by T. S. O'Neil
Ochoa was given a rehabilitative transfer and mandatory alcohol counseling. He found that enforced sobriety gave him a new lease on life. He rededicated himself to his career and pledged to wipe this black spot off his besmirched record. Towards that end, he looked for any opportunity to do so, but the graveyard shift in a backwater port seemed to be offering those opportunities infrequently. Still, he didn’t drink anymore, and therefore had plenty of time on his hands. In a therapy session he was mandated to attend, he learned that inactivity causes boredom and that was the enemy of sobriety.
Therefore, he needed to consistently occupy his time with activity. He often went out on patrol with his men in their small boats armed with a bow mounted thirty-caliber machine gun and hand grenades. It was just such a night he chose to patrol with Riverine Patrol Number Four, assigned to the area called Tres Rios―the place where the three rivers joined.
He spent nearly every shift on the water, searching for drug smugglers, as a significant seizure would go a long way towards rehabilitating his soiled reputation. This night he sat in the stern of the patrol boat and scanned the water’s surface with his night vision goggles while his Marines smoked Belmont cigarettes and joked about their latest antics in the town’s whorehouses. He had purchased a Chinese copy of the American NVGs in Caracas with his own money. It was funny how much free cash he had now that he wasn’t spending it on rum.
At three thirty-five, Lieutenant Ochoa noticed a slight displacement of water moving slowly with the current. At first he thought it was an Orinoco crocodile swimming underwater, but this looked to be bigger and seemed to be navigating in a straight line under power. He signaled the boat pilot to slow the engine and summoned the gunner from the bow. Ochoa pointed to the slight wave moving on the surface, “Look, Cabo! Do you see it?”
“Yes, sir, I see something.”
Ochoa had prepared for such an eventuality. He withdrew a fragmentation grenade from the side of his ammunition pouch, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the center of the wave. The grenade sank four feet and exploded ten feet above the submarine. It did no damage, but the noise and water displacement shook the submersible.
“What the fuck?” exclaimed Villegas.
Gustavo checked the television screen tied to the cameras in the periscope and replied, “Venezuelan Marines in a small patrol craft.”
“Full ahead!” ordered Villegas. The pilot moved the engine throttle lever fully forward, just as another explosion rocked the boat, this time coming closer to the hull. The lights blinked off and on and a second later one of the seals on the substructure popped, causing a fountain of water to erupt into the interior. “We can’t take much more of this. The boat is made of fiberglass―one rupture and we’re gone,” shouted Gus. Villegas turned to Doc Murphy.
“Suggestions?”
“Anyone have anything left…grenades, mines?” asked Doc Murphy. Reigns shook his head slowly.
“We gave the team everything we had left.”
“What about him?” asked Gustavo, pointing to the prostrate figure of the South African.
Murphy hadn’t searched him. They had searched all the dead, but the Doc was too busy saving the life of the sole enemy survivor and had forgotten. He bent over and patted the pockets of his blouse.
“Nothing,” he said. Then he saw it. In the cargo pocket of the man’s remaining leg was a large softball size bulge. Murphy reached over and felt it.
“Grenades,” he said softly.
“Okay, so how do we deliver them?” asked Villegas.
Gustavo had examined every nut and bolt in the submarine.
“I know,” he said.
Gustavo moved forward into the command station that contained various mechanical controls, and pressed a large red button. There was the immediate whirl of an electric motor and the boat rocked slightly as the periscope lowered into a pressure cylinder in the center of the deck. A green light clicked on indicating it was safe to open the door. “We need wire,” he said.
Doc Murphy searched through his Corpsman medical kit and removed several spools of medical catgut. He handed Villegas and Gustavo each a spool and they began unraveling them. Once unwound, Murphy tied the short lines together until he had one length of about twenty feet long.
“Is this enough?” asked Murphy.
“It better be, otherwise we’re fucked,” said Villegas.
The periscope was little more than a telescoping metal pole with a clear, water-resistant half globe covering the two cameras, which were mounted on a rotating baseplate. Gustavo removed the globe and quickly un-mounted one of the cameras from the bracket holding it. In its place he taped the two grenades, being careful not to tape down the spoons, lest it prevent the bombs from exploding. He then straightened the ends of the retaining pins and tied catgut to the rings. He ran the cord down the tubing that routed the coaxial cable to the television screens and through the rubber gasket that sealed it. Satisfied, he closed the access panel to the periscope and nodded at Villegas. An explosion shook the boat and one more seal popped, sending another geyser of water into the boat.
Gustavo started the bilge pumps and the water level receded somewhat “Better do something quick or we’re done!” shouted Murphy.
“Take us up to periscope depth,” said Villegas.
***
The patrol boat had been following the movement of the slight wave. Ochoa had three more grenades and wanted to make them count. He felt that they had damaged the drug submarine and could force it to surface or even sink it and let the divers recover the coke and bodies―he cared little either way.
Twin near-simultaneous explosions erupted from the patrol boat’s stern, fatally rupturing it and heaving the outboard motor out of the water and onboard. Two pillars of dark black smoke converged and wafted skyward. Ochoa was thrown back against the center console, causing the pilot to fall onto the controls. The back end of the fiberglass boat was splintered at the water line and was soon submerged beneath the swiftly flowing water.
Ochoa was wearing the bright orange life vest required by marine regulations, but had no intention of giving up his boat to the river unless there was no other alternative. He cursed and moved into the bow with the two other Marines as the water quickly flooded the small craft. He grabbed his weapon and ordered one of the Marines to remove the machine gunner from the forward mount. The man stared blankly at the officer and then jumped into the water. The crippled vessel quickly surrendered to the river while the Marines slowly swam toward shore.
Ochoa, still wearing his knock-off NVGs, observed a long, dark craft rise from beneath the water perhaps a fifty meters away, and heard the quiet hum of the diesel engine as it quickly accelerated down river toward the Colombian border. He sadly shook his head and vowed to pour himself a strong drink as soon as his shift was over, as he would probably need one.
Chapter Twenty-nine - Port of Spain
Port of Spain, Trinidad
Per Ramos’ advice, Char had pulled into the Saint Peters Bay Marina with the intention of fueling up and finding two mates that could handle a boat as large as the Good as Gold. He asked at the fueling station and was directed to the back of one of the boat garages, where he encountered two counterculture types frying up some freshly caught fish on a portable propane stove. After a short introduction, the negotiation immediately began.
“One week, five hundred bucks, seventy-five a day after that,” offered Char.
“Is that apiece or for both of us?” asked the dreadlocked hippie wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara smoking a cigar.
“For both.”
“No can do, Captain,” said the aged hippie offhandedly while delicately turning a fresh fish fillet frying in a thin pool of olive oil.
“Me and me amigo here, he said, slapping the leg of a twenty-something male seated in the lotus position on top of a weathered picnic table, “are first rate pilots. I studied at the Northeastern Maritime Institute in New London, Connecticut, and mi amig
o was in the navy.”
“Special Boat Squadron,” corrected his friend.
The young guy wore faded green board shorts and an old navy blue t-shirt sporting the faded logo of Polar Beer. That, and his braided dirty-blond hair, made him seem decidedly unmilitary.
The kid caught Char’s hard stare and replied self-consciously, “Of course, that was over a year ago.”
“But how well do you know the Orinoco?” asked Char.
The older man squinted at Char and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“A mighty big river that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest, curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land.”
Char gave the man a puzzled look and the older man laughed.
“Just fucking with you, compadre. That’s from Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness.”
The younger guy felt the need to apologize for his friend.
“Don’t mind Earl. All he does is smoke weed and read old books. We can pilot your yacht right up the Orinoco to Puerto Ayacucho sin problema, know what I mean?”
“But no further. There are two sets of rapids that make the section of river past that impassable for quite a while,” said Earl.
“True dat,” replied the younger man with a nod.
“OK, it sounds like you both know what you are talking about.”
“We may not look like much,” said Earl, “but we’ve been around.”
“Yeah, compadre, we’re just down on our luck at the present time,” said the younger guy.
“Okay, said Char finally. I’ll take knowledge and experience over appearance any day of the week―especially when it comes to women and blowjobs. Not that that’s applicable to the current situation.”
“You need that, just let us know, and we’ll lay in a few ladies for the trip,” said Earl with a wink.
“Look here, you can kick back, bang some babe on the back deck, and smoke some herb while we take care of business,” added the younger guy. “No one is smoking any herb!” said Char.
“Tranquilo amigo!” replied the older man. “Your boat, your rules. Let’s make it a cool thousand a week and two hundred a day after that.”
Shit, I haven’t got time for this, thought Char. He had been mostly awake for the two days it took to get here and felt so tried he was likely to nod off while standing there. But the thought of being fleeced by two would-be Rastafarians was also something he would not allow.
“Let’s split the difference―seven hundred for the week and one hundred twenty five a day after that,” Char said, hoping they were both products of the U.S. public school system.
“Including food and drink?” asked the young hippie.
“Sure, but no alcohol on duty,” replied Char.
“Not even beer?”
“My boat, my rules.”
The older hippie thought about it for a moment while absently stroking his goatee.
“Shit, why not?” he said while offering Char a heavily callused hand, “We ain’t making any money sitting here. My name is Earl and this is Johnnie.”
“Pleasure, said Char, sure that it would be anything but. Char thought for a minute. Got last names?”
“What are you a cop?” inquired the younger guy.
“No, I just like to know who I am dealing with,” replied Char.
“Here’s the thing: Me and Johnnie were working for a guy on a dive boat out of Bonaire. We found a Spanish galleon or something and began a salvage operation. The Dutch Coast Guard got involved, as it was…...” he paused for a moment and then Johnnie chimed in.
“Allegedly, in the marine sanctuary.” Earl nodded in agreement.
“We had already salvaged a big coagulated block of silver pieces of eight, and some gold coins and chains, so we took off. They gave chase, and we hopped off the ship close to shore and got away. We heard later that they caught up with the boat captain and he gave us up, so we slipped out of Bonaire and would like to keep a low profile until this blows over,” said Johnnie.
“I understand completely,” said Char, as he truly did.
“Can you tell us why you want to go up that dark river? I mean, are you looking for Mr. Kurtz or something?” asked Earl.
“What are you, a cop?” Char replied with a smile.
“So, when do we leave?” asked Johnnie.
“As soon as you finish lunch and get your gear.”
Earl was patting the fish dry on a paper towel spread on the picnic bench. Johnnie grabbed the still-hot fillet and ate it in three large bites, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “My stuff is in a gear locker―I’ll be right back.”
“Me too,” replied Earl as he grabbed the fish filet and did the same.
Chapter Thirty - Caño Manamo
Gulf of Paria
Before shoving off, Char stood in the pilothouse and studied the navigation chart for the southeast Caribbean. It seemed to suggest that the shortest way to the Orinoco was a navigable tributary that was close to their current location―due south from the Port of Spain.
“But it’s right due south of here,” said Char, referring to the mouth of the Caño Manamo.
“Don’t know what to tell you, Captain, but that ship sailed years ago when someone got the bright idea to try and control flooding around Tucupita and link it to the mainland,” said Earl.
“What a fucking shithole,” said Johnnie.
“True dat,” agreed Earl.
Earl placed his finger on the chart and traced the course of the Orinoco from its headwaters in the Delgado Chalbaud Mountains to where it joins the Atlantic.
“I know a lot of things about the Orinoco and the over six hundred tributaries that flow into it, including the Caño Manamo. The Orinoco is the third largest river in the world at over twenty-one hundred kilometers. I also know that there is no good way to go upriver on the Manamo because of that fucking dike. See, the Venezuelans constructed a dike to link Tucupita to the mainland and control flooding, but it ended up clogging the fresh water flow of the Orinoco. Now all large upriver traffic has to go through the main maritime channel in the southeast,” he said, pointing to the spot on the chart.
“Yeah, we need to proceed down the coast until we hit the Rio Grande, as we could run aground if we take one of the more narrow caños,” said Johnnie, using the Spanish word to refer to the channels that were at the southeast side of the river delta.
Char was too tired to argue, and they both sounded like they had done this before.
“Whatever. You have the helm. I am going to have a quick dinner, drink a shot of bourbon, and hit the rack. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Wake-up criteria?” said Johnnie cryptically.
“What?” said Char. “My old commander had a list of things that he wanted to be woken up for—running the ship aground for instance.”
Char stared at him as if he had just smelled something malodorous.
“Bad example,” said Johnnie, suddenly unsure of himself. “I never grounded a boat, but there was a list of things that he wanted to be immediately notified of, such as a wrongful discharge.”
“OK, I get it. Let’s go with the same wake-up criteria as your commander.”
“Fair enough,” said Johnnie.
“Sleep well,” said Earl. Char nodded but said nothing. These guys had started to give him a level of reassurance that he found comforting. Hopefully, he wouldn’t wake up with a machete blade to the throat.
He retreated to the galley to make a sandwich as he didn’t have the energy to cook. He withdrew several packets of Italian cold cuts from the refrigerator, added some aged provolone, slathered a large dollop of mustard and mayonnaise on some French bread he had bought at a bakery near the marina, withdrew an ice cold Caribe Lager, and settled down at the table for a rapid, but enjoyable meal. After that, he had a second beer with a shot of bourbon and then retreated to his cabin, lest he
pass out in the dining salon.
Char stripped down to his shorts and slipped beneath the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that he had inherited with the boat and fell into a deep slumber.
He awoke in darkness and looked at his watch, which he kept set on Eastern Time. It was five in the morning―he had slept for twelve hours. Char dressed and climbed up to the bridge. Earl stood behind the wheel piloting the Good as Gold and sipping coffee, while Johnnie occupied himself in the galley.
“Morning, Captain,” said Earl.
“Morning, call me Char.” Earl nodded.
“Beautiful boat. I haven’t piloted something this nice in quite a while.”
“Thanks. Where are we?” Earl looked down at the GPS before replying. “About forty-seven knots up the Rio Grande, heading for the Orinoco.”
Char was surprised by how far they had gone while he slept, but they would still have to push it harder to get to where he needed to.
“Want me to take over?”
“No, sir, you’re the captain and the captain supervises. He doesn’t drive boats.”
“Fair enough,” said Char as he took a seat in one of the captain’s chairs.
“Johnnie is making breakfast―banana pancakes and bacon.
It should be close to ready.”
Char was suddenly hungry again. “Can I bring you a plate?”
“No, Johnnie is going to come spell me. I’ll join you.”
Char walked into the galley and Johnnie motioned him to the table. “The captain gets served at the table, just like in the Officer’s Mess,” said Johnnie. He placed a plate with five strips of bacon and four pancakes in front of him. “They are buttermilk, banana, and walnut pancakes. I hope you like them.” Char started eating and Earl came down the stairs.
He grabbed a plate from Johnnie and sat down across from Char. They both ate silently, concentrating on the large, flavorful cakes and crispy bacon.
Once the plates were clean, Earl got up and got them both a refill of coffee. He looked at Char and thought for a moment before speaking.