“Fine,” I said. “Try not to fall too far behind.”
“Hah!” O’Davis snorted. “I’ll be startin’ the boat by the time the likes o’ you hits the water!”
In truth, we got to his ratty cruiser at the same time. We sprinted across the back lawn through the humid March darkness to the bluff above the sea.
The speedboat was a pale wake line searching for an exit through the reef.
“Doesn’t know the water, our Jamaican friend!” O’Davis yelled. “If he doesn’t find the cut, we’ll have ’im sure.”
We clattered down the steps we had eschewed earlier, then made our way along the rocky shore to the coconut palms which hid our gear. We didn’t waste time trying to be quiet and careful now. We charged into the water and struck out for the boat, holding the submachine guns high.
Onard Cribbs did find the cut. Over my shoulder, I saw the skiff glimmering in the moonlight as it knifed through the breakers at the seaward edge of the reef. I expected him to cut east toward North Sound. But he didn’t. Instead, he seemed to be headed west toward open sea.
I remembered the pickup boat. It was supposed to belong to the dead drug runner, Morro. But maybe Cribbs was in deeper than even Morro knew.
Little bells began going off in my head.
It would have to be a big oceangoing boat, a diesel-powered vessel with a hell of a range, to carry drugs from Grand Cayman to point X, because Grand Cayman is in the middle of nowhere.
The kidnappers had to be counting on such a vessel. By phone they had demanded an air rendezvous with a ship at sea. And maybe that’s why a careful land search of the island hadn’t produced young Thomas James—because they already had him sequestered aboard.
When we finally climbed onto the cruiser and I had hauled anchor, I told O’Davis what I was thinking.
He nodded shortly. “Could be, Yank. Could be. An’ it’s all the more reason to have a talk with Mr. Cribbs.”
The Irishman gunned the boat, jumping her onto plane. The sea wind had freshened with midnight, and we were pounding right into the greasy, moon-slick swells. While O’Davis fought with the wheel, I switched on the VHF and tried to raise Cayman police. And just when I was about to give up, a voice came back: “Vessel calling, this is Grand Cayman.”
I gave them an eyeball position, told them we were in pursuit, and asked for assistance. There was a long wait. I could imagine the dispatcher at his desk in Georgetown making phone calls, waking his superiors.
Finally, there was this: “Power vessel Rogue, this is Grand Cayman. We will be sending assistance by sea and air. But there will be about an hour before they reach your position. We still have to wake the helicopter pilot.”
O’Davis was chuckling to himself as I signed off. “Hah! Sleepy little island, Grand Cayman!”
“Yeah, but an hour . . . ”
“Oh, we’ll be lucky if it only takes ’em an hour, Yank. That’s what I love about livin’ here. Don’t have yer perverted American sense of time!”
We used the Q-beam to find the cut this time. The surf was a churning, frozen haze in the distance. Cribbs was too far away for the light to reflect off his hull.
We crashed through the first breakers into the standing chop that marked the cut, then twisted through to open sea.
I switched off the light and returned to the cabin. O’Davis handed me the binoculars. They made the stars burn fiercely on the horizon and gave me a better look at the powerboat in the distance.
“He’s about a quarter mile ahead of us—a few points to starboard.”
“Aye, I see ’im now!”
I kept a close eye on Cribbs through the binoculars. He seemed to know where he wanted to go—because only a fool or someone with a destination would head for open sea in a small boat. I noticed something else, too:
“He’s pulling away from us,” I said.
“What?”
“I thought you said this was the fastest boat on the island, O’Davis.”
“It is!”
“Than why are we losing ground?”
The Irishman gave me an indignant look, then patted the Morse controls of the boat lovingly. “Don’t ya be lettin’ me down now, darlin’. Give us jest a touch more petrol, eh?” Using his weight, he tried to mash the throttles even farther forward. But his Rogue was giving us all she had. We went crashing through the swells at a rolling forty miles an hour.
Finally convinced, O’Davis turned to me meekly. “That bloody speedboat must not be from Grand Cayman.”
“Oh, yeah—that explains it.”
“I’m afraid it gives rise to a new list of problems, Yank.”
“Should I act surprised? Cribbs is going to beat us to the mother ship. If we try to get close enough to board, they’ll shoot us before we get out of the cabin—if they don’t shoot and sink us before. The Cayman police are coming like the cavalry, by sea and air. If the kid is aboard, they’ll kill him at the first sound of a chopper.” I paused. “Does that pretty much sum things up?”
“It does, it does,” he said lamely. “Any ideas?”
“We could turn back now and call off the police.”
“Ah,” he said, “that’s what a wise man would do. Yes indeed, a wise man would certainly turn back now.”
“Of course, that would give them time to get into international or even Cuban waters. If they have the kid, they’ll still be holding all the cards.”
“But a wise man would turn back,” the Irishman repeated sagely.
“I notice you’re still holding course.”
O’Davis panned his head around the cabin theatrically. “Ya know, ’tis a strang thing, Yank—but I do na see a wise man aboard.”
“Westy, sometimes you’re one extraordinary, foolhardy Irishman.”
He smiled. “An’ sometimes, Mr. Dusky MacMorgan, you are an extraordinary judge of character.”
13
The mother ship was ghostly in the distance, pale in the moonglow. There were no lights anywhere. The windows of the wheelhouse were a sheen of silver.
The men aboard were obviously being careful. They didn’t want to be seen. I watched the ship through the binoculars. The sea had no bottom here, so they drifted, rolling in the ocean’s swell.
It was a commercial trawler, the wheelhouse mounted far forward with a huge expanse of stern deck for working the trawl nets. The hull was white with black trim. It flew no flag from the triangle of masthead.
“Is Cribbs there yet?”
“Just pulling alongside. A couple guys from the trawler are out on the deck trying to help him aboard.”
“Think they know we’re followin’, Dusky?”
“They have to know. You know how sound travels over water.”
“Aye. An’ they’ll be keepin’ a close eye on this boat.” He backed off on the throttles. Our own wake lifted our stern, then dropped us back into the trough. The trawler was about a half mile dead ahead. “Any ideas, Yank?”
“You may have just given me one.”
“Very smart of me—what is it?”
“They’ll be keeping an eye on this boat.”
“Aye—the boat an’ us too. I do na think we kin go swimmin’ up to their vessel without bein’ aerated by their blinkin’ guns.”
“We can if we do it right. Do you have a fuelline shutoff valve?”
“Aye—they’re required. You know that.”
“Than get this boat back on plane and put us directly astern of the trawler. Maybe a quarter mile off. And just hope those Thompsons of yours can stand a little more salt water.”
As we banged along closer to the trawler, a big marine searchlight blinked on above the cabin. They swept it along behind us, then held us in the beam.
“Bloody rude of ’em,” the Irishman yelled, shielding his eyes.
“I don’t think they’re very nice people.”
“Need some manners, is all! An’ it’s me great hope that it’s meself who teaches ’em!”
When we
were well astern of the trawler, I had O’Davis drop us back to idle. They held the searchlight on us, but from that distance—even with binoculars—they wouldn’t be able to see what we were doing. While the Irishman got our gear ready, I pulled off the engine-compartment hatch. The shutoff valve on the fuel line had a common case of saltwater corrosion. It took me a while to bust it free. When I had it working, I summoned the Irishman.
“Point us away from the trawler. Get us up on plane. I need to see how long the engine will run with the fuel valve shut.”
“An’ suddenly, I see what ya have planned, brother MacMorgan.”
“Well?”
“It may work. But I hate ta see me boat get shot up so.”
“Better it than us.”
“No argument there, mate.”
“Just run at your most economical speed—if there’s such a thing on this gas hog.”
“Hog, is it? Ya jest keep an eye on that fancy watch of yers!”
When we were running evenly into the swell, I twisted the valve and marked the time on the luminescent dial, of my Rolex. After a minute and a half, the engine began to sputter. Then it died.
“Will it give us enough time, Yank?”
“A minute and forty-three seconds,” I yelled back. “It’ll be close. But we don’t have much choice.” I primed the engine, opened the valve, then pulled on fins, mask, and snorkel. O’Davis handed me the Thompson. I said, “We’d better hurry. Right now they’re deciding if they should make a run for it. Let’s catch them while they’re still thinking.”
O’Davis started his Rogue on the third try, then nosed us around, putting the bow just off the stern of the big trawler. I had to remind him to keep the RPM down. The fuel was flowing freely now, but once I shut it off I didn’t want any change of speed to make them suspicious.
My plan was simple. We would go charging right at them. I was counting on them to open fire. Then O’Davis would veer away from the trawler when I flipped off the fuel valve. Their fire would explain our sudden change of course. When we were as close as possible to the trawler, the Irishman and I would tumble unseen into the water. Their eyes, very naturally, would follow the boat as it continued on its course. The boat would run for almost two minutes on the fuel in the line. Then it would stop. They might think we were hit. Or they might think we had stopped to regroup. Whatever they thought, they wouldn’t be expecting us to slip up over the stern.
We were about four hundred yards off, heading straight for their stern, when the windshield exploded. Wood began splintering on the deck. Their weapons were brief darts of flame in the distance.
“So far so good, Yank—if the buggers don’t kill us before we get there.”
O’Davis held fast to our course, running toward them like a kamikaze pilot. They must have thought we were crazy. And maybe we were.
Staying low, I ducked down into the engine hatch.
“Ready, Westy?”
“An Irishman’s born ready!”
We were about seventy-five yards from the trawler when I jammed the fuel valve off—but it seemed one hell of a lot closer. The drug runners suffered no shortage of automatic firepower. They were working us over with about a half-dozen light weapons that sounded like M-16s. The Irishman’s Rogue was being carved into splinters.
“Hope yer right about them concentratin’ on the boat, MacMorgan!”
“Just in case—it’s been interesting knowing you, O’Davis.”
“Been a real treat fer me too, ya big ugly brute!”
The Irishman threw the wheel half to starboard and lashed it at my order. And when the stern swung, we let the momentum throw us off the starboard side—the side away from the trawler.
I didn’t carry a big breath of air with me. I wanted to sink. And I did. I wanted to stay down just as long as I could. And I had told O’Davis to do the same. They would be watching the cruiser, following it with their guns.
I hoped.
From ten feet down, the surface of the sea was moon-bright, stars slightly out of focus. I felt something brush the back of me and realized it was the Irishman swimming toward the top. I grabbed his arm and held him. When his squirming told me he needed air, I drifted upward with him.
The searchlight aboard the trawler still held the little white cruiser in its beam. It was angling away from us at a respectable twenty knots. They had brought up more firepower, emptying round after round into the wooden hull.
There was no time to waste. Taking care not to splash with our fins, we set out for the trawler as fast as we could possibly go. We lifted and fell with every swell. Stars threw trembling paths before us. The sound of men yelling pierced the staccato gunfire.
As long as they didn’t start engines and run for it, and as long as the salt water didn’t render the old Thompsons useless, we were in good shape.
We were only about twenty yards from the stern of the trawler when we heard the Rogue’s engines sputter and then die. Someone yelled something, and then the gunfire stopped, too.
I could hear the metallic fluttering of a halyard against the masthead and the wash of waves against the hull of the trawler. Their voices were clear now. More Jamaican voices.
“What you figure they doin’, mon?”
“Goddamn if I know!”
“They dead, mon. Nobody live through that shit.”
The fourth voice I recognized. It was Cribbs. He couldn’t hide the fear. “Don’ be so sure, mon. Goddamn cops. Shot the shit outta Benji and Marley an’ that other nigger.”
“Who you callin’ nigger, nigger! You’re the crazy fool who led them cops out here!”
“Gotta get them engines started, mon. Gotta get the hell away from Georgetown!”
“You don’ hear good, nigger? I tell you, mon, the engine she busted. Woody down there workin’ on her now. We leave Georgetown—soon as them rusty bastards get fixed.”
“Got to think o’ somethin’, mon,” Onard Cribbs insisted. “Killin’ two Yankee drug runners one thing, mon. Killin’ them two cops on tha’ boat som’pin’ else. Maybe I’m gonna get back on tha’ speedboat—”
“The hell you say, mon. Anybody use that speedboat, we use it! You the crazy one who brung the cops back here.”
“Didn’ know, mon. Hear me, I didn’ know! Yankee drug runners fall for it too easy. They musta been in on it.”
“Shit, mon, you just stupid, that what you are!”
They argued on and on. The Jamaican drug runners were finding that their sweet scheme had suddenly gone very damn sour indeed. They had somehow tricked the two Americans into believing the mother ship and the heroin suppliers were manned by two separate factions. All the Americans had done was finance the whole operation—and their own deaths.
I listened closely, hoping they would make some mention of the kidnapped boy.
But they never did.
The transom of the trawler loomed high above us. In large block letters the name on the stern read, “Hotcake—Kingston, Jamaica.”
The Irishman and I found handholds on the exhaust pipes which protruded from the waterline. The boat heaved and rolled in the wash of sea. It stank of oil and rotten fish. O’Davis motioned for me to lean close, and he whispered in my ear, “I’m gettin’ the feelin’ they don’t know nothin’ about the James lad.”
“Yeah. Me too. Maybe we’d better just wait for the Cayman police to get here.”
“It’s still gonna be messy, Yank. Very messy. They think they’ve killed us. Jammed inta a bit of a corner, they are. I suspect they’ll try to stand and fight it out.”
I nodded and said nothing, knowing O’Davis was right. Whatever happened, we would be right in the middle. I felt disgusted with myself. This was becoming more and more of a scorched-earth mission. Still, if they had the boy, I had chosen the only reasonable plan of action. And now we would have to live with it. Or die with it.
“It was my idea,” I whispered. “No sense in letting your Cayman police force drop into an ambush. We’d bette
r get them softened up. I’ll go first.”
“Thought ye would never offer,” the Irishman said and grinned.
There was a coil of line hanging down from the port cleat. I slipped my fins off and belted them to the small of my back. With the Thompson slung over my shoulder, I pulled myself up to the stern rail and peered over. Five men clustered on the bow point beneath the spotlight, still watching O’Davis’ cruiser in the distance. I could see the glare of Onard Cribbs’ shaved head.
Closer to me, on the stern deck, I could hear a voice. The engine hatch was open. Someone was below, cursing softly to himself. It was Woodie, the guy working on the diesels. I pulled the Randall knife from its scabbard and climbed onto the deck, hiding myself as best I could behind the draping nets. When I was sure the other men were still busy with their arguing, I moved across the expanse of deck. The engine hold was brightly lighted with a mechanic’s lamp. A wooden ladder with five rungs ended in an oily bilge slick. The Jamaican had his back to me, crouched over one of the fuel pumps. He was a small wiry man with hair in Rastafarian braids. He was trying to piece the fuel pump back together. I poised over the hold, took a deep breath, then dropped down on top of him, cracking him as hard as I could on the nape of the neck with my elbow.
He never knew what hit him. He collapsed with a low-pitched whoof and fell still upon the engine.
I checked the side of his neck with two fingers. The jugular was still pumping blood, strong and steady. There was electrician’s tape in the tool box. I taped his hands, legs, and mouth, then climbed back to the transom and summoned the Irishman.
Just as O’Davis got over the transom, one of the Jamaicans decided to come aft to check and see how Woodie was doing. We dove for cover behind nets on opposite sides of the deck. The Jamaican stood scratching his head, perplexed to find the engine hatch closed. Then, from the pile of net which hid the Irishman, came a strange warbling whistle. The Jamaican heard it. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to investigate.
That’s just what O’Davis wanted him to do.
Grand Cayman Slam Page 11
