“Could be a shrimper. Let’s keep an eye on him. I don’t want to start another Mexican American War by getting some Mexican vessel mixed up in the middle of what’s, so far, an American situation.”
“Maybe he’s just drifting in one of those weird currents they have here, and that’s what's holding him against the wind.”
“I hope he stays there. And I wish Hetta would let go of her death grip on that mic button.”
HiJenks: 0100hrs.
“Hetta, give me the mic and take a break. You’re starting to sound like a frog.”
Hetta was startled from the mayday-mantra she’d been chanting for an hour. She let go of the mic key and shook her hand. “My finger’s are asleep. Let me get a drink of water and hit the toilet, then I’ll take over again.”
“No hurry. I’ve done all I can on the ham radio, so I’ll keep putting out the mayday on this one. While you’re below, get into your body suit and cover up with a lot of warm clothes. Bring me my suit, some warmies and a jacket, okay? Oh, where did we put those new blow up life jackets? We should put those on. When you come back up, get out our snorkeling equipment.”
Hetta eyed Jenks with suspicion. “Snorkeling equipment? Surely you jest, Jenks. If you think I’m going into that water,” she pointed outside, “at night, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve seen “Jaws”. And “The Creature from the Black Lagoon”. ”
Jenks smiled and shook his head as he watched Hetta tromp away, mumbling about sea monsters, and zigzagging as the boat rolled in a building beam sea. While he listened on channel sixteen for a minute, he checked the anemometer: 25 knots, gusting to 30. As he expected, he heard nothing on the radio, banged it with his fist, and then resumed the mayday call. Why didn’t I fix this damned thing before we left?
Endeavor: 0105 hrs.
“Sir! HiJenks just stopped transmitting. Do you want me to try reaching them?” the radio operator asked.
Arrington and Xavier shared a glance, and Xavier nodded. “Tell them—” he began, but Jenks started transmitting again, precluding any chance they had of contact. “I guess we weren’t fast enough on the draw. Probably just as well. But if it happens again, identify yourself as Endeavor—just Endeavor—and tell them to change course towards us. That’s the best we can do for now.”
“Cap’n,” Arrington said, “we should be able to override the mayday on sixteen and contact All Bidness within the hour.”
“Good, but hold off. We may be forced to warn them off unless something changes, but I don’t want to give All Bidness a chance to turn up the horses. As it is, we’ll be fifteen minutes late to the finish gate. But we have a dark horse that All Bidness doesn’t.”
Arrington raised his eyebrows. “Big guns?”
“That’s right,” Xavier said grimly. “Prepare the main battery for action.”
HiJenks: 0115 hrs.
Hetta braced herself against the bathroom sink and splashed cold water on her face before rummaging into storage lockers for spandex suits, socks, and heavy sweaters. Under her own suit, she put on a turtleneck and two pairs of socks. From their diving equipment bag, she slipped on rubber booties, then stuffed Jenks’s dive boots, plus their gloves and fins, into a mesh bag. As she did so, her stomach flip-flopped at the idea of jumping into the dark waters of the Sea of Cortez. She added her dive knife.
Stepping back into the head for an Alka Seltzer, she caught sight of herself stuffed into the two-toned body suit, and black humor raised its ugly head. Jimmy Dean sausage meets Jaws in the Sea of Cortez.
San Carlos, Sonora: 0130 hrs.
“Nikki, please shine the light near my right hand,” Jaime whispered.
“Jaime, are we stealing this boat?” Nicole asked, nervously glancing around the quiet, dark marina.
“Not zactly. Let us just say we are re-stealing it. There,” he grunted, “now, hand me the gum.”
Nicole removed the gob of chewing gum she’d been jawing and slapped it into his open hand. “Hope you like Juicy Fruit,” she deadpanned.
“It will be perfect. As for this boat, it was stolen from a marina in San Diego a month ago.”
“San Diego? How on earth did it...she...get here? She looks awfully big—not to mention glaringly obvious—to hitch to a thief’s pickup.”
“Hold the light a little closer, por favor. Zactly. That’s probably why the thieves drove her here.”
“In the water? All the way from San Diego? You’re joking. Isn’t this a race boat?” Nicole asked, surveying the bright yellow Donzi offshore racer. “Jesus, all it needs is numbers.”
“The best we can figure out from the engine hour meter, this boat was taken down the Pacific side of the Baja, all the way to Cabo San Lucas, then up here. Bananas was never raced because she was stolen just hours after delivery by the dealer. Needless to say, the new owner is not happy and there is some kind of insurance dispute. Meanwhile, Bananas stays here in Mexico, under the protection of the police.” Jaime twisted two wires together.
“Who are now stealing her,” Nicole said dryly. “Did you get whoever heisted her from San Diego?” She leaned over to pinpoint the wires Jaime handled with an adroitness that bespoke a misspent youth. The engine roared to life.
“No,” he shouted over the noise. “The two guys approached a very surprised American vessel off the Pacific side of the Baja and asked where they could get fuel. Smelling a ratón, the Americans reported the sighting to the San Diego Coast Guard. After that, no one saw her again until Bananas showed up in San Carlos. We suspect she was somehow used for running drugs and then abandoned near Catch-22 Beach. You may throw off the lines.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Nicole said, and threw him a salute.
“Holy shit, what was that?” Morrie grumped as coffee sloshed over the notepad on which he was writing updated coordinates for HiJenks.
“Some jerk in a yellow speed boat,” his wife said, sticking her head out the cockpit hatch. “Has to be doing at least twenty. Probably some drunk Mexican.”
Just outside the San Carlos Bay Harbor entrance, two elderly Mexican men were quietly bottom fishing from their small skiff when a yellow streak roared by within ten feet. The little boat, violently rocked by Bananas’ bow wave, shipped water over her gunwales.
“Madre de Dios, what was that?” one asked.
His friend shrugged. “Probably some drunk Gringo.”
All Bidness: 0200 hrs.
Pam pounded her fist. “This friggin’ radar! Gato, do something, I can’t see shit,”
“I am trying,” the young Mexican told her, punching push pad symbols on the sophisticated radar control panel. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing, but if the peluda wanted him to look like he did, he’d try. The radar screen suddenly cleared and Gato grinned with surprise, and for the Gringa’s benefit, smirked.
“Gato, you’re a genius. Hey, what are these?” Pam asked, pointing to three blips that were not HiJenks. Before Gato could answer, a fourth appeared in the edge of the screen.
“Fishing pangas,” he said with more self-assurance than he felt.
“Oh, okay. I’m going out on deck with Gibby. He says you should stay topside, on the bridge, so you and KiKi can keep a lookout. I’ll watch the radar from down here, and I’ll let you know if HiJenks changes course. But we should be able to see them soon enough in this moonlight.
Gato left and Pam glared at the VHF radio.
“Shut the hell up, Hetta.” She snapped off the radio.
Mexican Navy Vessel Matamoros: 0210 hrs.
Captain Ortega stared at his own radar screen, trying to figure out who was who. HiJenks was easy, since Hetta’s monotonous distress call gave updates of their location, and All Bidness was closing. But what, in the name of all the saints and the Virgin Mary, is that down south?
“Lieutenant, put out a call on channel nine. I want to find out who that is moving up from the south so fast. It can’t be one of our navy ships, it’s too big to be a fishing boat, and if it’s a private yacht, it’s a
monster. Maybe it is one of the small cruise ships. Whoever they are, they seem to be headed straight for HiJenks, perhaps in response to the mayday. Try English first. Anything that big should have a scanner. Use high power.”
Endeavor: 0212 hrs.
The bridge speakers boomed to life as the radio’s scanner zeroed in, opting to override HiJenks’s weaker signal. “This is Papa Zero-Four, Mexican Navy Patrol Boat Matamoros. Vessel heading three-five-zero at twenty-nine knots, please identify.”
“Oh, boy,” Arrington muttered under his breath, pointing to the blip on the radar the radio directional finder indicated. “What do you want to do, Cap’n?”
“Answer them. And hope All Bidness doesn’t have a scanner on.”
Arrington strode to the communication station and grabbed the mike. “Mexican Navy Patrol Matamoros, this is United States Coast Guard Cutter Endeavor. We are responding to a mayday from an American vessel in the Sea of Cortez. Over.”
Ortega and his officers exchanged surprised looks, then the lieutenant said, “Please to stand by, Endeavor.” Turning to Ortega, he offered the mic. “Do you wish to talk to them, sir?”
“No, my English is not that good. Ask them if they have someone on board who speaks Spanish.”
“Endeavor, this is Matamoros. Habla, uh, Spanish?”
“Stand by, Matamoros.”
Ortega stared at his radar screen while they waited. He was just pointing to a fourth blip on the screen when the radio crackled to life again.
“Matamoros, this is Captain Bill Xavier of the United States Coast Guard. I am the ranking officer on board, and I speak Spanish.”
More surprised looks on the bridge of Matamoros.
Ortega took the mic, happy to be speaking in his native language. “Good Morning, Captain Xavier. I am Captain Ortega. What do you make of this situation?”
“Capitán Ortega, I am not at liberty to talk freely on this channel,” Xavier answered in fluent Spanish, “but the way we see it, one American vessel is being pursued by another American vessel, and we suspect foul play. Over.”
“What are your intentions, Captain Xavier?”
“According to International Maritime Law, we are proceeding to assist an American registered vessel in distress and will do what is necessary to insure the safety of that vessel,” Xavier told him, hoping he didn’t come off sounding like a pompous Gringo. Then he added diplomatically, “We have information that your government may not have had a chance to relay to you.”
Ortega hesitated. What is this Xavier talking about? And by “what is necessary,” did the American mean he was prepared to use force? Open fire? And if so, what should I do about it? As far as I know, this coast guard ship is not even supposed to be here. He shrugged. “Welcome to the Sea of Cortez, Captain Xavier. You are aware, are you not, that these are Mexican waters?” he asked, carefully choosing his words.
“I think we can, under the circumstances, leave that to the maritime lawyers, Capitán Ortega. Meanwhile, we will, of course, take our direction from your vessel as you are the host country.” Arrington grinned at Xavier’s crafty reply.
As Xavier had anticipated, this was not what Ortega wanted to hear. If he told them to leave, there could be repercussions. If he told them to continue, there could be repercussions.
Ortega made his decision. “I am sure you will use the utmost caution to make certain no Mexican vessel is involved in this situation, Captain Xavier. Please keep this channel open for further communications. Godspeed. Matamoros clear.”
He handed the microphone to his radio operator and turned to his next in command. “Sound an ‘all hands on deck’ and issue weapons. I am going to try to reach Guaymas Control for helicopter surveillance. It’s starting to look like another norteamericano invasion out here.”
Bananas: 0230hrs.
“Holy Mother of God,” Nicole yelled over the roar of the Donzi’s engines, “how fast are we going?”
Jaime checked the gauges. “Forty, but we have to slow down. The seas are building and we don’t have all that much fuel. This boat is a…how you say it? Gas pig?”
“Gas hog.”
“Zactly. I cannot figure out how the men who stole this boat managed to get so far,” Jaime yelled back. “Go below and check the radar.”
“No problemo, Captain Ahab,” Nicole retorted, but she did as told. Coming back into the cockpit she pointed below. “Maybe you’d better look for yourself. Unless your great white friend, Moby Dick, has brought all his friends to the central Sea of Cortez, there’s a traffic jam out there.”
“Take the wheel, Nikki.” Then he added, “Please.”
“That’s more like it,” Nicole grinned. She had never driven a fast boat like Bananas, but even in the freshening gale, she handled like a Rolls Royce gliding down the Santa Monica Freeway. Well, maybe the Santa Monica Freeway with potholes. Unfortunately, it was beginning to look like rush hour ahead.
HiJenks: 0230hrs.
“Hetta, we just recorded a forty knot gust. I think I’d better go out on deck, secure a few things and check Jenkzy’s lines.” Noting the stricken look on Hetta’s face, he added, “I’ll only be a minute, and I promise to hold on tight.”
Hetta nodded a reluctant nod, and scooted back into the captain’s chair so he could pass in front of her and out the door. She continued to transmit, but anxiously peered out the open door. She couldn’t see Jenks, but her heart missed a beat when she spotted All Bidness’s lights behind them. It was one thing to see a blip on the screen, but quite another to actually see the boat. She put down the mic, yelled for Jenks and stepped out, almost colliding with him as he returned from the other direction.
“Jesus, you about scared the crap out of me.”
“Hetta, you’re not transmitting? Oh, hell, what does it matter? If no one heard us by now it won’t make much difference. Let’s go back in. We need to talk.”
Hetta moved to the settee in the main saloon and plopped down. “I don’t want to talk. Not if it’s about jumping.”
“Het-ta, we have to. I know you saw them back there.”
Hetta nodded, but like a stubborn three-year-old.
Jenks took her hand. “Look, I know how scared you are of the water, so I think I have a better idea than jumping overboard.” Hetta’s frown brightened into a smile, so Jenks continued. “Why don’t you get together an ‘abandon-ship’ bag. We need water, life jackets, handheld, flashlight...you know the drill. While you’re doing that, I’m going to pull Jenkzy close and throw in a tarp, oil and gas, okay?”
“Okay, but please, please be careful.”
Endeavor: 0230 hrs.
“All Bidness is closing on them,” Arrington growled, as if everyone on the bridge wasn’t painfully aware of that fact. “If there’s an upside, I guess it’s both boats are American registry and if All Bidness doesn’t respond when we warn her off, we’ll be within our rights to open fire.”
“Technically.”
“What do you mean, ‘technically’?”
“Shades of gray. Mexico claims the entire Sea of Cortez because the Republic of Mexico surrounds it on three sides. Far as I know, it’s never been put to the test except when some Japanese purse seiners tried to fish here one year. The Mexicans seized their ships, then ran ‘em out.”
“I guess we’ll have to worry about legalities later,” Arrington muttered. “I don’t like that sudden silence from HiJenks.”
“Yeah, we’ll try to get through in a minute. At this point I guess it won’t make much difference. I see that unidentified vessel, Skunk Alpha, is still holding position. That means, with this wind, he’s holding with his engines, because it’s too deep to anchor. I smell a skunk—black stinky variety—but we don’t have time to set a trap.”
“We can call Matamoros, let them know what we suspect...that there’s a mother ship out there waiting for a drop.”
“Maybe we will. Or maybe I’ve just been in this business too long. But why else would a boat hold position
like that, especially in this weather? He’s burning fuel when, if they just wanted to sleep, they’d normally drift. Or at least run downwind to smooth the ride. Like I said, I smell skunk.
A new blip on the radar screen caught Arrington’s attention. “Whoa, would you take a gander at this? Must be doing thirty.” He pushed a button. “Thirty-two. Souped-up sportfisher, or maybe an offshore racer. Out on a night like tonight for a little cruise? Dope runner for sure.”
“Got any Tums, Rich?”
HiJenks: 0235 hrs.
Jenks picked up the VHF radio mic for the last time. “This is HiJenks. We don’t know if anyone can hear us, because we can’t receive. We are going to tape down the mic button so if there is anyone out there, they can hear what happens. All Bidness is closing on us. We will no longer be able to transmit our mayday, because Hetta and I are leaving the cabin.”
He gave their present coordinates, then said, “We are preparing for the worst, and plan to defend ourselves. This will be our last transmission until this situation is over.”
The muffled sounds of movement in the cabin, and then only the hum of diesels, wind, and waves were heard over the airwaves.
Three minutes later everyone heard faint popping sounds.
Bananas: 0238 hrs.
“Jesús y Maria,” Jaime muttered, crossing himself when he heard gunfire transmitted over HiJenks’s radio.
Nicole put her hand on his arm and stared ahead.
Endeavor: 0238 hrs.
“Sir, HiJenks is under fire!” Arrington yelled.
“Damn,” Xavier said.
Matamoros: 0238 hrs.
“What is that noise on the radio, Capitán?”
“Gunfire. Give me the mic.” Ortega pressed the transmit button and said, “Endeavor, this is Matamoros. You may, Captain Xavier, proceed at will. And buena suerte.”
“Acknowledged, Matamoros. And good luck to you, too.”
Troubled Sea Page 25