them down.

  Finn couldn’t see the shore in the dark, but he sensed it from the way the sea behaved differently, and anyway it was right there on the radar screen, a sharp green line against the inky background. He brought the Belle in as close to the invisible white cliffs as he dared. It was dangerous, but being spotted by an Interceptor would be worse, he figured. He would use the cliffs for cover.

  Two Harbors is just that: an isthmus a few hundred feet across, with harbors on either side. At eleven fifty, Finn and Linda reached the headlands guarding the bay on the southern side. They anchored just outside, in about forty feet of water, in the lee of a promontory called Lobster Point.

  Linda went below to check on Navidad and to tell her that under no circumstances was she to leave the cabin. While she was gone, Finn took the AR-15 from the locker, loaded it with a fresh clip, went out on deck, and tucked it beneath the edge of the fish hold. He wanted it somewhere he could get to easily, in case things went wrong during the handover. He had the handgun he’d taken from the cop in Escondido tucked into the back of his trousers. Cutts had Lucy, which meant he was calling the shots. Finn wouldn’t make a move against Cutts until he was sure the girl—both girls—were safe.

  Still, he’d be damned if he was going into this thing with nothing up his sleeve.

  * * *

  Midnight.

  Finn and Linda stood in the wheelhouse, peering into the darkness, waiting for Cutts to appear. Linda chain-smoked. Finn sipped a cup of coffee. He thought about how it had all begun when he and Diego had found the floater in the water on the northern side of the isthmus. No, that’s not right, he thought. It had begun before that, when they’d intercepted La Catrina, again just a mile or so offshore on the leeward side; when he’d shot and killed Rafael Aparición Perez. Now here he was at Two Harbors again, coming in from the ocean side, closing the circle.

  Linda had set up a rope ladder on the Belle’s lee side, ready to be thrown over. Just then, Finn saw something moving toward them from the harbor.

  “There,” he said.

  Linda stepped out of the wheelhouse and flashed the spotlight three times. The approaching boat replied with three flashes. Finn felt a tension in his neck. Two minutes later, the boat came under the Belle’s lee, and Linda switched on the masthead light. Finn went out on deck, grabbed the line that someone on the other boat flung over the bow rail, and attached it to a cleat. He did the same with a line that came over the stern. Then he dropped the rope ladder over the side to the boat below.

  “God damn,” he said.

  The boat was one of the sleekest cigarette boats he’d ever seen—a millionaire’s toy. Its long bow jutted out aggressively from a luxurious-looking cockpit in cream trim. Whatever was in the engine bay was growling angrily, as if traveling at less than fifty knots was an insult. It was a beautiful, luxury version of his own beloved Midnight Express Interceptor.

  He saw only Serpil in the cockpit, holding a spotlight and dressed in a thick pea coat with the collar up. No sign of Lucy. No sign of Cutts.

  “Get that light out of my face,” shouted Finn.

  Serpil dipped his light.

  “Where’s the girl?” shouted Finn.

  Serpil pointed at the forward hatch. “She’s in here, nice and dry. You have the product?” he shouted back.

  Finn wanted to see the girl alive. And he wanted to know why he was talking to this guy and not the Irishman.

  “Where’s Cutts?” he said.

  “He got sick, had to go back to the hospital,” shouted Serpil.

  Finn scanned the boat again. Something wasn’t right. “Show me the girl,” he said.

  Serpil hesitated before he shouted, “Where is Linda?”

  It was a good question. Finn glanced back at the wheelhouse and saw her walking toward him.

  “It’s Serpil. He says he has Lucy below. He says Cutts is in the hospital. He wants—”

  Lacerating pain seared through his thigh before he could finish his sentence. He looked down, saw the needle in Linda’s hand, her thumb all the way down on the plunger. He looked up, saw tears streaming down her face.

  “Goddammit, Linda!” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Finn. He said if I didn’t…” She dropped the syringe to the ground, ran to the rail, and waved at Serpil. Then she turned and stared back at Finn.

  Finn reached for the handgun in the small of his back, black rage snaking its way through his bloodstream along with the drug. He saw the top of the rope ladder tauten and then Serpil appeared over the side and stepped onto the deck. The smug look disappeared from his face the moment he saw the gun in Finn’s hand.

  “He has a gun!” shouted Serpil.

  “I didn’t know, I swear!” shouted Linda.

  Finn raised the pistol, the barrel wavering unsteadily between Linda and Serpil, his eyes seeing double. Whatever had been in the syringe was affecting him already: his arm felt heavy and his aim was completely off. He yelled at Linda to move out of the way, then fired off his clip.

  Every round went high.

  The empty pistol fell from his hand and clatte
red across the metal deck. Finn charged Serpil. He threw a right hook, but missed.

  Serpil laughed, toying with Finn now. “You know why propofol is my favorite sedative?” he said.

  Finn swung again, a left hook this time, but all he caught was air. He felt like every punch he threw was in slow motion. He started edging toward the fish hold, where he’d left the AR-15.

  “It’s so fast,” said Serpil. “Forty seconds and the patient’s yours.”

  Finn turned unsteadily toward Linda and saw her standing at the rail, staring at him.

  “Help me,” he said.

  She sobbed and turned her head away.

  His vision blurred. His mind darkened.

  Forty seconds, he thought. He had no time to get to the rifle, let alone use it. He turned and lunged one last time at Serpil, who laughed and stepped easily out of the way. Finn let the momentum carry him across the deck. He kept going all the way to the starboard rail.

  He threw himself over and fell into the cold black sea.

  * * *

  The water temperature shocked him awake. He couldn’t see a thing, but he knew instinctively he had to find cover. He dived deep, did a tuck turn, and swam under the hull.

  He swam with big sweeps of his arms, kicking hard with his legs. He scraped the backs of his hands against the Belle’s barnacled hull. He was trying to make it all the way under her to the other side, but he had come up short. He felt the involuntary panic that kicks in when the body can’t get the air it wants. Keep going, he thought. He pushed off the hull with both legs and forced himself on.

  At last he made it to the bow and broke through the surface. He’d swum some fifty feet underwater, fully clothed, in the dark, with a powerful hypnotic pumping through his bloodstream. He felt dizzy. He gasped for air. Then he heard steps on the deck above and saw a beam of light trailing along the Pacific Belle’s waterline. Serpil, sweeping the handheld spotlight around the hull. Finn took a deep breath and dived, hauling himself under the hull again, pulling himself along the barnacles like an upside-down rock climber reaching for holds, the barnacles cutting the flesh in his hands.