The Deep Six

by Striker, Randy

  Nothing. No one alive or dead.

  I could hear voices from inside the cabin. I pulled my fins off and crawled across the deck. Ever so slowly, I lifted an eye to a porthole. A chill went through me. They had Jason. He sat at a table with Emanuel Ortiz. The tall Arabic-looking guy stood over him. Other Cubans drank coffee from tiny cups. Their weapons were leaned against the cabin wall.

  I had no choice. There was only one thing I could do. I took the Cobra from off my shoulder and put it down on the deck. I made sure the assault rifle was still on automatic. I ducked under the glow of windows, and went to the cabin door. And with a deep breath, I kicked the door open and jumped through, ready to fire.

  But I didn’t.

  It was too little too late.

  Emanuel Ortiz smiled at me. He looked like a rat. He held a revolver to Jason’s head. He was confident that he had me. And he was right.

  “Drop your weapon, Captain MacMorgan. That’s right, the knife, too. Now kick them away.”

  When I had done it, he put his gun down on the table within easy reach of Jason. And I knew then that if he could be so stupid we still had a chance. He started laughing. Softly at first. Then louder. He laughed the way an adult laughs at a silly child. “You were right about him, Mr. Boone. Absolutely correct. He is a tough man to kill, and he is absolutely dependable in—how did you put it?—his unflinching sense of duty? But you’ve troubled us for the last time, Captain.”

  And then I watched dumbfounded as Jason reached over and picked up the revolver. His eyes were strange, like those of some prophet who hears only one voice. He aimed the gun at me, and his hands were steady. “This would have been a lot easier, Dusky, if they had killed you out there.” He gave the odd low whistle that I had heard before, and the beautiful redhead, Jennifer, came through the door. She carried a coil of rope and stopped at stern attention beside Jason.

  “Dusky, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let this tall fellow here knock you out for a while. As a professional, I think you’ll appreciate the skill with which he will do it. He’s a martial-arts expert now studying the . . . ah . . . methods of the Castro regime.” Jason looked up at the man. He had a gray complexion and the obligatory mustache and a coarse black beard. “Iranian, aren’t you?”

  The man nodded. And then he came toward me, smiling, relaxed. He held out his hand as if to shake mine. I saw it coming, but I couldn’t block it. He was too fast. He jumped, swung, and the heel of his left leg caught me right behind the left ear. Stars and circles time. Felt like it took forever to fall. And through the pain, and bright colors, I heard Jason tell Jennifer that he would have to ask God what to do with me, and I hit the cabin deck, the question still formed on my lips.

  Why . . . ?

  17

  Sound of an engine. Darkness and the roll of sea. I was in some kind of dark hold. I lay on a bunk. Mattress, no sheet. It smelled musty, and I could hear footsteps outside the darkness. Exchange of voices—man and a woman. A door opened, and in the quick brightness I could see the Iranian, outside.

  So he was my guard.

  The door shut and a light came on. It was Jennifer. She held a bowl in her hands and I could smell the warm odor of broth. She came over and sat on the bunk.

  “So. You’re awake.”

  “What in the hell does Jason think he’s doing, Jennifer? He’s crazy, you know. He’s got to be.”

  She pushed me back down when I tried to sit up. She looked at me sternly and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You musn’t swear around me again, Dusky. I don’t like it. And Jason is not crazy. He brought me to Jesus. He’s showing us all the way.” She began spooning out the broth to me.

  “And was it Jason who killed Wayne? Remember Wayne, Jennifer—the guy you said you loved?”

  “I didn’t say I loved him. I just said I wanted his babies.” She thought for a moment. Such a pretty face and such dead, dead eyes. “And no, Jason didn’t kill Wayne. Jason hasn’t killed anyone, Dusky. Sometimes he asks us to, but it is always the will of God. It was their time.”

  “And what if your time comes, Jennifer?”

  “Then it’s His will.”

  She put the bowl down and began cleaning my face with a cloth. She said, “You know, I felt so very bad when Wayne was taken.” She sighed. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “He was so strong and . . . good.”

  I reached out and shook her gently by the shoulders. “You’re right, Jennifer, he was good. Listen to me, Jennifer! Think about what I’m saying. Wayne was good, but they killed him anyway . . .”

  Her eyes started to water, and then, as I continued, she started sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No, no. Wayne wouldn’t join us. He wouldn’t join Jesus. When Jason finally told him about our work, Wayne got very upset. He wanted to go tell you. He had to be sent out here, he had to be . . . it was His will . . .”

  “You loved him, Jennifer.”

  “No!”

  “Get me a gun and help me.”

  “I didn’t love him. I just wanted his baby. I wanted your baby when they . . . when they took him away. Jason told me you were as suitable . . .” She was sobbing wildly now. The door opened and my guard stuck his head in.

  “Do you need some assistance?” He spoke very careful, very proper English in that irritating manner of the wellborn Mediterranean.

  “Get your ass out of here, buddy!”

  He leaned against the doorjamb and sneered. “You Americans,” he said. “You speak with such force and yet are so soft.”

  Jennifer moved quickly between us, wiping her eyes. “No,” she said. “You musn’t, Isfahan. Not until Jason says.” She stopped and looked at me before going out the door. “You are wrong about us, Dusky. Ours is the only way.”

  She closed the door and I was in darkness again.

  When the engines hit reverse, jolting, and I heard the chain-rasp and splash of the anchor, I sat up, wondering where we were, what we were doing. It made no sense. Nothing made any sense. I went to the door and pounded on it.

  “What is it?” It was the Iranian, Isfahan.

  “Tell Jason I want to talk with him. It’s important.”

  “All in good time. In good time.”

  It crossed my mind that I might be able to bait him, to bring him charging in. “Don’t give me that ‘good time’ crap, you flunky bastard. I’m ordering you—get him now!”

  He only chuckled softly, and I sat back down, feeling like a fool. In the darkness I groped around trying to find a weapon, any kind of weapon. Nothing. I knew what it was like to be blind. I lifted the mattress up hoping to find a loose brace. I traced the hull planking, wondering if one might be loose. In one of the planks, there was some kind of rough-cut design pressed into the wood. Letters. Two letters, I ran my fingers over them, Braille-like.

  W. P.

  Wayne Peters.

  So they had had him on the shrimp boat all along. I wondered if he had heard me on the morning that I stopped. No, he would have called to me. The Iranian must have worked him over. But somehow he had escaped, made it to the boat, and then . . . the bomb. But how would they know to plant it there? And then I knew. They had expected me to take the boat. Jason had tipped them off. Instead of radioing the Coast Guard, he had radioed the Cubans.

  I searched myself for anger, and found none. Not for Jason, anyway. It surprised me. I felt only pity. I had been in the same jungles and seen the same horrors. And I had seen men, good men like Jason, snap. They had hurt him over there, in mind and body. It was easy to guess the kind of wound which made it impossible for him to ever have children. So he had turned to God and, in his own mind, become God. In his brilliance, he had put together some sort of strange religious organization. Radio, television; millions of Americans, probably, tuning in and supporting the work of his Christ’s Children of America. And surrounding him, he kept a small group of the cult-stricken; the brightest and the best of those who fell in his spell. Wayne Peters wouldn’t give in, though. He wa
s too strong. So he had been eliminated, murdered when Jason had told him of the group’s “real work.”

  But what was that work?

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  The light came on, and Jason Boone came quietly through the door. He wore a red foul-weather jacket and the same black stocking cap he had worn on our “mission.” The strangeness was still in his eyes, but he seemed nervous, almost embarrassed by the situation. He kept folding and unfolding his big hands, and his head shook with a slight pathological tremor. He sat down beside me on the bunk.

  “Jason.”

  “Yes, Dusky.”

  “You’re insane, Jason. You know that, don’t you?”

  He didn’t even flush. “No, you’re wrong. I’m not. God has told me what I must do. It’s not always easy, Dusky, but I’m not insane. I would feel much better if you believed me.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me yourself? Last night? It would have been easier on both of us.”

  He looked at me as if surprised I could even think such a thing. “Dusky, I couldn’t kill you. If I could have, I would have killed you the night we came onto your boat. I couldn’t ask Wayne because he didn’t know of our work. I had to ask one of my other children, but he couldn’t kill you either. You were too strong for him. I’m sorry he cut your face.”

  “But you could kill Wayne? How could you do that?”

  He shook his head quickly. “No!” He almost yelled it. And then the soft, searching voice returned. “No, I didn’t want Wayne killed. That would be insane. Wayne was . . . perfect. I wanted him to have it all, Dusky. I wanted him to mate with our most perfect woman; to bear a child. The others are my children, Dusky. He was to be my son. But he wouldn’t listen. He just wouldn’t. When I told him of my work, my plans, he got very upset. I told him that night after the supper on the beach. We were alone in the boat. He demanded that I take him to see you. I couldn’t do that, Dusky. I had to take him out to this shrimp boat so he could think things over. But he struggled with Isfahan. Isfahan hurt him very badly, but Wayne still got away. I didn’t know what had happened until you told me. He was my son, Dusky, but it was God’s will. He had to die as . . . as an example to the others, I guess. He died for them all.” Jason put his face in his hands, breathing deeply. “When I came back to the island that night, I found Buster Ronstadz snooping around. He told me he had watched me go to the Cuban boat, and he threatened to tell the police I was dealing in drugs if I didn’t help put him on the wreck he was searching for. We will have nothing to do with drugs, but I couldn’t take the chance of getting the police involved. I was upset from my talk with Wayne. Ronstadz made me very angry. He was a Judas and deserved to die. He wanted to interfere with my mission.”

  “And just what is your mission, Jason? And just what in the hell does it have to do with these Castro goons?”

  “Our past lives were so similar, I thought you would have guessed.”

  “I tried but didn’t like what I came up with.”

  “God has told me to save our race, Dusky. The dark ones are taking over the world.” He pointed to his groin, and his nostrils flared slightly. “A slopehead did this to me! And now they’re trying to take over our country. Can’t you see it, Dusky? After I was wounded, I lay for months in the hospital. I read the papers, studied national social and political trends. I’m a student of history, Dusky! I saw what few others can see. There has never been a war in the history of man that wasn’t directly or indirectly racially motivated. The Celts, the Romans, the Germans, the Japanese—yes, and even the Vietnamese. All of them. And now, for the first time in our country’s history, the dark ones are threatening to outnumber us. Read the papers! They are crushing us with their demands for welfare, and they destroy our cities with their filth and their crimes and their riots. The next great war isn’t going to be with atomic weapons, Dusky, it’s going to be us against them with small arms. It’s going to be won or lost in the cities, on the streets. And my people are going to be ready!”

  “I guess you never saw any of the good, brave blacks in Nam . . .”

  “I’m not just talking about blacks.”

  “Jason! Jason, listen to me. Do you realize you sound like Hitler?”

  He stood up and smacked his hand with a big fist. “Hitler was right! Why do you think I made my home base in Davenport? It’s the center for the American Nazi Party. They’re helping me prepare . . .”

  His voice wavered a little when he said it. His eyes were worried, haunted. “I could never kill innocent women and children—not like them. When the war does come, I couldn’t allow it to be that way. No, of course we won’t. God will tell us what to do. And by that time, my children will be ready. They are seeding the new race now; the best and the brightest young people I could find. And they’re keeping their genes pure. Don’t you see, Dusky? We’re using the communists! I made my contact with Emanuel Ortiz in the VA hospital. He’s a physical therapist. We talked a lot. He thought I hated America; he made it known that he might be able to help me—but he doesn’t know why. He thinks I’m a commie, too. And anyone but the fools at the State Department can see why Castro planted his group here—to aid people like me! I give them gold, and they give me weapons. Finding the treasure is no problem. My missionaries in Europe, along with being good Christians, are also the best-educated, most-dedicated researchers to have ever gone through the archives in Madrid.”

  “So why did you come to my boat looking for that gold chain, if it’s so easy to find?”

  “I didn’t want the chain. I thought you might have a chart showing where the main lode of the Gaspar was located. I’m afraid when Detective Herrera asked me about Gifford Remus, he told me the whole story. We’ve made it possible for the Cubans to find enough treasure to keep them interested, but if I could find the Gaspar—well, we could buy enough arms for everyone in our movement.”

  “You didn’t kill Remus?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea who did.”

  “My people told me this shrimp boat had been searched. Where do you keep the treasure and the weapons? How do you make the switch?”

  “The shrimp boat is moved to deep water. It makes rendezvous with a Cuban submarine. Emanuel does the actual salvage. I just put him on the wrecks. One of our connections in Davenport has a small fleet of shrimp boats in Texas. When we’re done here, one of the boats will be properly manned and sent down to pick up the weapons. We were keeping them on Emanuel’s barge. But my people are transferring them to our camp now, burying them on Fullmoon Cay in waterproof containers. You should see them work, Dusky! They’re happy! They have a common goal, a common cause, and faith in the mission God has given us.” He stopped, thoughtful for a moment. He put his hand on my shoulder gently. “Join us, Dusky. Wayne is gone. Jennifer will be yours. I was so hoping that when she came to you that night, you would. Your child would be a great blessing to us . . .”

  “I could lie to you, Jason, and tell you I don’t think you’re crazy. I could lie to you and tell you that I believe.”

  His bright-blue eyes looked deeply into mine. “No, Dusky. You could never do that.”

  “Jason, you know that you need help. Think back, Jason. Think back to Nam. You saw them snap. Remember the way we joked about them? We joked because, deep inside, we knew it could happen to us. And it scared us. And now it’s happened to you . . .”

  He stood up abruptly, rubbing his hands together as if to clean them. He said, “You know that the only thing that is keeping you alive now is Ortiz. He thinks you know where the Gaspar is. I told him that so I would have a chance to talk with you. To give you a chance. When you tell them you don’t know, they’ll let Isfahan try to beat it out of you. After that, if you’re not already dead, they’ll kill you.”

  “You’re playing right into their hands, you know. The Cubans, the communists—they’re the true enemies, Jason. And you’re helping these people. Once you’ve shown them all the treasure you can find, they’re going
to take their weapons and—”

  He held up his hand. “They’re a stupid, greedy, and godless people, Dusky. Remember how the slopes were? It is true that they think they are using me. But that’s not the way it is. When the submarine comes to make the final pickup, they will try to demand their weapons back. But I’m ready for them. Like all the dark ones, they are a stupid people. I have made certain deliveries to each of their boats. As an explosives expert yourself, you can understand what I am saying. I have but to push a button on my boat. And I will. When the time is right.”

  I said nothing. He opened the door to go, then turned to me with the sad, sad eyes. He looked like the haunted brother from another lifetime.

  “They’ll come for you tonight, Captain, when the rest of us are asleep. Isfahan is a master with his feet. It is the only way he could have possibly hurt Wayne.” He hesitated. “Good luck, Dusky. I’ll . . . pray for you . . .”

  18

  Jason was right. They came for me in the darkness. First Emanuel Ortiz. He made me lie on my belly with my hands behind me while we talked. He carried a revolver. Ortiz was not one to take chances. At first he was pleasant. He made small jokes. He wanted me to tell him where the Gaspar was.

  “We searched your boat, Mr. MacMorgan. The gold chain wasn’t that well hidden. Mr. Boone tells me the chain was described in detail in the manifest of the Gaspar his researchers found in the Madrid archives.”

  “Jason Boone is insane, Ortiz.”

  He laughed shortly. “Of course he is. He’s a product of your capitalistic system. Those who are not physically weak are mentally corrupt. It is sad but true.”

  “I had forgotten—Comrade Stalin forbade your system to acknowledge your sick and infirm. I’ve always wondered, Ortiz—after Castro executes them, does he just bury them, or does he have them ground up for food to feed your starving?”

  He was silent for a moment. I could feel the hatred in him.

  “I’m becoming impatient with your stupidity, gringo. Tell us where the Gaspar is, and I will spare your life.”