The captain of The Peril, Ted Nickels, had survived the catastrophe in Mobile, Alabama, and had headed up the coast of Louisiana, looking for ships and equipment to salvage. In his hold was a large tank that held twenty-five hundred gallons of gasoline to run the onboard pumps and motors. In the last month, he’d been miserly in its use, fuel having become so valuable, so almost two thousand gallons remained. The Yellow Peril was anchored less than a hundred yards from the Lafonts’ docks.
Jeff Davis saw the huge yellow ship looming ahead in the fog far too late for his liquor-laden mind to react. He threw the wheel hard to port, and, with a jarring, grinding crash, the bow of the freighter plowed into the starboard side of the other ship, just below and to the right of the large gasoline tank, gouging a six-foot hole in the outer hull and a two-foot gash in the tank itself.
Even as Travis and his people reached the dock, gas was pouring out of the hole in the salver and the wind and tides were blowing it quickly over the surface of the water toward the docks.
The group made it to their boats just as Lafont returned to the bar and radioed his brother, Henry. His orders were emphatic, simple. “Stop them! Kill them if you have to, but stop them.” He would be there himself in minutes with more men.
The two trawlers that blocked passage out of the marina were anchored nose to nose, with their bows chained together. When they had reached the docks, and Travis had taken a discouraged look at the blocked waterway, the preacher yelled, “Don’t worry, son, me and Jesus’ Love can knock those boys apart.”
Travis looked over at him. “You’re crazy! You’ll crush your frigging bow getting through that!”
“There ain’t no damned alternative and you know it!” Shouted the preacher. “We’re up to our asses in Philistines!” Then, pausing, the preacher smiled strangely and put his hand on Travis’ shoulder. “Son, how often in a man’s life does he get a chance to part the waters and set his people free? Now you get the hell aboard your boat and stay close behind me.”
Travis and his compatriots were untying and shoving off as Henry came running out of his office, gun in hand, hollering to the guards.
The first thing the preacher did after they were untied and Carlos had started the engines was to grab one of the SAWs he had stored on his boat. Smashing open a box of ammo for the devastating weapon, he threw a couple of belts over his shoulder and headed for the forecastle.
Reaching the wheelhouse, the preacher turned to Carlos, who was watching the RPMs on the engines. “Get out of here, Carlos. Go get on board with Travis; this ain’t gonna be no ride at the county fair.”
Carlos looked at his friend. “Preacher, I can no leave you. You need help. Carlos stay!”
“Sorry, Carlos, no time to argue,” said the big man as he bodily picked up the Cuban, carried him to the starboard rail, and threw him into the water by the stern of the sailboat. Then he ran back to the wheelhouse, revved her up, and shot out of the slip.
By the time Carlos was pulled aboard the sailboat, the shooting had begun. They started up the small diesel engine and pushed out quickly. The sensei took the wheel while Travis, Carlos, and Christina opened fire with their rifles. In moments they had managed to take out three of the guards on the walkway, but Henry Lafont and his hoodlums were gradually moving in, continually returning fire. As the craft moved forward in the channel, they had to deal with the gunman on the trawlers at the mouth of the marina as well.
Everyone on both sides was so preoccupied that no one noticed the pervading smell of gasoline. Sheets of the flammable liquid were blanketing the water surrounding the north side of the docks, while the wind and the waves worked it into the berths and the inside of the marina.
The spark that gave the inert gasoline terrible new dimension came from a ricocheting bullet. In seconds the whole place was a scene from hell; the entire northern catwalk lit up in a flaming barrier as the fuel ignited. With an enormous whooshing sound, oxygen was sucked from the air, and a wall of fire swept across the fuel-slicked water. In moments, boats and catwalks were ablaze and being consumed. Huge patches of the flammable liquid were swept into the channel and exploded around the shrimper and the sailboat. Seared by the heat, and illuminated by the flames, they suddenly became even better targets, and were beginning to take serious fire from the shore and the trawlers.
The preacher, realizing that his friends were unprotected in the sailboat and couldn’t possibly survive the withering gunfire from the trawlers, decided to even it up a bit. Locking the wheel of the shrimper in place, headed straight for the bows of the two ships, he grabbed the SAW with several belts of ammo and climbed up on the forecastle.
As they sailed through the blaze of the manmade inferno, Travis heard the Squad Automatic Weapon open up. When he peered ahead, through the smoke and flames, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There stood the preacher on the top of his boat, legs straddled for balance, ammo belts flung over his shoulder like some hero in an old war movie, the gun cradled in his arms, chattering away. Flames licked up around the Jesus’ Love and part of its deck was already burning, but the preacher was pouring such ravaging gunfire into the trawlers, the effort directed at Travis and his crew had nearly ceased. The firepower from the trawlers was now directed at the preacher. Travis watched as the shrimper surged toward the bows of the two ships. Bullets ripped up the planking around the man, but he just stood there like a statue, illuminated by the fire that had begun to consume his boat and the flames in the water surrounding him.
Suddenly, a round hit him in the thigh and he was thrown to the deck by the impact. A shrapnel of splinters tore into his hands and legs as more bullets hammered into the wood around him. He grunted in pain as he rose to his feet again, and once more the chatter of his weapon cut the night. But a moment later, he was struck in the shoulder. The shot spun him, knocking him to the roof of the wheelhouse one final time, only seconds before the boat hit the trawlers. The preacher, on his hands and knees, blinded by the smoke, his blood-soaked clothes smearing the wood beneath him, slowly crawled for his gun when a final bullet found him. He shuddered, then collapsed as his pride and joy, the Jesus’ Love, smashed into the bows of the barricade.
Travis watched the impact and saw the preacher thrown from the top of the wheelhouse into the water as the boat crashed through the two trawlers, thrusting them apart, and crushing the port side of the shrimper’s bow. He could see the old man struggling feebly in the fiery water as the preacher’s boat passed through the opening and veered off to the left, leaving the passageway clear.
They were drawing out of range of the men on the shore, and the impact had slowed the return fire from the decks of the two ships for a moment, but it was picking up again. Just then, Carlos yelled and stumbled against the cabin, a crimson patch spreading across the upper arm of his shirt. He staggered to his feet, grabbed his gun with the other hand and continued firing as blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the white deck. They had to get past the opening in the trawlers quickly or they would be shot to pieces at such close range.
“Take us through!” Travis yelled to the sensei, who pushed the throttle full forward and centered the craft on the breach.
Thick billows of oily smoke swirled in, choking and blinding them, while the flames surrounding The Odyssey bubbled the paint on the fiberglass hull. Bullets smacked into the cabin and deck all around the crew, shattering portholes and ricocheting off the metal rails, but they held their ground and returned the fire, as the boat raced toward the gap.
Through the nightmare of smoke, fog, and flames, Travis glanced over for a moment and watched Christina slap a fresh magazine into her rifle, raise the weapon to her shoulder and drop another man from the bow of the closest trawler. Carlos knelt on the deck, balancing his gun on the cabin, firing one-handed, his bloodied arm dangling at his side. The sensei stood rock solid at the wheel, eyes centered on the break in the two boats ahead. Bullets slashed and hammered the fiberglass cockpit around him; he never even blinked. Todd, w
ho had been told to stay below, was dodging rounds and running clips of ammo to the crew.
The boat finally surged past the breach. They were still surrounded by flames and taking fire, but before them lay open water. As they cleared the opening, Travis once again caught sight of the preacher, floundering in the water about twenty yards forward of the bow and perhaps ten yards to the starboard side.
Travis pointed and yelled to the sensei over the gunfire, “I’m going for him!” as he dropped his gun and kicked off his shoes.
The Japanese grabbed his arm. “You cannot save him! Let him go. You will die, too!”
Travis swung around fiercely, an angry determination in his eyes. “I don’t give a damn what you say. He’s still alive and I’m not gonna leave him. Slow down a little and throw out the stern line. I’m gonna get him and swim over to the line as you drag it by. If I miss, you just keep going. It’s your show then.”
Travis hesitated one last moment and glanced over at Christina. Their eyes met for just a second, then he ran to the bow and jumped into the flaming water.
Travis swam below the surface as far as his breath would allow. Fortunately, the water outside the mouth of the passageway was not totally covered with gas and fire, and he managed to come up in an area free of flames, get his bearings, and take a breath. The preacher was only a few yards from him, struggling desperately to stay afloat. There was fear in the old shrimper’s eyes. Travis battled straight through the last of the flaming water to avoid losing sight of his friend. The patches of fire seared his skin, and singed his hair and eyebrows.
Despite his efforts, he was still ten feet away when the last of the preacher’s strength failed and with a final look at his rescuer, the old man disappeared into the water. Travis watched helplessly as his companion’s wide-open eyes, filled with terror, sank beneath the surface. A single hand reached up out of the depths, grasping desperately for the salvation that wasn’t there. Then it too was gone.
Travis cried out and thrashed his way the final distance. He spun around, treading water, desperately looking for any sign of the man. He took a deep breath and dove. Struggling in the depths of the inky-black water he flailed about, grasping nothing but cold emptiness until he thought his lungs would explode. He rushed to the surface and gasped in life-giving air. There was a part of him that already knew he was wasting his time, but Travis gathered another breath and dove again. Once more he thrashed about in the dark water, reaching out desperately, begging for the touch of something solid; and once more he ran out of oxygen. But this time, as he turned to surface, his foot kicked something firm. Instantly he jackknifed and reached down below him. Travis knew he only had one shot, his lungs were on fire, he was only a moment away from passing out himself. His hand touched the water-soaked flannel of the preacher’s shirt. He grabbed a handful and frantically kicked upward, feeling the weight of his friend beneath him. When they burst to the surface, Travis drew a few badly needed breaths then grabbed the preacher and swung him around into a cross-chest carry, reminiscent of his lifeguard days. The old man, his burned face streaked with oil and etched with pain, coughed up several mouthfuls of water and whispered hoarsely, “Leave me, son. Get outta here.”
Travis grasped him tighter and lashed back, “You ain’t getting out of this life that easily, Preacher. You hang tight and keep breathing.”
Ignoring the gunfire from the ships, the sensei slowed the boat to buy more time for Travis. The stern line was out and trailing. It all came down to timing, and luck.
Travis started back with the preacher as the stern of the sailboat was passing them about twenty feet away; but there was only a hundred and fifty feet of stern line. He kicked and swam like a madman, pulling the dead weight of the preacher with him. He could no longer see the line; it had sunk below the surface. In a frenzy of determination, he swam on. When he reached the wake of the sailboat, there was still nothing. He could see the anxiety-ridden faces of the sensei and Christina looking back at him from the stern of the boat. He swam, toward the center of the wake, hoping against hope . . .
At the last moment, when Travis was certain his cause was lost, he felt the rasping of the rope against his waist as it played past him. In a panic, he grabbed for it with his free hand, almost losing the preacher in the process. Before he could exert enough pressure to stop it, the first six feet ran through his hand, taking the skin from his palm. He clenched his jaw against the pain and bore down. They were being towed, but the water was rushing up and over his face and head, nearly drowning him. He turned his head from the flow, gasped for air, and held on.
Bullets slapped into the surface of the water around him with smacking sounds. Another two feet of rope slipped through his palm, and his torn and bloodied hand throbbed in agony. The water continued to inundate him, depleting his oxygen and sapping his strength. The strain of holding onto the preacher while being towed was all but wrenching his arm out of the socket. The pain and the lack of oxygen were beginning to overwhelm him. It would be so easy, just to let go of the rope . . .
Many a man who lives occasionally on the edge, has found himself in a struggle that puts him at the crossroads of life and death. In that supreme challenge for survival, there sometimes comes a point when giving up is easier than going on. Some reach that point and succumb; they accept and endure the final darkness of submission over the suffering of survival. There are, however, those individuals whose spirits cannot abide a defeat by death, whose minds simply cannot entertain surrender to that ultimate adversary, and they force themselves beyond the wall of human endurance—past ordinary physical capabilities and continue to grasp at that which appears unattainable. Not always, but sometimes they are rewarded for their efforts.
Travis felt the line slip again and another two feet ran through his mangled hand before he could gather the strength to stop it. In minutes they would be out of range and safe, but every minute had become a terrible eternity of misery and faltering will. He began to contemplate the pleasures of release when, once again, the rope ripped through his hand, and this time he felt the end of it slip past his waist. He cried out with the realization that unless he stopped it there and then, he was lost.
At that moment his decision to survive was made. All thought of giving up dissipated, dissolved like snow under the sun. Galvanized by fear of losing the rope, he bore down on his grip to stop it. He was not going to die there, and he was not going to let his friend go. As the last few inches of the line neared, Travis felt a large knot the sensei had tied at the end. He grasped it with a single-minded tenacity found only at the gates of death, and held on. Moments later he felt his forward motion slow, then stop, as the sensei cut the engine. He was being pulled gently forward. In seconds there were hands on him, dragging him and the preacher aboard.
While Travis was slumped on deck, gasping, the sensei and Christina carried the preacher below. Suddenly Carlos rushed over to Travis, who was propped up against the cabin. “Jefe! Jefe! They come!” he said as he pointed with his gun toward the mouth of the harbor.
Through the flames, came a big sports-fishing boat. Travis could just make out Chad Lafont with half a dozen men on the bow. He was sure that Henry was in the wheelhouse. Shaking his head to clear his fatigued brain, he stood up, took one more look at the oncoming boat, then turned to the Cuban.
“Get me one of those anti-tank guns, Carlos. We don’t have to worry about blocking the channel now.” In a minute Carlos was back with the weapon. Kneeling on the deck, they armed it, and as the boat behind them closed the gap to seventy-five yards, Travis lifted it onto his shoulder and aimed.
“Goodbye, Mister Lafont,” he whispered as he pulled the trigger.
The explosion lit the darkness as the craft disappeared in a fiery mass of flying debris. Huge pieces of the ship’s flaming hull soared though the night like comets, striking the water all around them and sizzling into silence. Travis watched for a moment, then, exhausted, dropped the weapon, fell into the seat of the cockpit,
and closed his eyes. The sensei took the wheel and piloted them into the still, fog-shrouded night while behind them the docks of Monroe burned to the waterline.
CHAPTER 16
After an almost sleepless night, the first rays of a cold, red sun crept across the misty waters and touched the ragged, battle-scarred sailboat. The sensei and Travis had spent the night in the cockpit, to watch for further pursuit. The skin on Travis’ face and arms was oil-smeared and burned, his hair was singed, and his muscles ached. He stood up slowly and stretched. The sensei followed suit. Travis looked over at him. “The preacher?”
“He was alive last time I checked,” answered the sensei, his eyes offering little promise. Travis reached for the hatch door, and they both went down into the cabin.
Christina, kneeling by the preacher’s bunk, looked up. Her face was tired and drawn, her eyes worried. Todd stood next to her, as he had most of the night. Ra, who had been locked in the front cabin during the firefight, lay at his feet. Carlos had a fresh bandage on his arm, and was slumped against the far bunk, hollow-eyed and pale from loss of blood.
As Travis came down the stairs Christina turned her attention back to the old shrimper. She spoke as she wiped his ashen face with a damp cloth. “We’ve cleaned and bandaged the wounds as best we can. He was hit in the shoulder, the leg, and the left side. Carlos says he has a good chance, since none of the bullets struck anything vital. The side is more of a flesh wound, and all the bullets passed through. The problem is loss of blood and shock. From here on, it’s up to the Lord that he prays to so much.”
Suddenly the preacher raised his head in delirium, his unfocused eyes staring upward. “Open the gates wide!” he cried. I’m a comin’, Lord, and I’m a big man!”
Travis quickly eased him down. “Take it easy, friend. Easy now. Heaven’s not ready for you yet and I’m certain the devil’s afraid you’d take over, so you may have to stay a while.”
The New Madrid Run Page 19
