***
Patches of stars in the coal-colored sky began to break through the thinning cloud cover. The seas were still jumbled but far less dangerous and beginning to calm. Travis thought that, once again, Mother Nature had thrown her best at him and he had survived. Having made sure that Christina and Todd were all right, Travis went to the radio and tried to raise the preacher.
On the third try, the older man’s tired, gravelly voice came over the air. “I read you, Travis. I’m here. The boat’s a little banged up but she made it.” There was something in the preacher’s voice that Travis didn’t like; it sounded as flat as day-old beer.
“Preacher, you all right? ”
“I’m okay, but I lost Carlos—”
Travis, shocked and instantly frightened for the little man, keyed in, “How? What happened?”
The preacher spoke again, regret etching every syllable. “My antenna was up—he went out in the storm to put it down. We got hit sideways by a wave about that time. I heard him scream, then he was gone, washed over the side. God rest his soul.”
“Oh no,” Travis moaned. Lord, he thought, just when things were looking hopeful—when we were all feeling so confident—to lose Carlos!
They had been together only a short while, but had suffered so much collectively that losing one of the group was like losing a family member. Moreover, it made death and destruction tangible again. Just when there seemed to be a small light at the end of the tunnel, when it seemed they might all survive, the storm from hell had rolled through and snatched someone, just to remind them all . . .
Travis paused for a moment, then keyed the mike again. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have anything to do with it. You go on from here, you hear me.”
“I know, I know,” replied the preacher wearily. “It’s just that, damn it, man, if I hadn’t forgotten to put the antenna down—God! I sent him out into that.”
Travis broke in immediately. “If I know Carlos, he volunteered to go. He made the choice, Preacher, not you.”
“I guess it don’t much matter now,” sighed the older man. “He’s gone and I can’t bring him back, though I’d take his place if I could.”
Travis decided to change the subject. “Your GPS still working? If so, give me your co-ordinates so we can tie up.”
“Yeah, it’s workin’. Twenty-five degrees, 39 minutes, 20 seconds north; 81 degrees, 24 minutes, 5 seconds west.
“Okay, gotcha,” Travis said. “Stay there. We’re gonna get some sleep and start out at first light. We’re only a couple hours from you, so hang on. We’ll see you in the morning.” Travis hung up the mike and turned to see the tears in Christina’s eyes.
“Oh God, Travis. He made it so far, he fought so hard . . .”
He took her in his arms and held her as she cried, tears of frustration and pain rimming his own eyes.
CHAPTER 12
Travis lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. For all that he’d been through, and as tired as he was, sleep just wouldn’t come. He kept thinking about losing Carlos, and what a psychological blow it had been to the group. Moreover, for the first time in quite a while he found himself apprehensive about the future.
The responsibility for the lives he directed lay heavily on him. He closed his eyes. “Lord,” he said. “I know it seems the only time I talk with you anymore is when I need something, and I guess this is no exception, but I’ve got some people here relying on me and I need a little guidance. Just help me make the right decisions to get us through this, please. And Lord, take good care of my little buddy, Carlos. He did his best while he was here.”
The sensei woke him just after sunrise. Christina, Todd, and the two men had a quick, cold breakfast, then upped anchor and headed for the preacher. There was little conversation. The loss of Carlos had stolen the triumph in their survival of the storm.
The weather had cleared, but there was still a stiff wind and a rolling sea. They’d been sailing for about two hours; the sensei had the wheel when Travis decided to go below and touch base with the preacher. He was in the midst of a brief conversation with the shrimper when the sensei appeared at the stairs of the cabin. Something in the old warrior’s eyes brought Travis immediately to attention.
“We have company on the horizon—two boats and they’re headed this way.”
Travis got up, that “watch-your-ass” feeling crawling all over him. “I don’t want company. Let’s run from them, see if we can make the preacher.” He brought the mike up again. “Preacher, we’re about five or six miles west-southwest of you and we’ve got company I don’t feel good about. Put it in gear and get over to us as quickly as possible. And break out your bazooka.”
They put out every inch of sail she had and the boat moved out swiftly, but it was soon obvious that she was no match for the powerboats behind them. In less than twenty minutes, the two craft had circled them in a pincer movement, positioning themselves directly in their path. Travis dropped the sails; they weren’t going anywhere.
One of the boats was an expensive sports fisherman, the other was a small Coast Guard cutter. Normally that would have offered some sense of security, but as the cutter neared they could see that something was amiss. It hadn’t been maintained like a government craft. The men on board didn’t look like any military crew they’d ever seen—their hair was shaggy and long, they were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, and there were marks along the cabin that looked distinctly like bullet holes. Travis and the sensei glanced at each other, and without another word, headed for the cabin and the guns. Just as the two vessels eased in front of the sailboat, the preacher called.
The sensei and Travis were loading their M16s when the preacher’s gruff voice rolled over the radio.
” Odyssey, this is the preacher. I can see you and the boys. I’m about a mile away and coming up from behind them. I don’t think they’ve spotted me yet.”
Travis grabbed the mike. “Listen, Preacher, get in range with that anti-tank gun and kill your engines. Christina’s gonna be on the radio. If she says, ’do it,’ take one of them out. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it, son.”
Travis turned to Christina. “Listen carefully, Chris: Watch from the rear hatch with the mike in your hand. If I raise my right arm, or they start shooting, you tell the preacher to take ’em out. Understand?”
She nodded grimly. “You can count on it.”
The sensei and Travis stood on the bow with their weapons and faced the boats. A tall, heavyset man with dirty blond hair tied in a ponytail moved to the bow of the cutter and looked down at Travis. The man smiled, but it was more the look of a cat that has just cornered a mouse.
“Why, Captain, trying to out-run us. That wasn’t very polite.” His two crewmembers off to the side chuckled, guns resting casually in the crooks of their arms.
“Sorry if we offended you,” replied Travis, noticing for the first time that they had an Avon raft exactly like the one he’d lost tied to the deck. “Just didn’t feel like company, it being such a nice day for a sail and all.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said. “Tell me, Captain, where’d you get those weapons you have there?” pointing to the M16s with his own gun.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Travis, “we met some guys a while back who sort of inadvertently gave them to us. Guess you could say they didn’t need them anymore.”
“Yes, we’ve met a few people like that ourselves,” said the fellow, with a sinister smile. His companions snickered again.
“Listen, we’d love to stay and chat,” Travis said, “but you’re holding up lunch, so we’ll just be on our way. We’ll wish you boys luck at whatever it is you do.”
As Travis started to back off slowly, the man spoke again. “Not so fast, Captain. We thought you might invite us to have lunch with you, give us a chance to get acquainted.”
“Sorry,” Travis said. “A tin of Spam only splits comfortably four ways. Maybe next time.”
The man
’s smile hadn’t strayed, but his eyes went hard as he spoke again. “Well then, perhaps you’d like to give us those weapons you have, as sort of a parting gift.” Then, looking past Travis to Christina, whose head and shoulders were out of the hatch, he continued. “And maybe we might like to borrow your friend there, too. We promise to return her.”
That tore it for Travis, but he kept his composure. Looking at the man across from him he spoke slowly, menacingly. “Tell you what, Captain” —he spat the word back—"there are a number of possibilities here. One is that I might give you the girl and the guns, but there are probably a couple of other possibilities that are more likely, and a smart man like yourself should weigh all the odds before taking action, don’t you think?”
The big man looked down at Travis and nodded, curious.
“One of the distinct possibilities is that we could have a little shootout here, and seeing as how I know my chances of surviving are slim, I’m gonna do one thing for certain. I’m gonna make sure I cut you in half with this M16 before anything else happens.”
The man started slightly but held his position, saving face.
“There is one other important possibility that you should consider before you decide on anything,” Travis continued, “and that is, the boat you see about three hundred yards to your rear has a Light Anti-Tank Weapons System—a bazooka for you laymen—aimed at you boys.”
The crewmembers of the three ships jerked their heads around as one, eyes coming to rest on the shrimp boat in the distance.
“And if I raise my right arm,” Travis continued, “he’s gonna vaporize one of you. So I’m going to make you a deal, a one-time offer. You turn your boats around and leave quietly and I’ll call off the guy with the bazooka.”
The leader’s head swung back to Travis. Unfortunately, he was still smiling. “That’s a nice bluff, Captain, but I’m not buying it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured you’d say,” replied Travis as he raised his right arm. There was a moment of tension on the other vessels, but when nothing happened, the crews began to laugh. “Shit!” muttered Travis under his breath, just beginning to feel desperate and stupid at the same time, when there was a whooshing sound and the boat next to the cutter disintegrated into a fireball, hurling pieces of the craft for a hundred yards in all directions.
Everyone was thrown to the decks of their respective boats, but Travis seized the moment by rising quickly and catching his antagonist as he stood up. He gave him a burst from his stomach up to his head, pretty much keeping his promise to the big man. The sensei, with his rifle on full automatic, cut down the two lieutenants by the wheelhouse before they could recover.
Travis fired a burst over the heads of the two terrified men still in the wheelhouse. “Drop your guns! Fire one shot at us, and we’ll blow you out of the water.” Guns clattered to the deck as the men came out with their hands up.
Just then Travis heard a voice he thought he recognized— ” Jefe! Jefe!”
No, it couldn’t be . . . but out of the cabin door of the cutter burst Carlos yelling, “Don’t shoot, Jefe! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Carlos!” Travis simply gaped in disbelief as the diminutive Cuban raced across the deck and shouted, lapsing into Spanish, “Madre de Dios me Jefe, esta Carlos, esta Carlos!” The Cuban paused only long enough to spit on the prostrate form of the man on the bow. “You stinkin’ son-a-bitchee,” he barked.
Recovering, Travis shouted, “Carlos, you’re like a damned Cuban cat. How in the hell . . .? Never mind, just grab one of those guns and keep those guys covered.”
The Cuban did as he was ordered, enjoying the role as he yelled at the cowering men. “Make one move and Carlos shoot you like the stinkin’ pigs you are, you bastard son-a-bitchees!”
Travis could barely repress a smile—they had done it. They’d taken the pirates, and to top it off, Carlos was back! He turned to the sensei, whose normally inscrutable face was broken by a wide grin. As their eyes met, the Japanese bowed slightly. Travis smiled and returned the bow.
They tied up the outlaws and stripped the cutter of anything valuable, from food and radio equipment to basic supplies, and they took back their Avon. They filled their fuel and water tanks from the big boat, then gave the two men just enough food and water to make land and returned them to the cutter. With no weapons and few supplies, they were likely to become victims of their own kind.
That evening, when they anchored for the night, the reunited crew discussed their position and future plans. The sensei had plotted them to be a couple of miles from the area that used to be Tampa Bay, and, as if to confirm that, the setting sun glinted off the bent and jagged remains of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge rising out of the water.
“From the looks of that, they must have received some pretty serious earth movement around here,” Travis remarked, staring at the twisted metal in the distance.
The sensei also studied the bridge. “I suspect the farther north we go, the more damage we will see from earthquakes.”
There was still no land to be seen, and they all looked forward to dispelling that empty, disconnected feeling with the sight of some solid ground.
Dinner was served on the shrimper by the resurrected Carlos. He had to tell his story several times before everyone was satisfied.
“You no gonna believe it Travees. Carlos no believe it. I fall off de shrimp boat and end up in middle of friggen’ ocean. Carlos gettin’ buried by giant waves, givin’ hisself last rites while choking on stinkin’ saltwater. Then just as he go down for last time, something bump him on back of head. There is meerical—rubber boat! Carlos crawl in and hold on to ropes ’til his fingers have no more feel. After storm, them son-a-bitchees find me and say they kill Carlos if I no cook and clean for them.”
It was an amazing story of survival. Carlos had been incredibly lucky. But then, they all had. They had survived another encounter that, by all rights, should have been disastrous.
“Not without,” the preacher reminded them, “the will of the Almighty and the Lightning of His right hand!” Which was the preacher’s new name for the LAWS. With eyes as bright as Christmas tree lights and his face aglow, the ecological evangelist described how he, the right hand of God, reached out and smote the fornicating Philistines with the rod of the Lord, wreaking righteous vengeance on those unholy aberrations.
Ah, thought Travis, there’s nothing like a man who enjoys his work.
Carlos had his own name for their new secret weapon, which was probably more appropriate. He simply called it, ” El Grande Boom Boom!”
Travis and his crew returned to the sailboat via the Amazing Avon, as they’d taken to calling the raft. Carlos and the preacher bedded down in the shrimp boat.
When everyone was safely aboard the Odyssey and settled into the cabin, Travis headed topside to stand the first watch. As he reached the stairs, he heard Christina call from behind him, “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, come on up.” He held out his hand, and she took it. They sat together in the cockpit, looking out at the ever-constant movement of the gentle sea, illuminated only by the diamond-bright stars. Travis turned slightly, putting his arm on the rail behind Christina, looking into those incredible green eyes. “Are you doing okay?” He hesitated, not wanting to remind but to assure. “I mean with all that’s happened, today, and . . .”
She smiled slightly, with just a touch of melancholy. “Yeah, I’m okay, I’ll be fine. How about you, Captain?” You’re the one who keeps having to shoot the last of the locals around here.”
He smiled. “I’m fine. Don’t like shooting people, but it beats the alternative.”
Sitting there in the starlight, she studied him for a moment; the confidence about him, the rugged, attractive features of his face, yet the gentleness in his eyes. A rare combination in a man, she thought.
“Tell me, Travis Christian,” she said in that frank fashion of hers, “was there no one in your life before all this—this catastrophe?”
&nbs
p; His eyes showed a small flash of recollection. “I had a friend,” he replied. “I don’t think I was in love, if that’s what you mean.”
She nodded solemnly, carrying it no further. It was quiet for a few moments, then she looked at him again. “Were you ever married?”
This time his face softened at the memory, though sadly. “I was married once, a long time ago. She was a French girl from Haiti. Her father owned a sugar plantation there. I met her while on an adventure with my old friend, Cody.”
“What happened?” she asked.
His face went sad and hard at the same time, and Christina knew she shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” she said quickly.
“It’s all right,” he replied. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. She was killed in an attempted robbery while Christmas shopping with a friend in Miami.”
Christina touched his arm. “Please forgive me for bringing it up. I didn’t mean—”
But Travis went on, staring hard at the dark waters, as if he hadn’t heard her. “She was Cody’s friend, too. The police in Miami came up empty-handed as to who did it. Hell, half of them couldn’t find their ass with both hands, let alone solve a crime. It was just another shooting to them, something that happens five or six times a day.” He sighed angrily. “I guess, in all fairness, the cops are outnumbered and overworked most of the time. They just do what they can, and the rest just falls through the cracks. Anyway, when the police couldn’t find the killer, Cody and I went to work on it. I hired the best detective agency I could find, and Cody put the word out to all his connections in the area. It took us six months—six months of beating the bushes, but we found them. Two guys, brothers, crack addicts, looking for a quick fix to their financial problems. Yeah, we found them.”
The New Madrid Run Page 13
