Back in the boat, I briefly take in the beauty of the night sky and radio Steve.
As expected he’s only travelled 20 miles and is dying of boredom.
"Is it like a long-haul flight: nothing happens there as well?" I retort.
"At least on the plane, you have someone to talk to, can eat what you want and even drink a coffee. Here, I’m sitting around all alone and moving forward only very slowly. I can’t even radio the others, because we want to save battery power."
"Yeah, yeah. I’ll take over now. I'll contact you as soon as I see Andrews’ lights. Over and out."
Fifteen minutes later, my retinas report the appearance of position lights to my brain, and I slow down.
"Good night, young man. Talk to you again at five a.m."
"Yup," comes back over the radio.
Now it's my turn. Not even five minutes later and I’m bored as hell!
The darkness, the monotonous drone of the engines and this continuous lack of action make it really hard to keep my eyes open. Again and again I find my eyelids slowly but steadily moving towards each other. A coffee would be really nice, but dry cat food from the military is unfortunately all I have to eat. I should have brought some instant coffee. I could prepare the drinking water myself and heat it up on the engine. Too late now, but I make a mental note to self to remember coffee the next time I’m sailing around at a snail's pace, alone over the nocturnal Pacific.
Gradually, I’m so tired I would dissolve pure coffee grinds in my mouth just to perk up a bit. I stop for a swimming break; I’m a water sportsman through and through. Water is definitely my element, but the pitch-black wetness feels a little threatening. The certainty that there’s nothing but water below me for the next 12,000 feet, makes me feel very small and insignificant.
Back in the boat, I accelerate to make up for the lost time. Andrews' lights are in front of me, and it's basically not difficult to stay a bit behind him. In the dark, I don’t need to worry that he might see me, and he definitely can’t hear my motors; the sound gets drowned out by his own engines. But by the time dawn comes, I don’t want to be next to him, and certainly not in front of him.
At sea, you look straight ahead. Sometimes you look to the side, but you hardly ever look back. Steve and I literally get swallowed by the ocean and are invisible to Andrews. But we don’t need to take any unnecessary risks. In this case, I care less about Andrews than I do the freighter. The men on board will be looking for a small boat and have a raised position. From there, we could easily be spotted.
Good Lord is this boring!
A glance at the clock worsens my mood even more. Just half an hour has passed. How did Steve endure it?
Normally I can get by pretty well on my own. My thoughts, which most people would find ridiculous, can occupy me for hours in the car or on a plane. I have to admit, the outcome of my world of thoughts is mostly crap, but sometimes a valuable idea or two will emerge. Nevertheless, it’s not always the result that counts; I’m able to entertain myself while many other people just get plain bored.
Most people have no imagination. A child has enough imagination to turn an ordinary staircase into an exciting pirate ship they can play on for hours. You lose this ability with age, which I personally find very sad. Most adults find fantasy and imagination just childish and silly. Everyone always wants to be as reasonable as possible and act properly. What nonsense!
But today, I’m unable to escape into my dream world. Instead, I almost get aggressive when I think of all the “reasonable” people whose lives primarily revolve around kissing their boss’ ass, wearing ironed shirts and, in the evening, counting out the ideal number of coal briquettes for their barbeque and lighting it up with safety lighter fluid.
It’s complete madness, but instructions actually do exist that tell you exactly how many coal briquettes you need for a specific amount of meat.
And even worse: there are "people" who not only read these instructions, but also follow them step by step!
I remember buying my stove. The salesperson approached me with: "This model has 8.5 kilowatts, so with very little wood, it can efficiently heat up a 2,000 square-foot living area." In return, I asked him to show me the most inefficient stove he has, and explained that I love the flickering and crackling of a good fire. I also add that I’m a bit of a pyromaniac and enjoy filling a stove with as much wood as possible and constantly feeding it. And since I don’t want to permanently sweat with the windows open and nothing but underpants on, I ask him to please show me the least fuel-efficient stove they have.
The salesperson grinned at me, his eyes saying it loudly: "Finally a normal person!" And I ended up buying a beautiful, wonderfully lavish oven.
Another good example of why people think I’m crazy. Everyone wants to be thrifty, polite and efficient. The word "efficient" alone makes me itchy. No matter what, in everything you do, the term "joy" must be paramount, not "efficiency."
"Back again!" proudly resounds out of the radio.
Yikes! I almost fall over in shock, and look at the clock. It's actually 5 a.m. I got so obsessed with my grudge against reasonable people, that the time went by in a flash.
"How was it?" asks Steve.
"I hate other people," I recapitulate.
"All?"
"All!"
"Me too?"
"No, not you. It's like with dogs. I don’t like them, but I love every one I get to know!"
"Well, good thing we got that resolved."
We compare the details of our GPS devices and decide to slow down a bit. Steve is about seven miles away from me, Andrews about halfway between us. A blue glimmer across the horizon announces the dawn of day.
Although the speedometer indicates only two knots, Andrews’ position lights drift farther and farther behind me. I reach for the radio.
"Either my speedometer is crap, or Andrews stopped."
"I was just thinking the same thing," Steve replies. "He’s probably arrived at the meeting point and is now waiting. Let's pull back a bit, otherwise we’ll be too close to the sea lane and might get discovered by the freighter."
We turn around and drive a few miles before we stop, turn off the engines and wait.
"Bob, do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," is the answer.
"We’re about 24 miles south of Maui. How soon can you be here?"
"Pure flight time: less than 10 minutes. With a little preparation and takeoff clearance, I could be onsite in less than 20 minutes."
"How long can you stay airborne with the additional tank?"
"Depends on how athletic I fly, but four to five hours should be possible."
"Does it make sense to go for a reconnaissance flight now and check on the freighter?"
"General, what’s your opinion on this matter?" asks Bob.
"I agree. Fly to Andrews and then turn west to start the search. If this doesn’t bring any result, turn around and search easterly. Stay at a high altitude, so you will not be seen or heard. And keep an eye on the tank. If there’s nothing happening by that point, come back and refuel."
"All right, I’ll get ready. Since there’s no hurry, I’ll fly slow and be above you in about in half an hour!"
Shortly thereafter, Kiara reports her father’s take off. She remains in the hangar.
Steve and I increase our distance from Andrews. We will soon have air support, so it’s no longer important to maintain visual contact.
Once again, we can’t do anything but wait.
I hop into the water again and swim a few times around the boat. Afterwards I let the sun dry me, lying on my back and staring into the sky. I discover Bob as a small red dot, high above. You would only make out the plane, if you knew what to look for. The engine can’t be heard. Very good. As discussed, he turns to the right and searches the sea to the west.
An hour later, I regret having cut off the awning. The sun is burning mercilessly on my body, and there’s really nothing on the boat that might
provide any shade. On the contrary, the water’s surface reflects the rays and further accelerates my skin pigment coloration and sweat gland production.
Just when I’m about to jump overboard for another swim, my radio crackles to life.
"Hey ho, you’ll soon have company! Must have overlooked the freighter on the way out and just discovered it coming back; maybe a cloud was blocking my view the first time. Anyway, it’s about 18 miles southwest of you. It’s about 750 feet long and has three cranes on deck. I can‘t make out much more from up here."
The General is the first to reply: "Bob, how’s your fuel?"
"The regular tank is almost empty, but the extra tank is still full. It has almost twice as much gas as the regular one, so I can stay up here for at least another three hours."
"Okay," says Miller, "if you think it’s safe, stay there and film everything. Refueling will cost you more than an hour now. By then all the fun may already be over."
Eighteen miles away. The speed of a cargo ship is about 24 mph. Factoring in the braking process, it should take the freighter a little more than an hour to get here.
Sixty endless minutes. Before Bob's message, the waiting was almost unbearable, mainly because of boredom. Now my nerves are stretched to the breaking point, but still nothing happens. This makes it no longer almost, but completely unbearable.
I jump into the water and swim for a bit. But fearing I’ll miss some news over the radio, I quickly hop back on board. Nothings happening, so it’s back into the water for a few seconds. Then I restlessly walk in a circle around my little boat. It sucks; I don’t know what to do with myself.
After all that, I’ve only killed five minutes. At least the view is clear, so I try the binoculars. In fact, with the naked eye, one can only make out a small black dot on the horizon; but in the spyglass, the outline of a cargo ship, including a column of smoke from the chimney, are clearly visible. Adrenaline instantly shoots into my blood. My hunting instinct comes alive, and suddenly I’m quite calm.
"Hi all, I have visual contact. General Miller, do you think it’s a good idea if Steve goes farther to the south so we can observe the freighter and Andrews from both north and south"?
"No, both remain north. When the show gets going, you’ll be able to keep each other in sight."
"All right, but what if they exchange the containers on the south side?"
"Then we still have Bob with the camera. In a pinch, you can easily work your way behind them and film from the other side."
"Steve, you see Andrews?" I ask.
"Yes, I drove by a little closer. With the video camera’s zoom, I can locate it quite well, but it’s impossible to hold the part still. For the filming, I think we have to rely on Bob anyways. With less zoom, the picture isn’t as blurred, but I would have to get too close to the freighter then.”
I lie down on the floor, resting with my chest on the boat’s air hose, and watch the freighter. Crazy, for half an hour I’m staring at a freighter that does nothing but plow leisurely through the calm sea, and I’m not the least bored by it.
This is probably how birdwatchers feel when they lie around for hours and look at a tree.
One thing is certain by now: we’re on the right track - on the side of the ship, I can clearly read three letters: G-S-S.
As the freighter slowly passes in front of me, I drive off. As I said, at sea you’re always looking forward. From behind, you can approach any ship virtually unnoticed.
With the binoculars, I get Andrews back on my retinas. His engine is running again; he’s getting himself into position. The ship is slowly approaching, and Andrews moves in the same direction. When the cargo ship is almost level with him, Andrews accelerates. The two ships are running almost parallel now. While the freighter holds its course, the towed convoy starts moving closer to the jackpot. At the bow of the freighter, two people let down a thick rope. This gets dragged through the water until it reaches Andrews’ boat. He fishes it out, attaches his boat to it and puts the engine into idle. The rope stretches, and the floating pontoon with the container remains constantly at the same level, directly under the central ship crane.
The crew lowers a rope ladder to Andrews. In addition - even for crooks, it’s safety first - a web of ropes gets lowered at the stern of the ship. The ropes are knotted horizontally and vertically, creating a crisscross pattern much like you’d find on a children's playground. If somebody were to go overboard during the transshipment, he could cling to the mesh and climb back on deck.
Andrews climbs up the rope ladder to the freighter and is greeted by the captain. Both stroll to the stern and sit down at a sumptuously set table. Andrews eats in peace while the containers get exchanged. What a workhorse!
Meanwhile, the crane is in motion and two crewmembers climb down the ladder. Down on the pontoon, they receive the crane ropes and secure them to the roof of the container.
The ropes extend and the container gets lifted, along with the two workers. Well, don’t let the government safety commission see that!
Once on deck, the container gets placed unobtrusively between the others. The crane returns to the original position and that's it.
End of story.
What's going on? They’re only loading the weapons? There are no drugs? Damn, that could very well be possible; we didn’t really have any concrete evidence for the drugs. I just thought it would be obvious. It’s also possible that they’re just buying weapons. In this case, we have a problem, because then we can’t catch Andrews in the act with a sea container full of drugs.
Damn, damn, damn.
However, Andrews seems to have not quite finished his visit. He remains quite comfortably at the table and toasts with the captain.
At the bow, something is happening: someone operates a winch and the speedboat and pontoon start slowly drifting backwards. It stops in line with the last crane. The two workers reappear on one of the containers, and shortly thereafter, the new container is placed on the pontoon.
Bingo! I was right.
While the Captain and Andrews shake hands, the helpers climb back up the rope ladder. Andrews does the same, just in the opposite direction. Back on his boat, he starts the engine and casts off.
Our plan is to let Andrews pass in between us on his way back to Kahoolawe and then surprise him on both sides from behind.
Unfortunately, the towing convoy doesn’t turn as we expected him to. Andrews still moves very slowly to the east. The cargo ship named "Sophie" accelerates again. After a few minutes, Andrews still doesn’t change his course.
"To all:" I radio: "It seems that Andrews is not yet on his way back. Maybe he’s staying out here until sunset, so he can sail back under the cover of darkness. What should we do now?"
The General replies, "You have to do something. We can no longer stop the freighter; our helicopters’ range is too limited. And it makes little sense to chase it with ships. It would take forever to catch up with it!"
Steve answers: "Tom, it’s up to you. If I drive towards him, I would be approaching from the front. First I’d get discovered by the freighter, and even if I got to Andrews, I wouldn’t have the element of surprise on my side."
Oh great. Everything’s up to me again. But Steve is right; strategically I am in a much better position.
"All right," I reply, "But at least come a little closer, in case I need help."
Describing the feeling in my stomach as "queasy" would be an understatement. I feel like I simultaneously have diarrhea, nausea and dizzy spells, and I can’t help but think I’ve been left alone to battle against a powerful opponent - kind of like an earthworm, who’s been told to beat up a whale.
I seriously consider just returning to Maui. I mean, what the heck? I’m not trained for something like this and I really don’t feel like it. Why not just have the General, by chance, awaiting Andrews on Kahoolawe and accidentally finding the drugs. The freighter could also just get stopped in Colombia.
But there’s not j
ust fear in me. Somewhere is also a strong anger, almost hatred. This guy has ruined my vacation, repeatedly tried to kill me, and now I have the chance to catch him with a whole sea container full of drugs. Besides that, I’m armed and have the upper hand. Andrews thinks we’re in Germany and would be very shocked to meet me in the middle of the ocean.
I press down the throttle, but not completely. At full speed, the motors are very noisy. On top of that, my boat shakes heavily despite the small waves and I can’t see clearly when going that fast.
I’m approaching Andrews directly from behind, so I can only see the container, but not his boat. On the flip side, he can’t see me either.
As I get closer, I slow down to reduce the sound of my engines. In the end, I’m barely faster than Andrews. Just before my boat touches the floating pontoon, I shut down the engine, run forward, grab a rope and jump as quietly as possible onto the pontoon. For a moment, I remain motionless and listen. Everything sounds normal, Andrews' motor hums evenly; it’s neither slower nor faster. I tie up my boat, lie down on the floor and crawl to the container.
Half way to Hawaii Page 24
