The whirring sound they’d heard before started once more; the sensation of movement was felt by many. After a few minutes, there was a jarring bump, creating a clang that ricocheted off the walls, as if they were inside a giant bell. There were more jolts and jangles, then everything went still.
Finally, a mechanical sound came from the door and everyone stepped away from it. The door swung outward and the people cringed at the bright light that flooded the room.
“Everyone out!” a voice shouted in English.
It was followed by poorly-spoken Spanish words repeating the order as a man with a gun stepped into the room. He grabbed the first person within reach by the hair and forced her brutally through the door.
“Fuera!” he shouted. “Rapido! Everyone out! Now!”
The knot of people was herded through the door into a much larger area, lit by overhead fluorescent lights. There were stacks of metal boxes along one wall and many strong-looking men, some with guns.
The captives were pushed and shoved into a smaller space with concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. There was a large drain opening in the middle, covered with a steel grate.
Suddenly, two large water hoses were turned on them by two laughing men. Others, wearing masks over their mouths and noses, began to move the burlap bags out of their prison, stacking them on the floor beside a ladder.
The spray from the hoses nearly knocked people over and they all scrambled to get away from it, packing themselves into the two far corners. As they pushed and shoved, others were moved into the blast from the hoses, gasping and trying to stay on their feet.
The ordeal lasted only a few minutes, then the hoses were shut off and they were forced to sit on the cold, wet floor. Nearly everyone was sobbing at that point, even some of the men. The powerful force of the water hoses had torn shirts open and ripped seams apart.
Outside the shower room, the men quickly removed everything from inside, passing the burlap bags out in a chain until they were all stacked along the far wall.
The man with the gun approached, looking over the huddled mass of terrified people, hair hanging over their faces, some partially naked from the violent shower. Nobody made eye contact.
“Who speaks English?” he demanded.
Jorge looked up. “I speak English, Spanish, and Portuguese.”
“Stand up before you talk to me!” the man roared, pointing the gun at Jorge.
Slowly, he got to his feet and faced the gunman. Behind him, the people whimpered and sobbed.
With the unloading finished, the dock workers began to move other boxes into the room. They were square and looked to be made of steel, painted black—each the size of three of the burlap bags they’d removed. The boxes had carrying handles and at the bottom of each was a small opening, covered with a wire mesh. They were all numbered, and the workers carried them in order.
“Those are battery-powered refrigerated containers,” the gunman said to Jorge. “Do you know what that means?”
He nodded. “Si.”
“Inside each container is enough food and water to last five people for just one day. Comprendo?”
Jorge nodded again.
“They have timers. Each day, eight of them will open. That will be all the food and drink you will have for that day. Do you understand?”
Jorge looked over the gunman’s shoulder, seeing one of the workers carrying a box with the number “100” stenciled on the side. The men continued loading more.
Again, Jorge nodded.
“Explain back to me what I just told you,” the gunman ordered.
Jorge blinked and looked back at the man.
“There is food in each box for five people,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he watched the last box being loaded. It was marked with the number 120 on the side. He stared at the gunman for a long moment before speaking again, realizing that they were loading supplies to last forty people for fourteen days. “Each box is for one day and eight of them will open each day.”
There was a commotion behind the man, as a woman stepped down from the ladder. She had blond hair and fair skin and was wearing a short yellow dress with thin straps. Three more women came down behind her and the workers surged around them, pawing and grabbing at their bodies.
The gunman turned. “Enough! Get them aboard.”
“Tell us where you are taking us,” the blond-haired women pleaded.
The gunman covered the distance between them in three quick strides, then backhanded the blonde, knocking her into the men, who took advantage of the situation and groped her even more.
“You were told not to speak!” the gunman roared at her.
Then he took one of the others by her dark, auburn hair, pulling her head back so she stared up at him. She wore tight jeans and a brightly colored tank top. He dragged her by the hair to the open door and threw her inside, then turned on the other three.
“The rest of you!” he shouted. “Get in there.”
They moved without force and entered the room. Then the gunman returned to stand in front of Jorge.
“There’s enough food and water in there to last forty people for two weeks. That’s how long it will be before you see daylight again. Now get the rest of these slaves back inside!”
Alberto and I fished with Tank and Bud for about an hour. Alberto caught a forty-pound wahoo and he managed to get it close enough to the stern for me to gaff.
Not long after that, Tank boated a large barracuda, but I could see the fight had sapped his strength.
“I think I need a rest,” Tank said, looking up at me, his features gaunt. “Will you tell Chyrel I went to our cabin?”
“Sure thing, Master Guns,” I replied, concerned for my old friend and mentor. “You go get some rest and I’ll see you at dinner.”
Alberto escorted him up the steps to the cockpit, both dogs following behind them.
“He doesn’t have much longer, does he?” Bud asked.
“No,” I replied. “He’s already past the time his doctors gave him.”
“He refused treatment?”
We sat in the two fighting chairs and swiveled them to face one another, the fishing done for the day.
“By the time the cancer was discovered,” I began, “it had already spread to many of his internal organs, his abdominal wall, and into his bones. He told me his doctor had said that the best they’d be able to do was give him a couple of years filled with chemo treatments and radiation—it was terminal.”
Bud visibly shuddered. “Not the way I’d want to go either.”
“Tank chose to live his last days to the fullest,” I said. “He found a place he liked, a woman to comfort him, and friends to go fishing with.”
“Not a bad choice, if you ask me.”
I stared down at the roiling water just behind the platform for a moment. Then I turned and faced Bud. “The cancer’s eating him up. He’s in constant pain, though he won’t say it. He’s lost a lot of weight since he arrived in the Keys just last Christmas.”
“I knew him as a young man,” Bud said. “He thought he was ten feet tall and bulletproof back then. He was just another FNG when he replaced my crew chief, first time in-country. First time anywhere except Bozeman, then San Diego for boot camp.”
I’d heard the old-timers in the Corps talk about the life expectancy of a Marine newly arrived in Vietnam. They said it wasn’t much longer than the flight that brought them there. The saltier warriors didn’t bother getting to know the “fucking new guy” or even ask his name, because he’d likely be in a body bag the next day. They simply referred to them as FNGs and they died at a rate of nearly ten per day.
“He was bigger than life when I first met him,” I said. “He was already a legend in the Corps, just a few years after the fall of Saigon. He was my first platoon sergeant.”
“He told me about you,” Bud offered. “In letters we exchanged over the years. Said you stood up next to
him to face down a bunch of hostiles in Beirut.”
I shrugged. “Couldn’t let the old man do it alone. Besides, there were a bunch of us on that rooftop that day.”
“He said it was a lot more than that,” Bud continued, turning to look at the sea. “He said you were the bravest man he’d ever known and he wanted to face his last days as he thought you might—with fortitude. His words.”
I looked at the side of the ex-spook’s face. I didn’t know what to say.
Bud turned and stared into my eyes. “I think he wanted to come out here because he knows his time is up.”
“N—” I started to protest, but then realized it was likely true.
“The man told me, Jesse. He said he wanted you to eulogize him. Nobody else.”
It was my turn to stare out over the deep blue water. I felt the sting in my eyes, then a single tear trickled down my right cheek. Of all the people in the world, the man I considered the greatest and bravest, next to Dad and Pap, wanted to be near me in his last days.
Rising suddenly from the chair, I turned and crossed the deck in three strides, then took the steps two at a time to the cockpit, and from there up the outside ladderwell to the bridge deck.
“Where’s Val?” I asked Matt as I burst onto the bridge.
“On the mess deck,” he replied. “With Giselle and her family, yeah?”
I went to the console and pushed the button for the intercom speaker in the mess hall. “Bridge to McLarin.”
She responded after a couple of seconds. “What is it, Captain?”
“Report to the bridge immediately. And bring Giselle.”
Matt studied my face. “Wasson, Cap’n?”
“I’ll tell you all when they get up here,” I replied.
Matt didn’t have long to wait, as Val and Giselle came quickly up the spiral staircase.
“Gentlemen,” I said, loud enough to get Ross’s attention over his headphones, “your attention please.”
Ross removed his headset and he and Axel swiveled to face us.
“I need your help,” I said. “I need you to figure out your schedules, including Giselle here, to properly man the bridge in my absence.”
“You goin’ somewhere, Cap’n?” Matt asked.
“No,” I replied. “But while my family and friends are aboard, I’ve decided I want to spend some time with them.”
Axel grinned. “Val’s already thought of that.”
“Oye,” Matt said, nodding, and looking at Val. “It’s sorted, innit?”
“Ross is going off shortly,” Val said. “And Axel’s pulling a shift and a half. Between the four of us here, plus Kris, we’ll have at least two of us here at all times. Mr. Stockwell spends most of the night up here anyway, so probably three on deck at all times.”
“He does? When does he sleep?”
“I asked ’im once,” Matt said. “Told me ’e gets a short kip in after supper, an’ another durin’ mid-mornin’.”
“As you know, we’re not going all the way to Caiçara do Norte as planned,” I said. “We’ll be anchoring twelve nautical miles off the coast of Lençóis Maranhenses National Park. There’s a relatively shallow shoal there, and we can make shore excursions to explore the dunes. It’s time the crew took a little break. We’ll be there for a few days.”
I left them on the bridge to figure the rest of it out on their own. Matt was a licensed 100-ton near-shore captain, and Val held a second-mate rating, as did Axel. I had confidence that I could take some time away from the bridge.
“Tank’s dying,” I told Savannah as I entered our quarters.
“Yes,” she replied. “But not for a while yet.”
“No,” I said, my eyes beginning to sweat. “He told Bud he came out here to die.”
“Oh, Jesse,” she said, stepping into my arms. “He doesn’t know that. Nobody knows the time they’re going to go.”
“He knows,” I said, my face buried in her hair.
I held her quietly. Tank and I had served together in Beirut and several other places over the years. He’d always been there to give me advice on how to lead my men. The thought that he’d soon be gone was one I didn’t want to face.
He’d been almost like a father figure.
I pushed her away and turned, wiping at my eyes. “Chyrel probably knows, too. Where is she?”
“She and David are in the operations center.”
“Tank went down to take a nap,” I said. “Will you go get her for me? Tell her to come here and leave us for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, already moving toward the hatch. “I’ll go right now.”
She hurried out and I sat on the sofa, tossing my cover on the table. A moment later, there was a soft knock on the door.
Chyrel came in and without a word, sat next to me, pulling my head to her shoulder.
“Let it go, Jesse,” she whispered. “Let it all out now. His doctor said it’s just a matter of days and we gotta be strong for him.”
The tears came then, and my body spasmed with sobs.
Over the next two days, Ambrosia continued steadily toward the southeast. I spent time with my family and made sure to spend as much time as I could with Tank. He and Bud told sea stories of their time in Khe Sanh and the men they’d served with.
When we were alone, Tank told me he’d seen his oncologist the day before they’d left to fly to Ambrosia. The doctor had told him then that he only had a few days left. He seemed at peace with that fact.
The evening we arrived and dropped anchor off Lençóis Maranhenses National Park, Marcos prepared a feast for the whole crew. It was a simple dish he called peto con arroz blanco. The wahoo was seared to perfection, glazed with a sauce I couldn’t identify, and lying on a bed of white rice, the whole thing drizzled with what he called guasacaca. It was delicious.
I’d had Emma bring twenty bottles of Aperture Cellars Sauvignon Blanc up from the ship’s vast wine cooler. Ambrosia wasn’t called that for just any reason. The Saudi prince who’d had her built had included the wine cooler in his demands. The tropical flavor of the wine went well with the dish.
After dinner, Emma brought three bottles of Pusser’s fifteen-year-old aged rum from my cabin. As she finished serving the rum, I stood and raised my glass, waiting for the conversation at the two long tables to die down.
“By now, you’ve all gotten to know my family and friends a little,” I began. “Some of you have heard the story about how Tank had once saved the lives of a dozen Marines in Vietnam. What you don’t know is that by his guidance and mentorship over the following fifty years, he’s also saved countless others. Tank is the best and most noble man I’ve ever had the privilege to know. To Master Gunnery Sergeant Owen Tankersley!”
Cheers went up, glasses were clinked, rum was sloshed and consumed.
Slowly, Tank rose to his feet. For the whole day, he’d worn his oxygen cannula. He’d told me that the device strapped to his waist made pure oxygen from air and delivered it at low pressure. It was battery- powered and lasted eight hours. He had two of them and alternated as the batteries recharged.
He looked tired and worn-out, but he stood erect, with a smile on his face. He lifted his glass and tapped it with his dessert fork to get everyone’s attention.
“I’ve served with a lot of men,” he said, his voice raspy. “During my fifty-one years as a Marine…” he continued, but then started coughing. Chyrel rose and put an arm around his shoulders, but he gently pushed her away.
“During my fifty-one years as an active-duty Marine,” he began again, speaking slowly, “I’ve not met a braver man than your skipper.” He paused and took a couple of deep breaths. “He stood with me… and he will stand up for you.” Another pause to catch his breath. “Jesse is the kind of man… who will always stand up… for those who need help.” He looked down the length of the table at me. “To Captain Jesiah Smedley McDermitt!”
I glared at him,
though I was smiling, as more cheers rang through the mess hall, accompanied by a few laughs.
Few people knew my full, given name. Not that I was ashamed of it—Smedley Butler was one of the greatest and most decorated heroes of the Marine Corps. It was just such an odd name in modern times that it always required an explanation, so I’d always just gone by Jesse, short for the Hebrew Jesiah.
Travis stood. He didn’t need to tap his glass or wait until the chatter died down. The room became quiet. He looked at me, then at Tank, his deeply lined face as inscrutable as always.
When he spoke, his voice was low and gravely. “Let’s not forget our fallen comrades,” he began, “but remember them always. They have earned our respect and admiration with their lives.” His eyes went up and down the tables, making eye contact with each person from Matt to the lowest crewman. “We knew them, we remember them, and they will not be forgotten. To our fallen comrades!”
Everyone rose and lifted their glasses solemnly. Many of the crew were prior service, but all were true patriots and sailors, working a tough job far from home to help protect what they cherished most and to right the wrongs of the world, with neither fanfare nor recognition.
“To the fallen,” many said.
Marcos stood and gave me a quick nod. “I do not have the words as El Capitan and Señor Tank,” he said. “I only want to say graçias.” He looked around the tables for a moment. “You have all made my family welcome and I am grateful. If Señor Grady will help me now, we will serve the…” He looked down at Mayra. “How you say? Postre?”
“Dessert,” she quietly whispered.
“We will serve the dessert now!”
An hour later, with the two boys asleep in Alberto’s room and the dogs having posted themselves as usual—one in the room and one outside the door—Savannah and I went to the foredeck. Most of the ship’s lights were extinguished; only the anchor light and a dozen lights below the waterline were on.
Looking over the rail, I could see small fish darting in and out of the glow of lights around the hull. Above, the stars shone as brightly as I’d ever seen.
Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21) Page 12