Precious Cargo

by Clyde W. Ford

  Once inside, I hauled myself up to the pilothouse. I spun the wheel hard over to starboard. Then I gave the engine a shot of forward throttle, followed with a shot of reverse, and finished off with a shot of forward again. Like a horse taking her injured rider home, the Noble Lady spun around in her own length and headed toward the marina’s entrance.

  We rounded the breakwater, and I pulled the throttle back to idle, disengaging the gearshift. The Noble Lady pirouetted in the current, then drifted in the pea-soup fog. I stumbled downstairs and into the head to find a bottle of painkillers. I swallowed a couple of pills dry, grabbed a bandage for the gash in my forehead from the first-aid kit, and climbed back up to the pilothouse. I kneaded my temples and forced myself to focus through the pain. A blanket of luminous white enveloped me. I couldn’t see past the Noble Lady’s bow. Forget following Longhorn. I’d be happy just to find her on radar in this fog.

  I checked my GPS and brought up my location on my navigational computer. I’d already swung around nearly 180 degrees. I engaged the forward gear and brought the engine rpm’s up. Then I spun the wheel, the boat twirled, and we headed off through the fog.

  A nearby ship’s horn blasted two long, mournful pleas. The deep, throaty sound vibrated through my body. Off in the distance, another ship answered. I punched in the Vessel Traffic System channel on my VHF radio. Tankers, container ships, and tugs pulling barges radioed that they’d slowed down several knots entering the bank of fog, which apparently had socked in most of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  I switched on my radar and zoomed-out the view to a distance of sixteen miles. The gash on my forehead throbbed. But the painkillers must have kicked in. Only a dull ache persisted in my back and the sides of my body. I counted eight glowing spots of green light ahead of me, any one of them possibly Longhorn.

  Another ship’s horn sounded. I braced for the second blast. It came loud and close by. I scanned the radar screen. A large target closed in on me from behind, now about half a mile away. The ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria, I guessed. I verified my position on radar, then swung the Noble Lady sharply in toward land. I knew I’d appear on the ferry’s radar screen. I hoped this abrupt turn would telegraph to the captain that he should pass on my port side.

  The ship’s horn blared twice again. My body responded, vibrating like a struck tuning fork. I strained to see out the forward and side windows, but fog dispersed the sound, making it impossible to determine the vessel’s location.

  I hit a button on the radar to zoom-in the view. A large green blob now appeared almost on top of me. I revved the engine higher and headed farther in toward shore. When the depth sounder read twenty feet, I stopped.

  The low grumble of large diesel engines pulsed through me. The diesels pounded louder, as though the fog itself breathed. I heard the ship’s bow wave before I felt it, like the sound of a thousand fallen leaves crushed under foot and rushing at me. I braced against the wheel, unsure from which direction to expect the wave. It hit the Noble Lady abeam, rolling her heavily. I held onto the wheel. Two more waves slapped her side in short succession.

  Down below, cabinet doors crashed open. Books jumped their retaining strips again and hit the floor with a cascade of plops. Outside, the chains attached to the dolphins rattled violently, even though the dolphins sat securely in their holders. Then the Noble Lady regained her composure. Fog swallowed the sound of the diesels. I never did see the vessel that passed. Far away, ship horns brayed, warnings of giants still hidden in the mist.

  With my eyes fixed on my instruments, I turned the wheel slowly, gently bringing the Noble Lady back on course. On the radar screen, the number of targets within sixteen miles had now grown from eight to twelve. I headed toward the eastern entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, back toward the San Juan Islands.

  I thought about trying to find my cell phone amid the mess I knew awaited me in the Noble Lady’s cabin. I could call Kate and ask if she’d have her CO divert Sea Eagle to intercept Longhorn. But I couldn’t leave the helm, not in conditions like this. Navigating by radar in blinding fog is like playing a video game with real lives at stake. Then again, calling Kate might not be such a good idea. I’d risk putting her position as a junior officer in jeopardy by asking her to request something highly irregular from her CO.

  I gazed at the glowing green dots on the radar screen. Maybe I could tease them apart. Vessel traffic follows predictable sea-lanes, which are laid out plainly on nautical charts. Only pleasure craft and vessels like water taxis or ferries traveled outside of those lanes. I turned up the VHF radio, tuning it to the vessel traffic channel.

  “Victoria Traffic. This is Ocean Challenger.”

  “Ocean Challenger. Traffic.”

  “Traffic. We’re at Race Rocks. Slowing to eight knots in heavy fog. Estimating Victoria Harbor at One Two Three Zero.”

  “Ocean Challenger, Roger. Ahead of you is the one-hundred-foot fishing vessel Pacific Warrior, leaving Victoria Harbor and heading for Sydney via Baynes Channel. Behind you, and possibly overtaking, is the tug John McCormack, towing two empty barges. Estimated speed is fourteen knots. Well behind the John McCormack is the Pacific Nomad, a tug with two full container barges, and behind her the Ocean Titan, a tug making twelve knots. Opposing is the oil tanker Alaskan Rose, estimating Race Rocks at One One Four Five, and the Victoria Clipper on her regularly scheduled run from Seattle, estimating Victoria Harbor at One Two One Five.”

  “Roger, Traffic, thank you. Ocean Challenger standing by Eleven and Sixteen.”

  I found Race Rocks on the radar and the blip representing the Ocean Challenger. I tapped on the John McCormack, the Pacific Warrior, the Alaskan Rose, and the Victoria Clipper. I also tapped on a dot that sped northeast across the top of my radar screen. Probably the ferry from Port Angeles to Anacortes.

  “Roger, Traffic, thank you,” I said silently to myself. I’d already accounted for six out of twelve targets.

  With the Noble Lady headed east, three of the remaining six targets actually traveled toward me from behind and about two miles north. I estimated their speed at about twelve knots. A double blip flickered on and off for the middle target of this trio, the telltale signature of a tug towing a barge. This looked like Pacific Nomad, and the other blip like the Ocean Titan.

  Suddenly, one of the three remaining unidentified targets changed course, turning south and racing across the screen ten miles ahead of me toward Admiralty Inlet. It’s dangerous to estimate the size of a vessel simply based on the size of its blip. But this tiny blip traveling at such high speed suggested an inflatable or a small boat, perhaps a coast guard patrol boat. I counted how long it took for the target to cross the concentric rings on my radar screen, estimating its speed at twenty-five knots. I didn’t believe that Longhorn could move that fast.

  Of the remaining blips, one moved slowly east from Smith Island, and the other headed north up Haro Strait, by my calculations making somewhere between ten and fifteen knots. I nodded and tapped atop the second blip, which I believed was Longhorn. Then I pushed the throttle forward. The engine whined, and the Noble Lady’s speed rose to just over eight knots. While I couldn’t catch up to that blip, at least I could stay within range to keep it on radar and determine its probable destination.

  A flood current built, at times pushing me to over ten knots. The VHF radio crackled with the static-filled conversation of ship captains and Vessel Traffic Control. Little wind blew, and the morning sun had yet to burn off the fog. The faster target, which I presumed to be Longhorn, continued its northerly course up Haro Strait, while the slower target appeared not to have moved much from its previous position off Smith Island.

  Fog stopped me in my early days of cruising. I’d tuck into a little nook, throw out the anchor, and wait for it to lift. Perhaps the captain of that boat off Smith Island felt a similar reluctance to venture out today.

  I neared Smith Island and looked right into a dense white cloud. I couldn’t see a slow-moving boat.
I couldn’t see anything. I located the faster target on my radar and adjusted my screen so it would continue to stay in view.

  A small, scintillating point of green light appeared near the target off Smith Island. It vanished, then it reappeared, then it vanished again. I adjusted the radar to filter out clutter. Afterward, I didn’t see the dot. Then a moment later it reappeared, its radar image merging with the outer edges of Smith Island. I adjusted my radar again, this time to keep the faster-moving target I thought was Longhorn on the screen. The tiny spot of light flickered on again. A ship’s horn broke the silence. My body tensed. I scanned radar again. Ocean Titan moved past my port side, and Pacific Nomad steamed along not far behind.

  Suddenly, two sharp cracks sounded off my starboard side. Instinctively, I ducked. The first bullet chuffed into the outside wall of the pilothouse. The second bullet splintered the window of the pilothouse door and dived, whining, into an upper sidewall above my head. I reached up and pressed the autopilot button with my fingertips. Then I crawled to the window and raised my body slowly to peek out. That’s when I saw the small white boat with a large black outboard motor, barely visible in the fog. It looked like Longhorn’s high-speed skiff.

  I scooted down the pilothouse stairs and into the stateroom, looking for my pistol. Damn. The nightstand drawer lay on its side, its contents strewn over the floor, mixed with the pile of books. My pistol lay somewhere beneath that clutter. Two muffled cracks sounded. Two slugs bit low, into the hull. I didn’t have time to search for my gun.

  Empty-handed, I scrambled back into the pilothouse. Fired at just the right location, a bullet could puncture the hull or, worse, hit the fuel tank and set off an explosion. I switched off the autopilot, then snatched the wheel. I spun the boat around and headed into the fog. I zoomed-in my radar view as far as I could, but the small boat lurked too close to distinguish it on the screen.

  And I’d thought about a boater afraid of the fog? That slow-moving target had been Longhorn, and she stood off Smith Island—not to wait out the fog, but to wait for me. Perhaps Brady or Calvin had called Kincaid on his cell phone.

  Another dull thud struck the Noble Lady’s hull on the other side. I peered out the port window just in time to see Longhorn’s skiff disappear into the fog.

  With small patches of varying visibility, a fogbank is much more like a maze than a solid wall, particularly as it begins to lift. I opened the throttle wide, headed out toward the shipping lanes, and steered into and out of the thickest fog based on how much of the ocean I could see in front of the boat.

  From the size of its outboard motor, I bet Longhorn’s skiff could easily attain a speed of thirty knots. I felt like a sitting duck. I opened the pilothouse door and looked behind me. The Noble Lady’s stern tucked into thicker fog just as the skiff’s bow pierced through into a clearing. I ducked back into the pilothouse and grabbed the wheel. I spun the Noble Lady around sharply. If the men in that small boat tracked me on radar, this close they’d have trouble distinguishing me turning 180 degrees and heading back at them.

  I slammed the throttle forward, aiming for the spot where I thought the skiff would reappear. A moment later, the small boat broke through the fog directly in front of my bow. I leaned into the Noble Lady’s foghorn.

  Terror stormed across the faces of the two men. They dived into the water. I held onto the wheel. Fiberglass met fiberglass with a jarring crash. The Noble Lady rammed the skiff just beyond its bow. The skiff tipped precipitously, then veered off sharply to starboard. I swung the wheel to port so we’d miss the rest of the small boat. When I looked back, I saw the skiff upside down in the water. One man clung to the hull. The other swam furiously toward him.

  The Noble Lady had more than an inch of fiberglass in the forward sections of her hull, so I wasn’t worried about serious damage. I noted my position from the GPS, then I radioed the Coast Guard to let them know where they’d find two cold, unhappy mariners in the water.

  I checked my radar. I no longer saw Longhorn’s blip sitting off Smith Island. But a target making about twenty knots now headed for Cattle Point. Hunters know that tracking prey that moves faster than they do is exhausting and often futile. So the smart ones split duties, some herding prey, others lying in wait where the prey is likely headed. I set the Noble Lady on a course for the Lawson Reef buoy at the southern end of Lopez Island. I’d managed to herd Longhorn from the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the San Juan Islands.

  I knew the exact spot to lie in wait.

  twenty-six

  I rounded the southeast tip of Lopez Island and entered Rosario Strait. The fog lifted, revealing a multicolored world beyond the pilothouse. I stuck my head out from the pilothouse door and looked behind me. A dense white veil rose from the water beyond Lopez, blocking the view of the monochrome world that I’d left.

  Ahead of me, dark green waters capped with a layer of sparkling sunlight surrounded chunks of sun-drenched, dark green land. A deep blue sky reigned overhead. The flood swept me along.

  I called Raven on his cell phone. He didn’t answer. The call transferred to his business voice mail. I left a message telling him what I intended to do.

  At Neptune’s Small Trident, I continued up Rosario. Tiny Doe Island lies in the strait, just off the southeast coast of huge Orcas Island, like a misplaced period on a page. The island’s all of six acres, but it’s a state park equipped with a thirty-two-foot-long dock. I threaded my way through the rocky entrance. Boats tied to private buoys bobbed in front of the few homes lining the Orcas Island shore across from Doe Island.

  The current ran hard around the tiny island. I spun the wheel into it and gunned the engine forward and back a few times. It took several passes to maneuver into a position where the current pushed me into the dock. I tied the Noble Lady with her stern facing the island and her prominent bow sticking out past the end of the dock.

  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the thick mass of Kate’s protein smoothie slid slowly down my throat, comforting my stomach. Afterward, I grabbed a pair of binoculars and jumped down to the dock. My adrenaline level dropped a notch with each step along the short path through the woods to the other side of the island. The sharp, sweet aroma of cedar scented the air. A crow’s cackle floated above the screams of seagulls. Though the gash on my forehead throbbed once again, the path ended at a view that took my breath away.

  I sat with my back propped against a rock and gazed out to the water. To my left lay a clutch of rocks known as the Peapods. Across the wide expanse of Rosario Strait stood Eagle Bluff, the high promontory at the north end of Cypress Island. I raised the binoculars to my eyes. A colony of seals lazed in the sun on the Peapods. Then, turning the glasses to Cypress Island, I stared directly into Smuggler’s Cove.

  I lowered the binoculars and closed my eyes, sucking in a deep breath of salt air laced with the piquant sweetness of cedar. I nuzzled my back into the rock. A breeze blew across my face. The last thing I remember is imagining Kate resting her head in my lap.

  When I opened my eyes and checked my watch, I’d given up forty-five minutes to the water, the wind, the trees, and the earth.

  I strolled back to the Noble Lady. I picked up books and put back the spilled contents of cabinets and drawers. Then I flipped my cell phone open to call Raven again. The bars on the tiny screen indicated that I had minimal service. I pressed Send, and the call went through. Raven answered. We exchanged “Hello” and “Can you hear me?” several times. Frustrated, I yelled into the phone, “I’m at Doe Island keeping an eye on Smuggler’s Cove.” The connection dropped. I tried to call again, but now a message on the screen indicated I had no service at all.

  After dinner I dropped the dinghy into the water and tied it to the dock. Then I slipped into a windbreaker and grabbed my night-vision binoculars and a flashlight before heading back over to the other side of the island. Once there, I propped myself up against the rock. The setting sun tinged the sky above Obstruction and Blakely islands a deep orange.
Out of sight, two kingfishers bantered with high-pitched staccato calls that sounded like the rattling of miniature machine guns. The breeze died. A cormorant on a log floated by. North of the Peapods, a big tanker turned the corner at Point Lawrence, plowing through the waters of Rosario Strait.

  I watched and waited.

  Shimmering stars arrived overhead first, followed by an orange moon just past full. A satellite swept over the face of the night sky. On the other side of Rosario Strait, a red light moved against the dark land-mass of Cypress Island. I picked up my night-vision binoculars, which transformed the darkness into a world of garish yellow-green light. The running light belonged to a boat maybe forty feet long, shaped like a Grand Banks, heading east along Rosario. Smuggler’s Cove still lay empty. I pulled the binoculars away, enjoying the darkness again after my eyes adjusted.

  The Lydia Shoal buoy flashed green. In the distance, other buoys flickered red and yellow. No lights moved along the water. Put me at the helm of Longhorn tonight, and I’d run with my lights off. I stood up to stretch and decided to head across the island to the Noble Lady for some coffee.

  As I walked back to the rock with the thermos, my flashlight beam danced among the trees, sending eerie shadows bouncing through the woods. I sat against the rock and took a few sips of coffee. Through the binoculars I saw Smuggler’s Cove still empty. I’m sure that many a hunter has sat in a blind waiting for prey, wondering if he’d staked out the right spot. Maybe I’d been wrong about Longhorn returning to Smuggler’s Cove. One step toward the truth, I reminded myself. I exhaled deeply.

  In short succession, two shooting stars etched trails of fire across the sky. The moon, once orange, now cast an undulating silvery path over the water. Kincaid could have run back into Canada with Longhorn.

  A twig broke behind me. My body stiffened and I pushed back into the rock. Tiny feet scurried over fallen leaves. I chuckled to myself. What is it about darkness that feels so ominous and threatening? Earlier today I’d been in near-zero visibility in the midst of vessel traffic along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Now I sat on an island, gazing at the stars, with houselights visible twenty miles away. Yet, I felt more vulnerable than I had earlier, encased in thick fog.