“I know it must be hard, sir, to let go, but we must complete the deal. Here.” Ahmad handed Bjornsen a manila envelope. We need to get this deal done and get this old buffoon out of here. “Maybe this will help you walk away.”
“Holy God.” Bjornsen dumped the contents of the envelope on the mess table. “I never seen that much money in my life.”
That certainly got his attention.
“We like to deal in cash.” Ahmad slid a document across the table and handed Mr. Bjornsen a pen. “We won’t report how much we paid. You don’t have to report how much you sold it for.”
“Yah, sure, you betcha. I not going to tell the tax man about this.”
Ahmad knew that Bjornsen wouldn’t report the transaction. As salmon were fished out and the government declared certain runs endangered species, the value of salmon boats declined to almost nothing. The old infidel probably feared that he’d never be able to unload his white elephant.
Bjornsen went on and on. “In those days, we thought the salmon would last forever. . .”
Ahmad hardly paid attention. I have to get rid of this old fool.
“Mr. Bjornsen,” Ahmad broke in. “I don’t want to rush you, but we really must be going about our business.”
“Yah, sure. I just clean out my tings.”
Please don’t get all sentimental on me.
The old fisherman began cleaning out lockers in the fo’c’sle.
How can they live like this? They are men, not swine. Ahmad began scrubbing the galley while Hani descended into the engine room. Did Mohammed not teach us that Allah demands cleanliness?
Ahmad scrubbed until he was exhausted. It would never be clean. Were they condemned to live in this pig-sty?
Finally, the disgusting kaffir collected all of his belongings and bid his boat farewell. How strange, that a man should be so attached to a boat. You would think he had just sold his daughter.
Chapter 14
The Straits of Juan de Fuca
“Hey! Chris, turn this thing around. We’ve gotta go back and get my hat.”
“I’m sorry, bro.” Chris laughed. “I forgot to tell you one of the rules of sailing: we don’t go back for a hat unless there’s a head in it.”
“Crazy bitch. I’d like to put her head in it.” Ted sat down and resumed eating his sandwich. “Goddamn it, I liked that hat.” He glared at Meagan from time to time.
Meagan took a long pull from her bottle of Henry’s, pulled up the strap on her tank top and giggled. “I’ll buy Teddy a new hat when we get to Friday Harbor.”
****
Far in the distance, Ted could see the San Juan Islands ahead of them. He looked aft. Twenty miles behind them he saw the faded outline of the Olympic Peninsula. The ocean seemed so huge, the Defiant so small. Without another boat in sight, he felt like an infinitesimal speck in the universe.
Since lunch, they watched the wind speed indicator steadily drop. The Defiant quit acting like a scared race horse and more like an old plug. Ted gazed up, her sails hung from the mast like old dish rags. She wallowed in the swell, barely keeping steerage way.
Smith Island, the half-way point across the Straits, loomed a mile off of the starboard rail like some mythical castle rising out of the sea. Tall cliffs exploded from the water, an old light house clung precariously to the rocks.
“Damn, it looks like we’ve lost the breeze,” Chris muttered. “I think we better fire up the iron wind. Bring in the jib.”
Meagan cast off the jib sheets while Ted wrapped the in-haul around the cabin top winch. He started hauling the line in, but the damned winch didn’t turn.
“You’ve got the line on the winch backwards, Dufus,” Meagan taunted.
Goddamn it. Do I have to look stupid in front of her? Without a word, his face burning, Ted flipped the line off the winch and spun it on in the other direction. This time, when he hauled in, the winch turned with the line, giving him greater leverage. The billowing jib began to roll up like a giant window blind. In a moment, it completely disappeared. Chris fired up the engine.
The Defiant began moving faster. The knot meter leapt up to six knots.
For the next hour, they motored in the calm. Ted settled down in the cockpit with his thick computer manual. He had to be ready for the Security + exam in September.
The swells slowly started to dissipate, leaving the Straits mill pond smooth. With the boat’s rolling stopped, Oscar poked his head out of the companionway hatch.
“Looks like our little friend is going to make an appearance,” Chris said.
Ted looked over the top of his book to see Oscar make one or two rounds of the deck, sniffing and pawing at the unfamiliar fittings. The Burmese stopped to rub against Chris’ ankles.
Chris bent down and scratched his ears. “Hey, little fella, checking out your new home?”
Ted pretended not to notice.
Oscar abruptly turned away from Chris and meandered over to Ted. He leapt into Ted’s lap and rubbed his face against Ted’s book. “Jeez, I can’t read with your damned cat pushing my book around.” It almost hurt Ted to suppress his grin.
“He likes you.” Meagan flashed a brilliant smile at Ted. “He wants some loving.”
Ted patted the cat and gently set him down on the cockpit seat next to him. Oscar meowed at Ted, jumped up to the coach roof and found a spot in the sun to settle in for a nap.
“This is really eerie.” Chris said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Straits this calm.”
Ted stared out at the oil-smooth sea. It looked more like a mill pond than an ocean. His skin prickled. He felt an electricity in the air. His spider sense was tingling.
Meagan plopped down next to Chris on the helmsman’s seat. He put his arm around her and gave her a quick kiss.
“Oh, look.” Meagan pointed. “On that bed of kelp. What are those, seals?”
Ted looked up to see what she was talking about. Ten yards to port he saw a bed of kelp with two little black heads poking up over soft round bodies.
“No,” Chris said, “they’re sea otters.”
Still huffy about losing his hat, Ted turned back to his book.
Meagan grabbed the binoculars. “They’re so cute! Look how they’re lying on their backs in the kelp. They’re like little fur balls.” She took the field glasses from her eyes. “It looks like they’re taking sun. They look like cats. That’s what they are, sea-kittens.”
Does she have to make everything sound so cutesy?
The engine began to cough and sputter.
“What’s goin’ on?” Ted dropped his book.
The engine gasped and died.
****
Horseshoe Bay, British Columbia, Canada
With Bjornsen gone, the rest of the al-Qaeda cell came aboard the Valkyrie. Ahmad joined the three other young men as they unloaded their gear from the back of Yasim’s battered van.
Kalil, a diesel mechanic by trade, came aboard with tool boxes full of the equipment he needed to maintain the ancient Atlas diesel engine in the Valkyrie. Mohammed, a former member of Canada’s Royal Brigade, traveled light, with just his duffle and a K-bar fighting knife. Yasim, the cell’s leader, promised the group that they would be armed after they moved to a remote location along the Inside Passage. After stowing his gear, Mohammed left to fulfill another part of the mission.
Hani brought tubes of nautical charts, cruising guides and a fat copy of Sailing Directions. His handheld GPS was much more powerful and up to date than the decade old technology already on the boat.
Ahmad had the most gear of all. He had boxes of electronic equipment, tools and manuals. Most important was a large tube of blueprints that he stowed under his bunk in the deck house.
****
Ahmad took a safe boating course and learned to handle small boats on instructions from Yasim. He had never before set foot on board a boat as large and complicated as Valkyrie. It was eighty-five feet long and displaced two-hundred and fifty tons. The boat was older
than his grandfather. Our leaders planned well to find Hani to run this monstrosity.
The harbor at Horseshoe Bay, on the north side of the Vancouver metropolis, was much too busy for their purposes. Ahmad was relieved that firing up the engine was not difficult for Kalil. Hani took the helm as Ahmad turned on the radios, depth finders and other electronic equipment in the pilot house.
“Are we ready to leave?” Yasim asked, entering the pilot house. “We can’t get away from cursed place too soon.”
“In a moment,” Hani replied. “I think I understand the controls, but I’ve never handled a vessel this large by myself.”
Ahmad watched as Hani surveyed the controls.
“Allah will guide your hand, my son,” Yasim said.
“Where did you learn to run a boat?” Ahmad asked.
“At the Marine Institute in St John’s. Yasim found me there and asked me to change my course from Remotely Operated Vehicles to the Bridge Watch program.” Hani was all business.
“Cast off the dock lines,” Hani shouted out the pilot house window. Kalil untied the dock lines and shoved the Valkyrie out into the channel, then jumped aboard. Hani eased the gear shift lever into reverse and cracked open the throttle. The elderly diesel belched smoke and a swirl of white water appeared under Valkyrie’s stern. Slowly, the huge old purse seiner began to back away from the dock.
Ahmad paid close attention as Hani closed the throttle, slid the gear shift lever from reverse to forward and moved the throttle ahead slowly. The boat checked its rearward motion and began to gain headway.
“I think I may learn how to run this thing.” Hani beamed at Yasim.
“All in good time. Right now concentrate on getting us out of harbor without hitting anything. We don’t want to call any attention to ourselves.”
“This Marine Institute, they train people to be sailors?” Ahmad asked.
“Yes. For the Merchant Marine and the fishing industry,” Hani answered.
“How long is the program?”
“Eight months.” Hani took his eyes off the channel and looked at Ahmad. “We took classes on ship handling, math, navigation, first aid, safety. I graduated with my seaman’s papers.”
“And they taught you how to handle this boat?”
“We spent a term at sea. It’s called the work term. We were crew on the Institute’s training vessel.”
The conversation engrossed both Ahmad and Hani. There was something about Hani that Ahmad liked. The short broad-shouldered man knew who he was, what he wanted out of life. He was intelligent and confident. The conversation became so animated that neither noticed when Hani missed a channel marker. The shallow water alarm on the depth finder went off. It was too late.
Ahmad heard a loud crash as the boat came to a complete halt.
Chapter 15
The Straits of Juan de Fuca
“Shit,” Chris muttered. “It sounds like we have air in the fuel lines.” He turned to Ted. “Can you bleed the lines?”
“That’s right.” Ted started down to the cabin. “Give the Mexican kid the hard job.”
“Meagan, take the wheel. I’ll help Ted with the engine.” Chris slipped from behind the wheel and followed Ted down.
Ted removed the companionway staircase revealing the rusty engine.
“Let’s see if I can figure out how to do this.” Ted leaned over the engine. “Tio Ernesto didn’t do much work on diesels, but there ain’t nothing mechanical that Ol’ Teddy can’t fix.”
“Careful, bro, that engine’s hot.”
Ted ran his eyes along the fuel lines. “OK, here’s what I know: We’re gonna hafta crack the bleed screw on top of the fuel filter here.” He pointed to a cylindrical aluminum object bolted onto the left-hand side of the engine. “There’s bleed screws on the fuel injectors. I guess we’ll hafta bleed the lines from there too.” Ted pointed out the various engine components as he spoke. “You’ll need to turn the engine over until we get a clear stream of diesel oil with no air bubbles in it, then I’ll tighten the screws up.”
“You want me on deck?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, standby to crank the engine.”
Ted dug out an open-end wrench from the tool kit under his bunk while Chris climbed over the hot engine to the cockpit.
“OK,” Ted shouted up to Chris. “Turn her over.”
Chris hit the starter button and the engine ground over. At first, a frothy pink mix blew out of the little hole in the bleed screw, then it became a solid stream of diesel oil.
“Okay, that’s good,” Ted shouted as he tightened the bleed screw. Next he cracked the bleed screw on a fuel injector.
“Try it again.”
Chris cranked the engine over until a steady stream of diesel flowed from the injector.
“That’s good.” Ted tightened the screw down. “Try it again.”
This time, the diesel fired and caught. “Woohoo! Ol’ Teddy figured it out!”
Ted put the companionway stairs back in place, covering the rusty old hunk of iron, and washed his hands in the galley sink.
For half an hour they motored on, then the engine sputtered and died again.
****
Horseshoe Bay, British Columbia, Canada
What have we done? The lack of motion on board the Valkyrie stunned Ahmad.
“We’ve gone aground.” Hani shoved the gear shift lever into reverse and gunned the engine. “Maybe we can back off.” A froth of white water burst from under her stern, but the Valkyrie held fast. “We have to get out an anchor.”
“Why do we need an anchor?” Ahmad’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “We’re stuck on the bottom. We need to get free of the bottom.”
“If we can set an anchor out in the channel, we can kedge ourselves off the rocks.” Hani’s hands pantomimed pulling themselves free.
Hani’s nautical jargon totally confused Ahmad.
“Get the skiff in the water,” Hani directed. “Fire up the motor.”
Ahmad, sensing Hani’s desperation, ran back to the after deck, calling Kalil to follow him. They used the cargo boom to hoist the aluminum skiff off of the seine net and swing it over the side, into the water.
“It looks like you guys’re in trouble, eh?” The shout came from the skipper of a crab boat idling into the harbor. “Eh” rhymed with “hay.” “Can we pass you a line?”
Ahmad looked up to Yasim, standing on the bridge deck, with a look of panic.
“What should we do? We don’t want to have contact with the infidel, but the longer we stay here stuck on the rocks, the more exposed we are.”
“If we remain here, authorities will surely take notice. Coast Guard will come to offer assistance. We can’t afford to make contact with them. Take help from this kaffir.”
“We’ll bring our skiff over to take your line,” Ahmad shouted across to the crab boat.
Kalil managed to get the cranky diesel in the skiff to turn over. Ahmad dropped into the skiff, cast off from the Valkyrie and motored towards the crab boat.
The skipper screamed as Ahmad came along side too fast and bumped into the crab boat’s side. “Be careful, God damn you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s the first time I’ve driven this boat.”
“Who the hell are you guys anyway? No fisherman I know would handle a skiff like that.”
Panic ate at Ahmad’s gut. He took a deep breath. His training started to come back to him. Stick to the cover story.
“We’re marine surveyors. We’ve just bought this boat.”
“Well, you sure as hell better learn to handle her.” The skipper passed a thick rope down to Ahmad. “Make this fast to your tow bit and I’ll haul you off of there.”
“Thank you.” Ahmad tied the rope to the skiff and headed back to Valkyrie.
He passed the heavy line up to Yasim and stood off to help again if necessary. Yasim looped the line around the tow bit on the Valkyrie’s bow.
“We’re ready,” Ahmad shouted, waving his arms.
The noise coming from the crab boat was terrifying. Surely everyone in Vancouver must be able to hear. Any chance of our slipping away unnoticed is gone.
“It moved,” Yasim screamed. “I just felt boat move!”
Ahmad saw the Valkyrie lurch forward a few inches. She pivoted towards the crab boat, then jumped forward a few more inches. Finally, with a mighty roar and a belch of smoke, the crab boat hauled Valkyrie free.
“Thank you so much,” Yasim yelled as he untied the tow line and waved toward the crab boat.
The crab boat let out two long blasts from its horn, the skipper waved, and the crab boat turned back towards Horseshoe Bay.
“Allah be praised,” Yasim said.
Ahmad let out a long breath. “We better get out of here quickly before we draw any more attention.”
Chapter 16
The Straits of Juan de Fuca
Ted watched his friend slowly self-destruct.
“Goddamn it.” Chris face turned bright red. “I thought we got all the air out of the lines.” He slammed his hand into the steering pedestal. “Shit.” He waved his hand in the air and sucked on his index finger. A trickle of blood dripped from his lip.
Ted shook his head at his friend’s childish display of temper and silently climbed back down into the cabin to begin the process of bleeding the fuel lines again.
Chris cussed creatively on deck as Ted bled the lines until the engine fired.
Ted grabbed a couple of long necks and climbed back up to the cockpit. Chris steered the boat for about ten minutes before the engine died. Going through the ritual again, Ted got the engine to turn over. Again, it only ran about ten minutes.
The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) Page 8