by Tom Hilpert
“Holes, anyway,” he said. He muttered under his breath and picked up the phone again, punching a few buttons.
“Cap’n? Iverson here. Yes, I’ve got him. Yes sir, just one, but he says…” He looked at me while he spoke. “I’d like to bring him up to see you, right away.” He listened a minute more. “Okay.” He hung up.
The door swung open and a sailor appeared with a bundle under one arm and a thermos. “Dry clothes and blankets,” he said, pushing the bundle at me. I stripped and rubbed myself with the wool blanket, not caring how it made me itch. The clothes didn’t fit exactly right, but they were clean and serviceable, a pair of jeans, too big in the waist, too short in the legs, with a belt to keep them up, and a gray flannel shirt.
“Gear up,” said Iverson, pointing to the foul weather gear on a nearby hook. “We’re going up to the bridge. Better accommodations up there anyway.” He looked at the sailor. “Hang his clothes out there,” he jerked his thumb at the door. “They’ll dry out pretty fast.” I dug in the pocket of my jacket for the GPS, and then handed the coat to the sailor.
“What you got?” asked Iverson.
“GPS,” I said.
Iverson narrowed his eyes like maybe he might think about believing me after all. “Come on,” is all he said.
It was fully two hundred yards between the stern superstructure and bridge superstructure up in the bow. We walked along the rail on the starboard side, out of the worst of the wind, but it still plucked and howled at us, and I held on to the safety line that had been rigged along the endless row of giant hatches that led to the belly of the boat. Three times on our trip, waves washed up over the railing to my right, soaking my new dry jeans up to the knees. Walking behind Iverson, I could see now that he definitely had a limp.
We finally made it to the superstructure in the bow, and Iverson led me through another steel water-tight door. “Nice little blow,” he commented once the door was shut behind us.
“It’s OK, I guess,” I said. “If you like that sort of thing.” Iverson looked carefully at me and then smiled widely. “You might be all right, Mr. Borden.”
“Call me Jonah,” I said.
“Sure thing, Jonah,” said Iverson. “Most folks around here call me ‘First’ to my face and ‘Navy’ behind my back. I like both names. I’m the first officer here.”
“And you came out of the Navy?”
“Yeah. Honorable discharge, on account of my injured knee here.” He pointed at his right knee. “I get around just fine, but I am no longer the perfect physical specimen required by Uncle Sam.”
He led me up three flights of stairs, which he seemed to manage just fine. Better than me in fact, in my exhausted state. “Outside again, real short,” he said. We stepped out and I found we were on a brief railed deck, high above the turbulent water. This high, the movement of the great ship was exaggerated. Iverson led us aft a few feet, and then we climbed a very short stair up to the bridge level. Without pause, he opened the door and led me into the enclosed bridge.
It was spacious and bright and lined with windows looking forward. Two great wheels stood in the middle of the area, about five feet apart, but no one was using them to steer. There were two people looking at banks of instruments, and then out through the windows into the black night. A third man stood with his hands behind his back, swaying with the ship, watching us expectantly.
“Here he is, Cap’n,” said Iverson, speaking to the man who stood off by himself.
None of the sailors I had seen so far wore any kind of uniform. The captain’s only concession to uniform was a blue peaked cap, much battered and worn, but braided with gold. It looked like maybe it was an old Navy officer’s top. He was probably in his mid-fifties, with steel-gray hair under the cap, kept short and military style. His back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were almost the same color as his hair.
“Thank you, First,” he said. He stretched out a solid, callused hand to me. “Captain Andrew Dillon,” he said.
“Jonah Borden,” I said, taking his hand. “I’m extremely grateful to you and your crew, Captain. We have an emergency situation here. I came from a sailboat where two people are being held hostage by violent criminals. We need to contact the Coast Guard immediately.”
Dillon looked at Iverson, and then back at me.
“I know it sounds crazy, Captain, but you’ve stumbled across a one-in-a-million situation. The criminals are the bank robbers who have been operating on the North Shore for the past three months. One of the hostages is an FBI agent who was on the boat, undercover. The other is…” I faltered. “She is the love of my life.”
Dillon continued to stare. “What were you doing on the boat?”
“We don’t have time for all that,” I said. “I’ll fill you in afterward. You can listen when I talk to the Coast Guard. But we’ve got to bring them in right away.”
“Is the vessel sinking?” asked the captain.
“No,” I said. “But who knows what they will do when they find out I’m gone. And I have a bad feeling about their plans. One of the robbers is a killer, and she’s already shot and wounded the FBI man.”
“She?” said Iverson. The other two sailors had turned around and were looking at me too.
“Please,” I said. “The Coast Guard? This is life or death.”
“Okay,” said Dillon. “But if you are screwing with me…”
“That’s right,” I said. “I jumped into a zodiac with a ten horse motor and came thirty-five miles from the nearest land in the biggest storm this year, on the off chance that you would pick me up so I could screw with you.”
“He’s got a point,” said Iverson.
The captain grunted and turned to one of the other sailors. “Get me the Coasties.”
CHAPTER 4 4
It took a few minutes of patching and things I didn’t really understand until we heard a female voice on the radio loudspeaker say, “This is Ensign Brock of the U.S. Coast Guard. Who am I speaking to, over?” There was a lot of static and fuzz.
“Ensign, this is Captain Dillon of the freighter Superior Rose. My crew and I just picked up an individual in a lifeboat who says he needs to speak to you. Over.” Dillon handed me the mic.
“Hello,” I said, feeling a little foolish about not knowing how to address these people. “My name is Jonah Borden. I came off the sailing yacht Tiny Dancer. The vessel is not sinking but there are five people on board. Three of them are criminals who are holding the other two hostage. One of the hostages is an FBI agent who has been shot.”
Iverson touched my arm. “You say, ‘over’ so that the other side knows you are done talking, and you don’t talk at the same time as each other.”
“Oh,” I said. I clicked the mic. “Over.” The rest of the conversation was so punctuated with “overs” that fairly quickly, I stopped noticing them, even when I said it.
“Repeat please, over” said Ensign Brock in a metallic, static-filled voice. I wondered why everyone said that. I repeated.
“Hold on,” she said.
I was feeling impatient and anxious. There was a long time when nothing happened. I looked at the Captain and Iverson. “Are we still connected?” They both nodded. Iverson said, “She’s going up the chain of command. An ensign doesn’t handle this kind of stuff by herself.”
Finally a male voice crackled through the air. “This is Captain Kurt Moser, U.S. Coast Guard. Is this Agent Stone?” My heart leaped within me when he mentioned Stone’s name. Stone must have had back-up. They couldn’t have intended to get lost in a storm.
“Captain, my name is Jonah Borden. I was on the boat with agent Tony Stone. He is in serious jeopardy, along with another civilian. We need help immediately.”
“Who is this? Where are you?”
“My name is Jonah Borden,” I repeated. “I escaped from the sailboat Tiny Dancer and was picked up by the freighter Superior Rose. Stone and a civilian are still on the sailboat, and I’m afraid they are going to be killed.”
“What about Agent Bianco?”
“You mean Jasmine? I’m afraid she’s working with the bad guys.”
There was a moment of static. “Doesn’t sound right,” said Moser finally. “Do you have any kind of position?”
“Better. I have last known position, course, and approximate speed.”
“Well done, Borden,” crackled Moser over the distance. “Give ‘em to me.” Iverson looked at me approvingly. I pulled the GPS unit out of my pocket, and gave him what he needed to know. I could feel the stress beginning to drain away. The cavalry had been summoned, and they seemed to know their business.
“Are you sure about these?” asked Moser. “Superior Rose, what is your current position?” Dillon took the mic from me and looked at one of the sailors who hovered near the instruments. The sailor gave him the position and he repeated it into the mic.
There was a pause, presumably while someone at the Coast Guard station plotted the course. “How did you get way the heck out there?” crackled Moser. “You were supposed to be in the Apostles. Were you crazy, heading out in this storm?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Dillon into the mic. “What do you mean?”
“I was talking to Borden,” said Moser. “We were tracking his sailboat until we lost the signal, right about when the storm started.”
“Agent Stone lost some kind of pager overboard,” I said, taking the mic. “He was very upset about it. The gang took over the boat right about then, and forced us to head out into the storm.”
“That pager was our signal. Hold please.” After a few minutes, Moser was back. “All right, we have course and position at 2200 hours. It is midnight now. We should be able to intercept in about seven hours, or 0700. Sit tight.”
“Seven hours!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I did. Iverson and Dillon looked startled. “That’s too late! Captain, my theory is that they are planning to rendezvous with another vessel and sink the Tiny Dancer, with us in it. I’m guessing at present speed they’ll make the rendezvous at five-thirty in the morning or so.”
Captain Moser’s voice, though attenuated by static and machinery, sounded calm. “I’m sure you have had a rough time of it, Borden, and that feels like an eternity to wait. But it will be fine, I assure you.”
“Why so long?” I asked.
“We were shadowing you with the cutter Alder beyond the Bayfield peninsula. When the storm hit, we had to recall the speed runners, and then we got a distress call back near Duluth. Since we thought you had taken shelter behind one of the Islands, the cutter left the Bayfield station to handle it, and went back to cover the SOS. The Alder is in Duluth now.”
They were about one hundred and forty miles away.
“Is there nothing closer?”
“The cutter Alder is our only full-size vessel on Superior. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. The Marquette station is a hundred and sixty miles from you, and there’s nothing there with more speed or range anyway.”
“What about a helicopter or a float plane?”
“We can’t risk it in this weather, and even if we could, it is night and visibility is extremely poor.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
The cavalry was coming, but they would be late. Far too late.
CHAPTER 4 5
Captain Dillon got back on the radio with the Coast Guard.
“Captain,” said Moser through the speakers, “I can’t order you to do this, but I wondered if you could stay in the area for a few hours?”
Dillon looked out of the dark windows of the bridge for a few moments, tapping the hand-held mic on his thigh. He brought it back to his lips and pushed the send button. “I need to check with corporate on this. If I don’t, it could be my job.”
“Understood,” said Moser through a burst of static. “Please get back to me when you have your answer.”
“Will do, Captain,” said Dillon. “Over and out.” He reached up and hung the mic back on its bracket. “Get me corporate headquarters.”
“Sir,” said the sailor who operated the radio, “it’s after midnight.”
Dillon swore. “I forgot. I’m going to have to wake someone up.”
I stepped away from the action. Iverson took my arm. “Coffee?”
I brightened. “Absolutely.”
“Sorry we didn’t get you something earlier, but you were pretty insistent about your call. I see why now.”
Iverson led me through a small passage behind the main bridge and into a kind of sitting area. A big industrial-style coffee maker was bolted to a wall and a counter. He grabbed two mugs from a cupboard, filled them and handed one to me. The first sip was heaven. The second sip sobered me up.
“I have to get back to the Tiny Dancer,” I said numbly. Iverson looked at me without expression.
I met his eyes. “You married?”
He shook his head.
“Ever been in love?” He nodded.
“How would you feel, if you were safe drinking coffee somewhere, while your love was tied up in a boat, prepped for execution in a few hours?”
Iverson said nothing, just regarded me thoughtfully as his sipped his coffee.
“You cut the lifeboat free – the one I was in.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Those conditions, I made a judgment call. The boat or your life. I picked your life.”
“Can I take one of your lifeboats?”
He put down his coffee. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to get back to the Tiny Dancer. Look, the bad guys don’t even know I’m gone. I was steering the boat for them while they held my sweetheart – her name is Leyla – hostage. I set it on autopilot and got in the lifeboat and tried to make it to you guys when I saw your lights. As far as they know, I’m still up there at the wheel.”
“How long ago was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know, maybe an hour and a half. If I go quick, I could get ahead of their course and wait for them, and get back in the boat before they know I was gone.”
“You are one crazy dude, you know that?”
“I’ve done hostage negotiation before,” I said. “I’m the police chaplain in my town.”
Iverson was silent.
“I can’t let her die,” I said. I sipped some coffee and looked away miserably. “My first wife was killed by a burglar.”
Iverson began swearing. I realized maybe there was a reason for the expression “swear like a sailor.” He got up.
“I’ll be right back.”
He was gone for fifteen minutes, which gave me time to finish my coffee, plus a second cup. I was warm and comfortable, but nothing could ease the anxiety that chewed away at me inside. I was starting to wonder if the Superior Rose had any of those automatically inflating life rafts that I could steal. The problem would be getting ahead of the Tiny Dancer with nothing but a tiny plastic paddle. The Superior Rose had been going roughly parallel to the Tiny Dancer, but downwind, and of course, much faster, so I would have to paddle against the force of the storm.
I stood up just as Iverson walked into the room. He limped directly to me and met my eyes. “Let’s go.”
“I can’t stay,” I said. “I’ll take one of those inflatable rafts if I have to.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, ‘let’s go get you back to the Tiny Dancer.’ Captain’s letting us take his launch.”
I was speechless, but I followed Iverson with alacrity when he turned and led the way back down to the deck level. As we made our way out into the howling wind and back toward the stern, Iverson called out over his shoulder.
“Cap’n is an ex-Coastie. We both miss the action a little sometimes and it seems like this one was made for us and dropped in our lap.”
“I am a pastor, my boss is God,” I shouted back. “Maybe it was made for you.”
He flashed me a tight grin in the dark, and we continued on.
The launch was more substantial than the lifeboat that had pulled me out of the l
ake. It looked like a large narrow speedboat with a covered bow and a windscreen and roof protecting most of the cockpit. The outboard motor looked huge. By the time we got back to the stern, a crew of men had already hoisted it on a pair of davits and were lowering it into a position where we could get on. Without any ceremony, Iverson and I scrambled aboard, followed by a short, broad muscled sailor and then another one, taller and slimmer.
“What’re we doing now, First?” asked the short, muscular man.
“Covert insertion,” said Iverson absently, checking the cockpit. He tested the radio, examined gauges and then gave the thumbs up to the davits crew.
“Huh?” asked the muscled sailor.
“Sorry Jones,” said Iverson. “We are taking this man,” he pointed at me, “back to his yacht, but in secret, so the folks on that boat won’t ever know he was gone, or that we were there.”
“Why dint ya just say so?”
“Never mind,” said Iverson.
I heard Jones mutter, “Crap navy-speak.”
The taller sailor was called Felix. The crew lowered us back into the waves. Iverson had the engine going as soon as we hit the water. There was a little bit of maneuvering and hassling with the davits. It seemed to take forever to me, but probably it was only a few seconds. Finally, we were under way.
The storm had abated a little. The wind still whipped spray everywhere, but the rain seemed to have quit, and the waves were averaging maybe twelve or fifteen feet now, instead of twenty or more.
“Let me see the GPS, said Iverson, gunning the engine.
I held on with one hand, and pulled out the unit with the other, and thumbed it on. Iverson glanced at it for maybe half a second, and then lifted his eyes forward and kept them there, steering the launch. He cut the engines back to idle and we drifted, just a hundred yards or so from the Superior Rose. Iverson started intently at the waves and the freighter. I continued to hold the GPS for him, though he didn’t look at it. Finally, he glanced at me and said, “Got it, thanks. I heard you when you gave it to the Coasties. Just wanted to double-check.” I guess the U.S. Navy still trained them pretty well.
