Voyage After the Collapse (The Pulse Series Book 3)

by Scott B. Williams

  Casey was just as excited as he was when she raced back to the cockpit to ask him what he thought.

  “I’ll bet they have some answers, Casey. But I doubt they’re going to be interested in stopping to talk to us. If we had a working radio, they might answer a call, but I’m sure they’ve got more important business than chatting with sailboat crews face to face.”

  “That really sucks that we don’t have a radio or any way to ask them. Do you think they would stop if we put up a distress signal, like shooting off a flare or something?”

  “Maybe, but that’s illegal. Even though it would be great to get some word from someone who might could tell us what’s going on in the rest of the world, I can’t do something like that when we’re not really in distress.”

  “I wonder if they’ve seen the Casey Nicole,” Casey said, as she picked up Larry’s binoculars to get a better look at the ship.

  “It’s possible, if she were indeed ahead of us.”

  “Hey! It looks like they are going to talk to us! I see some kind of small boat coming our way from right where the ship is!”

  Larry took the binoculars from her to see for himself. Sure enough, there was a small craft headed their way, even as the ship seemed to have slowed some two miles away. As he watched the smaller boat approach, it became clear that it was a large outboard-powered RIB of the type used to carry an assault squad to shore or boarding party to another vessel. Larry told Casey to take the helm and keep the boat on a steady course while he studied the approaching boat.

  A voice boomed over a loudspeaker from the RIB as the outboard motors were throttled back a few hundred yards from their position:

  “YOU IN THE SAILBOAT. HEAVE-TO IMMEDIATELY AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS!”

  Larry could now see the crew of the center-console RIB. The boat was at least thirty feet long and carried a crew of what looked like a dozen heavily armed Marines or SEALs dressed in full combat gear. Whoever they were, it didn’t matter. One of them was standing behind a large, swivel-mounted belt-fed machine gun and the rest carried M4 carbines at the ready on slings in front of their chests. Larry yelled at Casey to swing the bow into the wind, and he quickly let the jib backwind before putting the helm down to leeward to force the Sarah J. to heave-to. There was no arguing with a show of force like that.

  Tara and Rebecca both climbed the companionway and stepped out into the cockpit, surprised at the sound of the amplified voice and wanting to know what was going on.

  “We think it’s the Navy,” Casey said.

  “It’s definitely the Navy,” Larry concurred.

  The smaller boat continued its approach at a slower speed, the four outboards on its stern much quieter now. Now as they closed the distance, the officer who had spoken before had now reduced the volume of the hailing loudspeaker but his tone was no less stern in his next command:

  “You have entered a restricted area! You must turn back or change your course to the west immediately!”

  Larry stepped up to the side deck nearest the men and turned both palms up and outward in an exaggerated shrug.

  “What do you mean a restricted area?” he shouted back. “We’re heading to the Dry Tortugas!”

  “These waters are off-limits to all vessels approaching from international waters! Turn back or change course to the west to stay clear of U.S. Territorial waters off Florida!”

  “We’re U.S. Citizens!” Larry screamed back, trying to be heard over the wind and the distance. “We’ve just come from the Mississippi Gulf Coast! This is a U.S. Coast Guard documented vessel.”

  “Our orders are to stop all high seas traffic from entering U.S. Territorial waters surrounding south Florida and the Florida Keys! You must change course and leave immediately. This area is under a U.S. Navy blockade until further notice!”

  “But we have family and friends in another boat ahead of us! Surely you’ve seen them? A 36-foot sailing catamaran? If we don’t rendezvous with them in the Dry Tortugas as planned, we’ll never find them!”

  “No vessel meeting that description has been sighted. There is an entire U.S. Navy fleet patrolling these waters from the Dry Tortugas to Cape Canaveral on the east coast of Florida. No sailing vessel that size could get through our surveillance.”

  “But we are citizens here! We have the right to be in Florida or any other state! With no means of radio or phone communication, we have no other way of connecting with the rest of our party on the other boat. We were going to meet them there and then sail to the Bahamas together.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. But my orders are clear. I’m here to inform you that you must alter course and steer west of the Dry Tortugas. If you wish to turn south or east to the islands once you’re in the Straits of Florida, that’s outside our area of restriction. But I warn you, if you try to slip into waters surrounding the Florida Keys or the mainland from either side, you will do so at the risk of being fired upon! This is an urgent matter of national security and it’s non-negotiable!”

  “How are we ever going to find my dad? And Grant and Scully and Jessica?” Casey asked.

  “I can’t believe they can do this,” Tara said. “This is my mom and dad’s boat and like you told him, it’s Coast Guard documented! We haven’t even been to another country. We just sailed here from another state.”

  “Yes, but even so we’ve been international waters for days. They’re treating all vessels on the high seas as foreign and apparently their orders are to seal off the entire coast.”

  “Then why weren’t they present on the northern Gulf coast then?” Casey asked. “If they had been, we would have known about this before we left U.S. waters and before we got split up.”

  “My guess is that they’ve just recently arrived. This fleet was operating overseas somewhere that wasn’t affected or if so, not as badly, and they moved in when they could to secure our coasts. They’re starting with the easy places like the major ports and access routes from the Atlantic and Florida Straits.”

  “Maybe it’s just a threat,” Tara said. “They won’t really shoot at an American pleasure boat will they? They’re probably just hoping we won’t argue and will turn away so they won’t have to deal with us, or file a report on us or something like that.”

  “It’s not an idle threat, Tara. Those guys are combat veterans, you can bet, and considering what has happened and who knows what kind of information they have that we don’t, you can bet they’re going to take their orders seriously. We have two choices. We can turn around and sail back to Mississippi or somewhere on the northern coast where there is no blockade, or we can do as he said and turn west, giving the Keys and all of Florida a wide berth.”

  “We can’t go back,” Casey said. “Dad and the others would not have gone back.”

  “Of course not. So we sail west, then turn south until we reach the Straits and then sail east to the Bahamas, as was our eventual plan anyway. Scully will do the same, I’m sure of it. And he has my charts on board and he knows approximately where the Jumentos and Ragged Islands are. He has a rough idea or the route I was planning to take to get there too.”

  With that, Larry turned back to the men in the boat and shouted his answer, informing them of his plans to continue on to the Bahamas and requesting permission to get back underway. Once it was apparent they were going to comply, the patrol boat eased away to give them room to tack, and Larry trimmed the sheets as Casey steered on a new heading of 270 degrees.

  TWENTY-THREE

  GRANT DYER WAS HAPPY to step out of the kayak and onto the beach after four days and nights out of sight of land. He had learned a lot about sailing during his first offshore passage, but he was a person of the land, the rivers and the woods at heart, and not a seaman. There would be much more sailing in his future, starting at first light in the morning, but for now he intended to enjoy a brief excursion ashore on this wild stretch of unspoiled beach that was Cape Sable.

  They landed at a place where a narrow, winding tidal creek cut
through the beach from the swamps in the interior, allowing them to paddle into its mouth and just out of sight of the catamaran anchored a quarter of a mile out. As soon as they left the kayak and walked the rest of the way to the edge of the dense vegetation that backed up to the beach, the mosquitos were upon them. Grant had endured mosquitos in the swamps of Louisiana and the jungles of Guyana, but nothing prepared him for the ferocity and numbers of these Everglades salt marsh swarms. They quickly covered every exposed inch of skin and even Scully, who’d spent a lifetime outdoors in the islands, was surprised by their vicious assault. This coconut-gathering expedition was going to have to be quick and efficient. If they lingered here too long, they would lose so much blood to these thirsty insects they wouldn’t make it back to the boat!

  Using his machete, Scully hacked his way through the dense buttonwood and sea grape thickets to the base of one of the tall palms they’d spotted from the boat. Handing the AK to Grant, he slipped the blade into his belt behind him, out of the way, and using one of Larry’s nylon webbing sail ties, made a knotted loop to put around his ankles. Grant had not seen this method before, and he watched in fascination as Scully scampered up the smooth bole of the palm with the soles of his feet clamped vice-like around it, aided by the strap. He was at the feathery crown after a dozen moves, and holding on with one hand to the lowest frond while supported by his secured feet, he pulled the machete free and began whacking the woody stems that held big clusters of heavy green coconuts. Staying out of the way until they hit the ground, Grant grabbed the stalks and dragged them to the beach as fast as he could, swatting at mosquitos all the while.

  Scully repeated the process on another palm that was bearing fruit and soon they had dozens of the coconuts. It was going to require two trips in the kayak to haul them all back to the catamaran, but under siege by the mosquitos, they carried what they could and headed for the boat. As much as he liked land, Grant was happy to be back afloat after that experience. Thankfully, the offshore breeze was strong enough that the mosquitos didn’t follow them to the boat.

  “This is amazing!” Jessica said as she took her first sip from a freshly opened coconut Scully handed her.

  “Yes! Coconut watah de best drink Jah provide,” Scully agreed.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to admit, it was a good idea to stop and load up on those. But all of you have got to understand how hard it is for me to stop anywhere until I know for sure where Casey is.”

  “Absolutely,” Grant said. “But I know we’re all going to feel much better after a good night’s rest. We will find them soon, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve been studying the chart while you were ashore. Even if we manage an average speed of seven knots when we leave here, it’s going to take a little over 15 hours to get to the Dry Tortugas. That will put us there after dark if we wait until daylight to sail.”

  “Well, we could leave two or three hours before dawn, couldn’t we? That should give us enough time.”

  “If the wind holds steady and we can average at least seven, it would. Our speed could be a lot less, though. It’s different near land than it is out in open water like the passage we just made.”

  “Not to worry ‘bout de time, Doc. T’ing is, we need stopping at dem Marquesas Key first, because dem key on de way an’ dat’s de second place Larry say mehbe is a good landfall.” Scully pointed to the chart. “We need lookin’ dem key an’ if de boat not dere, mehbe we wait in de night again and sail de next morning.”

  “The waiting is what’s driving me crazy though, Scully. The waiting and not knowing….”

  “Can’t rush t’ings on de boat, Doc. You knowin’ dis is true now after sailin’ so far. Not to worry ‘bout de Copt’n an’ you girl, Casey. Larry waitin’ when we get dem island, either Marquesas or Dry Tortugas. You soon see fo’ true, Doc.”

  “It really is going to work out fine, Artie. I’m worried about Casey and Larry too, but I know Larry knows what he’s doing.”

  “I know he does, Jessica. I’ve got plenty of faith in him. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting this. I know none of us were. Another delay worries me because like Larry said and like we all know from what we’ve seen, we don’t know if the Dry Tortugas or the Marquesas Keys are even viable stopovers. It could be more dangerous at either one than it was at Cat Island. I don’t like how close either group is to Key West, or even Cuba and Mexico. There’s just no telling who might be there.”

  “That’s true,” Grant said. “But hopefully, all we’ll do there is make a quick rendezvous and then sail on to the Bahamas. What do you know of those Jumentos Cays and Ragged Islands Larry spoke of?”

  “Just that they’re off the beaten path. I didn’t realize how many islands there were in the Bahamas until Larry showed me on the charts. There are a hell of a lot—hundreds—and that area he wants to go to isn’t close to any of the touristy ones or even the usual sailing routes most cruising boats take.”

  Scully said he hadn’t been there either, but Larry had detoured through on some of his deliveries between the Caribbean and Florida and he often talked about the excellent spearfishing on the unspoiled reefs there. Most of the surrounding waters were shallow, so a lot of the area was inaccessible to boats drawing more water than the catamaran and Tara’s Tartan 37 with its centerboard.

  “It sounds to me like a good place to spend some time while we try and figure out where to go long term,” Grant said.

  “That’s why Larry suggested it. All I know though, is wherever we go from now on, I intend to stay on the same boat with Casey, no matter what!”

  The sun had set during their conversation and Scully said he was going back to the beach to get the rest of the coconuts they’d gathered. When Grant offered to help, he said it would be better if he went alone because that way he could bring them all back in one trip. Since everybody liked them so much, he was going to climb one more tree and get a few more while they were available for the taking. Because he was so insistent, Grant didn’t argue. He didn’t really feel like getting eaten alive by the mosquitos again anyway, and he knew they would be even worse in the gathering darkness.

  Scully had been gone fifteen minutes or so and was somewhere among the palm trees when Grant and the others heard an unmistakable sound. It was an approaching motorboat, and by the time they realized what it was and that it was coming their way fast, it was too late to haul in the anchor or do much of anything. Artie scrambled below to get the shotgun and the lever-action carbine Grant favored, expecting an imminent need to defend themselves. Scully had to have heard the boat from where he was, and Grant hoped that he might provide an element of surprise if needed, unleashing the firepower of the AK from out of nowhere on the dark beach.

  Jessica went to her bunk to get the Ruger 10/22, determined to do her part as well as she took a position next to Grant and Artie, who were on their knees to keep low behind the starboard cabin. The dark shape of the approaching boat was coming at them at maybe 50 miles an hour. Grant tried to keep from shaking as he expected gunfire to erupt from the attacking boat, but instead, they were suddenly blinded by the unexpected illumination of flashing blue lights. Before they could react a brilliant searchlight also powered on, lighting up the Casey Nicole as if it were daylight.

  “Put your weapons down and get them out of sight!” Artie whispered. “They must be law enforcement of some kind!”

  As if to immediately confirm this, a voice boomed over a loudspeaker from the approaching boat, which now had slowed as it closed within fifty or sixty yards of where they were anchored:

  “YOU ON THE SAILBOAT! STAND UP AND HOLD YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS. I REPEAT, STAND ON THE DECK AND PUT YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

  Grant didn’t hesitate to do as the man ordered; neither did Artie or Jessica.

  “What if they’re not really the police?” Jessica asked.

  It was a thought that crossed Grant’s mind too, but what else could they do? They couldn’t even see the people on the
boat because of the blinding lights. They would be sitting ducks in a shootout with a fast motorboat. Whoever these people were, real cops or not, they were about to find out soon.

  The boat approached at a slow but steady idle speed until they could see half a dozen faces staring at them, the men’s stern features eerily backlit by the flashing blue strobe. At this range, they could see that the all-metal, all-business-looking 20-something-foot boat had no police markings, but did have official-looking numbers stenciled on its flat-gray camouflage finish. A menacing big machine gun on a swivel mount was pointed just slightly away, but the man behind it was watching them closely, confident that if needed he could put it into action at a moment’s notice.

  “This is a restricted coastline!” the man who’d addressed them through the hand-held loudspeaker shouted. They were close enough that he didn’t need it now, and he put it down as he stood up on the gunnel of the boat with one hand on the butt of the automatic pistol he wore at his side. The others were armed with black, short-barreled military carbines. “You can’t anchor here or approach within twelve miles of the shoreline!”

  “We didn’t know,” Artie replied. “We didn’t intend to come here anyway. We were headed to the Dry Tortugas and got off course because we have no instruments other than a compass. We got separated in bad weather from the other boat traveling with us; the one that had the sextant on board.”