Caribbean's Keeper

by Boland, Brian;

  Meanwhile, the man and David went back and forth in Spanish and Cole couldn’t pick up any of it. Turning to Cole, David asked if he had any questions. “Yeah. How do I get back here?”

  The other man chimed in. “Don’t worry cowboy, we’ll take care of that. You just get this boat and this load to Nicaragua.”

  Cole could do little but accept the man at his word. “Well, OK then. See you when I see you.”

  Cole took his shoes off and held them in his hand as he walked through the knee deep water over to the panga. The shallow water was warm and felt wonderful against his bare feet. He tossed the bag of magazines and his shoes over the side and onto the deck. Diego extended a hand and helped Cole up and over. Standing onboard for the first time, he felt the sturdy deck beneath his feet and the rough finish of the fiberglass. When built, no one had bothered to take the extra time to sand it down for aesthetics, but as Cole walked around inspecting the fuel lines and the console, he felt confident she could handle the open water.

  There were two keys in the ignition. Cole turned one and the first engine kicked and moaned for a brief second before coming to life, spitting a stream of cooling water out the side. He turned the second key and she was alive moments later as well. He adjusted the trim a bit and his two crew settled into seats forward of Cole. They sat facing away from him, their hands pressed against the seat behind them and made small talk. No big deal, Cole thought, although he knew that a boatload of cocaine was, in fact, a big fucking deal. Here he was, once again, crossing a threshold. But here on the quiet Caribbean coast of Panama, it seemed far enough removed from Delaney that there was little need for concern. He smiled and gave a half-assed salute to David and the other man as he backed the panga away from the shoreline.

  There was plenty of room, but he twisted the motors anyway, putting the left one clutch ahead and reversing the right. The bow spun around smartly into the wind and Cole idled ahead through the small harbor. He didn’t look back at David or the safety of the shoreline, knowing that he couldn’t turn around at this point. Before him stood a challenge, and Cole was hell-bent to see it through to success. He motored slowly for some time and felt the sea breeze pick up against his face. The color of the water was somewhere between green and blue and puffs of wind danced across the surface as he rounded a sandbar and saw a monstrous jetty in front of him. It was a great feeling to be out of the city and back on the water. Despite the risk of being caught, or lost at sea, or hunted down by another cartel, Cole was thankful to be on the open water again.

  To his left, he could see the unending line of tankers anchored off the canal waiting for their turn to cross Panama. Ahead and to his right there was a break in the jetty and beyond it the Caribbean Sea. Cole turned slightly right and pointed for the channel. Diego looked back at Cole and gave him a thumbs up. Hector sat facing forward, slumped as if he was pouting. Diego, throwing his fist up into the air, yelled, “Vamanos!”

  Cole throttled up to about 15 knots. The bow rose up and out of the water then settled down just shy of a full plane as a cool and stiff breeze filled in. The water was deeper and a darker blue as they crossed the entrance and hit the full expanse of the Caribbean. There was a chop of about three feet, but the panga held her course well. Cole worked the throttles a bit until she found her rhythm amongst the waves, the whitecaps, and the sea spray.

  Fuck Hector, he thought. Cole yelled back at Diego, “Vamanos!” Let’s Go.

  Chapter 8 – El Caribe

  THE SKY SHOWED the first signs of sunset as Cole leaned back against the raised seat behind him. It wasn’t enough to sit down on properly, but pressing his back against it took some of the load off his feet and stabilized his footing amid the rolls. He ran at just under 20 knots until almost eight o'clock in the evening. Looking ahead, the last hints of light disappeared behind a low cloud on the horizon. He had been driving northwest since he passed the jetty and had covered only 30 miles. Land no longer visible, Cole grasped the magnitude of this run. Had it been Florida, he’d be a third of the way there, but now in the open Caribbean, he had covered only a small fraction.

  Cole brought the throttles back to idle and the panga slowed. Her bow pushed one last wave ahead then settled. Hector and Diego looked back at Cole and saw that he was scanning the sky around them. Cole took his time looking for any signs of aircraft. Seeing none, he scanned the horizon all around for ships and also saw nothing. He was all alone on the sea as the panga bobbed and the two outboards hummed against their mounts. There was a good breeze from the north and it was full of cool air, chilled even more as the night took hold. Cole grabbed his jacket and zipped it halfway up. His arms, face, and legs were already covered in a fine film of dried salt from the sea spray and humid air. Taking a deep breath, Cole smiled at the two up front.

  “Vamanos,” Cole yelled again. They both just laughed, muttering back and forth, probably calling him names in Spanish.

  Cole pushed the throttles halfway up, and the bow rocked up and over the water. He turned her northward with a half-spin of the wheel and matched her to the reference on his GPS. It was the only light on the boat, and Cole kept it tucked in front of the throttle quadrant. Satisfied with his course, he looked at the magnetic compass and committed 335 degrees to memory. If the GPS died, a compass was all he had to go off of. Cole punched the throttles and felt the panga surge up and ahead.

  Unlike the overpowered center-consoles he’d run in Florida, the 550 horses pushing this panga were perfectly tuned to this boat and its cargo. She easily made 30 knots and danced with grace over the swells. It was a simple design, and Cole appreciated its seakeeping. What a panga lacked in sleek design, she more than made up for with subtle grace.

  Hours went by and they continued screaming northward. Cole made minor corrections to his course, bringing her more and more to the left by five degrees. Currents and winds factored into his drift, and he worried more and more about the GPS losing its charge. After almost six hours, she still showed half of a battery, but Cole worried about it. Finding the weakest link in a chain was in his nature and a single GPS was a gaping hole in his plan.

  It was after midnight when he brought the throttles back again. He scanned the horizon once more, seeing nothing but the stars. Towering columns of cumulus clouds were backlit by the moon, and it was a beautiful thing to see. Cole looked to the tops and saw the ominous cumulonimbus peaks creeping skyward. Far to the northeast, he saw some lightning concealed in the innards of one particularly large buildup.

  Satisfied again that he was alone, he sat on the seat for a moment and drank warm water from a milk jug that Diego had brought him. Ignoring Cole, Hector went about swapping fuel lines from one tank to another and Cole took comfort in the knowledge that he was halfway there. His body was tired, but his mind was alive and sharp. Dipping both his hands in the dark water over the side of the boat, Cole rubbed them together to loosen his muscles. He’d gripped the wheel for more than six hours and felt the fatigue setting in on his body. He twisted left and right to stretch his back as Diego gave Cole a thumbs up and took a new seated position leaning against the side of the panga.

  Cole throttled up again and they picked up speed northward. Another hour passed. Cole’s feet hurt and cold had set in on his weakening body. Feeling the effects of exposure, Cole shook his head violently to ward it off as another hour passed. The engines screamed and the panga held her course well. He was thankful that she needed such little input from the wheel to hold her course.

  Just as his mind drifted to other things, Hector yelled something and pointed to the sky. Diego climbed up from the deck and braced as he looked up in the same direction. Cole was squinting, but couldn’t see what they were talking about. It couldn’t be good.

  Cole heard one of them say “airplane” in broken English. They were both yelling and pointing and yelling more back at Cole. Then Cole saw it. Against the moonlit sky and not too far south of them, the silhouette of a plane came into view.
It was low, maybe 1,000 feet, and had no lights on. There was no chance of it being a commercial flight or anything other than what Cole feared it was. It was a few miles from them, paralleling their course just off Cole’s right shoulder. A minute went by and the plane made a slow lumbering turn towards Cole.

  Fuck. Cole had some time to think, but he knew they’d spotted him. Hector and Diego were talking to each other and left Cole to his own thoughts. It was a big ocean, but Cole had no way of knowing who the plane was talking to. It passed off Cole’s right side and was now ahead of them, but turning back around. It disappeared behind some clouds, then reappeared moments later, pointed at the panga.

  Cole kept the throttles down and pressed on at 30 knots. The plane was dead ahead and pointed at him. It descended to the point that it almost seemed to be touching the surface. Cole could see moonlight reflecting off its fuselage and it couldn’t have been more than 100 feet above the sea. At a half-mile or so in front of Cole, the plane energized every light it had. Cole squinted as the illumination damn near blinded him and the plane passed in a split second right over the top of the panga. It was so damn low that Hector and Diego ducked. Even Cole couldn’t help but duck down a bit as it screamed overhead. The massive propellers drowned out the sound of Cole’s engines and he recognized it as a P-3 Orion as it climbed up and away behind him. It’s exhaust warmed the nighttime air momentarily, and Cole smelled the burnt jet fuel in its wake. The U.S. Navy and U.S. Customs both flew them down here, and it had passed over him so quickly he couldn’t see any markings to figure out who it was.

  It would take a few minutes for the P-3 to come back around. There was nothing the plane could do by itself except annoy him for the next three or four hours. But the P-3 crew was surely talking to every ship within 100 miles. And there was no doubt in Cole’s mind that every ship in the fight was turning in his direction.

  He’d spent many nights on Delaney chasing down Go-Fasts. All too often, Cole and Delaney missed their targets. It was next to impossible to find a Go-Fast and all the more difficult at night. If a warship wasn’t perfectly positioned to intercept a panga, it stood no chance of catching up to them. Cole knew he was still in decent shape. The P-3 came back around and settled into an orbit around Cole. Diego and Hector were still pointing and talking wildly. Cole calmed his nerves and focused on the next few hours. Any fatigue was gone and he was now at full strength with the help of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  To his west, Cole saw a good line of thunderstorms. It was early in the morning and he still had four or even five hours before the sunrise. Ahead of him were clear skies and to the east were smaller clouds. He knew enough about flying to be sure the P-3 would keep its distance from the thunderstorms. From the bridge of Delaney, he’d spent hours listening to the secure radio communications between the planes as they negotiated the horrific summer weather in the tropics. Many times they could not complete searches due to the convective storms. He figured the clouds to the west might give him some separation from the P-3.

  He turned 45 degrees to the west and headed for an intercept with the meanest-looking thunderhead. The P-3 held its orbit for the next hour and Cole carefully scanned the horizon for any lights or silhouettes of ships, but he saw none. The P-3 made another low pass of Cole, this time coming up from behind him and startling him as its engines screamed overhead. Cole cursed the plane and its pilots under his breath. He again felt the hot exhaust and smelled the burnt fuel, figuring that the pilots were probably just bored at this point and looking for ways to entertain themselves. What Cole didn’t know was if they had company on the way. He remembered the conversation about the gunfight with the Coastie crew.

  His mind wandered. Maybe these two jackasses are playing with me while they wait for the real show to begin? Maybe me and my small crew are already dead and we’ll be the last ones to figure it out. The thunderstorm was picking up a bit ahead of him now, and he felt some cooler air across his face as he got closer. It was a mature storm, now dumping its cold air from tens of thousands of feet above him onto the surface of the sea and lightning lit the innards of the dark clouds every few seconds. The wind shifted as he pointed directly into the middle of it. He could see a squall line of rain not too far ahead.

  Cole kept the throttles up and looked behind him. The P-3 had fallen back a bit in his trail and was flying a lazy S-pattern behind him. The rain first hit as a mist, cold against his face. For a second, Cole felt relief from the salt that covered his body. He reached up and zipped his jacket all the way, pulling its hood over his head. Just as quickly as he’d felt the mist, it opened up into a downpour, and Cole couldn’t see more than 50 feet in front of him. He looked down at the GPS and verified that a correction to the north would put him back on course. He’d added half an hour to his trip by deviating, but in rain like this, the P-3 had surely lost him. Cole figured they would try to wait him out, but at least he’d shaken them for the time being.

  Heading slightly west of north, the driving rain held up for some time. Lightning and thunder were intermittent, but a few bolts flashed down and out of the clouds, striking the water around him. Diego and Hector huddled against each other and were done talking. At this point, they were cold and wet and trying their best to wait out the storm as Cole powered through it. Adrenaline had warmed Cole initially, but as he pressed through the storm for the next half hour, he was cold once again. He felt his hands cramp around the wheel and his fingertips were numb. He was thirsty, but didn’t take the time to find his bottle of water.

  The wind died as he drove under the center of the storm. Rain poured from a bucket over his head and his shorts stuck against his thighs. If there was any silver lining, it was the fact that the fresh water had rinsed away the salt and his skin no longer itched. Looking down at his GPS, Cole was just under 60 miles from the rendezvous.

  It was nearing four in the morning when he emerged from the rain. He was north of the sheltering storm cell and had covered nearly 45 miles in driving rain. At first, he was still under a heavy low-cloud deck and the sky was obscured. With no horizon that he could see, the sea blended into the dark grey sky. It was a picture worth painting and its beauty took Cole’s mind off of his current troubles. As time passed, the clouds opened up again and Cole yelled at the two up front. They looked back at him and Cole motioned for them to look around the sky. They spent a minute or two canvassing the stars back and forth then smiled back at Cole. Diego gave Cole a big toothy grin and a thumbs up. The P-3 was gone. They were probably on their way back to base, having ceded victory to Cole. Cole laughed, shook his head, and wondered if they were headed to Habana’s to toast Cole’s prowess. Probably not, but Cole kept the thought in his head for amusement. Once again, he’d beaten them with calculated risk. His feet throbbed, his hands were painful against the wheel, and his back felt like he’d carried a ton of bricks, but he was on the home stretch.

  By five a.m., the sky to the east was purple and red. Cole zoomed out the GPS screen to look at how far he’d travelled through the night. It gave him hope he was almost done. As the stars faded and the eastern horizon turned orange, Cole could make out the tree line to his west. He cross-referenced his GPS again and knew he was within a few miles of the river bank.

  With the morning light, Cole’s fatigue faded. To the east was daylight. Above him hung all the shades of a Caribbean morning that he loved so much. The water reflected the first glimmers of sunlight, and Cole could see the rolling waves and mist marking the reefline ahead. Salt spray rose up from the swells and was carried by the morning land breeze. Cole throttled back as he hit the waypoint and he turned off the GPS. It had been 12 hours. Even with the delay from the P-3, he’d made great time. He was now gliding through the water and standing on his toes looking for the river mouth. With a swell from the northeast, it was hard to pick up, but Cole thought he saw an opening where the waves were not as severe. He had no way of knowing how big they were as they crashed over the reef, but if
he hit the middle of a channel the waves would roll right through and so would he.

  Cole inched closer to the shoreline and paralleled it northward. The panga rolled with each passing swell and at the top of each crest, he could see over the waves to the sandy shoreline. Further north, he spotted the river. As he smiled, Diego yelled something in Spanish and pointed seaward again. A larger set of waves had snuck up behind Cole and he was still south of the river mouth. By the looks of the swell, Cole wasn’t going to make it back out before the first wave broke. He jammed the throttles and paralleled the building waves. The lip of the first wave formed just as the panga surged over the top of it. Airborne for just a second, the panga slammed back down on the backside of the wave. Cole steadied himself before seeing the next wave was even bigger, probably six feet on its face, and driving towards him. With the throttle still down, Cole looked back to his left towards the land and saw the channel only a few hundred yards away. He then looked back to his right and saw that the wave was already breaking.

  Whitewater was rushing towards him and all Cole could do was drive further inshore away from the breaking wave to buy some time. The motors struggled a bit in the churned up shallows and Cole knew he was only in a few feet of water. If a wave caught him, he’d wreck the boat and lose his cargo. With no other option, he raced for the river mouth and waited. It was only a few seconds before he found deeper water—the river—and the wave petered out, but it felt like an eternity. The stress lifted as he brought the throttles back and saw deep dark blue water around him. The two up front shook their heads, but both gave Cole a grin. Cole ran both his hands through his matted hair in disbelief.