‘‘That’s a hell of a lot better,’’ Andy said as the boat speed slowed to less than 8 knots.
Over the next three hours, the wind moved forward, and waves were coming nearly directly from the beam, or the side of the boat.
Jesse watched each wave approach, lift Prophecy, and then pass under her hull. ‘‘This sucks.’’
At 4 a.m., Andy went below to check the weather. Agnes had stalled, and he felt relieved. ‘‘We must get into port somewhere before she starts moving again.’’
By sunrise, the winds had eased, but the wave height remained the same.
Andy took Jesse’s hand. ‘‘All we need is a break, and we’ll make it in. How’s Rachel doing?’’
‘‘She’s sleeping. Her skin shows a little redness, but no rash.’’
‘‘That could be due to the fever.’’
‘‘We hope.’’
Jesse’s eyes shifted to the radar screen. A blip moved in and out of the 10-mile ring as the boat bobbed on the waves.
‘‘Shit!’’ Andy said. ‘‘That’s got to be our friends from the United States Coast Guard.’’
‘‘What should we do?’’
‘‘The question is: what will they do?’’
The bow of the 47-foot Coast Guard cutter, Gallup, sliced through the waves with ease as it moved toward their projected interception point with Prophecy.
Barney Adams and the skipper sat at a table in the wardroom.
An ensign entered. ‘‘I think we have Prophecy on radar. She’s about 10 miles away.’’
Barney stood. ‘‘It’s game time, Skipper. Let’s move to the bridge.’’
‘‘Prophecy… Prophecy, this is the United States Coast Guard cutter, Gallup. We’re 10 miles off your port bow. Do you read?’’
After calling three times and receiving no answer, the skipper said, ‘‘Maybe they don’t hear us, Captain.’’
‘‘They read us just fine, Skipper. If they think silence is their best answer, they’re sorely mistaken.’’
‘‘We’ll be on them in 20 minutes,’’ the ensign said.
The skipper stared at Barney. ‘‘What are you going to do, Captain?’’
‘‘My job,’’ Barney said with a grim look on his face.
Chapter Fifty-One
The next morning, the President of the United States held up the front page of the Washington Post. ‘‘God damn it. How can we do anything with the damned press lurking over our shoulder? How did Morgan get this story?’’
Preston Harding scanned it quickly.
The 24-point front-page Washington Post headline carried the byline of William Morgan: CUBA ATTACKS THE UNITED STATES IN INTERNATIONAL WATERS.
The story went on to tell of the Cuban’s assault on the sailing vessel, Prophecy, with the Reiss’s on board. The story referred to two young Americans picked up from a vessel adrift, and the death and the loss of one American at sea.
The article described the brazen attack on the unarmed, U.S.-flagged sailboat, and the forced departure of Cuba’s patrol boat under threat of a missile from a United States Coast Guard HU-25 Falcon.
Neither the Department of Defense, nor the Department of Homeland Security was available to comment.
‘‘Well, he obviously got it directly from Prophecy. Jesse Reiss was Morgan’s first wife, after all. The other material, I don’t know. Morgan has ties to the militant Miami Cubans. Maybe it came from them.’’
The President paced in the Oval Office. ‘‘I’m sick of operating in a fishbowl. When will these ‘investigative reporters’ come to understand that secrecy serves the public interest?’’
Harding smiled. ‘‘Remember the French philosopher, Paul Valéry, who said ‘politics is the art of preventing people from sticking their noses into things that are properly their business.’’’
‘‘Right,’’ the President said. ‘‘Where in hell is that sailboat?’’
‘‘The last we heard is that Gallup was in contact with them, and would intercept.’’ Harding looked at his watch. ‘‘Just about now.’’
‘‘What will the Coast Guard do if Prophecy refuses to obey Captain Adams’ orders?’’
‘‘They’ll follow their rules of engagement, Mr. President, and use all necessary force to stop them from entering Unites States territorial waters.’’
‘‘Don’t tell me they’d actually attack and sink an American vessel?’’
‘‘They’ll do exactly as you instructed, Mr. President.’’
‘‘No way.’’ The President shouted. ‘‘I won’t be responsible for attacking that vessel. Get the skipper on the line. I want to change my orders.’’
‘‘Yes, Mr. President.’’
Ten minutes later, Harding returned. ‘‘I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we’re unable to contact Gallup.’’
‘‘Keep trying. If they sink that boat, we’re screwed. You’d better get our best spin-doctors ready, Preston. You’ll be briefing the press.’’
Aboard Prophecy, Jesse listened as the Coast Guard hailed them. ‘‘Aren’t you going to answer them?’’
Andy stared at the radio. ‘‘What more can I say?’’
‘‘Maybe you can reason with them. I don’t believe Barney got up this morning with the idea that he’d have to attack an American sailboat.’’
‘‘I can probably reason with Barney, but how about the pricks in Washington? He’s their agent, he implements their policy, and they don’t give a shit about us.’’
Barney’s voice pleaded. ‘‘Prophecy… Prophecy, come in. C’mon, Andy, answer your phone.’’
Andy raised his binoculars, and, through the bobbing sea, white foam was arching away from Gallup’s bow about a mile away. ‘‘Here they come.’’
‘‘Let’s put on our life vests. You go below, and put them on Rachel and Nicole… just in case.’’
Jesse’s eyes filled. ‘‘I can’t believe this is happening.’’
Andy picked up the VHF handset. ‘‘This is the United States-flagged vessel, Prophecy, in international waters. United States Coast Guard, I wish to know your intentions.’’
‘‘Cut the crap, Andy. You know that I can’t permit you to proceed further.’’
‘‘Then do what you must, Captain Adams. We’re not changing course.’’
‘‘Yes, you will, Andy.’’
‘‘That’s a negative, Captain. You have no right to interfere with us in international waters.’’
‘‘Don’t do this, Andy. I have my orders.’’
‘‘Fuck your orders, Barney, and fuck you.’’
The naval shell crossed Prophecy’s bow, and landed 30 yards to port. The deafening explosion shook the heavy sailboat. The concussive wave hurdled over the bow like a tsunami, and cascaded over the deck, flooding the cockpit, and soaking the skipper.
Andy wiped saltwater from his eyes. ‘‘Those guys are crazy.’’
Jesse burst from the hatchway. ‘‘Make them stop! They’re gonna kill us!’’
Andy grabbed the VHF radio’s handset, and tuned to emergency channel 16. ‘‘Stop, god damn it! We’re United States citizens!’’
‘‘Sir,’’ came a familiar voice, ‘‘that was a warning. The next round will target you. Change heading to 180 degrees.’’
Gallup sat half a mile away with its 3-inch MK-75 cannon pointed toward Prophecy. Four patrol boats floated nearby.
Andy clutched the handset. ‘‘Prophecy is declaring an emergency. We need immediate medical attention.’’
Barney’s voice was dispassionate. ‘‘We understand, sir. This is Captain Adams, and I’m acting on orders from Homeland Security. You’ve entered United States territorial waters illegally. Head due south, or we’ll sink you.’’
‘‘You’re a son of a bitch, Barney,’’ Andy screamed into the handset. ‘‘Maybe they’ll hang your picture in the United States Coast Guard Hall of Shame.’’
‘‘I have my orders, Andy. I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Just like a
good Nazi prison guard at Auschwitz. Maybe he could convince himself he was just following orders, but you, Barney… you’re even worse. You know this is wrong.’’
Icy tension cooled the bridge of Gallup as Barney Adams stood, holding the VHF handset. All eyes were on Barney as he looked at the handset, and the clock. He then met the expectant eyes of each man on the bridge.
Barney Adams took a deep breath, and turned to the skipper. ‘‘Prepare to fire.’’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Andy picked up his binoculars, and studied the Coast Guard cutter, Gallup. Their 3-inch cannon swiveled on its base to face Prophecy.
‘‘You’d better get Rachel up on deck, and throw the ‘abandon ship’ bag into the cockpit.’’
Jesse’s eyes filled with tears. ‘‘They’re really going to do this?’’
‘‘I hope not, but it may be better than being left to the mercy of Hurricane Agnes.’’
Andy reached into the companionway, unstrapped the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, and threw the switch. The red strobe light on top flashed, and the unit clicked as it sent out Prophecy’s identifying information and position.
Andy placed the beacon under his arm. ‘‘We’ll take this with us in the life raft. It’ll help rescuers find us.’’
‘‘This is crazy. Our rescuers are about to sink us.’’
‘‘Well, if you like black humor, then you’ll love this: they’ll follow their orders to save us, just as they did to sink us. That’s the modern military mind… it’s madness.’’
Jesse brought Rachel into the cockpit. Her skin was pale, yet her face was flushed. Jesse had covered her with a blanket as the girl sat, shivering.
The officers and enlisted men on Gallup’s bridge stared at Captain Adams, awaiting his orders. The crewman manning the 25 x 100 rail-mounted binoculars said, ‘‘We have a man, a woman, and a girl in the cockpit.’’
Barney Adams had spent his professional life making decisions—life and death decisions, at that—but with purpose, benevolence, and honesty. Well, honesty, and now this.
An ensign’s voice came from the bridge. ‘‘We have a 406 MHz EPIRB signal from Prophecy. What should I do?’’
‘‘Tell the EPIRB center that we have it under control,’’ Barney said.
The room remained silent, except for the EPIRB beep every 50 seconds, and the soft rumble of the radar’s rotating antenna above the bridge.
It’s been a minor miracle, Barney thought, that after all these years, circumstances force me, for the first time, to do something that I know in my heart is wrong, plain wrong.
The skipper turned to Barney. ‘‘Captain Adams?’’
Barney knew all about the Nuremberg Principles; hell, he taught them at the Coast Guard academy.
I carry the ultimate responsibility, thought Barney. This isn’t an instantaneous battlefield decision to kill, but a calculated one of political expediency.
Adams turned to Gallup’s skipper. ‘‘My military career may be approaching its end, but I’ll be damned if I go out this way. I’m ordering you to stand those guns down.’’
‘‘Thank God,’’ the skipper said with a broad smile, which was shared by all the men on the bridge.
‘‘Let’s do what we’ve been trained to do our whole careers: save lives.’’
As Andy watched the gun turret, awaiting the telltale puff of smoke, it rotated away from Prophecy, and came to rest amidships.
Andy reached over and hugged his wife. ‘‘They turned their guns away, Jesse.’’
‘‘What does that mean?’’
‘‘It means that, for the moment, we live.’’
‘‘Prophecy… Prophecy, this is the USCG cutter, Gallup. Do you read? Andy looked at the radio. ‘‘Andy, it’s Barney Adams. Please come in.’’
Jesse picked up the VHF handset, and placed it in Andy’s hand. ‘‘Damn it. Stow the testosterone and answer him.’’
Andy hesitated for a moment, and then squeezed the transmit switch. ‘‘This is Prophecy. We read. I hope you don’t have any more excitement for us, Barney. I’m getting too old for this.’’
‘‘Listen, Andy, I want you to head south with us as escort.’’
‘‘Like hell, I will. We’re heading for Marco Island.’’
‘‘Andy, will you take a damn second and listen?’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’
‘‘You’ve got to trust me on this… check it out later with your own weather fax, if you must, but Hurricane Agnes has shifted its projected path to the north. You head toward Marco Island with those winds, seas, and into those shallow waters, and you ain’t gonna make it, buddy.’’
‘‘What do you have in mind?’’
‘‘I’m working it out. It’ll be either Flamingo, or Marathon, in the Keys. I think I can sell Flamingo, since it’s isolated, and they can evacuate it with ease.’’
Andy keyed the transmitter. ‘‘Were you going to do it, Barney?’’
‘‘Trust me, Andy, and thank your lucky stars that it was my finger on the trigger, this time. You don’t ever want to get that close again.’’
The ensign rushed onto the bridge. ‘‘I have Preston Harding on the horn for you, Captain.’’
Barney clicked his microphone. ‘‘Stand by, Andy.’’
‘‘Mr. Harding, this is Captain Barney Adams.’’
‘‘Adams,’’ Harding shouted, ‘‘I have a direct order from the President of the United States. You are not to attack the sailing vessel Prophecy under any circumstances. Do you understand?’’
Barney felt instant relief. ‘‘Yes, sir. I completely understand, and thank the President, sir.’’
‘‘Where are they?’’
‘‘About a half mile away. Circumstances force us to escort Prophecy to the south to avoid the worst of Hurricane Agnes. You can be of help, sir, if you can contact DHS, the CDC, and the National Park Service to evacuate Flamingo, so we can place the passengers and crew of Prophecy in quarantine.’’
‘‘Will do, Captain,’’ Harding said. ‘‘Be careful out there.’’
‘‘We will. Thank you, sir. Gallup out.’’ Barney grasped his VHF microphone. ‘‘Are you still there, Andy?’’
‘‘Yes, and having a grand time. Got any good news?’’
‘‘I think we need to hang together, Andy. You just brought good luck to the both of us.’’
Chapter Fifty-Three
Preston Harding put down the phone. ‘‘They’re okay, Mr. President. We got to the Coast Guard in time.’’
‘‘Can you imagine the public outcry if we’d attacked an American boat?’’
‘‘The public knows only part of the facts, Mr. President, and they know nothing about smallpox. We must assume that, eventually, the information will become public, and, therefore, it should come from us, and on our own terms.’’
‘‘I want this thing stopped dead in Flamingo, or wherever they wind up.’’
‘‘I’d avoid the word ‘dead’ for a while, Mr. President,’’ Harding said.
‘‘When I address the public from the Oval Office, I want to say that Islamic terrorists were behind this biological attack, but that we caught it in time. I’ll say that it’s under control, and poses no risk to the public.’’
‘‘We can do that.’’
‘‘How do we explain Ryan and Nicole?’’
Harding shook his head. ‘‘We can’t hide the facts, sir. We had the same problem with the Oklahoma City bombing.’’
‘‘Nobody understood it then, and they won’t understand it now. They’ll feel as I do: bewilderment at the willingness of homegrown terrorists to attack their own people, and rage that they might have succeeded.’’
‘‘This isn’t the end of homegrown terrorism,’’ Harding said. ‘‘We’ll redouble our efforts, sir.’’
‘‘Above all,’’ said the President, ‘‘this attack must awaken the people of the United States that we’re in a global war against militant Islam, a war
we must win at all costs.’’
‘‘If a smallpox attack doesn’t do it, then what will?’’
‘‘Who will brief the press on the Cuban situation?’’
‘‘The Secretary of State and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They’ll file a formal complaint against Cuba at the United Nations.’’
The President stared at Harding. ‘‘What’s happening with our militant friends in Miami?’’
‘‘Miguel Garcia of the Cuban Exile Foundation is calling for strong military action against Castro.’’
‘‘That’s a big surprise,’’ the President said facetiously. ‘‘Which Castro, by the way?’’
‘‘Does it matter? What the neocons and the Miami Cubans want is a full scale invasion of Cuba… some people never learn.’’
‘‘I want hourly updates from Captain Adams. I’m in no mood for surprises.’’
On Prophecy, Andy turned to a southerly heading. The wind was about 30 degrees off the starboard bow. This was a stable point of sail for their Sparkman and Stevens-designed hull, but not a comfortable one. They’d double reefed the mainsail, and held the staysail as close as possible to the midline. Remarkably, Prophecy heeled over to the portside only 15 degrees.
Jesse studied the sails. ‘‘How long are we going to hold this point of sail?’’
‘‘Until the wind shifts, or we until arrive at Flamingo.’’
‘‘I hate going to wind, and remaining heeled over hour after hour.’’
‘‘Give thanks that Prophecy isn’t a tender boat, or else we’d have our rails in the water, or have to fall off to a less direct course to Flamingo.’’
The waves reached 20 feet, forcing Prophecy to climb over each as it approached, and to then surf down its backside. Several times, the waves lifted the stern high enough to expose the propeller; it whirred in the air, and then settled back in the water. In spite of the warm air temperature, the spray and the wind left them wet and chilled.
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