"Locked on," the junior officer says again.
Captain Hall flips open a hinged plastic cover over a large red button that is embossed with the word FIRE in white letters.
"Fire when ready, Seaman Turner," the captain says.
Jack's smile beams from ear to ear, "Really?" he asks.
"Absolutely," the Captain says boldly.
Jack places his thumb on the big red button. He looks from the button to the screen where the wrecked speedboat bobs on the waves. Then he presses down firmly and feels the button click.
For a half a second nothing happens.
From aft, Jack hears a bell ring, then a mechanical sound of gears turning and a loud click. And then a great roar and a ripping sound all at once. On the computer screen a stream of tracer fire like a laser goes directly at the remains of the speed boat. The water around it boils and foams and the speedboat disintegrates in a cloud of splinters and smoke.
Jack stares at the screen. He's amazed at the power he has just unleashed.
He knows exactly what he's done. He has fired the ship's Close in Weapons Systems or CIWS as he's heard it referred to. It is a computer controlled Gatling gun, mounted aft on the ship. It has at least a half dozen barrels and a long mechanical belt full of chunky bullets. The CIWS looks like R2D2 from Star Wars except the CIWS has a mass of gun barrels poking out.
The captain puts his hand on Jack's shoulder and says, "You've got good aim to go along with your eagle eye vision, Seaman Turner."
Jack doesn't know what to say to the captain except, "That was awesome, sir, thank you so much."
"The pleasure is all mine, Seaman Turner. Keep up the good work on lookout. Now you may be dismissed."
Jack walks proudly across the bridge and exits through the door he'd entered a minute earlier.
Outside on deck, he scans the ocean but there are no signs of the speedboat. Only the humid breeze and the warming rays of the sun and the now familiar steady pitching and rolling of the Allmayer's steel decks beneath his feet. Jack walks toward the ladder and holds up his thumb, the one he'd used to press the FIRE button. He looks at the swirl of his thumbprint and whispers, "Wow!"
He climbs down the two ladders and sees that the deckhands have put away the pulleys and ropes used to hoist the contraband. Without a thought, Jack glances at the deck and is startled to see a banana-sized bud of that gold-haired weed sticking out from under the deckedge scupper. He glances forward and aft and sees that he is alone. Without thinking twice, he quickly leans over and picks up the big bud. Not seeing anyone after glancing forward and aft again, Jack tucks the big bud between the buttons on the front of this shirt and walks aft.
He opens a big metal door into the ship, and it occurs to him that by grabbing the bud and sticking it in his shirt, he is a pirate. After all, he thinks, I spotted the speedboat which ordered the crew to board and pillage it. The crew had seized the smuggler's cargo. This bud - Jack runs his hand over the bulge under his shirt - is my plunder. My booty, he thinks. He growls, "Aaarrrggg," under his breath.
Coming at Jack down the passageway is a guy Jack recognizes from the propulsion plant. The guy holds up a high five and says, "Hey eagle-eye!"
Jack reaches up and smacks hands with the guy and feels a pang of guilt in his gut.
He continues down the passageway and thinks about dropping the bud into a trash can or throwing it over the side, but now there are other sailors walking past him in the passageway. He puts his head down, stares at the deck and walks aft.
Damn, he thinks. Now I'm a pirate and a traitor to the Coast Guard. They all think I'm a hero because I spotted the smugglers. I fired the CIWS. I sunk their boat. They all think I'm a hero but I'm the exact opposite. I'm a traitor.
CHAPTER 2
Max has his dreadlocks tied back with a red bandana because he is bent over waxing his sailboard and he doesn't want to get wax in his dreads. He heats the wax with an old iron he bought back in LA at Goodwill and then he applies the wax carefully to the board. All this on two sawhorses in the middle of the living room.
A ratty cloth couch with no legs sits flat on the floor. The couch doubles as his bed when it isn't being used as a couch. A second-hand flat-panel TV on a side table. There's surfing and sailing gear - nylon straps, wetsuits, sails in sail bags, greasy winches, coils of rope - crammed in everywhere in the tiny living room. A disassembled capstan and a mug full of ball bearings sits on an end table next to the pimp bachelor kitchen. In the kitchen, a tiny countertop, two burner stove, an ancient fridge and a microwave under plywood cabinets. Two sailboards, several masts and wetsuits hang on a rack of nailed-together two-by-fours that looks like it might fall off the ceiling.
Max is totally at home in this dump with his music mix of punk and ska playing on his iPod set in a plastic Tupperware bowl. The bowl amplified the little speaker. Max is bopping and rocking and doing an occasional funky dance step to the music as he waxes his sailboard.
And that's when Jack Turner barges into the pimp bachelor kitchen from outside with his seabag slung over his shoulder. "You better have a cold beer for me," Jack says.
"Dude," Max shouts.
They fist-bump.
"Dude," Jack says.
"How was it?" Max asks.
"Mostly boring up until we busted a speedboat loaded with cocaine and weed."
"Damn, dude, it's your fault?"
"What's my fault?"
"All the locals say we're in the middle of the biggest drought in South Florida history."
"Yup, totally my fault," Jack says as he opens the fridge and pulls out two cans of beer. "I spotted the speedboat and they sent the chopper after it -" Jack tosses a beer to Max and they pop the tops and bang their cans together.
Jack tells his tale of adventure on the high seas. Recounts the gun battle, the bikini girl, the boarding party, tearing up the speedboat with chainsaws. "It was crazy," Jacks says. "Then the bales started coming aboard."
"Bales?"
"Yeah, big fat bales of weed."
"How big were these bales?" Max asks.
"Five pounds each, at least," Jack swigs his beer and laughs. "Fat packages of white powder too. DEA guys said it was cocaine."
"Bales of weed and cocaine," Max is amazed.
"Did you know they smuggle coke pure and cut it after they get it over here."
"Pure cocaine," Max says in disbelief.
"DEA guy said it's a waste to smuggle the cut. So, yeah," Jack continues, "We were taking these big bales onto the ship and one of the guys stumbled and dropped a big plastic package, must've been ten pounds of weed compressed in there -"
"Ten pounds," Max says with a big smile.
"It busted open on the deck."
"Weed all over?"
"Yeah, weed all over."
"Did you get your hands on it?" Max wants to know.
A big grin spreads across Jack's face and stays there beaming. He tries to stop, but he can't make his smile go away.
"What's that goofy smirk?" Max says.
Jack unhooks the metal clip on the top of his seabag. "Several pounds of stinky buds all over the deck," Jack says.
Max frowns. "Man, I called every dealer I know but there's no weed in the Keys."
"So sad," Jack says fumbling around in his seabag.
"And it's all your fault," Max says.
"Literally, it is my fault, dude," Jack smiles.
"You guys are choking off the supply lines."
"It's terrible." Jack's smile still beaming.
"Not even George in Key Largo can score and that guy knows every dealer in Miami."
Jack pulls several items from his bag. A stack of t-shirts and rolled up socks. A belt. A pair of tennis shoes. From one of the shoes, Jack pulls out a plastic bag with the big banana bud wrapped inside.
Max freaks out. He leaps across the room and seizes the bag in his greedy hands. He holds the package up like an offering to
the Gods. "Oh, the universe provides. It does provide. It does!" he says.
Jack bursts out laughing. "It's all yours, my friend. All yours," he says. "Smoke it at your leisure."
Max grabs his bong and dumps the dirty water into the pimp bachelor kitchen sink. "This calls for fresh water and ice!" He grabs an ice tray from the freezer and cracks out the cubes, pops them down the bong's throat. He uses the Tupperware bowl he had the iPhone in to ladle cold water from the kitchen tap to refill the bong. On the end table, Max pinches out a small serving of the precious bud. He holds his breath and examines it closely, like a prospector gazing into a pan of mud and seeing gold.
"Wait," he declares, leaping to his feet, snatches up the iPod and fiddles around with the controls. He chooses one of his favorite classic rock hits. Winking at Jack, who approves the song selection, Max carefully packs himself of one-hitter bowl. He sits back on the couch, clutching his bong and savoring the moment before the unexpected high.
Jack stands up and heads for the door. "Second hand smoke, bro', can't have it. Don't want to get popped on a UA!"
"Do you want me to go outside?"
"No need," Jack says. "It's cool." The door swings shut as Jack walks onto the creaky deck. "Let's go shoot some pool and knock back a few cold ones," he says from outside.
"Sounds good," Max says. Then he sparks his Bic lighter and presses the bong to his mouth. The flame bends down as he inhales slowly, catching fire to the bud. The chamber gurgles and fills with smoke. Taking his lips from the bong, Max exhales and holds the bong aside. He admires the thick gray smoke inside. Then he removes his thumb from the carburetor and puts his lips back on the mouthpiece. He inhales, drawing smoke out of the bong and deep into his lungs, filling them to capacity. Removing the bong from his mouth, he smacks his lips and hums - the approval of a refer connoisseur. After several long seconds he exhales a great gray cloud of smoke that swirls against the ceiling. His eyes close halfway, then all the way. He reclines on the couch, his head goes back until he's blowing smoke straight up at the ceiling. The sound of the classic rock hit fills the little living room. Even though it's just an iPod speaker, the low-fidelity doesn't matter, it's still a hit. "This is some good shit," Max says as he stands. He rolls up the plastic bag with the bud in it and shoves it into the front pocket of his Levi's. He steps toward the door and says, "Let's go get some brews and shoot some pool, bro!"
* * *
The evening is like many others - handshakes with friends at the bar, tough choices made at the jukebox, air guitars played, cash handed to the waitress as she parks fresh pitchers on the pub table where they stand between incredible bumper shots, scratched eight balls, quarters fed into the gadget on the side of the table. In the alley out back, guys ask Max where he got the shit. Several state emphatically that it's the biggest drought they can ever remember. Rumors about a drug lord purchasing a submarine from the Nicaraguan Navy because it's the only way to get past the US Coast Guard, which has completely sealed off the drug smuggling routes into Florida.
The night turns to barhopping. They head for another nightclub.
Jack steers his hooptie pickup along the streets of Key West, playing it cool, not wanting to get pulled over out of fear of getting a DUI. He keeps it under control, takes the side streets, drives slow, brakes at intersections.
It's the same scene at each place they go. Tunes blasting from speakers, pool balls ricocheting on green felt. Pitchers of beer drained. Clusters of friends gather outside in the shadows. Max is the center of attention. He is the only person on Key West with weed. He's a popular guy.
Around four in the morning they go to a diner for steak and eggs. Laughing about old times in LA, Max tells Jack that Wendy has been calling. Jack doesn't want to hear about Wendy, his ex-girlfriend back in LA, from before he joined the Coast Guard.
When they walk out of the diner, a van slows at the curb and a bundle of newspapers is tossed from the back. It lands on the sidewalk at their feet. On the front page there's a picture of armed Coast Guard sailors and DEA agents standing shoulder to shoulder behind a hip-high wall of drugs - weed wrapped in plastic, white powder sealed in see-through bags. Behind them, the Allmayer is tied to the pier. The headline over the picture declares, Coast Guard Seizes Record Shipment.
* * *
Jack and Max are both wearing boxers and T-shirts. They are slurping spoonfuls of Captain Crunch from overflowing bowls at their tiny kitchen table.
X-Men cartoon on the flatpanel.
"Dude," Max says.
"What?" Jack says.
"You heard from Wendy?"
"No, dude."
"She called me," Max says.
Wolverine is hit by a Peterbuilt hauling dual trailers.
Max grimaces.
"So," Jack says.
"You and her need to talk.
"Dude, we broke up."
Wolverine crawls out from under the tractor trailer.
"I don't want to talk to her." Jack tries to say it with conviction, but Max sees a look on his friend's face that says it might not be over with Wendy.
"You need to call her," Max says.
"No."
"You don't get it, dude."
"What?" Jack asks.
"You really need to call her."
"Seriously, dude," Jack says. "She's from a rich family. There's no way me and her are working out."
"You have been off the grid for what?"
"Eight months," Jack says. "You know I've had a new phone, nobody knows the number. I haven't checked Facebook or email the whole time."
"You are out of it, dude," Max says.
"You go off the grid," Jack says. "It clears your head."
"Whatever, dude. You and Wendy need to talk. It's important. She said she's -"
On the table, Max's phone rings. He shows it to Jack. There on the screen is Wendy's picture. Jack has seen this picture before, months ago back in LA before he joined the Coast Guard. They were together for a few months after high school graduation, before Jack got busted stealing the green Honda Civic. Before he was on the news. Before he stood in front of the judge. Before he volunteered for the Coast Guard. Jack swallowed hard at the sight of Wendy's face. A few freckles on her nose. A swoosh of red hair across her forehead. Her pretty eyes, there on Max's phone, looking right into his heart.
Jack bolts from the kitchen, through the living room and into the little bedroom at the back of the mobile home.
Max answers with loud exaggerated enthusiasm, "Hello, Wendy. How you today?"
Wendy is bed in her house in Los Angeles in the Boyle Heights neighborhood. She's a short distance from where Jack's aunt's house where Jack use to live. The shades in her bedroom are closed and it's dark outside. The sun hasn't come up on the west coast yet, but it will soon.
"Hi, Max," Wendy says.
"Hey, guess who got back off the ship last night?"
"Does he want to talk to me?"
"Let me see."
Max walks into Jack's room and they face off.
Jack scowls, shakes his head.
Max smiles and says, "Wendy, he's here, but he's still asleep."
"Let him sleep, but tell him I called, ok?"
"No, no. I'm gonna wake him up. Hey, Jack, buddy. You got a phone call. It's Wendy, that sweet girl from back home?"
Jack tries to dart around Max, but Max blocks the door.
They collide.
"Come on buddy, wake up. You got a phone call." Max is bracing himself in the doorway, refusing to let his friend pass. Jack is pacing angrily, glaring at Max, shaking his head. Florida sunshine fills the room. Outside the window, there's a branch with oranges on it and the neighbor's mobile home a few feet away.
In Wendy's bedroom, even in the predawn, posters are visible tacked to the walls. A boom box and a laptop on a desk beside the bed. The walls are pink and so are the blankets. Wendy's red
locks are black in the dark. She rolls over on her side, bites her lip, thinking now finally she may get a chance to talk to Jack. God, she wishes she had tried to contact him sooner. But she can't change that. Now is the time to tell him.
"Wake up, Jack," Max yells. He holds the phone out and smiles. "Wake up, Jack. Wendy needs to tell you something."
Jack is gritting his teeth. His fists are clenched at his sides. He stands rigid straight, nostrils flared.
"Wake up, Jack," Max says calmly. "Wendy needs to tell you something."
Jack exhales hard in resignation. He reaches out and takes the phone. He stands there for several seconds, like he's counting to ten trying to calm down. He looks out the window and notices the oranges on the branch outside.
"Hi, Wendy," Jack says, monotone.
"Jack," Wendy practically squeals. "I've missed you. How's the Coast Guard?"
Oh, man, her voice is so sweet. He says, "Ah, it's pretty good -"
Awkward silence.
Jack can't understand why, after eight months, she even wants to talk to him anyway. He hasn't written or called. Can't she take a clue? She's a really good girl. Smart, pretty, cool. Her family has money, unlike him without anything. She's got lots of friends. He knows she can find another guy easily. Why has she been trying to get a hold of him?
He fills the awkward silence. "I'm a deckhand on the ship. We went out to sea. We arrested some drug smugglers last week."
"Sounds exciting." The first rays of daylight are filling Wendy's room. Her dark red hair now distinguishable against the pink pillowcase. One hand holds her mobile phone to her ear, the other is still under the covers. Wendy rolls onto her side, feeling a bit better now with Jack on the phone at least. She'd messaged him a million times on Facebook but he never answered - hadn't updated his status since they said goodbye when he left for the Coast Guard eight months ago.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool," he says. "How's LA?" For the first time he wonders, seriously wonders, why she's calling him. He likes the sound of her voice. He remembers the two of them going to the beach, cruising, running around at night to house parties. They snuck into a bars with fake IDs. They made out a bunch of times. He'd really fallen for her, but deep down he knew he wasn't ready for any kind of serious relationship. That's why it wasn't hard saying good bye to her and joining the Coast Guard.
The Pirate, Part I: The Traitor Page 2
