Marine C SBS

by David Monnery

  Hemingway’s house was as distinguished as Williams’s had been modest: a lovely two-storey mansion in Moorish-Spanish style. And it had been turned into a museum. Marker took the guided tour, and saw six-toed cats, hunting trophies, Papa’s taste in furniture, and the study in which he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls and the original To Have and Have Not. Marker had read the latter after loving the movie, and had to admit the movie was better.

  Not much more than a five-minute walk away Rob Cafell was pursuing his different interests. Having already been round the Key West Lighthouse Museum, and admired the view from the newly restored tower, a hundred and ten feet high, he was now entering the portals of the oldest house in the town, a raised white clapboard building which was home to the Wreckers Museum.

  Wrecking, as he had already learnt at the Lighthouse, had once been Key West’s main dollar-earner. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries the poorly charted shallows and reefs of the Florida Straits had claimed ships almost weekly, and fortunes had been made by those able to salvage the cargoes. Not surprisingly the locals had not been enthusiastic lighthouse builders, and when the first major installation had been lost in a hurricane the celebrations had probably been audible in New York.

  The museum rooms contained ship models, painting and ordinary household artefacts from that era. In one room a ‘House-Wife’s Guide’ sat on the table, in another an old sailing ship’s medicine chest. On the wall of the passageway had been pinned a collage of press cuttings to do with wrecks. Cafell was fascinated by all of it, and was only driven out into the back garden by the promise of more exhibits.

  It was a lovely garden in itself, with well-groomed lawn and flower-beds surrounded by a variety of tropical trees. At the bottom a large shelter housed an illuminated map of local wrecks. Cafell pushed one of the buttons, and lit the spot where the Santa Margarita had gone down in 1554 with a cargo of gold today worth $17 million.

  One day, he thought, he would really like to do some treasure hunting. Not for the treasure, but for the hunting. And the history.

  He sat down on a wrought-iron garden seat and admired the garden. His mother would love this, he thought. She had always said the garden kept her sane through her husband’s long absences. He thought about his parents, and how hard they were finding the process of adapting to his father’s retirement. The old man’s only forte these days seemed to be getting in his wife’s way. Like she said: ‘You would think a man who had spent half his life on submarines would know how to move around in a confined space.’

  Cafell smiled to himself. They would be all right once the dust settled.

  It was almost ten-thirty. He reluctantly lifted himself out of the seat and went back inside. After signing the visitor’s book and saying goodbye to the museum keeper, he walked slowly back down Duvall Street. The number of gay-looking men was quite noticeable, mostly because they all seemed to want to dress like stereotypes. Cafell was rather glad they did. It made the place seem different. Not better or worse – just different. And he liked that.

  Back at the hotel he found Marker changing into a fresh set of clothes, and decided to do the same himself. On their way down to the lobby he wondered out loud whether the Americans would be expecting uniforms.

  ‘Probably,’ Marker agreed.

  Their chauffeur was early, and by eleven o’clock they were being waved through the gates of the US Navy Trumbo Annexe. The car drove down between a barracks block and a docked frigate before pulling up outside an art deco-style office building. Once inside they were left in a plush waiting area, where they drew enough curious looks to make them feel like goldfish in a bowl.

  After about ten minutes a young lieutenant came to deliver them to Vice-Admiral Baskin’s office. The latter was not much older than they were – around thirty-eight, Marker guessed – with an open face, blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair. The man with him, a moustachioed Hispanic named Jiménez, wore the uniform of a commander in the US Coast Guard.

  They all shook hands.

  ‘So,’ Baskin began, ‘what can we do for the British SEALs?’

  Marker smiled. ‘We like to think of the SEALs as the American SBS,’ he said.

  Baskin grinned back. ‘OK, so everyone thinks they’re numero uno. Now, business. Your bosses in London have asked us to fix you guys up with a boat that can tow one of your submersibles. Which is fine – we’ve got you a real doozy.’

  ‘Great,’ Marker said.

  ‘And we reckoned you wouldn’t want to be hauling it up and down in the elevator at your hotel, so we’ve found you somewhere more convenient to stay.’ He beamed at them. ‘It’s kind of suitable, in more ways that one. It’s in Marathon, which is on Key Vaca, one of the middle keys, about fifty miles east of here. Closer to where your friend is treasure hunting. The house has cable TV, gym, swimming pool – you name it. There’s a dock for the boat. And it’s private – the neighbours are a long way off. The place used to belong to one of the Colombian cartels, but it was confiscated when the police busted the small fry whose name was on the deed.’

  ‘Sounds ideal,’ Marker agreed.

  ‘That’s OK then. Next item. Jorge?’

  The Coast Guard man came to life. ‘London asked us about a week ago for a discreet check on the Arcilla boat. Because of the discreet tag, we decided not to put it under continuous surveillance, but we’ve had a surface watch in force on and off for several days and through most of the nights. And we filled that out with aerial and satellite recon, so we don’t think we can have missed much. And’ – he entwined his fingers in front of his chest – ‘it looks like they’re doing what they claim to be doing.’

  ‘What about the submarine?’ Cafell asked.

  ‘It’s there. And it stays there . . .’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It was the first thing we looked for. For the obvious reasons. We don’t know the exact maximum speed it is capable of, but even at twenty knots – which I am sure you will consider outside the range of what is possible . . .’

  The SBS men nodded.

  ‘Even at that speed it would need ten hours to make a round trip to either US coastal waters or the Bahamas, and the longest interval between sightings which we have is four hours.’ He shrugged. ‘So you see . . .’

  ‘Could it be meeting up with another boat?’ Cafell asked.

  ‘It could, but what would be the point? Why use a submarine at all if you don’t intend to use it where it really matters, in coastal waters?’

  The argument seemed unanswerable.

  ‘What about the helicopter?’ Marker asked.

  It only paid the one visit, on the Thursday night, which you already know about. It was there for about an hour and a half, sitting on the floating helipad they have out there, unloading supplies and taking on fuel.’

  ‘And then it headed back towards the Turks and Caicos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A mystery,’ Cafell murmured.

  ‘Maybe you boys’ll have to pay a visit to Mr Arcilla’s boat,’ Baskin said with an easy smile.

  ‘Maybe,’ Marker agreed. He had the unpleasant feeling that Baskin saw him and Rob as mercenaries on loan from the British government. Well, he would take the goodies that were on offer, and as long as their interests coincided he would play the grateful ally, but should those interests ever diverge then the Americans would find out that the SBS were not for sale. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘We were briefed on recent history as far as the local drug traffic’s concerned, but if you could give us some idea of the current state of play.’

  Baskin deferred to Jiménez, who thought for a moment before speaking. ‘It’s hard to say,’ he admitted. ‘Superficially, we’re going through a good patch. We’re using more aggressive tactics, and the interdiction rate is the highest it’s ever been. I’m not saying we manage to check out every boat or plane that enters our waters or airspace, but these days at least the bastards know they’re taking a big risk when they try. Of
course this has meant a shift in the most-favoured routes, and now more stuff is coming in across the Mexican land border . . .’

  ‘You put a finger in one hole, and the stuff comes out of another one.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What about the local politics?’ Marker asked. ‘Haiti, for example.’

  ‘What about it?’ Baskin asked defensively.

  ‘Is there any evidence of official involvement in the drug trade – by the military, maybe?’

  ‘None that I’m aware of,’ Baskin said. Jiménez just shook his head.

  Marker had the feeling he was stepping on toes, though he couldn’t see why. For several months the Americans had been threatening to invade Haiti and restore the exiled President Aristide, and the notion that they had no intelligence of what was going on inside the country was ludicrous.

  Maybe they knew too much, he realized. Maybe there were political reasons why they needed Haitians whom they knew to be involved in illegal activities. That’s all we need, Marker thought – to discover that the CIA are behind Arcilla. He dismissed the thought. The Americans – or at least some of them – definitely wanted Arcilla dealt with.

  ‘Any other questions?’ Baskin was asking cheerfully.

  Marker looked at Cafell, who shook his head. The four men got to their feet and shook hands again. ‘And of course we have a car for you,’ was Baskin’s parting shot.

  The young lieutenant who had escorted them to Baskin’s office was waiting outside to show them their new means of transport. As they walked round the back of the building he handed over the keys to the SBS men’s new home, car and boat, and a sheet of paper containing names, contact numbers and wavelengths for when the need arose. The car was a bottle-green Nissan Bluebird.

  The lieutenant travelled with them as far as the base gate, and told them that if there was anything else they wanted they only had to call and ask.

  ‘This is what I call hospitality,’ Cafell said, as he checked one of the maps which had been provided for the quickest route to their hotel. ‘And you’re supposed to drive on the right,’ he reminded Marker, as a taxi went honking past, missing the Nissan’s wing by inches.

  They picked up their gear at the hotel, and drove east out of Key West along a wide road lined with junk-food outlets, miniature golf courses and discount warehouses. A sign told them it was forty miles to Marathon.

  It was a beautiful day, with fluffy white clouds sailing across the sky to their left, and the sun shining down out of a clear blue sky to their right. The prominent mile markers on the single highway were not only there to indicate distances travelled, but also, as Cafell soon discovered, formed the crucial element in any address on the Florida Keys. ‘See,’ he explained to Marker, ‘there’s a restaurant advertised here and the address is just “45.3”. Everything is on the same highway, for a hundred miles.’

  ‘It’s not what you’d call beautiful, is it?’ Marker observed.

  ‘According to the guide book it gets better as you travel east,’ Cafell told him.

  ‘Good.’

  They were traversing the fourth or fifth key by now, and so far the sea had been mostly hidden behind bushes, run-down buildings and the huge concrete poles by the side of the highway which carried both power lines and telephone wires.

  Suddenly they were on a long bridge, sweeping out across a wide channel, with panoramic views of the bay and straits to either side. The next key was more the way Marker had imagined them. The highway was lined with palm trees, the neon motel signs adorned with crowns of bougainvillaea and hibiscus. Boats bobbed at anchor behind bait and tackle shops, and there were tantalizing glimpses of white-sand beaches lapped by turquoise water. The only possible catch was evident in one of the neon names – the Hurricane Resort Motel. Marker remembered the hurricane in Key Largo, one of his favourite films.

  ‘We’re coming to the Seven Mile Bridge,’ Cafell said, and a few seconds later they were on it. Double yellow lines divided the road between its beige concrete walls, making it seem like an old-fashioned racing track. A hundred yards or so to the left, the old railway bridge ran a parallel course. The two structures seemed almost to hang in space, somewhere between the sea and the sky.

  ‘Key Vaca’s next,’ Cafell said. ‘Look for 47.7.’

  They were hardly off the bridge when the turn-off appeared. It was no more than a rough track, winding down from the highway through a stand of royal palms and past two other entrances before ending at the gates of Buena Vista.

  Cafell got out and unlocked the gates for Marker to drive through.

  The house was a modern, white-painted, one-storey building with a sun terrace. Steps led through more palms to where a picnic table had been placed near the water’s edge. A hammock hung between two of the palms.

  Close by, the upright arm of a T-shaped jetty ran some thirty yards out into the Florida Straits. A boat was docked along the cross arm. The sixty-foot cabin cruiser, gleaming white with a pale-blue trim, was named the Slipstream Queen. It looked fast, Marker thought.

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ Cafell said sarcastically.

  They went aboard. There were two cabins with four bunks each, a lounge area, galley, small bathroom and ample storage space, most of it filled with fishing tackle. On the bridge they found a folder containing Coast Guard charts of the local waters. The boat manufacturer’s manual was also prominently in evidence, but as far as Marker could tell the controls all seemed straightforward.

  ‘I wonder why they bothered with the house,’ he murmured.

  ‘There’s no TV here,’ Cafell told him.

  They went back ashore and walked up to the house, noting the drums of marine fuel which had been stacked in the adjoining garage.

  ‘I don’t want to be in Poole when the bill for this lot arrives,’ Marker said.

  The house offered more of the same: crisp sheets, a full refrigerator and drinks cabinet, a massive stereo TV. The two men opened up a huge bag of corn chips, cracked open cans of cold beer, and took it all out to the terrace, where they lowered themselves into reclining chairs, toasted their allies, and considered the next step.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling our hosts have fucked up over the submarine business,’ Cafell said. ‘1 mean, they’ve got boats watching, planes watching, satellites watching – it sounds like a case of too many watchers spoiling the broth to me.’

  ‘Broth?’ Marker repeated doubtfully.

  Cafell threw a corn chip at him.

  ‘Maybe,’ Marker agreed, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on it. Tomorrow we’ll go and have a look for ourselves, unless you can think of a good reason for going out there tonight.’

  Cafell considered. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I think we should keep a night visit in reserve. Especially since you forgot to ask the Yanks what sort of warning system the Tiburón Blanco has.’

  ‘I didn’t forget – I already knew. Franklin told me the boat has radar.’

  ‘Then I think our first approach should be as innocent-looking as we can make it. We should let them see us coming. I can be happily fishing, and you can be doing your camp Humphrey Bogart impersonation on the bridge.’

  Marker nodded. ‘Two men in a boat,’ he said.

  ‘We should get a dog from somewhere,’ Cafell decided.

  Marker grinned. ‘Well, while you’re out looking for one I’m going to tell the boss what we’re planning. Just in case the opposition doesn’t buy our innocent routine, and decides to get nasty when there are no witnesses around.’

  ‘Good point,’ Cafell agreed through a mouthful of corn chips. ‘And while you’re at it, you can ask him where the famous frigate’s got to. Tell the boss we’ve seen Miami Vice, we know what we’re up against, and two handguns doesn’t seem like an adequate arsenal.’

  Marker went to collect the radio, set it up on the terrace and sent the report, thinking how strange it felt to be using it in such surroundings. He had typed out messages on windswept Norwegian glaciers and in flooded
holes on the sides of Falklands hills, but never before in the shade of palms on a rich man’s patio.

  When he had finished they took the Slipstream Queen a little way out to sea, just to find out how she handled. Like a dream was the answer, and a speedy one at that. After tying up the boat, they took a swim. Then, with the light beginning to fade, they walked back up to the highway, crossed it, and found their way down to the shore of the bay. The sunset was as stunning as it had been the night before, and this time graced by the antics of the local pelican, who flew to and fro along the shore in front of them, as if he was auditioning for a part in a tourist board ad.

  Back at the house they tried in vain to find something worth watching on one of the TV’s sixty-four channels. They then considered microwaving a couple of the TV dinners from the freezer, before deciding that their culinary expectations had been raised by the days on Provo. Relieved at finding an excuse to indulge their restlessness the two men climbed back into the car and headed east once more, Marker at the wheel and Cafell trying to make sense of the guide book.

  The road was reasonably busy, causing Marker to wonder how bad it got during the tourist season.

  ‘Seen the film The African Queen?’ Marker asked.

  Cafell shook his head. Marker looked at him with disbelief. ‘You haven’t!? Well, you should. It’s a classic. Anyway it was a boat. They’ve got the original here. It’s on Key Largo, I think. That’s another one you should see. Can you see it in that book of yours?’

  Within seconds Cafell had found the place. ‘Yeah, it’s right by the Holiday Inn. But Key Largo’s another thirty miles.’

  ‘We’ve got all night.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘I thought you said it was near a Holiday Inn.’

  They arrived a little over half an hour later, and found the original African Queen tied up at the dock which ran alongside the restaurant’s parking lot. It looked smaller than it had in the film, Marker decided, as he tried to imagine Bogart and Hepburn sitting aboard. There was the boiler Bogart used to kickstart. It was all very strange, looking down at a craft which he had only ever seen in the context of an African river, and which now sat in the shadow of a modern hotel, close by a modern highway.