By the time Hetta reached the dock, she was feeling rotten for acting like such a brat. And Canardly did nothing to make her feel better. He waited expectantly at the top of the steps, wagging his tail in anticipation of the treat she failed to bring. “Shit, dog, looks like I’m not worth a damned to anyone today.” She dug into her pocket and found twenty pesos. Hot dog money. “Come on, let’s take a walk to the store and I’ll buy you a goody, okay?”
Canardly led the way, occasionally running ahead and performing a little dog dance. Amazing what a few good meals and a little kindness will do for a hangdog attitude.
After Canardly devoured a five-pack of raw hot dogs, Hetta decided on a quick walk to think things over before returning to the boat. She knew she should call Jenks on the marina's VHF radio, tell him she's sorry, and would be back in an hour, but she didn't want the entire fleet in on their business. And she needed to think.
Five years earlier they had planned on a six-month sabbatical, a cruise back to Mexico where she'd been before they got married. She was the one who fell in love with the Sea of Cortez, and once there, pushed to stay. She knew it was not practical. She knew it could not last. But what she did not know was why the idea of going home put her in a panic. Yes, there was the fact that she could still imagine her mother alive in Texas as long as they lived in the never, never land of cruising, but there had to be more. As she walked, she mulled it over.
“Canardly, what if I can’t find a job? What if we have to live, well, like we do here? I mean, down here it’s fashionable to live poor.” In fact, any boater who flashed wealth was looked upon with scorn, a kind of reverse snobbery. But back in the States things were different. Hetta gave up her fairly high-paying consulting firm, and would probably, if she was lucky enough, face working for some corporation. Could she return to that kind of high stress? And would anyone even want her? Technology had grown by leaps and bounds in the past few years. Could she learn fast enough to bluff her way back in? Jenks could, she knew. But she’d already lost the impetus to succeed. The edge needed to fight the good fight.
Will I end up slinging burgers at some fast food joint? She loved her life here. That was just it. If they returned to the rat race they might get caught up in the very life they sought to escape.
“You know what Lily Tomlin says, don’t you?” Canardly stopped and waited. “If you win the rat race, you’re still a rat.” No hot dog materialized, so he raced ahead, no longer a cringing starving mutt, but a playful, happy dog. With only three days of regular meals. And here I am, bogged down in self-pity because when I go home I might not have a new BMW. Everything’s relative.
They were following a path through the desert that circled a hill leading to Rattlesnake Beach, a strip of rocky coastline south of the Waiting Room. From there she could see HiJenks, but without her handheld radio, couldn't call to let Jenks know where she was. Another screwup.
Canardly barked, so Hetta picked up her stride, thinking, Good, maybe there’re some campers around, and I can use their radio. Then another thought: Oh, God, what if that dumb dog has run up on a rattlesnake? She broke into a trot, crashed through a few scraggy mesquites and came face to face with the two Mexicans from the bus, Plaid and Shifty. And they had guns.
Hetta froze in mid-stride as the Mexicans, caught by surprise while frying eggs over their campsite fire, gaped at her. Canardly stopped barking and growled. Hetta growled and barked, “You two! Oh, shit.” Then flight overcame fright and she turned and ran. For over a mile.
A walker, not a jogger, Hetta nonetheless ran. Flat out. Not until she reached the dinghy dock did she stop, just before she thought her heart would. Gasping, she staggered down the steep steps, vaulted into Jenkzy, and pulled frantically on the starter cord three or four times before she remembered she had to squeeze the bulb to inject fuel into the carburetor. When the Evinrude coughed to life, she put it in reverse and was almost thrown into the water when the dinghy reached the end of the line she left tied to he cleat. Taking a few deep breaths as she released the painter from the dock, she then took off at full throttle. When she looked back, Canardly stood, alone and dejected, on the road above the dock.
Jenks heard a motor and saw Hetta streaking towards HiJenks at full tilt, not something she normally did. He went to the swim platform to meet her, and had to jump back when she rammed it, almost catching one of his bare feet. “Hey, take it easy, Hetta. What’s wrong?” he asked, grabbing the dinghy’s gunwale while she clambered aboard.
She fell into his arms and broke into tears. “I want to go home,” she choked out between sobs.
“Wow, was it something I said?” Jenks said in amazement. He’d never won an argument with Hetta this easily.
Despite her fear and fatigue, Hetta had to laugh. Then she started to babble. “Those men from the bus? They’re on Rattlesnake. They’re not shrimpers at all. And I just know they followed us from La Paz. They even looked guilty when I saw them just now. They have guns. What do they want?”
Jenks, who had no idea what she was talking about, gently pushed Hetta into a deck chair and told her to calm down and tell him what happened. After listening to her suspicions during the bus trip from La Paz, he asked, “Hetta, why didn’t you tell me then? You followed then, even when you that they might be dangerous?”
“They are dangerous. But then I thought you’d think I was being paranoid. I had myself convinced they were working on that shrimp boat, and it left. And if I hadn’t seen the guns and those guilty looks just now, I probably could have convinced myself they were just G.O.F.s.”
Jenks smiled. “Why don’t we go ask them if they’re just Guys Out Fishing?”
“What!”
“Let’s get in Jenkzy, go over to Rattlesnake Beach, and ask them.”
“Are you nuts? I told you, they have guns. What if they’re here to kill us?”
“Hetta, calm down. What kind of guns?”
“Looked like Glocks.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“I dunno.”
Jenks waited.
“Well, no. The guns were tucked into their pants. You know, kinda like this,” and she poked her hand into her waistband.
“Did they chase you?”
“I dunno. Well, no, I don’t think so. I ran and didn’t look back until I got to Jenkzy.”
“Look, I know you've had a scare, and I’m not saying those guys aren’t everything you think they are, but shouldn't we find out for sure?”
“I can’t. I’m skeered.”
He smiled at her. “Then I’ll go.”
“No! Not alone. Besides, they might not speak English. We’ll both go.”
“Atta sea wench. Now, cool down, drink some water, then we’ll go run the dirty buggers to ground.”
“Let's take the flare gun, so I can knock their dicks in the dirt. Dammit, I'm tired of living where I can't have my guns.”
Thirty minutes later, Jenkzy ground to a halt on the empty gravel beach at Rattlesnake Beach. The two men, and their camp, were gone.
Jenks began to think Hetta wasn’t paranoid at all.
“Jenks, I’ve been thinking.”
“I hate it when that happens.”
Hetta smiled in spite of her unsettling morning. She was still upset by her encounter with the gun-toting Mexicans on Rattlesnake, and all afternoon she’d kept watch on that area. There was no sign of the los dos shiftys.
While she peered through her binoculars, Hetta mulled over the events of the past few days, starting with the helicopter attack. Trying to make some sense of it all, she came up with a supposition. “The way I see it, there’s only one person I can think of who could have put these bus goons on us: Comandante Jaime Morales, the so-called good cop.”
“Hetta, that’s ridiculous. First of all, we’re not absolutely positive they are...what’d you call them?...goons? Where do you get these words? Anyhow, what have they really done? Nothing. Pointing an accusing finger at Jaime over something that we don
’t even know is a reality is not based on logic.”
“Logic? What’s logical about anything anymore? We’ve been downright terrorized. And don’t forget, someone killed us!”
“Uh, we’re not dead.”
“You know damned well what I mean. They thought it was us. I want to go home.”
“We don’t have a home. HiJenks is our home.”
Hetta glared at Jenks. “Are you being intentionally dense?”
They faced off for a minute, and then Jenks asked, “Is that a trick question?”
Hetta stuck out her chin, planted her hands on her hips, then threw up her arms in surrender and guffawed. She took Jenks’s hands in hers. “But I meant it, Jenks, I'm ready to go home. To the States.”
“Honey, I know I should be overjoyed you finally agree with me about heading north. And soon. But I don’t think we should because of some jerks.”
“Well, bully for you, macho man. I do. Cowardice runs real strong in these veins, and right now showing up on Monday morning to a regular desk job is lookin’ mighty good.”
“You never had a regular desk job. Never mind. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we should stay.”
“Fine. Then fix it,” Hetta demanded.
“Huh? Fix what?”
Hetta waved her hands around. “This. Everything. Fix it. Make the bad guys go away. I want my life, our life, back.”
Jenks saw she was getting upset again, so he put his arms around her and whispered into her hair, “I will. If the dirty bastards cross our path again, I’ll smite them with my magic sword.”
“Yeah, well, where will we be if they chop off your magic sword with a machete? Can we at least leave Puerto Escondido and go to La Paz? I’d feel safer there. Maybe we can park the boat at Marina del Cortez for awhile and catch a plane to...anywhere.” The boat rocked as a wake hit them broadside and Jenks sang a verse of “Don’t rock the boat, dear, keep our love afloat, dear,” to make Hetta laugh.
“That’s better. Okay, we'll check out of here when you're ready. Even if we get a blow we'll ride it south.” He looked outside as if to check the weather and saw a shrimp boat tying up at the dock.
“And look, Hetta, things are looking up already. Instead of Spam Helper, maybe shrimp for dinner? In all the excitement I forgot to tell you I didn’t catch any bass. But now the shrimpers are back. Good, huh?”
“Why is it I don’t feel like breaking into a chorus of “Shrimp Boats Are A’ Comin’ ?” I told you I saw my plaid goons on that shrimper, and they were pretty damned chummy with the crew. Maybe they’re all watching us.”
“They say paranoia is one of the first signs of old age, you know,” Jenks teased.
“Oh, yeah? They also say that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you.”
Jenks threw up his hands. “Okay, I know when I’m beat. We’ll go to La Paz and cozy up to that Coast Guard cutter, or, if we hear that life on the Sea is safe again, we’ll go on to San Carlos. Then decide what to do next. If you still feel the same way you do now, we'll put the boat away, take a bus to the States. How’s that for a plan?”
“I like it. But I hate it. I hate it that these drug-peddling assholes have messed with our lives.”
“Let’s think positive, Tex. They’ll probably nail those gunslingers from the copter in a day or two, and we'll be back to broke, but happy.”
“Yeah, and there ain’t a cow in Texas.”
Log of the HiJenks, November 18, Puerto Escondido
Wind: Calm
Sky: Clear
Water Temp: 70 F Barometer: Steady, Normal
The operative word for today is paranoia! I didn’t write the details of the guys who I thought followed us from La Paz because I decided they were just fishermen. But then the boat they were on left without them, and this morning I found them camped on Rattlesnake Beach. And they had guns!
Jenks, the logical one, says they haven’t really done anything wrong, and he’s right, but I FEEL something is wrong. Those guys followed us and they are watching us and I want to know why. And who sent them? Don Quixote?
At least Jenks agrees we'll leave here and head for La Paz. We'll be safer there. I hope that Coast Guard boat didn't leave yet, but anyhow I’ll just feel more secure in a marina. Until we go home.
Home? Yes, home. I quit. I give up. Uncle. Call me a sissy, but stalking, murder and mayhem are not my bag. Unless I'm doing it! H. The Cowardly Lion.
As Hetta was putting away her laptop, Swarthy made a phone call from the RV park office a quarter mile away. “She...” he glared at the desk clerk, who quickly exited the office to give him privacy, “suspects we are following them. Made us for sure. What’s our next move?”
There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, and then, “I suppose you should stay in the area, but perhaps check into the motel. If HiJenks leaves port, get on that shrimper and follow. Discreetly?”
Chapter 29
God grants liberty only to those who love it, and always ready to guard and defend it.—Daniel Webster
Captain Bill Xavier scanned Endeavor’s Thanksgiving menu and wrestled with whether to allow limited shore leave for the holiday, in spite of their enhanced alert status. His executive officer, Rich Arrington, rapped on the door, then entered, waving a piece of paper.
“By the cat-ate-the-canary grin on your face, Rich, I detect good news.”
“Not exactly. Could be. Might not be. Looks like we just lost our semi-whatever status down here.” He handed a communiqué to Xavier. “Something big’s a-brewin’ along the Arizona border, and they want us to move up into the Sea. Seems we stirred the pot when we sent in that HiJenks/Hot Idea report. Things have snowballed.”
“Arizona border? Who do they think we are? Excellent navigators to be sure, but we’ll play hell getting this tub to Arizona. Ours, however, is not to question, and all that noble crap.” Xavier scanned the orders again. “Maybe they’re expecting the old one-two whammy,” he said, referring to the cartels’ habit of staging two operations in tandem in case one gets blown. “At any rate, that settles the question of any shore leave.”
“I’d say so.”
“According to this, Operation Black November is scheduled to make a big bust around the Douglas/Agua Prieta border tomorrow. If that’s so, the drugs must have already been picked up and are on their way. But there may be a second drop planned. Anyway, let’s get underway.”
“Aye, sir. I’ve already accounted for all personnel. They are either on board or on the way here now. But wait, there's more. We got something on that Gibbs character. The one in Marina del Cortez?” He pulled a note from his pocket and unfolded it with flair. “One bust for possession. Scuttlebutt is he had some interesting clients who paid hard cash for fast boats. Then he upped and paid cash for Water Witch. Told everyone he’d inherited some money. The IRS is checking that out. Anyhow, he quit his job selling yachts and came down here. No visible means of support.”
“But he lives at the marina, drinks in town, and has a high-end cell phone.”
“It gets better. That blonde I saw him with? The one who lives with the Texan on All Bidness? She’s Mrs. Buzz Gibbs.” Arrington raised his eyebrows dramatically and waited for that surprise to sink in.
“The plot sickens,” Xavier said with a shake of his head. “So, maybe Bud’s the cash bull. The blonde funnels moola to the ex and everyone’s happy. Jesus, I hate this kind of crap. People are killed for less. Oh, well, not our worry for the moment, but when we get back to La Paz I plan to have a little talk with Mr. Gibbs. I still think the punk’s dealing. Even if he is dipping into the Bank, and broad, of Bud.”
Chapter 30
Let them fall into the snare which they have laid.—Ovid
At Fort Huachuca, Russell Madden briefed Nicole, bringing her up to speed on the latest as to who was in charge of what. After only a few hours sleep, she and her Black November team were high on adrenaline, caffeine, and ant
icipation. Even with the tension almost palpable, Nicole noticed a lot of joshing among the technicians as nervous energy turned to humor for relief. Far better than choler.
Should a “civilian,” one not accustomed to this type of operation, enter the huge room, they'd see busy, but relaxed, workers, each engrossed in their own tasks. Nicole saw a well-oiled machine of dedicated souls with a single mission: Let’s win one. It had been far too long for far too many. Politics, ineptitude, avarice, and terror combined to foil these crusaders for years. Now they had a chance to triumph. A combination of two new presidents, a newly formed coalition of professionals on both sides of the border, and an openly declared war on drugs, promised an opportunity long denied.
Russell verbalized what many others were thinking. “This better work. I sure hope to heck we know what we’re doing. We’re gonna have to bite the big one if this thing turns out to be a fluke.”
Nicole made a cross with her index fingers and held her arms out as if to ward off evil spirits. “Bite...uh...your tongue, Russ.”
Russell chuckled, said, “Nice save,” took her by the arm and steered her to a console nearby. A young man with pale skin and hair was glued to his screen, mesmerized by something Nicole couldn’t decipher. Russell tapped the technician on the shoulder and he practically jumped out of his chair. He whirled as if to confront his attacker, saw Nicole, and sprang to his feet. “Sorry, Gray, didn’t mean to startle you. This is Nikki Kristin. She’s my boss.”
Gray stuck out his hand and, after a rapid shake, Nicole and Russell pulled chairs up on both sides of the console. Nicole leaned in for a close look at the screen and caught Gray gaping at her cleavage. Maybe I ain’t over the hill just yet, she thought, but an arched eyebrow admonished Gray, who reluctantly returned his eyes to the monitor.
“What are we looking at?” Nicole asked.
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