Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  ‘‘Daddy, don’t.’’

  ‘‘Can we ignore them, especially Nicole?’’ Jesse asked. ‘‘She looks more like a victim to me.’’

  ‘‘You believe her outburst… her ‘What have you done, Ryan’? It’s a load of crap. Ryan didn’t get here by himself. Sweet Nicole was part of this whole thing.’’

  Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. ‘‘I don’t believe it. Not Nicole.’’

  Andy shook his head. ‘‘Once those sores open, the portside compartment is going to be a cesspool of smallpox. I know about our tradition of caring for the sick, but how much is too much?’’

  Jesse looked from Andy to Rachel and back to Andy. She shook her head. ‘‘I don’t know. I can’t just let her die.’’

  ‘‘I’m not telling you what to do. If you go in there, it’s with gown, gloves, and mask. I don’t want Rachel anywhere near them.’’

  Jesse nodded.

  Andy stood. ‘‘I’m going above to trim the sails, get the engine going at maximal RPMs, and point us toward Point Sable.’’

  The next morning, while Andy was above, Jesse grabbed their elaborate medical kit. She removed a long hospital gown, a pair of gloves, booties, and a mask.

  Rachel studied her mother and nodded.

  Jesse listened at the door, and, hearing nothing, slid the bolt to one side, and gradually opened it. She flipped the switch to light the darkened room. Nicole’s blue eyes stared at her. Ryan, in the lower berth, turned away and was asleep in moments.

  ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ Jesse asked.

  Nicole’s face showed the distinctive nodular rash of smallpox extending onto her dry, encrusted lips. ‘‘I’m so thirsty.’’

  Jesse handed her a half-liter bottle of water, and watched as Nicole sipped.

  ‘‘How can you be so kind to me?’’ Nicole whispered.

  ‘‘That’s the difference between us.’’

  Nicole looked up at Jesse. ‘‘You must believe me… I had no idea…’’

  Jesse shook her head in disgust. ‘‘You had no idea… you must think I’m an idiot.’’

  ‘‘It wasn’t smallpox or anything dangerous. It was supposed to be a mild virus, and a warning to the government.’’

  ‘‘Nicole, you’re the fool. I can’t believe you don’t know your own brother, and his willingness to kill innocents, including his own sister. Live with that.’’

  ‘‘No. You don’t understand.’’ She paused. ‘‘They killed our father, an innocent man. We couldn’t let that go.’’

  ‘‘And that justifies killing thousands of innocent Americans? Was that going to bring him back?’’

  Oh, what’s the use? Jesse thought.

  A moment later, Nicole was asleep.

  Jesse hesitated, and then placed her hand on Ryan’s shoulder. She shook him, but got no reaction. His shallow respirations said he was alive. When Jesse rolled him onto his back, Ryan’s face was a mask of oozing pus and blood. Jesse reeled back involuntarily toward the door, feeling as if she was going to vomit. She stepped from the cabin, removed her protective gear, and slammed the bolt lock into place.

  ‘‘Mother?’’ Rachel cried.

  ‘‘I’m okay,’’ she gasped.

  When Andy came below, Jesse stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands.

  ‘‘How are they?’’

  ‘‘Bad.’’

  ‘‘How bad?’’

  ‘‘Ryan doesn’t look like he’s long for the world…’’

  ‘‘Good riddance.’’

  ‘‘Nicole has the full eruption and she was quite dehydrated, but she looks a hell of a lot better.’’ Jesse hesitated. ‘‘She claimed her innocence. Claimed she didn’t know it was smallpox.’’

  Andy shook his head. ‘‘She’s full of shit, and, anyway, what difference does that make, now?’’

  Andy and Jesse turned together to face Rachel. Andy put his arm around his daughter. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’

  ‘‘Like I can’t wait to get off this boat, but, otherwise, okay.’’

  Jesse placed her lips against Rachel’s forehead. ‘‘You feel a little warm to me.’’

  They took Rachel’s temperature: 99.2 degrees.

  ‘‘I’m fine, Daddy.’’

  ‘‘Good. Why don’t you stand watch for a while. I want to check the weather.’’

  ‘‘Aye, aye, Skipper,’’ Rachel said, scampering up to the cockpit.

  Andy went to the computer and the single sideband radio, and adjusted it for the weather frequency. In 20 minutes, he had the New Orleans report and weather faxes.

  ‘‘It looks like Agnes has stalled just south of the western tip of Cuba.’’

  ‘‘That’s great,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘Maybe, maybe not. Stalling over warm water is likely to increase the storm’s power. When Agnes gets moving again, we’d better not be in her way.’’

  By the next morning, their progress toward the rendezvous point disappointed Andy. The heavier seas had slowed them, and they still had 150 miles to go to meet with the USCG. He checked the weather fax; Agnes had started to move again, and now had winds gusting to 90 knots. Andy plotted the storm’s course. Agnes was heading in their direction.

  Rachel was at the helm. ‘‘Daddy, Daddy, I don’t see any water coming out of the exhaust, and the engine temperature is rising.’’

  Shit, thought Andy. My God, what next?

  ‘‘Shut her down.’’

  Chapter Forty

  Ochoa’s aide stood at attention. ‘‘Faul II found the American boat, Colonel.’’

  ‘‘Where are they?’’

  ‘‘Captain Ortiz says they’re about 30 miles away from their target, and await your orders. Ortiz is concerned about Hurricane Agnes.’’

  ‘‘That’s too bad,’’ Ochoa said. ‘‘We all have our jobs to do. Now, get me Raúl Castro.’’

  The aide returned in a moment. ‘‘He’s on the line.’’

  ‘‘They’re a couple of hours away, Mr. President. What would you have us do?’’

  ‘‘Does American intelligence know what’s happening on Prophecy?’’

  ‘‘We have no way of knowing that, Señor.’’

  ‘‘At the very least,’’ Castro said, ‘‘I want those terrorists off that sailboat, and brought back to Cuba.’’

  ‘‘You’d bring a deadly infection onto Cuban soil?’’

  ‘‘It’s possible that they won’t make it back; those are treacherous waters. Anything could happen.’’

  ‘‘What about Prophecy’s crew? They would be witnesses to an attack by Cuba in international waters, an act of war against the United States.’’

  ‘‘You’d think that Prophecy’s Skipper would welcome our removal of such sick people from their boat,’’ Castro said.

  ‘‘That would be the best of all worlds, an act of generosity by the Cuban people.’’

  ‘‘Do it,’’ Castro said.

  ‘‘Excuse me, Señor. We must give our sailors rules of engagement. What if Prophecy won’t cooperate?’’

  ‘‘Can we get away with it?’’

  ‘‘With what, Mr. President?’’

  ‘‘Can we have, as they say in the United States, ‘plausible deniability’?’’

  Ochoa shook his head. ‘‘I don’t think that’s a bet I’d be willing to make. We’re in no position to confront the Americans on the high seas. Don’t forget: they have eyes and ears everywhere.’’

  ‘‘If the sailboat won’t cooperate, and all of our information says that nobody will know, then sink her.’’

  The President of the United States’ private secretary approached a group of men waiting by the Oval Office. ‘‘The President will be with you in a moment.’’

  Minutes later, the door to the Oval Office opened, and the National Security Advisor, Preston Harding, showed the group in.

  In addition to the Director of Central Intelligence and the Director of Homeland Security, were Rear Admiral Byron Pitts, the Chief of St
aff of the United States Coast Guard, Herb Goldberg of DHS, and Claire Cousins of the CIA.

  The NSA introduced Claire and Herb to the angry President.

  ‘‘I can’t believe you guys screwed up again. Didn’t you learn anything from 9-11?’’

  ‘‘This is complicated business, Mr. President,’’ the DCI said. ‘‘We thought we had it covered.’’

  ‘‘This is embarrassing to my administration, and it’s dangerous for the country.’’ He paused. ‘‘What’s the current situation?’’

  Admiral Pitts rose. ‘‘Sir, Captain Barney Adams, one our best and most experienced officers, is supervising our efforts. He’s in contact with the sailing vessel, Prophecy. They’re about a day and a half from the rendezvous we gave them, off Point Sable, Florida.’’

  ‘‘What about the terrorists?’’ He paused. ‘‘I can’t stand using that word to describe two young Americans.’’

  ‘‘We all feel the same way, sir. Dr. Reiss, the skipper, is an infectious disease expert, sir, and we ought to listen to his opinion. He said that they have full-blown smallpox.’’

  ‘‘God damn it! Smallpox, of all things. This world is going crazy. Those fucking terrorists will stop at nothing. When are we going to get the American public to understand the nature of this war against…’’ He paused again, scanning the professionals before him. ‘‘Against what? What in hell are we up against? How did this happen? How could you let this happen?’’

  All eyes turned toward the DCI, who seemed to shrink in his chair. ‘‘If you want my resignation, sir, you’ll have it.’’

  ‘‘What kind of crap is that?’’ The President said with icy coldness. ‘‘There’s time enough for a hanging party later. What should we do, now?’’

  ‘‘I talked to the director of the CDC about smallpox, and got her recommendations,’’ the NSA said. ‘‘The gist of what she said is that we can control smallpox by simple quarantine measures and treatment of the Reiss family with vaccination and/or an immune globulin against smallpox.’’

  The President scanned the group. ‘‘You want me to give permission to allow this smallpox-ridden boat into the United States?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ the USCG chief said. ‘‘What are our alternatives?’’

  ‘‘Send the boat back to Cuba, where it came from,’’ the President said. ‘‘And, by the way, what role did Castro play in this fiasco?’’

  ‘‘We think this plot began with Al-Qaeda in Pakistan,’’ the DCI said. ‘‘The terrorists, Nicole and Ryan Allen, traveled through Trinidad, and then to Cuba. The big question is how could Al-Qaeda have co-opted two young Americans.’’

  The President scanned the group. ‘‘As if we don’t have enough trouble with Islamic terrorists, now we must fear our own citizens.’’

  ‘‘That doesn’t matter much now, does it?’’ Preston Harding said. ‘‘I still say we should send them back to Cuba.’’

  ‘‘Impossible,’’ Herb said.

  The President stared at the DHS analyst. ‘‘What’s your name, again? And what in hell are you saying?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m Herb Goldberg with DHS, but for many years, I worked at the CIA.’’

  ‘‘He’s one of our best men,’’ the DCI said. ‘‘That’s why we loaned him to DHS.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ the President said.

  ‘‘First, we cannot turn away an American-flagged ship from our shores.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’ The President asked. ‘‘If they pose a danger to our public health, I don’t see the problem.’’

  ‘‘They don’t, sir. The danger is to themselves from the smallpox and from Hurricane Agnes, which is heading their way. It would be a mistake, sir, if you think turning them away under these circumstances won’t reach the public and especially the enemies of your administration.’’

  The President stood. ‘‘I want you to hold them offshore until I can meet with all my advisors. The Cubans are going to pay if they’re behind this.’’

  Claire had been stewing over what she needed to say next. She raised her hand like a child at school.

  ‘‘What is it now?’’ The President asked.

  ‘‘I have something to say, and nobody’s going to like it.’’ She scanned the room slowly until the President nodded. ‘‘This virus came from the laboratory of Kamal Yamin, a sophisticated biological weapons researcher in Waziristan. Who’s to say he hasn’t modified smallpox into a more virulent and more infectious agent?’’

  The President paled. ‘‘My God, what’s next?’’

  After the meeting, the President sat with the Director of Homeland Security, the DCI, and Preston Harding, his Chief of Staff.

  The President’s intercom sounded. ‘‘He’s here.’’

  ‘‘Yes, have him join us.’’

  The Oval Office door opened, and a tall, black-bearded, and well-dressed middle-aged man entered.

  ‘‘I’m sure you gentlemen recognize Harvey Marshall, the Deputy Secretary of Defense.’’

  They nodded.

  ‘‘Harvey, did you get all that?’’

  The DCI and the Director of Homeland Security stared at each other.

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. President. Castro has finally gone too far. This is the excuse we’ve been waiting for.’’

  ‘‘Wait a minute,’’ the DCI said. ‘‘What do you know that we don’t?’’

  Marshall ignored the remark. ‘‘Mr. President, for far too long, we’ve been stymied by the liberals’ gutless tolerance, and, I dare say, support for that communist bastard. Cuba has posed, and now poses, an immediate threat to the security of the United States of America. By direct action, or by their tolerance and support of radical Islamists, Castro’s evil philosophy has come to our shores.’’

  The President turned to Harding. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘Sir, I know how you feel about Cuba, and especially Castro. But don’t let the babbling of this lunatic send us off on another catastrophe. Don’t we have enough trouble in the Middle East? We’re going to need to know a hell of a lot more before we attack Cuba.’’

  Marshall reddened. ‘‘Here they go again, Mr. President. Apologists like Preston Harding won’t react until they see a mushroom cloud rising over Washington, D.C.’’

  The President turned to the DCI. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘I don’t make policy decisions, Mr. President.’’

  The President shook his head, and then stood and went to a panel on the wall, which he opened it. He flipped a switch. ‘‘The tape recording is off. Now, for Christ’s sake, can I get an informed opinion?’’

  The DCI smiled. ‘‘Our analysts don’t deny that extremists in Cuba would cooperate with terrorists in an attack on the United States, but Castro and Cuban policy, overall, would never support such activities. In fact, I think they’d violently oppose them. Castro understands that we have radical elements in our country, like Harvey Marshall and the Miami Cubans, who’d become orgasmic at any excuse to attack Cuba.’’

  ‘‘Mr. President,’’ Marshall growled, ‘‘This is…’’

  ‘‘Put a muzzle on it, Harvey. I’ve heard enough,’’ the President said. He turned again to the DCI. ‘‘I want surveillance increased over Cuba, and I want you to wring all your assets for information on the situation. We’ll see how this plays out.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ the DCI said.

  ‘‘When will Prophecy reach the rendezvous point?’’ The President asked.

  ‘‘In 24 to 36 hours,’’ the Director of Homeland Security said.

  The President stood. ‘‘We will have a plan by then, gentlemen.’’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Andy felt rage building as he stared at the temperature gauge, which was now completely in the red zone. ‘‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’’ He turned to Jesse. ‘‘Terrorists, smallpox, hurricanes, and now this. If I’m stupid enough to go to sea again, shoot me, first.’’

  �
��‘This is a hell of a time to change your mind, sweetheart.’’

  He took a deep breath. ‘‘Can you stand watch, Rachel?’’

  ‘‘No problem, Daddy.’’

  ‘‘Keep an eye on the seas and the sail trim. If you feel confident, adjust them yourself, or just give me a shout. We want to keep going as fast as possible.’’

  ‘‘Aye, aye,’’ Rachel said with a smile.

  ‘‘Jesse, you stay below with me. I may need you to hand me tools, and I want you below to get the radio if the Coast Guard calls.’’

  When Andy pulled up the floorboards covering the engine, heat, diesel fumes, and the bilge stench wafted into his face. He felt nauseated at once.

  He stared at the engine. The loss of water flow meant either a bad raw water pump impeller, or a pump failure. He’d know at once when he opened the impeller cover.

  Jesse slid the heavy tool kit beside Andy. ‘‘Will you need anything else?’’

  ‘‘Where’s the small ratchet wrench set?’’

  ‘‘I’ll get it.’’

  Jesse opened the set, grasped the small ratchet wrench, and slapped it into Andy’s hand as if it were a surgical instrument.

  He smiled. ‘‘Can’t get the OR nurse out of you, can you?’’ He fitted a 3/8-inch socket, and unbolted the pump cover. He grabbed his small Maglite, leaned over, and shined it into the pump. ‘‘The impeller’s shredded. Thank God.’’

  ‘‘We have one, don’t we?’’ Jesse wished.

  ‘‘We have five. Now let’s see how easy it is to replace.’’

  Andy put a large clamp on the old impeller, and pulled it out. He was especially careful to grasp the little bronze key that sat on the pump shaft, and interfaced with the impeller.

  As the boat bounced around, Andy felt increasingly nauseated. He raised his head for a moment, and wiped his brow with his forearm, leaving a streak of black grease.

  ‘‘Can I help you?’’ Jesse asked.

  ‘‘Insert this impeller, and then we’re on our way.’’

  ‘‘You want me to try?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m kidding.’’

  Andy squirted oil on the new impeller’s rubber blades, checked the key’s position in the slot, and tried to insert it, but it moved only partway onto the shaft. Andy pushed and swore. Sweat ran into his eyes and down his face.