by Eddie Jones
The air was surprisingly calm inside the cave. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. Beyond a bed of sand and sea-weed sat a rusty charcoal grill, minus the legs. Empty fuel jugs, nylon rope and a deflated inner tube were all that remained of a makeshift raft. He wondered how many Cuban and Haitian refugees had hidden in the cave, watching for a passing vessel and their chance at freedom.
The wind surf board lay among fish bones and rotting pieces of clothing. No sail, mast or frame. Just a plastic sled, probably lost from the deck of a cruise liner or carried north and west from Puerto Rico by the currents. Perhaps it was used to ferry others ashore or out to waiting vessels.
He ran his hand along the waffle pattern of the deck, tested the firmness of the mold. Craning his neck to look through a gap in the rocks he saw the grayness of ocean and could feel the thunder of waves crashing against the cliff.
Good luck…or God, he thought, had given him a gift and a second chance to reach her.
When the breaker broke on him, he knew his plan was no good. The waves were too large, approaching to fast. He gripped the side of the board and hung on, skipping across the razor-sharp coral until the surge tossed him back onto the beach. He rested and watched, counting the waves in the sets. Timing his run, he sprinted toward the water again, landing prone on the board.
With furious effort, he paddled toward the wall of white water, pushed down the nose of the board and plunged under.
33
Tommy felt nauseated. He always did when he flew, and the SH-60C Sea Hawk was one huge bird. The aircraft was part of the Helicopter Sea Combat Squadron which, under normal circumstances, spent its time patrolling the Florida Straits for Haitians and Cubans seeking to slip into the United States. Now the rotors whirred while Tommy, strapped into a jump seat behind the co-pilot, fought the queasiness in his stomach.
A few minutes earlier, they’d lifted off from the USS Nix and screamed across the ocean on a southerly heading that took them directly toward Cay Sol Amanda. Rain pelted the copter’s metal skin, wind buffeted them. One mistake by the pilot, and the Sea Hawk could swerve into the ocean and sink.
Thus, the reason for Tommy’s nausea. Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy saw the squadron leader adjust the chin strap of his helmet. The drone of the turbines increased.
Ahead lay the ghost outline of an island, its coastline rimmed with white breakers. A red speck near the western tip slowly blossomed into the shape of a squatty-looking cruise ship.
The squadron leader gave a thumbs-up.
The Rough Riders tensioned the straps on their packs.
Tommy lunged for the barf bag.
****
Anna shivered between two large men in smelly and wet camouflaged fatigues, while the gunboat raced up the backs of large ocean swells.
Surprisingly, Martinez had shown little interest in her. Perhaps neither he nor Boggs understood the irony of their chance meeting. Or maybe Martinez did know and didn’t care. He appeared almost comatose.
To take the edge off her fears, she told herself things would be fine, that Boggs was being honest for once—the Cubans were simply offering aid to their enemy in a time of disaster.
It wasn’t until they turned into the harbor and she saw the hulking shape of the Wicked Witch that Anna understood the gravity of her situation.
The ship listed severely to one side, its keel nearly exposed. U.S. Coast Guard helicopters buzzed overhead, plucking passengers from the deck.
Huge swells spilled into the bay, piling up on shore. Wind-blown rain and spray lashed the crusty hull of the ship.
Gone were the blue waters and white-sand sugar beaches of the Bahamas.
Gone, too, was Anna’s sense of invincibility. Had she, not more than a few hours ago, written to Sonny of how she craved safety and security and couldn’t be inconvenienced with a relationship that promised risk and pain? Yet, here she was, a pawn in a low-stakes game of political back-scratching.
As if to reassure her, Boggs nodded towards the whirly-birds. “Joint rescue operations. A show of good faith between the two countries.”
With one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle lever, Martinez brought the gunboat alongside a long dock. He slammed the shift lever into reverse and kissed a strand of tires dangling from the pier. Soldiers looped dock lines around rusty metal cleats.
To Anna, the escaped terrorist appeared gaunt and frail, certainly not the brutal and dangerous thug she’d portrayed him to be in her reports. Could this guy really be the mastermind behind the U.S. embassy bombing in Beirut and the train bombing in Madrid?
The crew helped her onto the dock.
Boggs followed, tipping the crew a twenty. “Thanks for the ride, boys. And remember to tell your family in Miami to vote Boggs el Presidente.” He took Anna by the elbow. “This way, ma love.”
On board the Wicked Witch, wooden canes and metal walkers lay scattered among the carnage of overturned buffet tables. Soft luggage floated in bilge water; fuzzy slippers surfed the surge.
Boggs led her up a wide staircase and onto the next level where hundreds, if not thousands, of cockroach corpses lay pressed against the baseboards in a mass grave stretching the length of the hallway. A few survivors scurried towards her, their black husks glistening wet from the rising tide.
“Just kick’ em aside,” said Boggs, stomping his shoe and smearing yellow bug guts into the waterlogged carpet.
“What happened?” asked Anna, carefully stepping over the remains of drowned insects.
“Cockroach Cay happened. There’s a reason this is the only ship that docks there.”
Behind them a wave of weaving, wobbling, and wild-eyed passengers rushed into the hallway swinging brooms, mops, and at least one shovel as the horde forged through the bugs and toward the exit door.
Boggs steered Anna into a stairwell and down three flights of steps, through the main dining hall and past a pair of heavy metal doors leading into the kitchen.
“I got a little tidying up to do and don’t have time to babysit ya,” he announced, pointing toward the freezer door.
“I’m not going in there.” said Anna, backing away from the cooler. “I’ll suffocate.”
“Doubt that. It’s one of those new-fangled freezers. Stays cool by re-circulating fresh air. Actually, it’s about the only new thing on the ship.”
“I don’t care. I’m not—”
“‘Fraid you don’t have any choice,” he said, pulling back the flap of his yellow slicker to reveal a handgun. “I know how you secret agent types work. Always looking to save the day—or at least your hide. But I can’t take the chance that you’ll muck things up for me. Believe me; I’ve thought about this for oh—a few seconds and really, this is the best for everyone. Now in y’go.”
“You want me in there, you’ll have to shoot me.”
Boggs whipped out the pistol. The shot came so quickly Anna barely had time to jump before the slug tore into the metal skin of a dishwasher, turning the word HOBART into H ART.
“Dang. Trigger’s more sensitive than I expected,” said Boggs, glaring at the stub barrel.
“You’d…really shoot me?” Anna stammered.
“Graze was more what I had in mind. Or you can just go in there like I ask and save both of us a lot of trouble.”
“But it’s a freezer!”
“Your point?”
“My point is that there have been almost thirty fatalities in the past decade due to people—children mostly—getting trapped in abandoned freezers and refrigerators.”
“I know. I read the report. Part of Homeland Security’s effort to devise alternative forms of confinement for enemy combatants. It’s one of your better pieces.” Raising an eyebrow, Boggs waved the gun, motioning Anna toward the cooler.
“Please don’t, Bill.”
“Oh, now we’re on a first name basis, are we? Too late for that.”
“What do you plan to do with me?”
“Me? Nothing. That skipper back on the boa
t is the one you should be asking.”
“Martinez?”
“And you can too, when he comes for you. Only his English isn’t so good so you might not get much out of him.”
“I can’t believe—”
“Surprised me, too. Fellow spends that much time in an American detention camp, you’d expect him to at least learn our language.”
“—you’d turn me over to him. What possible reason would you have for giving an American intelligence employee to the enemy?”
“Do you have any idea how much money it takes to run for president? Or for school board, for that matter. The boys in Havana may be poor but they do have clout. Especially with Chavez. I might not like the man’s politics but I admire any fellow who conquers a country and sets himself up as king. With his oil money and my vision I think we can consolidate the Americas and put a scare in the Asians and Europeans.”
“Not Martinez, please?”
“Too late. It’s a done deal.” Boggs reached into the pocket of his raincoat and produced a roll of bills.
“Tie me to that dishwasher. I promise I won’t scream for help.”
“Like I’m dumb enough to believe that. Wish there was another way, I really do. But you’re so dadgum ornery I can’t take that chance. You’re like one of them there wild mustangs, the ones that can’t be broke or ridden, and you know what happens to horses like that? They end up in a glue factory. Least, that’s what I read on the Internet.”
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Kidnapping an intelligence officer? Consorting with the enemy? Taking political kick-backs?”
“See? That’s just what I’m talking about. Always pointing fingers, making like it’s somebody else’s fault.”
“Seriously? You’d risk your country’s national security and help the bad guys in order to run a few more negative ads?”
“In this age of international diplomacy when enemies become friends overnight based on mutual interests like cheap oil, space exploration, and a growing distrust of the French, who’s to say which side is good and which is bad.”
“Ours is good. Theirs is bad. Does that help?”
“See, this is exactly the sort of judgmental attitude that got your predecessor killed.”
“Predecessor?”
“The agent assigned to me before you came along.”
“You mean there were others?”
“What? You think you were picked for this job because of your special skills? Oh no. You’re just the latest in a long line of flunkies I’ve bucked off. I’ve been on the FBI Watch List since I got elected to the school board on my platform of segregation, incarceration, and mutilation for drug dealers, gang members, and teachers passing out sex-ed materials in the classrooms. You don’t rise to the top as fast as I have without some help. The Bureau knows this.”
“But I’m not with the FBI.”
“And I’m not your run-of-the-mill politician selling vacant Senate seats. The point is, I run with a rough crowd and it takes more than a couple of government spy agencies to keep track of me.”
“Whatever it is you’re planning, Bill, you’ll never get away with it.”
“I already have. I’ve fixed things so that if I’m called before Congress I can prove you and I were playing a little game of cat-and-mouse, hide-and-seek, and I lost track of where you went. By the time American operatives find you in Havana—I mean, if they find you—you’ll have no recollection of this meeting, me, or any other pertinent details regarding your former life. Plausible deniability is the mother’s milk of politics and I can be very persuasive in front of the cameras. But then, you know that already. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a presidential election to rig. There’s a percent captain in Dade County waiting for me to wire him some money.”
He grabbed the handle of the cooler and pulled the door open a few inches.
“This is ridiculous. Who’s going to vote for you as President of the United States after they find out you’ve kidnapped a member of the U.S. intelligence community and turned them over to Communists?”
“Oh, I think a lot of folks will, once I follow through on my commitment to provide free streaming of movies, games, and music over the Internet. That’ll lock up the youth vote. Maybe even take a huge block of the middle class constituency, too.”
“Free downloads?”
“My attorneys are hammering out the details, now. The point is I got just about any song, movie, or television show anyone could ever want, including those hard to find Beatles tracks recorded in Hamburg when Pete Best was still with the band.”
“They were the Quarrymen, then.”
“Who was?”
“The Beatles.”
“Really? I never knew that.” There was a long pause and then: “What were we talking about?”
“Your election strategy.”
“Right. And how all winning campaigns start with lots of cash in the coffins.”
“Coffers,” said Anna.
“I say coffins, and this one’s for you.” Boggs swung the door open. “In you go, love.” He pushed her in and slammed the door shut.
Anna slumped to the floor, clutching her purse. A wave of terror swept over her. The darkness became suffocating. For several seconds she sat there, trying to control her breathing. Then her hand found the latch of her purse. She reached in and fumbled for the sat-phone. Thank God. Maybe she could still reach her boss, though this deep in the bowels of the ship, she wasn’t sure she could get a signal. Pressing the power button, she saw her shaking fingers in the glow of the display.
Suddenly the door flew open. Boggs leaned in and snatched the phone. The door closed.
Burying her face in her hands, she cried softly.
Oh, God. If only Sonny were here. He’d know what to do. I need him, Lord.
34
Sonny had no idea what to do.
The waves were too large and he was too heavy for the windsurf board. His arms felt like noodles, his legs hung heavy, trailing behind like two large logs. There didn’t seem to be any way to escape the relentless walls of white water crashing down on him. With each blast of breakers, he tumbled over and sideways, losing his board and sense direction. He recalled all the times as a teen when he’d watched ABC’s Wide World of Sports and the big surf contest from Waimea Bay, and the Banzai Pipeline.
I could to that, he’d thought from the comfort of his dad’s leather recliner. I could be another Eddie Aikau. Eddie was a valiant surfer who, oddly enough, died while trying to save others.
With the help of a rip current, Sonny finally managed to pull his way through the breakers and into the chaotic swells pushing westward along the coast.
By the time he reached the harbor, he could barely lift his head. Huge swells rolled under and past him. The cruise ship sat low in the water on the far side of the harbor, her stern exposed to the swells wrapping around the point.
He lay outside the harbor entrance for a long time, watching helicopters airlift passengers from the stranded vessel. Exhausted and growing cold from the constant buffeting of the wind, he searched for a way inside, but the waves came too fast and broke too often. Trying to paddle to the ship in these conditions would be suicide.
He thought of Anna and how scared she’d looked in the gunboat, the way her head had hung and flopped as the vessel bounced over the waves.
Just one more chance, God, he thought. That’s all I need. Give me a shot.
His chance came in the form of a rogue wave. Before he could turn and escape over top, he found himself being sucked up the wave. Already the lip was beginning to feather. Pivoting hard, he took three quick strokes and jumped to his feet, crouching with a bug-like stance, legs wide, arms extended; just like he’d done hundreds of times before on the Outer Banks and off Shackleford Banks and Masonboro Island.
The board skipped down the face in a vertical drop, its fin digging in as he leaned into a bottom turn. With his fingers caressing the wave, he carved a white tr
ail across the face. The speed was incredible, leaving only a loud whooshing as the wave collapsed behind him. Dodging make-shift channel markers, he maneuvered around the debris floating in the water. Deck chairs, plastic garbage cans, pool toys, walking canes, life vests and one very confused goat.
The wave began to curl over him, its lip forming a translucent ceiling. He stepped back, stalling the board, and slipped into a hollow barrel. Time slowed. The air became compressed. Working the rails, he pumped the board for speed and scooted to the nose. Cupping his toes over the edge he let out a hoot, just like he’d seen endless times in surfing movies.
The wave spit him out.
Sonny banked a bottom turn.
The board crashed into the hull of the Wicked Witch.
****
From ten thousand feet the edge of the hurricane had been a beautiful thing to watch. Now? Not so much. Tommy decided he’d seen all he wanted of the storm.
Skirting Hurricane Bert, the SH-60C Sea Hawk helicopter dropped to just a few feet above sea level. Through the open bay window, the western tip of Cay Sol Amanda came into view.
Below a towering wall of white water, debris floated in the water and…what was that? A surfer? Tommy watched as the rider crashed into the side of the cruise ship.
“Whiskey Delta Dawn, Whiskey Delta Dawn, Whiskey Delta Dawn. This is Oscar Charlie Brown. We’re approaching the drop zone,” the co-pilot called.
“Ah, roger that Charlie Brown. Let me know when your ducks are wet.”
Tommy shot a look towards the soldier in the black ninja suit sitting next to him, a young Marine with war paint on his face and a green bandana poking from beneath his helmet.
“He means when we’re down there,” said the soldier, gesturing at the water where frantic passengers clung to life rings.