Deadly Passage

by Lawrence Gold

  ‘‘I’m sure you’ve had your share of intrigues in the USCG, but, at this level, the Presidential level, politics rule. First, we have the politicians who’ll act on their own agendas in spite of anything we tell them. Second, we have some legitimate experts who won’t take any risk that could put them in jeopardy if they’re wrong. My third concern reflects our government’s indifference to the sufferings of the few. The only place we see that kind of concern today is in the military’s credo to never leave a soldier behind.’’

  ‘‘I thought I was cynical,’’ Barney said.

  ‘‘It’s not cynical, it’s realistic. Here’s my opinion: if we can find a location far from any large population, and with appropriate isolation facilities, Prophecy poses little risk. I’ll repeat that to the President, if you can get him to listen.’’

  After Barney hung up, he placed a call to Preston Harding.

  When he’d completed his statement, Harding was blunt. ‘‘You’re to stop that boat at all costs until we have a chance to think this through and poll our own experts.’’

  ‘‘Sir,’’ Adams said, ‘‘Prophecy has already altered their course to the north for Everglades City, or Marco Island.’’

  ‘‘I’m ordering you to intercept them and turn them away until we decide what to do. Is that clear, Captain Adams, or do you want to hear it from POTUS?’’

  ‘‘Aye, aye, sir.’’

  Barney suddenly felt nauseated. He straightened up in his chair, and stared at the handset. ‘‘When can I expect a definitive answer, sir? Prophecy is directly in the path of Hurricane Agnes.’’

  ‘‘Captain, you’ll have the answer when we’re ready to give it. Is that clear?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  If I don’t shut up, Barney thought, these politicians will toss me overboard.

  When Adams hung up the phone, he buzzed his aide. ‘‘Get the chopper ready. I’m going out to join the cutter Gallup off Point Sable.’’

  Aboard Prophecy, Andy turned to Jesse. ‘‘We need leverage. Alone at sea, the USCG or the Navy can do what they will with us. I’m not prepared to use the word ‘smallpox’ but I’d sure like others to know that we’re out here.’’

  ‘‘What about William?’’

  ‘‘Your ex?’’

  ‘‘Yes. He still works for the Washington Post, and he’s not a big fan of this administration.’’

  ‘‘Would he help?’’

  ‘‘If he sees something in it for himself, you bet.’’

  ‘‘We’re too far off to reach him by cell phone, and I don’t want to wait until we’re close to shore. It’ll be too late, by then.’’

  Jesse thought for a moment. ‘‘What about the High Seas Operator?’’

  ‘‘Call me paranoid, but it would surprise me if DHS wasn’t monitoring those transmissions. I know of one possibility.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I have a list of ham enthusiasts willing to relay calls from boats at sea to land lines. If we can find one, I think we can get a call through.’’

  Andy sat with his list. He made call after call, but after 90 minutes, he shook his head. ‘‘Either nobody’s at home, or short-wave signal propagation is too poor. I can’t raise anybody.’’

  ‘‘Keep trying. I’ll stand watch.’’

  ‘‘How’s Rachel?’’

  ‘‘She’s flushed and feverish. All she wants to do is stay in bed. I got her to eat a power bar and drink a couple of glasses of water.’’

  Andy walked up to the V-berth in the bow to visit Rachel. When he opened the door, she opened her green eyes and smiled at him. ‘‘Are you okay, Daddy?’’

  ‘‘You’re asking me. I came up here to check on my girl.’’

  ‘‘I don’t feel so good. What’s going to happen to me? I really don’t know anything about smallpox, except how scary it is to you and Mommy.’’

  ‘‘Smallpox was a terrible disease, until we learned to prevent it by vaccination.’’

  ‘‘Was I vaccinated?’’

  ‘‘No, sweetie. By 1977 the world had rid itself of the disease, so vaccination wasn’t needed, anymore.’’

  ‘‘So, what happened?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think we should get into that. I want you to focus on getting better.’’

  ‘‘Daddy, we live on a small sailboat. I hear a lot, but I don’t understand it all.’’

  ‘‘You know all about terrorists?’’

  ‘‘Sure. Why do they hate us so much?’’

  ‘‘You’re a bright girl, and I don’t want to give you a casual answer to a complicated question.’’

  ‘‘Give me the Cliff Notes version.’’

  ‘‘I’m a reasonably intelligent man, but I have trouble explaining why Ryan and Nicole, two all-American types, would attack their own country.’’

  ‘‘They must have something against the USA… how else can you explain it, Daddy?’’

  Andy sat beside Rachel and smiled. ‘‘I can’t. Most terrorists are Islamic. It’s a complicated religion. Extremists have perverted aspects of the religion to the point where they hate everyone who doesn’t believe in Islam. They think that this justifies killing what they call ‘nonbelievers’. Armies fight under rules designed to prevent the killing or injury to noncombatants, women, children, and the elderly. Terrorists make no such distinction… no, it’s worse than that… they target the innocent.’’

  ‘‘Nicole and Ryan are Islamic terrorists?’’

  ‘‘They infected themselves with smallpox, and planned to spread it to innocent men, women, and children in Miami. If that doesn’t make them terrorists, then nothing will. I’m not so sure of the Islamic part.’’

  Rachel made a small smile. ‘‘I guess I’m victim number one on their list.’’

  ‘‘We’ve got you covered, sweetie. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.’’

  ‘‘What about you and Mommy?’’

  ‘‘So far, so good. We both had been vaccinated many years ago. Maybe it’s still working to prevent the smallpox.’’

  ‘‘Is Nicole going to die?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. She’s very sick.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want her to die.’’

  Andy felt his eyes fill.

  ‘‘Am I going to die, Daddy?’’

  Andy turned away, wiping his eyes. When he turned back, he hugged Rachel. ‘‘No way, kiddo. No way.’’

  Andy returned to the radio, and, after another 40 minutes, he latched onto a ham operator in Tucson, Arizona, and he agreed to make the call to the Washington Post.

  Andy handed the handset to Jesse. ‘‘No mention of smallpox. Just a virus.’’

  ‘‘I have a William Morgan on the line,’’ the ham operator said.

  ‘‘William, it’s Jesse.’’

  ‘‘My God, Jesse. I thought you were still out on the high seas.’’

  ‘‘We are. I have a big problem, and I need your help.’’

  ‘‘Of course. What can I do?’’

  Jesse and William conversed through the awkward simplex transmissions, where one had to pause with ‘over’ before the other side of the conversation continued.

  ‘‘This is just like them,’’ William said, ‘‘but, Jesse, I don’t think you’re telling me the entire story.’’

  ‘‘You’re right, but when I can, we’ll give you an exclusive, and probably a Pulitzer.’’

  ‘‘Okay, Jesse. Let me make some calls, and see what I can stir up.’’

  ‘‘Do you still have your connections with the Cuban Exile Foundation?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I go way back with Miguel Garcia.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you should give him a call.’’

  As soon as William put down the phone, he dialed a Miami number. ‘‘Miguel? This is William Morgan from the Washington Post.’’

  ‘‘Guillermo. Que pasa?’’

  ‘‘We’re not hearing much from the CEF recently, amigo, you must be getting old.’’
/>
  ‘‘Not as old as Fidel. I’m going to outlive that bastard. What can I do for you?’’

  ‘‘I’m hearing things about Cuba, Islamic sympathizers, and an American sailboat. What can you tell me?’’

  On the other end of the line, Miguel found himself holding his breath. When he recovered, he said, ‘‘Can I put you on hold for a few minutes, someone just came in.’’

  ‘‘Make the wait worthwhile, my friend.’’

  Miguel turned to Alberto. ‘‘The Washington Post’s Bill Morgan has heard something about Jorge Lopez in Cuba, and an American sailboat. What should I tell him?’’

  ‘‘Tell him everything, Miguel,’’ Alberto pleaded. ‘‘This is perfect for us, a Washington Post reporter who won’t reveal his source. What more do we want? The world will finally label Castro for the tyrant and murderer that he is.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want to be responsible for the panic that comes after we utter the word ‘smallpox’. Think of the damage possible. Who knows how many a frightened mob might kill or injure. As much as I hate Castro, I love this country.’’

  ‘‘Please, Miguel. I see how frustrated you’ve become over the years. I don’t want my future to be the same. Let’s show the world the real Fidel Castro.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, amigo. I’ll tell him of Lopez, his suspected terrorist connections, and the rumors of an attack on a United States-flagged vessel. That’s enough to get the pressure mounting. If the smallpox terrorism comes out, it’s going to have to come from somebody else.’’

  Tears of frustration filled Alberto’s eyes, but he bit his lip, and nodded his approval.

  Miguel placed his arm around his younger associate, and then picked up the line. ‘‘You better sit down, Guillermo. Have I got a story for you.’’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Andy changed course to directly north toward Marco Island. He trimmed the sails a bit to conform to the wind that was now on the starboard aft quarter. The seas had increased to 18 to 20 feet, and the winds blew at 25 knots, gusting to 32.

  They would have enjoyed this sail under ordinary circumstances—the thrill of the waves, and the opportunity to surf down the biggest of them—but they had other things on their minds.

  ‘‘I don’t think we have much of a plan,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘I agree. I’m open to suggestions.’’

  ‘‘Will they really block us from entering United States territorial waters, and leave us sitting in front Hurricane Agnes?’’

  ‘‘I’m hoping… we’re betting… that they’ll come to their senses, and realize the risk of smallpox isn’t enough to cost us our lives.’’

  ‘‘You think they’re lacking accurate information?’’

  ‘‘No, Jesse. I think their decision will be political, not medical.’’

  Andy eased the jib and the staysail a bit. ‘‘We may have to shorten sail soon if the winds increase.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure you don’t want to do it now? I hate those last-minute desperation sail changes.’’

  ‘‘I agree, but the faster we move, the greater the distance between us and our friend, Agnes.’’

  ‘‘I’ll go below to check on Rachel.’’

  ‘‘If Barney calls, don’t answer.’’

  ‘‘What if he has something important for us?’’

  ‘‘I’ll call him in a few hours.’’

  Two hours later, as Andy stepped below, Barney’s voice came through the radio. ‘‘USCG, Cutter Gallup to sailing vessel Prophecy. Come in.’’

  ‘‘This is Prophecy. Don’t tell me you’re getting your feet wet, Barney.’’

  ‘‘It’s like riding a bike, Andy. You never forget. By the way, you forgot to give your position.’’

  ‘‘You noticed. With satellite access and high-tech equipment, you should have us by now.’’

  ‘‘We should, but we don’t, Andy. Believe me, you want us to know where you are, especially with Agnes bearing down on both of us.’’

  ‘‘Does that mean we can expect a Coast Guard escort into Marco Island?’’

  ‘‘Andy, for Christ’s sake, I’m not the enemy.’’

  ‘‘You’re doing a pretty good imitation of one.’’

  ‘‘We’re going to find you eventually, Andy. Let’s hope that it’s not too late. Remember, you have three women on board who depend on you.’’

  ‘‘You have quite a set of balls there, Captain. This is all your doing, you and your political friends.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have the slightest idea…’’ Crackled through the radio.

  ‘‘I want your solemn promise that you’ll guide us to safety. Moreover, considering your previous promises, that’s a big risk for us. Let’s have it, Captain. Your word… your honor.’’

  The radio remained silent.

  ‘‘Thanks, Barney. At least there’s a limit to your bullshit.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Andy. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard, but do it, we will.’’

  ‘‘How big are your cannons on that cutter?’’

  ‘‘Big enough, Andy.’’

  ‘‘That’s what I thought. I see a certain poetry in this… a symmetry. First, the Cubans try to sink us, and then the United States Coast Guard, our savior, threatens us with their cannon. Ironic, isn’t it? Prophecy, out.’’

  The Washington Post Editor in Chief sat next to the Assistant Editor for Political Affairs. William Morgan sat across the conference room table.

  ‘‘Are you sure about this, Billy?’’ The chief asked.

  ‘‘I have two sources. One is the crew of Prophecy: my ex and her husband. They are solid, apolitical people. Then, I have Miguel Garcia of the Cuban Exile Foundation, who ordinarily might not be the most objective source regarding Cuba, but his allegations confirm my first source. Then, when I called Preston Harding, he refused to comment, and he threatened me with his favorite, ‘National Security’. I suspect you’ll be hearing from him soon.’’

  ‘‘What’s the rush?’’ Asked the assistant editor.

  ‘‘They’re going to abandon Prophecy to the tender mercies of Hurricane Agnes, hoping their problems and the sailboat will disappear under one large wave. I’m asking for the next edition’s front page.’’

  ‘‘Are you threatening us, Billy?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely not. I know you guys. Threats aren’t necessary.’’

  At 6 p.m. aboard Gallup, the skipper, a commander, entered the wardroom with a computer printout. ‘‘We have them, Captain. They’re where you thought they’d be. We drew a line from their last known position to Marco Island, and the satellite got them about 100 miles away. We’ll intercept their course sometime after 10 a.m. What are we going to do, Barney?’’

  ‘‘Like always: we follow our orders.’’

  Chapter Fifty

  Andy struggled at the helm as the weather deteriorated. Bad weather on TV is an abstraction, but to a sailor, a hurricane at sea is grim reality and impending disaster. When Andy looked into the maelstrom, he felt its mounting rage. While they stood, helpless, in its path, Andy wondered whether he or Prophecy could withstand nature’s fury.

  The autopilot had been doing a decent job, but with increasing winds from behind, Andy worried that the high boat speed and huge following waves could pitch pole Prophecy, or capsize her, end over end.

  Jesse entered the cockpit. ‘‘Let me take the helm. Why don’t you see if you can get a look at Hurricane Agnes?’’

  Andy went below. He reviewed the latest weather fax and satellite imagery. The storm was now directly behind them. As it approached, the winds would move forward. Once that happened, they’d be carrying too much sail.

  Andy returned to the cockpit. ‘‘I need to double reef the mainsail and get rid of the jib. Can you bring her up into the wind?’’

  Jesse paled. ‘‘I hate turning the boat broadside to these waves, especially in such deep troughs.’’

  ‘‘Me too, sweetheart, but if we don’t shorten sail,
we’ll be in even more trouble. I’ll do it, if you like.’’

  ‘‘No. It’s okay. Let’s furl in the jib and staysail. I’ll start the engine.’’

  Andy struggled with the jib as it carried the wind’s full force, and he wasn’t able to furl it in. He turned to Jesse, shaking his head. ‘‘We’ll need to get all the sails down in one maneuver.’’

  Jesse studied each wave as it lifted Prophecy, passed under her hull, and dropped her into the trough behind. She visualized the turn and the approaching gigantic wave that might flip Prophecy onto its side. Her mouth was dry; she shuddered as she gripped the wheel.

  She counted the waves, and when the fifth one passed, she turned into the trough, and headed high enough into the wind to allow Andy to furl the jib. The staysail, much smaller in area, was easy to control. With two sails down, the boat speed slowed, and Jesse finally breathed.

  ‘‘I’m going up to the mast,’’ Andy said, attaching his harness to the jack lines.

  Jesse squeezed Andy’s hand. ‘‘Be careful.’’

  He crawled on hands and knees down the starboard deck, and then moved to the mast, where he attached a short tether to hold him close.

  At his signal, Jesse turned Prophecy further into the wind, and simultaneously used the power winch to bring in the boom to the boat’s centerline. When the mainsail fluttered, Jesse tied the boom in place, and gradually released the main halyard that kept the sail up.

  Andy shouted and gestured, ‘‘Down… down.’’

  Jesse released the halyard until Andy slashed his hand across his throat to signal that it was enough. She watched as Andy manipulated the sail to the second reef point, then when he signaled by raising his thumb, she placed the halyard on the winch, and tightened it until Andy gave the okay.

  He applied the vang to keep the boom from rising, and then released his tether from the mast. He moved down the boom, and placed ties over the excess sail material, then crawled back to the cockpit.

  ‘‘Piece of cake,’’ he said. ‘‘Let her fall off the wind, and I’ll bring out the staysail for stability.’’

  Jesse allowed the bow to fall away from the wind, a much more comfortable maneuver than the one she’d completed minutes ago. As the bow drifted downwind, she allowed the boom to move away from the midline.