He radioed the other two boats and warned them of the possible threat, reminding them to stay covered. He knew how the boats with their blue tarpaulins would look to the helicopter: like three of the thousands of waves glistening in the sun. He’d taken a ride in a helo once so he would know what could be seen and not seen from the cockpit. Even with binoculars or the fancy radar the American military used, he knew his boats enjoyed a low probability of discovery.
At least this time.
Antonio complimented the watchstander for his vigilance. Once the aircraft was out of first auditory, and then visual range, Antonio curled up and attempted to sleep again. But it was difficult. Despite holes punched in the plastic covers, the air was stifling. He poured a bottle of water over his head and lifted the corner of the tarp to allow a small breeze to pass through. To remove the tarp altogether would exponentially increase their chances of discovery, especially by high-flying aircraft. Just because there didn’t seem to be any in the vicinity, didn’t mean there still wasn’t a threat. The yanquis had some pretty sophisticated tracking devices, along with satellites, so it was simply safer to remain covered as long as the sun shone. There were several other reports of planes during the day, but all flew too high to be of concern. Most likely commercial jets that had no interest in any small boats below.
At dusk, just after the evening meal was finished, Antonio gave the order to fire up all engines. Keeping to a safe escape distance, all three boats sped toward their destination under the cover of darkness. Although it increased their own risk of being spotted, the night’s three-quarter moon greatly alleviated the anxiety of driving at top speed in the dark—with two other speedboats in close proximity.
Antonio not only remained cognizant of the other boats, but the further north they sped they had to be aware of atolls that cropped up out of nowhere. The GPS delivered a warning whenever they neared one of these deadly outcroppings, many of which did not appear on nautical charts. He understood some had been discovered in blood by previous crews, which was why he found traveling around these tropical rock piles at high rates of speed to be a daunting venture even in the daytime. At night, the fear of such a collision even eclipsed his anxiety about being caught by the yanquis.
Again, as the sun rose, they breakfasted and pulled the tarpaulins out to cover themselves for a second day. Antonio relaxed enough this day to fall into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by the crackle of the radio, “Señor, you must look to the south.”
He crawled to the south side of the boat and lifted the corner of the tarp. “Mierda,” he muttered when he saw a cruise liner on the horizon. He knew his boats would draw too much attention if they uncovered and took off in the opposite direction. Better to stay put and let the ocean liner continue on its path.
Antonio didn’t like the looks of the western sky, however. Dark clouds were gathering and he knew a squall was headed their way. Perhaps if they took off now, they could outrun the storm. No, it was too dangerous to run during the day. It wasn’t worth a chance of being spotted and reported. Regardless, he knew he needed to stay awake to monitor the ship until it was out of sight, while keeping an eye on that storm.
Antonio radioed the other boats to stay covered and not bring any attention to themselves. All three would have to sit tight and wait for the cruise ship to disappear. Then, perhaps they could think about taking off in time to outrun the approaching storm. He propped up the corner of the tarp, uncapped a water bottle, and leaned back to watch.
He brought the bottle to his lips, but stopped short of sipping. He heard it. The distinctive chop, chop, chop of an approaching helicóptero.
Antonio dropped the water bottle and instinctively reached for his weapon with one hand while grabbing the radio with the other. He peeked out from under the tarp. The aircraft was still far away, headed toward the cruise liner, but it was going to pass right by them as they bobbed in the waves. Hopefully the tarp was doing a good job of camouflaging them. For all three boats to try to make a run for it now would definitely give away their position. Did he want to take that chance? When it was quite possible they had not even been noticed?
Maybe he should order one boat to take off as a sacrifice to save the others? He had no idea what kind of assets the helo had in the area and such a decision might bring ruin to the entire mission. His heart pounded with both fear and uncertainty. The sweat dripping down his face no longer came from just the heat. Antonio crossed himself, knowing the only safe decision was to pray like hell.
Chapter 27
The patrol included a five-man crew: Two Navy pilots, one enlisted Naval aircrewman, and two enlisted Coast Guardsmen; the marksman, or gunner; and the observer who served as spotter, or “CYA Officer.” Covering a crew’s ass by ensuring they adhered to the Rules of Engagement, or ROE, was paramount to a successful mission and military careers for all.
Everyone was focused on the routine patrol, except one of the pilots, the HAC, only appeared to be focused.
Sky had been taught to compartmentalize since the first day of flight school. Check your personal problems at the door before a mission brief, and certainly before climbing into the cockpit, until the mission is complete. But that was easier said than done for him this Thanksgiving afternoon. He’d tucked Daisy Schneider away into a private corner of his mind more times than he could count, but she wouldn’t disappear. She kept assaulting him with her smile, those eyes the color of the ocean below, her laugh, those little high-pitched love-making sounds she made when she—
No. Dammit. Compartmentalize.
He needed to put that crap right out of his head so he could pay attention to this mission, even if it was routine and all they’d spotted was water in every direction.
Besides, there were plenty more fish in the sea. And wasn’t that just a fact. Because suddenly some of them were quite possibly right there on the horizon.
“Hey, we’re supposed to head out five more miles before we turn back. You guys wanna go check out that cruise ship?”
“Hell, yeah!” called Petty Officer Quinn from the back. “First dibs on the FLIR. That boat’s got to be loaded with hot chicks sunbathing in bikinis.”
Sky called back, “God bless the FLIR. But if that ship’s loaded with senior citizens, we’re gonna give you a new call sign, Geezer Gazer.”
That drew a laugh from the entire crew.
The Coast Guard marksman clicked in. “Hey, is it true you can tell by the heat signature whether chicks have implants or not, sir?”
Sky chuckled. “As I understand it, silicon is colder than the real thing. And I think we have a scientific obligation to investigate that hypothesis. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me, sir.”
“I don’t like the looks of that western sky, though. Let’s do a fly-by for a quick chick check and then head back before the storm catches up with us. I’d much rather ride it out with Little Girl in the hangar than dodge lightning cells out here. Besides, we got a turkey dinner waiting for us. Mikey, put the cruise ship on the starboard side so those guys in the back can get a good look out the cabin door, while one of them snaps a few pics of any bikini-clad talent with that new high-speed camera.”
Sky’s gut registered unease, but it was nothing he could put his finger on. Still, Daniel had taught him to listen to his sixth sense when flying, so he would remain on full alert. Maybe the storm was going to hit sooner than later. “Hey, Quinn, what’s that storm look like on the screen?”
“It’s big but it doesn’t appear to be moving very fast. We’ve got time to do bikini patrol and still make it back. But let’s get there fast before the chicks run for cover.”
“Yeah, don’t give them a chance to cover anything,” Mikey added.
But when Mike turned Little Girl in the direction of the cruise liner, something caught Sky’s eye. “Hey, Studs, what’s that at ten o’c
lock? You see what I see? Quinn, you got anything on your scope at ten? Maybe three miles out? What’s it look like to you?”
“Nothing on radar. Switching to FLIR. Probably another atoll. I never knew there were so many little islands out here. Or maybe it’s just a shadow from a—Holy shit, sir! It’s a boat! Oh, yeah, we got us a tarped-up go-fast, boys!”
Sky took over. “Mikey, come left and put the target on our right side. Let the Coasties get a visual while we move in for a closer look.”
Petty Officer Palmer, the observer, called out, “I’ve got the boat in sight. Your nine o’clock. But what the hell is that other contact about a mile behind it? Can someone check it on the FLIR?”
“Ay caramba! We got two go-fasts!” Quinn exclaimed. “No, wait...three. It’s a fucking flotilla!”
“Who-hoo!” Sky yelled. “Hold on to your horses, Studley. You’re about to make your first drug bust. Quinn, radio the ship and call for backup. Let them know these boats are likely to scatter. With a storm coming, we’re probably not going to get them all without help. I just hope when these assholes take off, they don’t head toward the storm or the cruise ship.”
“What’s the big deal if they go toward the ship?” asked Palmer.
“If they get close enough to it before we receive Rules of Engagement clearance to shoot disabling fire, they’ll be able to hug the cruise liner ’til the storm arrives. The weather will provide them time and cover to scatter to the winds. Unless they capsize during the storm, we’ll never see them again.
“And Quinn,” Sky added, “tell the Van Den Elsen to haul ass, ’cuz even if we put these boats out of commission, we could still lose them and the contraband. I hope no bullets fly with that cruise liner so close.”
“Well, fuck that,” called the gunner. “I was just getting locked and loaded. I haven’t fired on a live go-fast in—how long’s it been, Palmer? A month? I’m getting rusty. I say we open up a can of whoop ass, boys. The party’s about to begin!”
Dios Mio! This was not what Antonio needed right now. The threat of the cruise ship had been bad enough, but a helicopter too? Mierda.
He scrambled to the port side and lifted the tarp enough to peer out. A brisk breeze greeted him as he felt the tarp flutter. The wind had kicked up, and fast. Stronger than it should have been, even with a storm approaching. Too late he realized it wasn’t the wind. The helicopter was on top of them and the rotorwash had whipped up the water around the boat into a fine spray. Their vessel began to rock violently and suddenly the tarps peeled off, exposing them naked to the world and to the helo.
Fuck. It was gray. U.S. Navy. Antonio froze like a deer in the headlights. One of the yanquis actually waved at him, while another shoved a machine gun out the cargo door, pointed right at them.
Antonio’s radio crackled, “Señor! Señor!” Alerted by the noise of the hovering helicopter, the men on the other two boats called to him for instructions, while removing their tarps and readying their engines.
“Vaya! Vaya! Vaya!” he screamed into the radio while simultaneously kicking his own engineman to fire up the motors. “Tres!” he cried. “All three engines! Go! Go! Go!”
The other boat captains knew the drill. If they were threatened they would take off in different directions.
“Oeste!” he called to his navigator. Dammit. His direction was west. Directly into the storm. At least they’d passed some islands last night. Perhaps they could hide amongst them. That was it. He’d aim for those islands. And those dreaded atolls they’d already passed once before. Antonio shivered at the thought, but they had to lose the Americans.
As the throttle-man slammed the engines to full power, the surge knocked Antonio to the deck. He felt the bow rise up and then level off as the high-speed boat got up and on plane. Antonio struggled to rise as the vessel repeatedly smashed into the waves, which the approaching storm had already churned into a rough chop. He didn’t hear the Americans’ machine gun firing into the water ahead of them over the sound of the deafening motors. In fact, if not for his driver pointing at the plumes raised by a stitch of gunfire, Antonio would not have even known shots had been fired.
“Alto! Alto! Alto!” he screamed repeatedly. But neither the driver nor the throttle-man could hear him. Antonio struggled to move forward, grabbed the driver on the shoulder, and yelled, “Stop!” in his ear. Perhaps if Antonio had grabbed the throttle-man instead, he might have prevented what happened next. As it was, the confused driver didn’t get to the throttles before the Coast Guard marksman sent a .50-caliber round through one of the hundred thousand dollar engines.
Now the throttle-man got the message and cut the other two engines. As the go-fast came to a halt, the noise died down, except for Antonio’s screams. “Keep the engines at idle, but do not move us. Everyone, raise your arms above your head as if surrendering.” And when his confused crew hesitated, he commanded, “Now!”
In unison, Antonio and his crew raised their own hands overhead. He continued to shout above the roar of the helicopter, “If we run, they will shoot our engines with their sniper rifle and we will drift until their ship comes to arrest us. Pray the storm reaches us before they arrive and the helicopter is forced to abandon us.” He considered grabbing the RPG, but the manned machine gun protruding from the helo’s cabin door convinced him he’d never get a shot off before he and his crew were cut to shreds. The helo was so close Antonio could see the smiles on the yanqui bastards’ faces. The crewman who had waved snapped photos with a camera. Antonio wondered which fate was worse: Ten years in an American prison or facing Señor Gutiérrez after losing an entire boatload of Pearl.
Suddenly the nose of the chopper dipped and it accelerated away, nearly blowing Antonio and his crew overboard in the process. Grabbing for anything to hold onto, he stared dumbfounded as the grinning aircrewmen waved and the helo raced off. As he watched the rapidly disappearing helicopter, Antonio yelled to his crew, “Let’s go! Head west for the islands.”
Just before he lost sight of the helicopter, Antonio’s radio came alive with the voice of one of the other boat captains. “The yanquis are shooting at us! The yanquis are shooting at us!”
“Are you hit?” Antonio barked in reply.
“No, they are shooting across our bow! What should we do?”
“Stop. Wait a few minutes, then run again and go toward the approaching storm. If they shoot out an engine, stop again, and pretend to surrender. Wait until you see their ship. Then run again. It is your only chance to get away.”
As Mikey slowed the aircraft to match the speed of escaping boat number two, he informed the crew, “Hey, guys, they’re slowing. Looks like the warning shots worked.”
Sky chimed in, “Palmer, the radio is tuned to Channel Sixteen. Call out in Spanish and tell the boat crew to remain where they are, even after we leave, or we’ll be back and they won’t get a second warning shot before we disable their engines. Quinn, give us a steer toward where we saw that third boat. I’ll send LAT/LONGS to the Van Den Elsen telling them where to pick up this crew and the one that already surrendered.”
“Yes, sir. Come left about ninety-degrees and climb. We should be able to see their wake forever if they’re running hard,” replied Quinn.
In response, Mikey banked left and pulled extra power by raising the collective too fast and too far, causing them to shoot skyward. Apparently he still wasn’t used to how quickly Little Girl could climb. The rush Sky felt as Little Girl rocketed skyward was better than any amusement park ride. Always had been. Always would be.
“There, at eleven o’clock. You see her, Studley? They’re running full out. Look at that rooster tail. Nose her over and get us on top quick.”
From the back Palmer yelled, “Sir, both the other two boats are running again! We’ve been played!”
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Sky, as he realized the decep
tion. “All right, let’s take down number three and stay with him until endgame. At least that way we’ll have something to show for this wild goose chase. That is, assuming the boat we’re following isn’t a decoy.”
“In position. Request permission to fire,” yelled the gunner.
Sky called back, “You are cleared for warning shots.”
Mikey flinched as an immediate burst of fire from the M-240 stitched a zipper line on the water in front of the fleeing go-fast.
“They’re not slowing down!” he called out to the crew.
“Well, we’ve got us a whole new ballgame then, boys!” yelled Sky. “Gunner, you’re Cleared Hot with that sniper rifle! Make ’em count! And don’t just shoot one engine. Don’t stop until you’re certain all three are non-functional.”
“Yes, sir,” was the gunner’s calm reply. Three times the rifle barked and three times it sent enormous .50-cal projectiles through an engine cowling, shredding the inner workings in the process. And three times the go-fast crewmen curled up in mortal fear as the concussions ripped through their vessel.
“Nice shootin’, Tex! Now let’s haul ass back to that second boat we already fired warning shots on and replicate this perfection. Wash, rinse, repeat. Just like we practiced. I’ll call Mother and let them know the LAT/LONG of these poor bastards and maybe she can get a patrol plane in the area to babysit while they lug their slow Surface Warfare asses this way.” Sky beamed when he realized they might be able to get two out of three—hell, maybe three out of three if the first boat was still running. But if they’d tarped up, the storm would likely arrive before they could find them again.
Forget Me Not (Love in the Fleet) Page 26