The Broken Chase

by Cap Daniels

  I jerked away from Rutherford and the agent and positioned my face inches from hers. “I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you both. No matter what rock you crawl under, I’ll be there. You’re going to pay . . . with your lives.”

  The agent grabbed each of my arms and a Coast Guardsman placed me in a powerful headlock that left me completely under their control. With blinding speed, they hurled me across the gunwale and back onto the deck of my boat. I came to rest facedown with Rutherford’s boot planted on my spine and the two FBI agents, guns raised, making sure I wasn’t getting within ten feet of their prisoners.

  “Stay down, Chase,” came Rutherford’s calm words. “Just stay down. I know what you’re thinking, but not here. Not now. You’ll get your chance.”

  I grunted my submission, but not my agreement.

  The FBI boat disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, but Michael and Sara Anderson, or whatever their real names were, hadn’t seen the last of me.

  Lieutenant Rutherford removed his boot from my back, allowing me to sit up. He sat on the bench seat. “As I told you before, we’ll be making sure you get back to St. Augustine safely this afternoon. Is your boat still seaworthy?”

  I tried to calm myself, but my head was pounding and I could taste my lust to end Michael Anderson. I exhaled, trying to focus on my immediate situation. Accepting that my revenge would have to wait, I said, “Except for the net wrapped in the starboard propeller and an EPIRB that’s still going off, I think the boat’s fine.”

  “Rutherford deactivated the EPIRB. My swimmer will have your fouled prop clear any minute.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I appreciate you having him take care of that.”

  “Oh, I didn’t have him do it,” said Rutherford, “he just does stuff like that. I can’t keep him out of the water. When he saw you flailing around down there, he was in the water and on his way to you before I could get the boat stopped.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I owe him a bottle of whatever he drinks.”

  Rutherford laughed. “I suppose you probably do.”

  The swimmer emerged from the water with a huge section of commercial fishing net in his arms. He dumped it aboard the patrol boat, along with his mask, fins, and snorkel, then climbed aboard my boat.

  The orange-clad swimmer stuck out his wet hand. “Mr. Fulton, I’m Petty Officer Third Class Tony Johnson. I think you know my brother, Clark.”

  So that’s how the Coast Guard knows who we are.

  I stood up to greet him. “It’s nice to meet you, Tony. I guess it’s a small world.”

  “No, sir,” he said. “The world ain’t small. It’s just the part of the world you and my brother live in that’s small.”

  I had to agree with him on that one. “So, Tony, what do you drink?”

  “Well,” he said, “Clark and me grew up in Tennessee, a long way from the ocean, so I’m kinda partial to Jack Daniels.”

  “Follow me,” I said, leading him into the main salon. I handed him a bottle of Gentleman Jack. “Thanks again, Tony. If you hadn’t come along, my day would’ve ended quite differently. You saved our lives.”

  He stared at the bottle and then at his lieutenant. “Savin’ lives is what we do, Mr. Fulton, but the old man ain’t gonna let me take this on his patrol boat.”

  I patted him on the back, ushering him out of the salon. “I have a feeling your lieutenant might look the other way just this once.”

  “Get on the boat, Tony,” Rutherford said. “And for God’s sake, stow that contraband somewhere I don’t have to see it.”

  Tony gave him something resembling a salute, then he said, “Hey, Chase, did you know there’s a speargun shaft stuck in your overhead in the cabin?”

  I pointed my thumb at Skipper. “Yeah, she’s trying out new decorating ideas. It’s part of the décor.”

  He and Skipper locked eyes.

  “You’re cuter than your brother, Petty Officer Third Class Tony Johnson.”

  Tony winked at her. “Yes, ma’am, I know.” He leapt onto the deck of the patrol boat, whiskey bottle in hand.

  “Commanding that boat full of misfits is like trying to herd cats,” Rutherford said, “but I sure am thankful for that herd.”

  “Not as thankful as we are,” Skipper and I said.

  I scanned the water and didn’t see a speck of land or another boat in any direction. “Where are we, Lieutenant?”

  Rutherford glared at me as if I’d ask him the meaning of life.

  Skipper cleared up the confusion. “We’ve been downstairs tied up for a while, so we’re a little disoriented.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. We’re twenty-five miles east of Matanzas Inlet at Red Snapper Sink. Have you heard of it?”

  “I’ve heard of Matanzas Inlet, but not Red Snapper Sink.”

  “It’s a hole in the ocean that’s charted at seventy-three fathoms, but nobody knows for sure how deep it really is.”

  “How deep is seventy-three fathoms?” Skipper asked.

  I tried multiplying six feet times seventy-three in my head, but Rutherford beat me to it.

  “It’s four hundred thirty-eight feet, but like I said, nobody knows for sure how deep it really is. I’ve thought about sending Tony down in there to see if he can find the bottom.” Rutherford yelled toward the patrol boat. “What do you think of that idea, Tony?”

  Tony popped his head up. “What’s that, Skipper?”

  Rutherford and Skipper yelled back, “Nothing, Tony!”

  “So, my guess is those two planned to get what they wanted from you, have their pickup boat rendezvous with them, and send you and your boat to the bottom of Red Snapper Sink. There’s no telling how many boats are at the bottom of that hole.”

  I considered what he’d said. “I guess that was a pretty good plan ’til you showed up.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We tend to mess up good plans like that from time to time.”

  I walked to the helm and started both engines. Like always, I watched for oil pressure and raw water flow. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to make sure my starboard sail drive is still working before you guys take off.”

  “Sure. We’ll stay as long as you need us. We’ll even follow you back ashore if you want.”

  I put the right transmission in gear and we started a gentle turn to the left without the port side transmission engaged. I then pulled the starboard transmission into reverse and gave it a little throttle. It shifted smoothly and turned the boat to starboard.

  “I think we’re going to be fine, Lieutenant. We’ll sail back to St. Augustine and get Skipper’s jaw checked out.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do for you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a gun in the bilge of my tender.” I pointed to the dinghy hanging from the stern davits. “I knocked it from Michael’s hand with my emergency tiller, and it landed in the dinghy. I guess we should’ve sent that with the FBI guys.”

  Rutherford walked to the stern of the boat and peered into the dinghy, the gun clearly visible. “Hmm, you must be mistaken. I don’t see any gun.”

  I nodded knowingly. “Oh, well, I could have sworn it was in there. There is one more thing I’d love Tony to take care of while you’re here.”

  “Name it,” he said.

  “There’s a satellite tracker on the underside of my hull, behind the trampoline. Do you think we could twist his arm and get him back in the water to pry that thing off?”

  Rutherford turned to give the order and we saw Tony diving off the stern of the patrol boat with a pouch of tools in his hand. The three of us walked to the bow and peered through the trampoline. Tony kicked up and out of the water until he could grab the back edge of the trampoline with one hand and work at prying the tracker off with the other. He worked at the task for several minutes before finally pulling it free and slipping it through the gap and onto the trampoline.

  “Thanks, Tony,” Skipper said.

  He winked a
gain while still hanging by one hand beneath the trampoline. “You’re welcome, ma’am. Did I hear the lieutenant say you were headed back to St. Augustine?”

  In spite of the pain she must have felt in her jaw, she grinned. “Yeah, we’re going back to St. Augustine. Why?”

  “Well,” he said, “seeing as how you’ve had a rough day and all, I figure you’ll need a day or two to rest before I take you out dancing.”

  27

  It’s Classified

  Rutherford powered away, but he didn’t head back for St. Augustine as I’d expected. Instead, he brought the big boat up on plane and headed east, into the deep of the North Atlantic.

  “Rutherford left you a little gift in the dinghy,” I said to Skipper. “Why don’t you stow it away somewhere safe on your side of the boat?”

  Skipper approached the lifeboat and looked inside. The nine-millimeter pistol I’d knocked from Michael’s hand was lying in the bottom of the small boat on a coil of line. She reached in, took hold of the pistol, and smiled.

  “Didn’t you say you wanted one on your side of the boat when all this was over?” I asked.

  She scoffed. “If you’d have thought about this a day earlier, we wouldn’t have had such a terrible day.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but you also wouldn’t have met Tony.”

  She bumped hips with me then carried her new pistol down to her cabin.

  I turned the boat into the wind and set the sails. In less than five minutes, we were headed back for St. Augustine Inlet to find Skipper a doctor.

  When I shut the engines down, I heard a thundering sound coming from dead ahead, so I stepped from beneath the hardtop and scanned the horizon. I saw an orange and white Coast Guard helicopter coming straight at us at top speed. It flew directly over us, seemingly only a few feet above our mast.

  “What was that?” Skipper asked.

  “It was a Coast Guard helicopter going somewhere, fast. It was probably backup for the crew who rescued us. They must be running a little behind.”

  I was pleased to see Skipper holding two paper plates with sandwiches and chips. With all of the day’s excitement, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m famished.”

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “Do you know how to make lemonade?”

  She chuckled. “Yes, of course I do. Everyone knows how to make lemonade.”

  The last time I had lemonade was the day Anya vanished from the boat near Virgin Gorda. I wondered how long I’d be tying simple things like lemonade to my memory of Anya.

  “I should’ve offered the Coast Guard guys something to eat,” said Skipper, showing her genetic Southern hospitality.

  There’s a phenomenon that occurs in people who’ve endured extreme prolonged stress. It manifests itself in one of three ways. Many times, the victims find themselves physically and mentally exhausted, incapable of staying awake, and will often sleep for twelve or more hours. In about equal numbers, some victims will suffer an extreme psychological breakdown and cry uncontrollably for hours. The third manifestation of this phenomenon is what happened to me. I found Skipper’s declaration that she should’ve fed the Coast Guardsmen to be hilarious, and I burst into raucous laughter. I laughed for ten minutes as Skipper stared at me, most likely questioning my sanity.

  “What is so funny?” she asked a dozen times before I could get myself under control.

  I regained my composure. “It’s been a pretty crappy day. Are you sure you’re all right, Skipper?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “but I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you laugh like that. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s just the way the brain deals with stress.”

  “Maybe your brain deals with it that way, but mine never has. Don’t ever do that again, okay? It freaked me out.”

  “We were attacked, knocked out, tied up, tortured, beaten up, and almost killed, but me laughing is what freaked you out? Maybe I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

  She wadded up her paper towel and threw it at me. I flattened my hand into a paddle and swatted at the paper ball, knocking it back over her head and into the wind where it hovered for an instant before flying back toward me like a boomerang.

  “See? Even Mother Nature’s throwing things at you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and both of you throw like a girl.”

  * * *

  An alarm sounded from the chart plotter.

  “What’s that?” Skipper asked.

  I walked to the helm and saw the conflict alert on the screen. Our radar had picked up a boat approaching from astern at nearly fifty knots. I grabbed the binoculars from their nest and spun to identify our unexpected visitor.

  “What’s happening, Chase?” she demanded.

  “I’m not sure.” I scanned the eastern horizon for the oncoming aggressor. “That alarm was the conflict alert. It predicts when another boat might get too close to us. It’s telling me there’s a boat approaching from behind that could collide with us if he doesn’t turn.”

  “Well, do something! Don’t just stand there. Shouldn’t you be turning to get out of his way?”

  “No,” I said, “that’s not how it works. We’re required to maintain our course and speed, and the captain of the boat that’s overtaking us is required to change course. It’s regulation.”

  She stood and joined me in the search for the oncoming boat. “Who cares about the regulations if he’s going to hit us? Shouldn’t we be turning?”

  “We’ll change course or speed if a collision appears imminent. Right now, whoever they are, they’re still five miles away. It’ll take them over six minutes to catch us, so we still have plenty of time. I just don’t like anyone sneaking up on me.”

  “It doesn’t sound to me like they’re sneaking.”

  I ignored the comment and kept scanning. I rechecked the radar and found the boat had closed the gap to less than four miles and made no course change.

  I handed the binoculars to Skipper. “Keep looking out there. You should see them any minute.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked as I sprinted to my cabin.

  I pulled my pistol from a small compartment near the head of my bed and pulled back the slide enough to see a round chambered. I returned back to the deck where Skipper was frozen in place and focused on a single point on the horizon.

  “Do you see anything?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but I can’t tell what it is. How far are we from land?”

  I checked the chart plotter again. The boat was less than two miles behind us.

  “We’re still over two hours from shore, and we can’t outrun a sea turtle, let alone a boat that can do fifty knots,” I said.

  She handed me the binoculars, and I followed what had been her line of sight until I saw the white bow wave of a good-sized boat coming at us like a rocket.

  “Go below and get your pistol. Get back out here as fast as you can.”

  I’d expected her to question my instructions, but she didn’t.

  She left and returned, pistol in hand. “Tell me what to do, Chase.”

  I could tell she was scared.

  “We’re not going to do anything until we know for sure that boat’s coming for us. It could be some joyriders coming back from The Bahamas. There’s no way to know. We’re going to be patient and wait. If we have to defend ourselves and the boat, I want you to shoot for center mass on one man at a time. Don’t just point and shoot. Make every shot count.”

  “I’m better with a real gun than with that speargun.”

  The billowing white bow wave in front of the boat had become visible with the unaided eye. I watched again through the binoculars and then exhaled a long sigh of relief. “It’s Lieutenant Rutherford on the patrol boat.”

  Skipper let her head fall backward. “Oh my God! Is it always going to be like this? Are we going to grab guns and binoculars every time
a boat gets near us?”

  Her question was valid, but she wasn’t saying what she really meant.

  Rutherford pulled abeam our boat and blew his horn, slowing to match our speed. The patrol boat’s loud speaker crackled and Rutherford’s voice boomed over the speaker, “Heave to. We’re coming alongside.”

  “What’s that mean? What’s going on?” Skipper asked.

  “Heaving to means stopping the boat without bringing the sails down. We’ll turn the boat until the sails work against each other to stop the boat. That’s what he wants us to do.”

  We performed the maneuver and brought the big catamaran to a stop. Seconds later, the patrol boat came alongside our rail, and her engines fell to idle.

  Rutherford leaned over the rail. “Did you see the helicopter?”

  “We did,” I said.

  “That was the HITRON bird out of Cecil Field. We intercepted the rendezvous boat that was going to pick up your unwanted guests after they’d sent you to the bottom of Red Snapper Sink,” he said.

  “What’s a HITRON bird?” asked Skipper.

  Rutherford said, “It stands for Helicopter Interdiction Squadron. It’s the helicopter equivalent of my patrol boat. They’re heavily armed and fast. We have snipers onboard the choppers who can take out an engine on a go-fast drug-running boat at a hundred miles an hour. Whoever those guys were, they were well organized and put up a pretty good fight when we showed up.” Rutherford scraped his boot along the top of the gunwale. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about? Tony’s father, Dominic, called us this morning and asked us to keep an eye out for you. All he could tell us was that you were supposed to be in St. Augustine the night before and you hadn’t checked in. He wouldn’t tell us much more, but we know what kind of work Dominic does, so I suppose you’re in the same business. We knew there had to be more to the story, but it wouldn’t have done any good to ask any more questions. Dominic wouldn’t have told us a thing.”

  “I wish I could tell you more,” I said, “but it’s classified. I’m sure they’ll send somebody down from some high place to debrief me on every detail of what happened. When that happens, I could ask them to read you in if you have sufficient clearance, but I’m just a small fish in a big pond. I don’t make policy decisions. I just do what I’m told . . . most of the time.”