Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  Rachel hugged her dripping, exhausted friend, and cried.

  When Andy examined Ryan, he resisted the temptation to strangle him. The man was still unconscious. His pupils were equal and reactive, and he had a three-inch scalp laceration. The bleeding was so profuse that it spilled over into the cockpit. His skin had several spots or abrasions. He grabbed a minor instrument kit, and, using a hemostat and a forceps, used Ryan’s blond hair on each side of the laceration as sutures to pull the wound closed.

  That’s more than the fucker deserves, Andy thought.

  Andy put the boat back on course for Ft. Myers.

  The overnight passage was unremarkable.

  ‘‘Daddy, wake up. Mommy wants you.’’

  What now, he thought, as he stuck his head out into the sunlit cockpit. He’d slept from 2 to 7 a.m.

  Jesse stood at the helm, and then pointed to Ryan, lying prone in the cockpit. ‘‘Look at him.’’

  Andy grabbed Ryan’s shoulder, and rolled him over. When he saw the man’s face, he gasped and stepped back reflexively. Multiple rounded, firm, and nodular red sores covered Ryan’s face. They extended onto his lips, and when Andy shined his light into the man’s mouth, he saw several similar sores on the lining of his cheeks. All the sores were in the same stage of development. Andy inspected Ryan’s trunk, but there was nothing. His palms, however, had developed many red spots.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ Jesse asked.

  ‘‘I’d love to put it together, but rash, fever, and head and body aching fits with many viruses.’’

  Over the next 24 hours, Andy watched as Ryan’s disease progressed. Gentle red spots swelled turgid with anger, and then filled with droplets—tiny blisters that putrefied into grotesque grey-white pus-filled pimples. The vile pimples grew tense with pus, erupted like a volcano, and scabbed over with raw red skin below. Foul secretions oozed from open ulcers, and spread the dreaded disease. It was smallpox.

  Chapter Sixteen

  (2007)

  Professor Nathaniel Allen lived in the Berkeley Hills in the Kensington section with his children, Ryan, a graduate student in Eastern Art at UC, and Nicole, a junior at Berkeley High.

  Ryan was thin and angular. His smile was an asymmetrical sneer. Since the day he had entered the fourth grade, school bullies had targeted him, and had him running to the principal. That only made things worse.

  The boys shared a universal disgust for Ryan, saying, ‘‘Just one look at that kid, and I want to beat the shit out of him.’’

  Nicole was wholesome, the girl-next-door, and while she was immensely popular, she couldn’t protect Ryan.

  ‘‘Keep away from them,’’ she’d say.

  ‘‘I can’t. This is a small school.’’

  ‘‘Then you’d better stand up to them, at least once.’’

  ‘‘I can’t.’’

  Nathaniel taught political science at UC Berkeley. Their small ivy-covered house had a filtered view of the San Francisco Bay.

  As one might expect, the Allen home was a hotbed of active political discussion, mostly progressive, although Nathaniel brought professors and activists of every stripe into these discussions. Nathaniel’s children caught the political bug by osmosis, and participated often.

  One evening after dinner, Nicole and Ryan were watching the News Hour on PBS. Nicole looked at her watch. ‘‘Where’s Dad? He should be home, by now.’’

  Ryan looked away from the TV. ‘‘Don’t worry. Dad’s easily distracted.’’

  Both startled at the loud rap on their front door, and when Ryan peeked through the eye viewer, two well-dressed men were standing on the porch. One man, the taller of the two, held up a gold badge. ‘‘Homeland Security. We have a warrant. Open up.’’

  Ryan trembled. ‘‘What’s this all about?’’

  ‘‘Open up, now, kid, or we’ll break it down.’’

  When Ryan unlocked the door, both men rushed in. The taller one handed Ryan a folded paper. ‘‘That’s a Homeland Security search warrant for the entire premises.’’

  Nicole was in tears. ‘‘Where’s my father? What have you done with him?’’

  ‘‘He’s being held in jail on charges of conspiracy against the United States of America.’’

  ‘‘You’re nuts. Conspiracy? Dad loves this country.’’

  The tall man moved forward. ‘‘We have him, and his commie friends. When we’re through, UC Berkeley will need to find a new bunch of pinkos to pollute our children’s minds.’’ The man paused. ‘‘Do you know the name, Rashid Hamid?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Nicole said, ‘‘He taught middle-eastern politics at UC. He and Dad are friends.’’

  ‘‘For your information, Hamid is al-Qaeda. Now, get out of our way. We’re exercising the warrant. Take a seat and don’t touch anything.’’

  Several other dark-suited men entered, and began to carry files and computers out the front door. When one grabbed Nicole’s laptop, Ryan said, ‘‘Keep your damned hands off that. It’s private.’’

  Two men grabbed Ryan, threw him to the floor, and cuffed him. One snarled at Ryan. ‘‘By all rights, we should haul you in, just like your fucking father.’’

  After they completed their search, Nicole went up to the tall agent. ‘‘Where is he?

  When can we see him?’’

  The agent sneered. ‘‘Have a nice day.’’

  Four months later, Ryan, Nicole, and Nathaniel’s friends and family congregated at his gravesite in Orinda, California. The ceremony was brief, but poignant, as dressed-in-black mourners swung between despondency and rage.

  After they lowered Nathaniel into his grave, people stopped by Ryan and Nicole to give their condolences. After the last mourner left, they stood, holding hands.

  In the parking lot, dark-suited federal agents were taking photos of departing guests and their license plates.

  Ryan ran up to them and tried to pull their cameras away. ‘‘He’s dead. Haven’t you done enough?’’

  Nicole dragged Ryan away. ‘‘It won’t do us any good.’’

  Ryan wept. ‘‘They took him away. No charges. No representation. This might as well have been the Soviet Union, or Communist China.’’

  As they walked to their car, Roderick Fabello, the chairman of the Department of Political Science at UCB approached them. ‘‘I’m so sorry about this. Nat was a good man. He didn’t deserve any of this. When you’re ready, there’s someone I’d like you to meet from The People’s Rights International.’’

  Two weeks later, Ryan and Nicole were sitting at the computer.

  Nicole turned from the screen to face Ryan. ‘‘When I search on PRI, all I get is bullshit generalities. I don’t have a clue what they’re really about.’’

  Ryan shook his head in disgust. ‘‘We’ve tried everything else. No politician, and nobody in the media, will touch Dad’s death. That, in and of itself, tells us something.’’

  Nicole stared at Ryan for a long moment. ‘‘If PRI can provide even an element of justice for Dad, we should at least listen.’’

  ‘‘We don’t know who’s behind them, or what they want from us,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘We may be a cause celeb for them, but what about us? Frankly, at this stage, I’d work with the devil for justice.’’

  Nicole smiled at Ryan. ‘‘They just want to meet with us. We’re not marrying them. What’s there to lose?’’

  Three days later, they drove to Geraldo’s Restaurant in Berkeley for a 6 p.m. meeting with Whitney Brewer. As they entered, a tall, attractive blond wave was sitting with Rod Fabello. Rod waved for them to come to the table.

  ‘‘Thanks for coming,’’ Rod said. ‘‘I wanted you to meet Whitney, and learn more about the PRI.’’

  Nicole managed a small smile. ‘‘We came because of you, Rod, but only to listen.’’

  Whitney’s smile lit up the room as she took their hands. ‘‘You two, more than most Americans, understand what’s happening to this country in the wake of 9/11. The Patriot
Act has become the government’s justification for aggressive actions that are abridging our fundamental rights. Only God knows where they will stop.’’

  Whitney continued to talk, while Ryan and Nicole listened intently.

  Nicole looked at Ryan, and then back at Whitney. ‘‘What you say makes sense, but I, for one, won’t involve myself in any way.’’

  Ryan leaned forward. ‘‘We’ve talked ourselves sick about what happened to Nathaniel, and while we’re sympathetic to your principles, we won’t offer ourselves as public objects for the PRI, or anyone else.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps we can’t help you, but think of the others who may suffer if Homeland Security continues to run amok.’’

  Ryan was clenching his jaw. ‘‘Noble. How noble of you. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. Just put those bastards up against the wall, and hand me an automatic weapon.’’

  Nicole grasped Ryan’s arm. ‘‘Don’t. Let’s go.’’

  Afterward at home, they were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea.

  ‘‘You were too hard on them, Ryan. They’re on our side.’’

  ‘‘Passive political action bullshit isn’t going to get us anywhere.’’

  ‘‘Remember Margaret Mead?’’ Nicole said. ‘‘Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.’’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘‘We’re part of the few, but traditional political action doesn’t have a chance in hell of changing this government’s behavior.’’

  ‘‘What will?’’

  ‘‘Something dramatic. Something proving that ultimately, the people will hold them responsible. Hopefully that will have a deterrent effect like war crimes trials.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure what you mean by dramatic. The world’s full of those who’d willingly strike at the United States for any number of reasons, some justifiable, others, not. We can’t be part of that.’’

  If we’re smart, it can be our agenda, and not theirs. If you think I’m going to let them get away with killing Dad, then you’re the one who’s nuts.’’

  When Ryan and Nicole reached Port of Spain, Trinidad, he paid for two rooms in a seedy hotel, and then they taxied to the Trinidad and Tobago Yacht Club to meet Carlos Mendoza, the captain of the sailing vessel, Adios, a Hans Christian sloop. The bar was empty, except for a red-bearded man sitting by the window, sipping a beer, and a voluptuous young woman at the bar. She smiled, eyed Ryan, and slid an inviting tongue slowly across her crimsoned lips.

  Nicole sneered at the woman. ‘‘Take your business elsewhere.’’

  Ryan approached the window. ‘‘Captain Mendoza?’’

  ‘‘Who wants to know?’’

  ‘‘I’m Ryan. You were expecting us.’’

  Carlos smiled, and scanned them. ‘‘Right, children. Take a seat. I’d offer you a beer, but you may be too young.’’

  Ryan ignored the comment, and then pointed at Nicole. ‘‘This is my sister, Nicole.’’

  ‘‘Whatever. What can I do for you?’’

  ‘‘You agreed to take us to Santiago de Cuba. I thought we had a deal.’’

  ‘‘I don’t do no blind deals, Señor, until I have a cara a cara.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me, Señor?’’

  ‘‘A face to face, Ryan,’’ Nicole said.

  Ryan tightened his fists. ‘‘What’s this crap? We had a deal.’’

  Carlos stared at them in silence.

  ‘‘Listen, Captain, we went through a lot of trouble to find you. You come highly recommended,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘You served with the Cuban Coast Guard, hold a United States Coast Guard Master’s License, and know your way around the Caribbean and the authorities.’’

  ‘‘What is it? Drugs? Guns? Illegal aliens? What?’’

  ‘‘Just a sea trip, but we want our arrival in Cuba to be as discreet as possible. My sources told me that you’re the man for the job.’’

  ‘‘Hold on to your shorts, junior.’’

  Ryan reddened. ‘‘I told you my name is Ryan, Señor.’’

  Mendoza stood. ‘‘Whatever. Let’s take a walk.’’

  They moved down the dock, passing power and sailing vessels, and an array of megayachts. When they stopped at the stern of Adios, Ryan felt his stomach churn.

  Carlos beamed. ‘‘She’s a beauty, ain’t she?’’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘‘Are you sure this boat can make the trip?’’

  ‘‘She may look tired, but this girl’s got nearly 200,000 miles under her keel. Not to worry, amigo.’’

  ‘‘When will you be ready?’’

  ‘‘Two or three days. I need to provision. If you want anything special, let me know now, or you’ll eat whatever I bring.’’

  Ryan’s lips parted in a sham smile. ‘‘You’re pretty arrogant for a two-bit smuggler.’’ He turned to Nicole. ‘‘I think we made a mistake. Señor Mendoza’s not interested in our business, or our money. Let’s go.’’

  They retreated down the dock, when Carlos reacted. ‘‘No. Wait. We just got off on the wrong foot.’’

  ‘‘You’re a cheap hustler. Do you want our business, or not?’’

  ‘‘I’m just a poor sailor. I’m at your service.’’

  For Carlos, the trip began with discord, and progressed to all out war.

  When Ryan observed Carlos ogling Nicole, he said, ‘‘Forget it, Fidel. You have no chance in hell.’’

  Carlos turned to Ryan. ‘‘You misunderstand, Señor. I’m only a man, and your sister is an attractive woman.’’

  ‘‘She’s a girl, Carlos. Get it? If you touch her, it’ll be the last thing you ever do, comprende?’’

  ‘‘You Americans, so emotional.’’ He paused. ‘‘Remember, at sea we’re a team. I’m the skipper. You’ll obey my commands.’’

  ‘‘I’m warning you.’’

  Carlos remained impassive. ‘‘We’ll stand a three man, or man and girl watch. A two crew alternating watch is a pain in the ass. She’ll take her turn, or I’m throwing her overboard.’’

  Ryan grinned. ‘‘Talk about Americans. You Cubes are too macho for your own good. All you needed to do was ask.’’

  Carlos set Adios on a 280 degree heading, bringing them past the ABC Islands. Once north of Curaçao, they set course directly for Cuba.

  The wind out of the south blew at ten knots, and the swell reached 2 to 3 feet.

  Carlos sat at the helm, and tried to impart the rudiments of standing watch, using the radar, and watching for vessels at sea. He showed them how to engage and disengage the autopilot. Ryan paid attention, and even asked a few questions. Nicole stared into the distance. ‘‘If anything happens, a change in the weather or the seas, or if the sail needs adjustment, get me out here in a hurry.’’

  Carlos took Nicole below, and showed her the stove. You’ll be cooking for us.’’

  ‘‘Like hell I will. Cook for yourself.’’

  ‘‘Puta!’’

  ‘‘What did you call me?’’

  Ryan stuck his head through the companionway. ‘‘What’s going on, here?’’

  ‘‘He called me a whore.’’

  When Ryan rushed down the stairs, Carlos pulled out his serrated rigging knife, and aimed it at Ryan’s abdomen. ‘‘Don’t be stupid, amigo.’’

  Ryan took Nicole’s hand, and they backed up the stairs and into the cockpit. ‘‘I’m not through with you, Carlos. At sea, anything can happen.’’

  Even with light winds, the ocean swell was too much for Ryan and Nicole. They spent the first four hours vomiting over the lifelines, while Carlos smiled. By 2 p.m., they were well enough to eat saltines.

  Adios was fortunate to have good weather for 8 of the 12-day passage. For two boisterous days with 12 to 14 foot swells, Carlos remained at the helm nearly full-time, as Ryan and Nicole refused to leave their berths.

  A sickened Ryan spelled him on occasion.

  Near exhaustion, Carlos smiled when Cuba loomed over the horizon.


  Chapter Seventeen

  The rising sun glistened from red roofs along the port side entrance to Santiago de Cuba’s 5-mile bay. Cuba’s second largest city sat on the southeast coast, about 50 miles from Guantanamo Bay.

  The battered 43-foot sailboat, Adios, motored through smooth blue waters past Fortress Del Moro on the cliff above. This ancient yellow-grey citadel sat above the bay with its rusted cannon pointing forever seaward. Skipper Carlos Mendoza moved to the mast, and dropped the tattered mainsail.

  Ryan stood at the helm. His surfer-blonde hair blew in the wind as he awaited further orders from the skipper. Nicole slept below.

  The 12-day trip from Trinidad had been difficult. Carlos had suffered with this green crew, who knew nothing about sailing, and even less about the sea.

  ‘‘This way, Ryan,’’ Carlos shouted, and pointed to starboard as he secured the mainsail.

  After Carlos applied the last sail tie, he returned to the cockpit, grabbed the VHF handset, and hailed the International Marina.

  Following a lively conversation with his friend, Enrico Prieto, the harbormaster, Carlos replaced the handset. ‘‘I’ll take the wheel. Go to the bow, and let me know when you see the red buoy.’’

  Ryan stared at Carlos. ‘‘Orders aren’t necessary. Just ask.’’

  ‘‘A sailboat isn’t a frat party. Just do as I say.’’

  Ryan shook his head, and moved to the bow.

  A few minutes later, Ryan waved and pointed starboard. When they slid past the red buoy, the marina came into view. Enrico was trotting along the dock toward them.

  ‘‘Toss the bow line to Enrico, then jump off, and catch the stern line.’’

  Moments later, they were safely tied up at the dock.

  Carlos hugged Enrico, and, together, they walked toward the three-story white and blue marina building and the bar next door for cervezas served in an ice-filled bucket.

  Enrico pulled a beer from the ice water, and lifted it in the air. ‘‘Thank God you got your captain’s papers back, amigo.’’

  ‘‘Not God, Enrico. Thank powerful customers who appreciate my unique services, and our poor, corrupt officials.’’