O’Brien was in no mood for subtlety. “Put a spotlight on it and crank up the siren. All guns, report readiness.”
The ten-million candlepower spotlights reached out through the evening gloom and pinned the lobster boat. The cutter’s siren whooped.
“Unidentified craft, this is Homeland Security. Kill your engines and prepare to be boarded,” O’Brien’s voice boomed out over the ship’s loudspeakers. “Do it now! This is not the night you want to try our patience!”
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LeBlanc felt something akin to raw panic. No way he was going to prison, no way at all. “Get your rifles ready,” he barked to Guy and the sternsman. We’ll let ‘em get close, then let ‘em have it and run like hell. Once we make it into the islands, they won’t be able to follow us.”
And when Guy looked doubtful, LeBlanc screamed, “You want them to stick a needle in you and kill you with rat poison? If they capture us, we will all be executed! Now get ready, dammit!” Guy and Tynman did what they were told, unable to break years of submission to Jean-Philippe’s stronger will.
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The Vigilant came to a stop one hundred and fifty yards from the lobster boat, which was now being covered by two machine guns and the Bushmaster autocannon. As the lobster boat came to a dead stop, the Coast Guard cutter crept in a bit, shortening the distance and turning broadside so that each of its three guns had a clear line of fire.
“Unidentified craft,” O’Brien bellowed through the loudspeakers. “I want the entire crew lined up on the rail, with both hands on the rail and visible at all times. If I see anyone with a weapon, we will open fire.”
LeBlanc had Tynman crawl across the dark deck, dragging rifles for LeBlanc and Guy. Then Tynman stayed hidden below the rail as the LeBlanc brothers went to the rail and clutched it to keep their balance in the choppy water. The Coast Guard cutter was now only thirty yards away. Jean-Philippe LeBlanc kept an eye out as a small boat was launched from the Coast Guard cutter and motored towards them. He wished his brother Jacques was with them; he was the best shot in the family.
Without turning his head, LeBlanc said softly, “Wait until the small boat is right beside us, then we shoot them. The cutter won’t fire on us for fear of hitting their own men.”
The small boat came alongside and a young Coast Guard Seaman got ready to jump over the rail.
We can do this, LeBlanc thought. “Now!”
Tynman popped up like an evil Jack-in-the-Box and shot the Seaman in the chest. The Seaman tumbled backwards into the small boat. The two other Coast Guard Seamen opened fire with their assault rifles, hitting Tynman, but then LeBlanc and Guy were pouring fire into them at close range. One went down and the other hunched low behind the pilot console and goosed the engine. The little boat skittered past the Celeste.
Leaving it fully exposed to the tender mercies of the Vigilant’s guns.
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Captain O’Brien saw one of her men go down and heard the gunshot, then saw Petty Officer Hurland accelerate away from the lobster boat. An ice-cold spike of anger sliced through her.
Enough was enough, dammit. “All guns, fire!”
The two light machine guns opened fire, followed a fraction of a second later by the percussive drumbeat of the Bushmaster autocannon.
LeBlanc raced for the pilothouse, intending to somehow get by the Coast Guard cutter and run for the island maze.
He didn’t make it.
Chapter 63
The No. 6 Bell
The sounds of the fighting receded as Jacob and Calvin floated past, dragged along by the ebbing tide. The channel widened and it got harder to see lights on shore.
Then Calvin stiffened in Jacob’s hold. “Did you hear that?”
Jacob had heard nothing but wind and waves and the distant sound of gunfire. “What?”
Calvin was silent, then, “There! Did you hear?”
Jacob listened intently. Then, faintly, he heard it.
Bells. Or, rather, one bell.
Calvin coughed weakly. “No. 6 bell buoy. Near Toothacher Ledge.”
Jacob saw countless buoys every day when he was on the water, but didn’t pay any attention to them. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Toothacher Ledge. Two big rocks. Right in the middle of the channel.” Calvin stopped for a moment, grimacing in pain. When he continued, his voice was thin. “There is a warning buoy anchored over another rock, about one hundred feet south of the Ledge. Rock’s near the surface, so they put a buoy there.” He paused again, panting breathlessly as the pain struck him. “Got a light, but because of the fog, they put a bell on it, too. I think that’s what we’re hearing. The buoy is rocking in the storm.”
Jacob pictured one of the smooth red or green channel markers. “Yeah, so?”
“It’s a platform buoy!” Calvin said urgently, then succumbed to more coughing.
And now Jacob understood. Platform buoys weren’t like the smooth red or green buoys that marked the channel locations. This buoy had a small platform at the bottom that you could climb up to. You could sit on it, or stand on it if you wanted. Harbor seals basked on them all the time.
“Goddamn!” Jacob uttered. “Goddamn!”
He strained to listen, and when it rang again, it was close. Very close.
“One chance to grab it,” Calvin said, craning his head around to look in front of them. “Watch for the light! If you miss, we’re fucked.” Then, seemingly exhausted from the effort of speaking, he went limp in Jacob’s arms.
Jacob listened very carefully. The bell sounded like it was coming slightly from their left, but he couldn’t see any light. Kicking his numb legs as hard as he could, he dragged them slightly left for a couple of minutes, then stopped to listen again. He turned his head left and right, trying to figure out where the buoy was.
And then the light on top of the buoy blinked not fifteen feet in front of him. And the bell rang cheerily.
Exhausted and half frozen, Jacob wasn’t sure if he could move left or right if he needed to. But he didn’t have to. The buoy was smack dab in front of him, getting closer at an alarming rate. He had the impression that he was standing still and the buoy was charging down on him. Closer…the bell rang…the light blinked…closer…
Jacob smashed into it. He squirmed around, making sure to protect Calvin’s head, then felt a thrill of fear and adrenalin as the tide began to bump him around the bottom edge of the platform buoy, trying to suck him into the ocean beyond. Desperately holding onto Calvin with one hand, he reached as high as he could and grabbed one of the four metal struts that rose from the bottom of the platform to a point five feet above, curving to make a cage that housed the bell and the blinking light above it. The edge of the angle iron cut into his hand, but his hand was so cold he barely noticed it.
Two years hauling traps had built up his arms and shoulders, and now he held onto the platform with one hand, and lifted Calvin clear of the water with his other, sitting him on the edge of the platform, his head lolling onto his chest. Panting for breath, Jacob rested for a moment, one hand on the platform strut, the other on Calvin’s chest so he wouldn’t topple into the water. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, and he knew that if Calvin slid off the buoy into the water, he wouldn’t have the strength to lift him back again.
Calvin, for his part, whimpered in pain, but said nothing.
Gulping air, Jacob let go of Calvin, grabbed a second strut and pulled himself onto the base of the platform, then grabbed the front of Calvin’s wetsuit to keep him steady.
“Oh, fuck me!” Jacob groaned, panting for air again. His arms and shoulders felt like they’d been beaten with a baseball bat, and his hands were smeared with blood from grasping the sharp edges of the support struts. A large wave rolled over the buoy then, causing it to sway wildly and threatening to throw them both back into the water. Jacob hung onto the sharp-edged strut with one hand, and Calvin with the other, terrified that he mi
ght let go.
“Stop it!” he screamed at the storm, at the night. “For fuck’s sake, stop it!” Sobs wracked his chest. After a few minutes, he recovered enough to look around. There were one or two lights far away, but whether they were ships or houses on shore, he couldn’t say. Several smaller waves rocked the buoy, forcing him to hold on tight.
Dimly, he realized that he had to find something to tie Calvin to the metal struts so that he couldn’t be thrown into the water. It was only when he realized that he was holding onto a piece of rope tied around Calvin’s waist, that it occurred to him he had the means right in his hands.
“Idiot,” he chided himself. It took a while for him to undo the knot that held the rope, but he finally shook it out. Something dropped to his feet then and rolled up against one of the struts. Jacob picked it up. A flare that had been held by the rope. He stuck it in his belt. With a tremendous effort, he pulled Calvin back until he was braced against the cage. “Putting you on a diet, Cal,” he grunted to his brother. “Getting too damn fat to haul around.” He ran the rope across Calvin’s chest, then around two of the metal struts, pulled it tight and tied it off. There were still several feet left, so he looped that around Calvin’s torso and tied it to the other struts for good measure. He examined his handiwork. Ugly, but serviceable. Calvin wasn’t going anywhere.
Then he collapsed next to his brother, panting again for air and not being able to get enough.
Calvin moaned and tried to twist around, but the ropes held him fast. “Jacob? Jacob!”
Jacob leaned forward and touched his forehead against his brother’s. “Right here, Cal,” he panted. He grinned, a painful rictus of a grin. “We’re on the No. 6 buoy. It’s going to be all right. They’ll find us soon.”
Calvin sobbed softly. “Thought I’d lost you.” He laughed, or sobbed; Jacob couldn’t tell which. “Some rescue, huh? Wait ‘til Mom hears, she’s gonna kill me.”
Jacob put his arms around him. After a while, Calvin fell asleep. A couple of larger waves smacked into the buoy, but the ropes held. The light blinked. The bell rang. Far off in the distance, he thought he could hear a motorboat, a high-pitched engine.
He fell asleep, then woke with a start when another wave almost pushed him off the platform. There was no longer any feeling in his legs, but his hands ached where they had been cut by the buoy’s struts. Beside him, Calvin whimpered and groaned in his sleep, and when the light blinked on the buoy, Jacob could see a thin stream of bright red blood trickling down the front of Calvin’s wetsuit.
On wobbly legs that threatened to buckle at any moment, Jacob stood up, reached to his belt and pulled out the flare. Careful not to drop it, he jammed the flare into the top of the cage made by the four struts, and with clumsy fingers pried off the metal starter cap. Holding onto the strut with one hand, he repeatedly struck at the open end of the flare with the starter cap. He feared his frozen hand would drop the cap, but was finally rewarded with a burst of light that nearly blinded him. With a groan he slumped down onto the platform. Another cold wave sloshed over him.
He touched his head against his little brother’s, felt the warmth of his breath.
Calvin’s eyes flickered, not quite opening. “Jacob?” he murmured.
Jacob leaned in, pressing his forehead to Calvin’s.
“It’s okay, Cal. You saved me,” he said.
Chapter 64
Jacob
The buoy rocked and tilted in the rush of the outgoing tide. An occasional wave broke over the bottom of the platform, drenching him. Jacob’s entire body shivered violently. The cold gnawed into his bones. He could no longer move his arms or legs. Head lolling, Calvin sat upright on the platform next to him, tied to the platform’s four heavy metal struts.
Time sort of went away for a while, then Jacob’s head snapped upright. In the distance he could see lights moving towards them, flashing blue and red, urgent and insistent. But his field of vision was contracting, getting smaller and smaller. He thought he heard Calvin groaning. “It’s okay, Cal,” he said, or thought he said.
Another wave tilted the buoy and Jacob, unable to hold on, felt himself silently slipping across the slick surface of the buoy and into the water. The water didn’t feel so cold anymore. Somehow, he ended up floating on his back, watching the buoy recede into the distance. The flare burned with a brilliant bright light, illuminating Calvin, tied so securely that no wave could ever wash him off.
Somewhere inside of himself, Jacob smiled. All the mistakes of his life, all the regrets, fell away. They no longer mattered, had no hold over him. He stared fixedly at the glorious light of the flare, at his precious little brother, protected from harm.
He’s safe, he thought with profound satisfaction. Despite the cold, a warm glow suffused him.
The frigid tide carried him on. His consciousness flickered like a candle guttering in a night breeze. The light of the flare filled his vision, then seemed to dim, then grew bright again. Then dimmed once more.
Jacob smiled.
The rushing tide took him around a bend, towards the ocean, and into forever.
Chapter 65
Aftermath
Captain O’Brien watched impassively as the Celeste burned to the waterline. Petty Officer First Class Foster had piloted the Vigilant in a circle around the lobster boat, looking for survivors, but none were found. No surprise. The autocannon had disintegrated the small pilothouse and most of the superstructure. The two light machine guns had swept the deck area. And the fire had done the rest.
No one expected survivors.
Ensign Dunbar had arrived in the small boat, carrying the body of Seaman Jankowski and the wounded Seaman Levine. Levine was carried off quickly, then Jankowski’s body was placed in a body bag and tenderly brought on board the cutter. Ensign Dunbar struggled to not lose it completely, but could not staunch the tears that covered his cheeks. One of his men had died and he knew, irredeemably, that it was his fault.
Captain O’Brien studied him from the bridge. She had her work cut out for her if she was going to salvage him.
Then the XO was standing beside her, handing her a pair of binoculars. “Captain, the lookout just spotted a flare to the east of us. It looks like it’s near one of the hazard buoys.”
“A flare?” she repeated, raising the binoculars. Yep, by golly, a flare. Darn thing was so bright it blotted out any detail near it. It was above the waterline, but there was no sign of a boat. “Does the chart show a buoy there?” she asked.
Hillson nodded. “Isolated Danger Buoy, No. 6. Sits atop a rock that comes up to within two feet of the surface at low tide. Has a bell and a blinking light.”
O’Brien frowned. “Well, it’s a flare all right, but I can’t see what else is going on.” She tapped her headset. “Master Chief, can you put gun optics on the bright light to the south? We think it is a flare on a buoy, but can’t make out much else. This is not a threat, Master Chief, so I would greatly appreciate it if you don’t shoot anything.”
Master Chief Ramirez turned his head to the south and the targeting system swiveled the Bushmaster in unison. He fiddled with the infrared, quickly discovered that was an utter waste of time, and switched to night optics. Not very good, either. He switched to daylight optics, electronically reduced the glare and zoomed in.
And caught his breath.
“Captain! Captain, there is a person sitting on that buoy, or tied to it, I can’t tell which.”
O’Brien blinked, then tapped her headset again. “Mr. Dunbar, we have need of your services! Grab two sailors and take the small boat out to the buoy about one thousand yards east of us. It has a flare burning on top and there is a person on the buoy who may need rescuing. Get going, Mr. Dunbar!”
Two minutes later, the small boat roared away from the cutter, a subdued but intent Ensign Dunbar at the wheel. There hadn’t even been enough time to wash the blood out of the boat.
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Four minutes later.
&
nbsp; “Big Eyes, SB One,” Dunbar called in. “We’ve found a young man tied securely to the buoy. He’s been shot in the chest and is unconscious. Wearing a wetsuit. He’s breathing, but in bad shape.”
“Bring him in, Mr. Dunbar,” Captain O’Brien said. “As fast as you can.”
There was a pause, then: “Captain, it looks like someone else tied this guy to the buoy. A second person, but there’s no sign of him.”
“I’ll send the other boat out to search, you just bring the wounded man here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
O’Brien wheeled to the Comms Officer. “Check again on the helicopter! We have two gunshot victims, one in critical condition. We need a medivac to EMMC now!” Then she tapped her headset again. “HS Tech to the deck! We have a gunshot to the chest arriving momentarily!” Then she rushed for the ladder to the main deck.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 66
Picking Up the Pieces
The storm turned away from land. The wind relented.
One Coast Guard helicopter landed on Rte. 15 and Frank Finley was hustled on board, along with the three most critically wounded DEA agents.
The second Coast Guard helicopter hovered above the Vigilant and winched aboard Seaman Levine, the other wounded sailor, and a young civilian whose ID said he was Calvin Finley of North Harbor, Maine. Once loaded, the copter roared away, headed at full military speed for Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor.
When she saw the name, Captain Diane O’Brien called Howard Honeycutt’s cell phone. There was a long pause on the other end.
“Mr. Honeycutt?” O’Brien said tentatively. “I’m calling because we found a man in the water with a gunshot wound. His name is Calvin Finley and I am trying to ascertain if he is Mr. Finley’s son.
“Ah, Christ,” Honeycutt sighed. “We just put Frank on one of your choppers to go to EMMC. He was shot several times. He had a vest on, but the impact broke some ribs and punctured both his lungs.” He blew out air. “And now Calvin, too? Is he going to make it?”
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