A Fortnight of Fury

by David Culberson

  Chapter 14

  DAY 11: OCT 24

  Boiled Bob woke up to the sound of an argument on the dock in broken Spanish and West Indian Creole. He took a moment to shake the sleep from his brain and remembered that, after having docked the Pappy Bobo in Prickly Bay the day before, Skandar had left. Boiled Bob approached Long Bill and told him to prepare to cast off. He’d planned to leave Skandar and Grenada behind. Long Bill had argued, and by the time Boiled Bob had decided to make the preparations himself, Skandar had returned in a military truck with a machine gun mounting and two Cubans wearing orange construction vests. Skandar had walked out to the boat and said that they would stay there overnight. Boiled Bob had started to argue, but Skandar’s menacing stare stopped him.

  The Cubans, Skandar and Long Bill had stayed onshore near the end of the dock talking for most of the night, and Boiled Bob had heard Long Bill and Skandar return to the boat after midnight and the Cubans drive away a few minutes later. He’d fallen asleep listening to Long Bill and Skandar talking and laughing topside. It seemed that Long Bill had found a new friend.

  Fully awake, Boiled Bob climbed from his bunk and strained to make out the words of the argument that continued at the end of the dock. He decided to check on Lisa before going topside to see who was arguing about what. He stepped toward the forward berth and lightly knocked on the door.

  “What, fucknuts?”

  “How did you know it was me?” Bob asked through the door.

  “I wasn’t sure. But you just confirmed it by answering to your name, fucknuts.”

  Boiled Bob seethed. He wasn’t sure he could go through with getting Lisa off the boat, even if it was for his own good. He sighed and said, “Listen. Skandar’s got some Cuban military types watching over us. Or maybe they’re holding us prisoners…”

  “Welcome to the club, fucknuts,” Lisa said.

  “I think we need to get off the boat. Let’s go up top and see how we can get you out of here.”

  The door opened, and Lisa pushed past Boiled Bob and made her way topside. Boiled Bob followed. Nobody was on the boat, but they could see Long Bill and Skandar on the end of the dock arguing with what looked like the same two Cubans he had seen the previous evening. The same military truck was parked nearby, this time with a machine gun mounted on it. What looked like a teenager wearing a uniform a few sizes too large, stood with one arm draped over the mounted machine gun. The two men Boiled Bob had seen the night before still wore orange construction vests but now had assault rifles hanging on their shoulders.

  Long Bill looked up and saw Boiled Bob and Lisa. He walked toward the boat and said, “It looks like we may have to stay a while, Boss.”

  “I thought those guys were construction workers.”

  “I guess they are, Boss—until they aren’t.”

  “Why is it that you think we have to stay?”

  Long Bill smiled and said, “Skandar says that the Cuban’s commander is preparing for a fight. I think they’re going to let us fight with them. That’s what Skandar’s arguing with them about.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To come to a new island and fight the war against oppression?”

  “Jesus, LB? Have you gone nuts?” Boiled Bob turned to Lisa and said, “We need to get you out of here. I’ll ask the guys talking to Skandar if they can take you to a hotel.”

  “So, just like that, you’re letting me go? What about my father’s boat, jackass?”

  “I thought my name was fucknuts,” Boiled Bob said with a smile.

  “That too. Along with dickless. They all fit.”

  Boiled Bob saw Long Bill smile.

  “I need the boat. Your father has insurance. I told you I would let you go when we got to Grenada. We’re here. It’s time for you to leave.” He then looked at Long Bill and said, “Get this boat ready to sail. We’re leaving too.”

  Long Bill hesitated. Boiled Bob stepped off the boat and walked toward Skandar and the Cubans.

  “Skandar, get the weapons onto the boat, we’re leaving. And I want to know if these men can take Lisa into St. George’s to a hotel.”

  The Cubans stared at Boiled Bob. One took the rifle off his shoulders and pointed it in Boiled Bob’s general direction.

  “Yo not goin to go anywhere, except wit us,” Skandar said.

  “There’s an invasion coming any hour. I don’t want to be here when the bombs fly. You shouldn’t either.”

  “I taut you wanted to help I and I wit de revolution,” Skandar said sarcastically.

  “Things have changed. I didn’t plan to fight the US Navy.”

  “Yo tall friend, LB. He wants to fight fo us.”

  “He’s stupid.”

  “Don’t matter. Yo and yo beef will be comin wit us. Once de American are gone we gonna take de weapons back to my country. I can’t be havin yo sail away while we wait fo Babylon to go away.”

  “Fuck your Rasta-speak bullshit. I’m leaving.”

  The Cubans pointed their rifles at Bob.

  Skandar shouted to Long Bill, “Tall mon, get de beef and come wit us!”

  Boiled Bob looked back toward Lisa and shrugged.

  Long Bill led Lisa to the truck and helped her into the back. Bob climbed in, followed by Long Bill and Skandar. The two Cubans wearing orange construction vests got into the cab. The truck drove up over a ridge and down the other side to a warehouse near the east end of the new airstrip, no more than a half mile from the Pappy Bobo. Lisa glared at Boiled Bob the entire way. Boiled Bob looked at the bed of the truck. He had nothing to say to her. She had it right… they were both hostages now.

  * * *

  Captain Jay was late for the transfer back to Charlie’s boat. When he did show up he was red-faced and uncharacteristically sheepish.

  “I-is that a h-hickey?” Tommy asked, nodding to Captain Jay’s neck.

  Captain Jay looked around and flashed his Elvis grin.

  “Who th-the hell gets a h-hicky anymore?”

  “He does,” Charlie said. “That’s his Purple Heart. Let’s get going.”

  As the group gathered on the destroyer’s stern and prepared to leave the USS Trenton on a small tender, the colonel arrived and said, “Late last night I put the word out throughout the two fleets to look out for your stolen boat. It turns out that a navy destroyer stopped a yawl named Pappy Bobo and had a conversation with its captain,” the colonel told them.

  “When?” Charlie asked.

  “Just before sunrise yesterday. The boat’s captain told them that they were heading back to their home port, Trinidad.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Captain Jay said.

  The colonel smiled and then told them that the sailboat wasn’t boarded, and there was no way to tell who might have been below deck, but two tall men were topside with the captain, one red-headed white man and the other black with long dreadlocks.”

  “Sounds like Long Bill,” Arlan said. “Wonder who the Dread is.”

  “Who knows? Let’s get to Grenada,” Captain Jay said.

  Nobody argued.

  The colonel wished them luck and left for the bridge. Two hours later, Charlie and his crew tied the trawler to a dock in Grand Mal Bay, a couple of miles north of St. George’s.

  “What are we doin’ here?” Captain Jay asked.

  “We’re picking up a friend,” Charlie said, offering no more.

  Arlan looked around the stereotypical island village. There were dozens of wooden shacks with unpainted corrugated metal roofs. The wood siding on the majority of the shacks, once painted with bright colors, had faded over time, giving parts of the village the look of pastel Caribbean landscapes. Mixed with the faded wooden shacks were newer block and concrete constructed homes in various stages of completion, their yards littered with rusted rebar, plywood and old
concrete blocks. Grass and weeds grew up around the unused construction materials. Chickens strutted throughout the village. Nervous, skinny dogs gathered around the two dumpsters visible from the beach. One chased a mongoose into an old, round metal downspout and waited for it to come out—something it would regret if it was there when the mongoose decided to exit the downspout. A few rusted vehicles were strewn around the village on sandy roads. Children played soccer in an open field in the middle of the village. Four weathered old men, wearing long pants and dirty, white tank tops played dominoes near the open field. They drank Vitamalt, a ubiquitous syrupy-sweet beverage Arlan saw on every island he’d visited. He had tried it once, and that was enough. A heavyset woman lazily hung clothes on a line strung across her porch, taking a minute or more to hang each article of clothing. Nowhere was the urgency of a pending invasion or the worry of an island in the midst of political upheaval. Arlan took it all in and smiled.

  A few minutes later a van drove up to the dock, and a tall West Indian man dressed in sharply creased pants and a white, collared, short-sleeve shirt got out of the van and walked down the dock toward the trawler. He furtively looked in every direction, like a man used to a covert lifestyle. The morning sun made the white shirt somewhat translucent, and Arlan could clearly see a large-caliber handgun tucked into the man’s waistband. When the man was closer he smiled and nodded to Charlie, who nodded back and said, “Welcome aboard, Desmond.”

  “Tanks, mon,” Desmond said and stepped onto the boat with a broad smile and a handshake for everybody as he introduced himself.

  “What do we know?” Charlie asked Desmond.

  “De curfew is lifted. But dat wouldn’t have boddered us anyway. I know most of de soldiers. We can go wherever we need to go.”

  “What about the Cubans?”

  “Dey could be a problem. Dey won’t let us near the new airport or der camp at Calivigny, a few bays to de east of de airport.”

  “The US military will take care of that soon enough,” Charlie said.

  “Can’t be too soon, mon. De people hate dem.”

  “The locals support an invasion?”

  “Fo true.”

  Charlie pulled out the photo of Boiled Bob and handed it to Desmond. He said, “We’re looking for the one in the middle. He’s probably with the tall one. His name is Boiled Bob. The tall one goes by the name Long Bill.”

  “What about de short mon. He’s got cold eyes. Looks like a killer.”

  “Not anymore,” Charlie said with a grin and glanced toward Tommy.

  Desmond started to comment but stopped, giving Tommy a long look. He then studied the photo for several seconds and frowned. He said, “Dis mon, Boil Bob. He looks mighty familiar.” Desmond cocked his head and said, “I cannot place it, but I’ve seen dis mon.”

  “Lately?” Captain Jay asked.

  “No. Sometime in de past.”

  Charlie shrugged, described the Happy Hobo and told Desmond of its changes and new name. Desmond continued to study the photo. Giving up, he shrugged and shook his head. He handed the photo back to Charlie.

  Charlie waved him off and said, “You keep the photo.” He then said, “We need to do a visual of all the bays that are deep and calm enough for sailboats to anchor. Will the patrol boats be a problem?”

  “Dey are all in de port in St. George’s. I tink de police are afraid to go out to sea.”

  “All right. Let’s get moving. Desmond, take this radio and one of my guys. Show the photo around to your contacts. The rest of us will look for the Happy Hobo by boat. It won’t be on the north or the east side of the island. The seas are too rough. It won’t take us more than a few hours to check St. George’s and the bays on the southern side of the island. We’ll rendezvous at noon.”

  Arlan was sure Captain Jay shouldn’t go with Desmond. He would be too unpredictable if they found Boiled Bob. Tommy would probably be the best choice.

  Charlie interrupted Arlan’s thoughts with, “Arlan, you’re going with Desmond.”

  Arlan was about to ask why when Charlie added, “You’ll keep your wits about you if you run into trouble. These two brutes…” Charlie said, nodding toward Tommy and Captain Jay, “…will probably get themselves shot.”

  Captain Jay and Tommy shrugged in agreement.

  Arlan left with Desmond for a three-hour tour of the southwest and most populated part of the island. They stopped at many places during their drive through St. George’s to ask about the Happy Hobo and the men in the photo. Nobody knew about the boat. A few frowned and had the same reaction Desmond had had when looking at Boiled Bob. All, after a moment, shrugged with resignation.

  One local said, “I doan know. All dem white young men look deh same.” He then looked to Arlan and said, “Sorry, mon.”

  Arlan laughed it off, wondering how Captain Jay would have responded had he been there. He’d probably tell one of his off-color racial jokes—one that he could get away with on St. John.

  After three hours searching around St. George’s and the neighboring bays, Arlan said, “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Boiled Bob could be anywhere.”

  “I tink it tis time to call Charlie to report.”

  Desmond used the radio to call Charlie, and Arlan could tell from Desmond’s side of the conversation that Charlie and his group had seen no sign of the Happy Hobo. Charlie wanted to do some reconnaissance for the US Marines on land, where they could continue their search. Arlan imagined he’d taken dozens of photos while searching for Boiled Bob by boat. At the end of the conversation, Desmond suggested that Charlie pull his boat into Prickly Bay and tie it to a bulkhead deep in the bay near a boatyard owned by his cousin.

  Fifteen minutes later, Desmond and Arlan arrived at the boatyard in the back of Prickly Bay. Arlan looked out into the bay and saw Charlie’s boat approaching the dock at a couple of knots. Arlan watched the boat navigate through several anchored boats and turned his attention to a dock attached to the west side of the bay, extending east about three hundred feet and jutting a third of the way across the back of the bay. He focused on an ugly green and white yawl with a beige sail cover.

  Arlan pointed to the dock and asked Desmond, “Can I get to that dock from here?”

  Desmond looked to the dock, then pointed to a short fence that ran around the boatyard and said, “Jus climb dat fence over der and walk around de bush. You’ll be der in five minutes.”

  A few scratches and many mosquito bites later, Arlan walked onto the dock. The sailboat’s stern pointed toward him, but a smaller vessel blocked his view of its moniker. He passed the smaller boat and saw the name, Pappy Bobo, sloppily painted on the stern of the green and white sailboat. Arlan glanced toward the bay and saw Charlie’s boat a hundred feet away heading toward the boatyard. He was undecided if he should shout for them to turn to port and tie off at the dock where he stood. Two dinghies were tethered to the boat, but that didn’t necessarily mean anybody was onboard. He walked to the boat and listened for a minute, hearing nothing from inside. He then leaned over and knocked on the wood deck. Nobody came topside. Arlan shrugged and whistled toward Charlie’s boat. Tommy and Captain Jay were already on deck with bow and stern lines, ready to tie the boat off at the boatyard’s bulkhead.

  Tommy knew Arlan’s whistle from the countless times he had called his dog back to the Gallows Point office after giving chase to birds, lizards, brave dogs that stupidly trespassed onto her turf and goats—except the billy goat. She never attacked the billy.

  Tommy looked over to the dock they’d just passed and to where Arlan stood. Tommy’s head cocked to one side, and he squinted. Two seconds later, Arlan heard Tommy shout to Charlie to change course.

  Arlan waited for Charlie’s boat to nudge the dock. Captain Jay tossed him the bow line and jumped onto the dock. Tommy waited for Charlie to reverse the engines and bring the stern close enough to the do
ck so he could make the jump and tie his line off. Arlan had to tie his end of the boat off and could only watch as Captain Jay stormed onto the Happy Hobo. By the time Arlan, Tommy and Charlie made it to the sailboat, Captain Jay had gone below deck and returned topside with an exasperated expression.

  “Nobody’s home,” Captain Jay said.

  Charlie shouted to Desmond, who was still standing on the boatyard’s bulkhead a hundred yards away, and motioned him to come to the dock.

  Desmond climbed the fence and took the same route Arlan had taken.

  He walked out onto the dock and said, “Dis is de boat?”

  All heads shook in the affirmative.

  “Tis an ugly boat. Maybe once it was a beautiful boat?”

  Charlie said, “Get a couple of your men to watch this boat. They’re not to let the boat leave this dock. If Boiled Bob or the tall man comes back, your men are to hold them here. If Lisa is with them, they’re to take her and explain the situation. Let her stay wherever she wants until we return, but make sure she’s comfortable.”

  “Understood,” Desmond said.

  The group spent fifteen minutes going through the boat, looking for anything that might give them a clue as to where Boiled Bob and Lisa were. They confiscated two small handguns but found nothing unusual, other than a pair of handcuffs that hung from a wooden rail above the bunk in the forward berth and a couple of mostly empty rolls of duct tape on the bunk. Captain Jay’s face flushed, and Arlan was sure he’d kill anybody who said anything at that moment. He didn’t say a word. Nobody did.

  “Let’s just get the son-of-a-bitch,” Captain Jay said as he climbed back to the deck and stepped onto the dock.

  Charlie asked Desmond, “How long before you can get some men here?”

  “I will go to come back. Tirty minutes.”

  “Okay. We’ll wait.”

  Desmond retraced his steps back to the boatyard. Charlie stepped back onto the boat.

  “What are you lookin’ for?” Captain Jay asked.

  “We’re going to disable the boat. I’ll take care of the engine. You guys take the winch handles and as much rigging as you can without cutting the lines. They’ll be needed when the boat’s sailed back to St. John.”