He rushed to the far side of the bridge wing, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scanned the open ocean for the nonexistent radar contact. He heard Ramos approach behind him, and he lowered the binoculars and shot a quick glance back at the Cuban. Ramos was scowling as he approached, and behind him, Hughes could see the second Cuban was also interested and was standing in the wheelhouse door, watching the confrontation about to unfold between his superior and the yanqui capitan .
Hughes turned and pressed the binoculars back to his eyes.
“There is nothing! Come back inside at once, or I will—”
“There!” Hughes lowered the glasses and pointed into the distance. “See for yourself.” He offered the binoculars to Ramos.
Ramos put the glasses to his eyes and looked out over the open ocean.
“And what exactly am I looking for?”
Matt Kinsey stood with the door from the stairwell to the chartroom slightly cracked, straining to hear the conversation on the bridge. When he heard Hughes exit the wheelhouse over the Cuban’s objection, he waited a few seconds and then eased the door open quietly to enter the chartroom, crouched low behind the large chart table, two of his men close behind. They were all armed with pistols.
He peeked around the chartroom curtain and cursed. Both Cubans were on the starboard side, but one was in the wheelhouse door, blocking access to the second. They had to take the first man swiftly and silently to subdue the second before he could react. And there was no time; Hughes couldn’t distract the Cuban officer forever.
Kinsey flashed a signal, and one of his men holstered his sidearm and drew a stun gun. Kinsey and his backup charged, widely separated so they both had clear shots at the Cuban in the doorway with his back to them, while the Coastie with the stun gun circled far left, approaching the Cuban swiftly while staying out of the other two men’s fields of fire.
The man with the stun gun leaped on the Cuban, placing his left arm around the man, pinning the AK tight against the man’s body by hugging him close. He jammed the stun gun electrodes into the Cuban’s neck, intent on incapacitating him and dragging him from the doorway without alerting the Cuban officer.
It almost worked.
Unfortunately, the young Cuban was a very recent conscript, pressed into service only after the blackout. Long on enthusiasm if short on training, not only was the young Cuban holding his finger inside the trigger guard, he’d inadvertently moved the fire selector switch to ‘full auto’ mode. Electricity coursing through his nervous system contracted the muscles in his trigger finger, sending a loud burst of automatic fire ricocheting off the bridge wing deck. The surprised young Cuban, and his equally surprised assailant, collapsed in a tangled heap in the wheelhouse door, foiling Kinsey’s plan to rush the bridge wing.
Hughes flinched and ducked instinctively as something stung his left ear and all hell broke loose behind him. His ears rang from the unexpected gunfire, and things seemed to move in slow motion. He spun to see Kinsey just inside the wheelhouse door, staring in horror at a tangle of arms and legs blocking the doorway. Then Kinsey pointed a gun at Ramos, who dropped the binoculars and began to claw his sidearm from its holster. Hughes rose from his crouch, partially spinning as he put all his weight and strength into the right elbow he hammered into the Cuban’s face. Something gave under his elbow, and Ramos collapsed, his pistol still in the holster.
Hughes steadied himself on the bridge rail and watched as Kinsey and his men cleared the young Cuban from the door and then rushed out to subdue Ramos. The Coasties fell on the two Cubans with duct tape, and as they were trussing them up, Hughes heard Pete Sonnier call from the wheelhouse, his voice cracking from stress.
“The boat heard, Captain. She’s circling our stern!” Sonnier yelled.
“Shit!” Hughes said, looking at Kinsey. “What now?”
Kinsey looked up at the top of the wheelhouse. “TORRES!” he shouted. “THE BOAT’S CIRCLING ASTERN. YOU GOT THIS?”
“I’M ON IT, CHIEF!” came the reply, and Hughes looked up to see a face peeking over the edge of the deck on top of the wheelhouse, obviously one of the Coasties lying prone to keep from being spotted by the boat.
“LIKE WE TALKED ABOUT, TAKE OUT ANY COMMS FIRST.”
“PIECE OF CAKE, CHIEF. I ALREADY CHECKED IT OUT WHEN THE BOAT WAS ON THE OTHER SIDE. TWO ANTENNAS.”
“ROGER THAT! YOU ARE WEAPONS FREE!”
Hughes saw the man nod, then the head disappeared to be replaced by a thin pipe. It took him a moment to realize it was a rifle barrel.
“What happens if he runs?” Hughes asked. “You gonna shoot the boat driver?”
“Only if he makes us,” Kinsey said. “Now let’s get inside. The less he can see, the closer he may come to try to figure out what’s going on, and that will make it easier for Torres. He’s good, but he’s not a magician.”
Hughes nodded and followed Kinsey back into the wheelhouse.
“That’s got to be a pretty tough shot,” Hughes said, when they were back out of sight.
Kinsey shook his head. “Not a problem. Torres is cross-trained as a chopper gunner. He used to fly with the HITRON squadron out of Jacksonville and his job was to incapacitate the ‘go fast’ smuggling boats. And among the equipment we’re ‘transferring’ to MSU Port Arthur, there just happens to be two fifty-caliber Barrett sniper rifles. He’ll get the job done.”
Just as he finished speaking, the boat pulled into view, steering a parallel course two hundred yards to starboard. The boat held station for several minutes, and it was apparent it would come no closer.
“Doesn’t look like he’s gonna take the bait,” Kinsey said. “Torres will have to take his shot—”
A shot rang out and the top of the wheelhouse on the boat erupted as the shot took out one of the antennas. In less than two seconds, a second shot wiped out the remaining antenna.
A rooster tail shot up behind the boat as the driver rammed both throttles to full speed and turned to race directly away from Pecos Trader . No shots followed.
Hughes tensed, waiting for another shot, and the boat opened the distance at almost fifty knots.
“He’s getting away—”
The shot shattered the silence as the big slug tore into the starboard outboard, shutting it down forever as the boat suddenly swung to starboard and slowed abruptly. The driver struggled to compensate for the now uneven thrust, wrestling the wheel as the boat continued on an erratic corkscrew track. A final shot sounded and the port outboard coughed smoke and died, the boat drifting powerless several hundred yards from this ship.
“I take it back,” Kinsey said, “maybe he is a magician.”
Warden’s Office
Federal Correctional Complex
Beaumont, Texas
Day 13, 5:00 p.m.
Spike McComb leaned back in the chair, put his feet up on the warden’s desk, and smiled. He had on a relatively clean correctional officer’s uniform and his hair was neatly trimmed. Across from him sat Owen Fairchild, aka ‘Snaggle’ for his dental issues, similarly dressed and barbered.
“Some of the boys are pissed, Spike,” Snaggle said. “You said we was goin’ on jackrabbit parole and we’re still here.”
“‘Cause I ain’t a dumb ass,” Spike said. “It didn’t come to me right off, but I finally figured out this is the best place we could be.”
Snaggle shook his head. “Don’t seem right, breakin’ out of the joint and then hangin’ around. There ain’t much law around, and lots of easy pickings.”
“And after we take what we want, where we gonna keep it? And when all these dumb asses get all boozed up and are lyin’ around drunk, what’s to keep a bunch of other assholes from sneaking up and blowing ‘em ‘way? Answer me that, genius.”
Snaggle shrugged and said nothing. McComb pointed in the direction of the maximum-security unit. “Over there at max security, we got about the closest thing to a castle we’re likely to find. Razor-wire-topped fence AND big thick walls with gu
ard towers all around and one way in and out. All those things designed to keep us in is just as good to keep people out. Not only that, but we got all the cells we need to keep people to work for us and we got plenty of guns, for now anyway.”
McComb smiled. “And the beautiful part is, until we’re strong enough, no one’s the wiser. Where else would you expect cons to be but in a prison? We both been out to have a look, and you know I’m right. The law’s spread pretty thin, but there’s still a few around. We just stay low profile until we’re strong enough to take over.”
Snaggle nodded as realization dawned. “Okay,” he said, “but what about the mud people in max security? It’s gonna start stinkin’ even worse if they die and are lying around in all the heat. Nobody’s likely to want to hole up anywhere near there.”
“Move ‘em over to medium security and leave them to rot,” McComb said. “Do it now while they can still move on their own.”
“Why don’t we make them clean the place up before we move them out?”
McComb shook his head. “Most of them are too far gone, plus they know we ain’t gonna let ‘em go, so no telling what they might try. We’ll get more work out of fresh civilians. Besides, they’ll be easier to keep in line.”
Snaggle nodded. “I gotta hand it to you, Spike, that’s pretty smart.”
McComb smirked. “That’s why I’m the captain. Now what’s the final head count?”
“We got almost a hundred soldiers, and all of them are getting cleaned up like you said. Lucky one of the guys used to work in the barbershop, so the haircuts don’t look too bad. We pieced together about a dozen uniforms off the dead COs—the rest of the stuff was too bloody. We can also dress a few guys in civvies we took off bodies here in the admin complex—oh yeah, that reminds me, since we’re staying, what do you want to do with all the bodies? They’re gonna start stinking too.”
“Pile them up over in the admin area of medium security. We’ll bury them after we ‘recruit’ our workforce,” McComb said. “Then put together patrols to go out tonight and scavenge for food and supplies. Use the prison vans we found over in the motor pool. Is there enough gas?”
Snaggle nodded. “A couple of hundred gallons and most of the vehicles have some gas in the tanks. It won’t last long. And where they gonna find supplies? I figure most of the stores have been stripped by now, and the law is probably all over what’s left.”
“That’s why they’re going at night. Put two ‘COs’ per van, and the story if they’re stopped is they’re looking for an escaped prisoner. Have ‘em cruise residential areas, looking for lights or the sound of generators. Anybody with a generator like as not has both food and fuel. This is hurricane country, so I expect they’ll find more than a few. Bring anybody they find so there ain’t any witnesses left. We can use ‘em to start our workforce. Oh yeah, have them bring the generators too.”
Snaggle rose from his chair. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, remind the boys I get first shot at any women they bring back. It’s been a long season without rain.”
Chapter Thirteen
M/V Pecos Trader
Gulf of Mexico
West of Dry Tortugas
Day 14, 6:00 a.m.
Hughes stood on the starboard bridge wing, staring down in the early morning light at Georgia Howell as she supervised the offloading of the Cuban patrol boat. He watched her raise her hand to signal Nunez in the cab of the hose-handling crane, and the boat descended further and settled gently on the calm blue sea. Hughes glanced to the lightening sky in the east and willed the mate to hurry.
“Second-guessing yourself?”
Hughes turned to see Matt Kinsey walking out the wheelhouse door.
“Not really,” Hughes said. “We couldn’t leave them floating around that close to Cuba. If they got picked up before we got out of range, we were screwed, and we sure as hell can’t take them with us. Short of shooting them, marooning them somewhere with a chance of making their way back to civilization seemed the only choice.”
“If there’s any civilization left,” Kinsey said.
“You know what I meant.”
“I know, just jerking your chain a bit, Cap,” Kinsey said and looked east toward Dry Tortugas. “Though I doubt our passengers will be excited about your choice of disembarkation ports.”
“Well, I’m pushing the envelope as it is, and this is as close to Key West is I’m willing to get,” Hughes said. “We’re leaving them food and water, and Dan broke up some old pallets and made them multiple paddles. They can land on Dry Tortugas and make their plan and then all they have to do is follow the rising sun to the Marquesas Keys and then island-hop up the keys until they get to Key West. They should be able to make it in three or four days, a week max.”
Kinsey nodded. “I’m sure dumping the useless outboards made the boat considerably lighter and easier to paddle.”
“That was the idea.” Hughes looked distracted. “My only real concern is if they make it to Key West and start raving to your Coastie buddies about the Pecos Trader . We’ve been lucky enough to slip past, and I’d just as soon our name didn’t come up again.”
“I don’t think you need to worry,” Kinsey said. “In normal times, four Cubans paddling into port in a disabled patrol craft with a tall tale would likely be front-page news, but today there’s so many things going down, I doubt it would even register.”
“That’s probably true,” Hughes said, “but all things considered, I could have really done without this whole experience.”
Kinsey grinned. “Look at the bright side, we got another machine gun, an RPG launcher and four grenades, three AKs and a pistol out of the deal, along with a lot of ammunition. The Cubans might be short on food, but they seem to have plenty of hardware.”
“There is that.” Hughes turned to look down at the deck. “Seems it’s time to wish our guests ‘bon voyage.’ Care to join me?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Kinsey said.
When Hughes and Kinsey arrived on the main deck, they found the Cubans lined up, hands still bound with duct tape. Georgia Howell was instructing Lieutenant Ramos as to his location and the easterly route necessary to reach the inhabited area of the Keys. The three enlisted Cubans were standing docilely, unsure what to expect and obviously frightened, but Ramos’s face was red with rage, in stark contrast to the white of the tape the second mate had used to stabilize his broken nose. When the Cuban saw Hughes approach, he turned and vented.
“This is an act of piracy, an outrage!” he hissed. “You cannot abandon us here. How do you expect us to return to Cuba?”
Hughes shrugged. “As someone said to me very recently, that is not my concern.”
“You will pay for this Yanqui !”
“I already have, Ramos,” Hughes said, “by taking the time to drop your sorry ass here instead of just casting you adrift. However, that’s still an option, so if you’d like to be dropped off in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico instead of spitting distance from land, just keep talking.”
The Cuban glared at Hughes but held his tongue, and Hughes motioned to the armed Coasties to escort the Cubans to the pilot ladder. At the top of the ladder, Georgia Howell produced a pocketknife and cut the duct tape from each man’s hands to allow him to descend to the waiting boat. Ramos was the last down, and as soon as he was aboard the small boat, Howell motioned for Kenny Nunez to cast the boat off and begin hauling the pilot ladder back on board.
Hughes walked to the ship’s side and stood beside Howell, staring down at the boat as it paddled away.
“Good riddance,” Howell said.
“I’ll second that,” Hughes said. “Did you give them plenty of stores?”
“Twenty gallons of water and two cases of Spam,” she replied.
Hughes burst out laughing. “Seriou—seriously?” he asked.
“Serves the bastard right for checking out my ass when he thought I wasn’t looking,” Howell said. “Now let’s get th
is ship to Texas.”
“I’m with you, Mate,” Hughes said, and they started for the bridge.
Mayport Naval Station
Jacksonville, Florida
Day 14, 6:00 a.m.
“How are the new guys?” Luke asked. “Jarheads, right?”
Washington nodded. “From Lejeune. Corley and Abrams are their names. Gibson knows them both and says they’re good troops.”
Luke grinned. “Corley and Abrams? Sounds like a friggin’ law firm.”
A smile flitted across Washington’s face, disappearing as quickly to be replaced by what was becoming a perpetual worried frown.
“So what’s the drill, LT,” he asked, “another ‘recon patrol? What are we supposed to steal today?”
“It’s a tough one,” Luke said. “Evidently my efforts to restrict our ‘acquisitions’ to things abandoned hasn’t gone unnoticed. Rorke came to me last night and ‘reminded’ me we’re to concentrate on food. He pointed out his other ‘recon teams’ were producing much more and he expected today’s mission into a new area to ‘yield significant results.’ All of which means we can no longer just go through the motions.”
Washington shook his head. “I … I don’t think I can steal food out of folks’ mouths.”
Luke sighed. “I don’t like it any better than you do, Sergeant, but if we don’t do it, someone else will, likely someone more aggressive about it than us. Besides, we both took an oath, and as screwed up as this is, we’re still following the orders of our lawfully appointed superiors. We don’t get to choose which orders we follow.” He relented a bit. “It’s not like we have a lot of options here, Washington.”
Washington looked unconvinced, but nodded. “Who you want to take?”
Luke considered a moment. “Long, Gibson, and the two new jarheads. And I suppose we need to take at least a couple of the others. I guess Grogan and one more. Which one do you want?”
Washington shrugged. “Six of one, they’re all assholes. Morton, I guess.”
“All right. We’ll roll out at oh eight hundred,” Luke said.
Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 Page 19
