Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “You get your pictures?” Arcineaux asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then get outta them clothes right here. I don’t want you dripping wet all over the salon and staterooms.”

  Boucher set down the camera and started to undress.

  “Uh-oh,” the skipper said. “I take back that order. You might wanna keep them clothes on a bit longer. Look behind us.”

  Boucher turned around. The Gulf Pride was heading away and already almost out of sight. The second boat was following them, coming on fast.

  “I’m thinkin’ that one can outrun us,” Arcineaux said. “I don’t think our fish story’s gonna do us much good. I got a feelin’ they might not want an eyewitness seein’ what just went down. Ya know what I’m saying?”

  “Can we alert the navy, the coast guard, anybody?”

  “This ain’t exactly downtown New Orleans. It’s just us and them out here. By the time help arrived, there wouldn’t be an oil slick left of us. Remember those guns they got on board? They’re probably thinking this might be a good place to try ’em out.”

  The prediction came true soon enough. There was an explosion and then a plume of water five hundred yards behind them.

  “They’re sighting in, getting the range. Shit. We’re target practice. And don’t ask. I can’t go any faster. Running these engines all out for as long as I have, we might not need them to blow us out of the water, we might do it to ourselves.”

  Another explosion. This one was closer.

  “Will you look at that?” Arcineaux said. The computer screen showed another boat giving chase. It was the third boat they had spotted earlier. “We end up in the drink, maybe that guy will come to our rescue.”

  There was a whistle over their heads, low enough to make them duck instinctively, then another explosion, this one under twenty yards off their bow. The bow of their vessel raised out of the water with the blast, then slapped down, hard.

  “Judge Boucher, it’s been nice knowin’ ya. I think they got our range.”

  Boucher jumped at the wheel, pushing Arcineaux aside. He spun it to port as hard as he could. The vessel barely moved.

  “This ol’ gal don’t turn on a dime,” Arcineaux said. He pulled back on the throttle, idling the engines. “Wasn’t a bad idea, though.”

  They heard the whistle of another projectile and stared into each other’s eyes. Boucher stepped toward Arcineaux and offered a handshake. He took it. At that moment the explosion came. Daddy’s Little Girl rocked like its namesake in a baby’s swing. But they were not blown out of the water. They turned and looked astern. Orange flames and black smoke shot into the sky. They saw the loaded ship explode with such force that it raised in the water as if it had struck a mammoth wave. It crashed back to the surface, ocean spray covering it in a momentary mist—but not enough to douse the flames; they raged higher and higher. Then there were other blasts as munitions exploded and arced in a 360-degree plume, crashing to water in a wide circle. They watched in stunned silence. Then Boucher broke out laughing. Throughout the fireworks display, he and Arcineaux had held their handshake. Now he pulled the man to him and they embraced, slapping each other’s back. They sheepishly separated after the exuberant display.

  “Fitch was right,” Boucher said.

  “About what?”

  “The weapons they bought. It was all a bunch of crap. Something misfired when they shot at us, and they had a cargo hold full of explosives blow up.”

  “Could be something else,” Arcineaux said. He stepped back to the radar screen. “The other fellow’s getting outta town too.”

  They watched the blip. The third vessel was making a tight turn. It was leaving the scene and not wasting any time.

  “Did they do it? Did they sink that ship?”

  Those who knew the answer to that question were now asleep in the deep. Boucher and Arcineaux motored from the scene.

  “Outrunning pirates always makes me hungry,” Arcineaux said half an hour later. “You take the wheel and I’ll throw together some sandwiches.”

  “Aye-aye, captain. I wouldn’t mind a beer—hell, rum, if you’ve got some on board. I think a toast is in order.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’ll be right back.”

  That plan was dumped. Boucher heard Arcineaux scream. “Get down here. Quick!”

  Boucher jumped from the bridge to the deck, then from the deck to the galley below. He landed in ankle-deep water.

  “We got a problem,” Arcineaux said.

  “Were we hit?”

  “Could have been shrapnel.” Arcineaux was bustling, tearing through compartments as he answered. “Or the hull lost integrity when we struck the container last night and cracked from the force of whatever they fired at us. Let me check the bilge.”

  A leak in the hull, far out at sea: a nautical nightmare. The first thing Arcineaux did baffled Boucher. He grabbed at the upholstery, pulling a cushion from a bench. This he pressed against the leak. In the salon, he unscrewed a teak table from the floor, turned it over and pressed it against the pillow, then piled chairs on and against it. Water was still coming in through the leak.

  “Gotta get the pump goin’,” he said. He rushed below to the engine room and returned with a pump and connected it. He ran the hose to a porthole and turned it on.

  “We’re taking on a lot of water. This pump has limits. We can stay afloat if the crack don’t get much bigger. Lemme see if I got anything else.” He ransacked drawers, cabinets, and cupboards. From a drawer, he pulled out a photo. “If this is on board, we can use it. Help me find it.”

  Boucher stared at an old photo that had to be the former owner and his wife. They were smiling at their young daughter, selling lemonade from a stand set up on a pier under a tent. The Hatteras could be seen in the background.

  “You need a lemonade stand?” Boucher asked.

  “No, damn it. I need the tarp they used for cover. It might still be on board. Check the storage compartments in the bow.”

  Boucher climbed into the small compartment in the bow of the vessel. No space went unused. Two foam mattresses followed the shape of the bow with a small space between them. Shelves and storage compartments were built above the beds. He rummaged through one, then another. “I’ve got it,” he yelled.

  He crabbed out of the bow space with a rolled-up blue tarp and handed it to Arcineaux.

  “C’mon,” the captain ordered, and climbed up to the deck. He gave Boucher one end to hold, took the other, and unrolled the tarp. “It has grommets. That’ll help. Might be long enough. Gotta find some rope.”

  “Long enough for what?”

  Boucher’s question went unanswered. Arcineaux found several lengths of rope, then went to the helm and shut off the engines. The boat bobbed on the surface. “C’mon,” he ordered again.

  Boucher followed along the narrow starboard footpath, grabbing rails to keep from being pitched overboard. Arcineaux stood on the foredeck, unrolling the tarp, tying one end to the railing.

  “What are you doing?” Boucher asked.

  “I’m going to run this under the keel and tie it on the port side. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a gutshot, but it might help stem the flow of water. Acts like a compress.”

  “How are you going to get it under the boat?”

  “I’m going in.” Arcineaux began taking off his shoes.

  “No,” Boucher said. “I’ll do it.”

  Before Arcineaux could argue, he dove over the side. The cold water shocked him, drove the air from his lungs, and induced an instant state of panic heightened by pain from his bruised ribs. He thrashed his way to the surface, fought the terror of being in the vastness of the unforgiving sea, and swam to the hull. His fingertips were already numb.

  “I’m here,” he yelled up. “I’m right below you. Drop the tarp over the side.”

  “Okay. Here comes.”

  Boucher grabbed the loose end of the tarp. His teeth were rattling so hard that it was difficult for him to
open his jaw wide enough to take a deep breath, so he gritted his teeth and inhaled through his nostrils. Then he dived. He guided by keeping the hull against his back as he dove down, under, then up the other side. Pulling the tarp was like wrestling a large fish, but he made it to the port side and broke the surface. “I’m here. How am I going to get it up to you?”

  “I’ve got a gaff,” Arcineaux said. “I’m leaning over the side. Try to put the hook of the gaff in one of the grommets.”

  “Move a few feet toward the bow.”

  It was like threading a needle but with hands shaking uncontrollably. Boucher fitted the hook of the gaff into a grommet, and Arcineaux lifted the tarp. “Got it. Get back on board. Swim to the stern. I’ll be there.”

  There was a platform for swimmers at water level across the stern. Boucher tried to hoist himself onto the ledge but was numb with cold. Arcineaux grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. “Go below. I’m going to secure the tarp.”

  Boucher toweled off, put on dry clothes, and sat still until his shivering ceased. He joined Arcineaux at the helm as he started the engines.

  “Thanks,” Arcineaux said. “You did a good job.”

  “Will it work?”

  “In principle, it should help some. The water pressure pushes the tarp against the cracks so it limits the flow. But it ain’t a tight fit. We’re cutting through water, and it’s going to seep in between the hull and the tarp. But it’s something.”

  “We need to call for help.”

  “Dumont’s ship is still in the neighborhood. They’ll hear an emergency call and recognize our call letters as comin’ from New Orleans. They might come running out of curiosity if nothing else. I don’t want the kind of help we’d get from them when they see our faces. The captain of that ship knows me, and it won’t take too long before they figure out who you are. They can add two and two. No, we’re gonna wait awhile. If we get to the point where more water is comin’ in than goin’ out, we call for help or we jump in the dingy. Sorry, Judge, the return voyage ain’t gonna be uneventful.”

  “I can call Fitch on the ship-to-shore phone.”

  “Do that.”

  Boucher climbed to the bridge and called Fitch, who answered on the first ring. Jock gave him their situation and position. “I don’t want you calling anybody just yet. I don’t know who the hell to trust. We’re taking on water from a crack in the hull, but we’ve got things under control for the moment. One thing you can do is check on a vessel named Zephyr. It’s a cargo carrier, not as big as the Gulf Pride. Somebody will be putting in an insurance claim on it. It went down with all hands.”

  “Christ. Stay in touch and stay dry.”

  Boucher hung up and went below. “Fitch is monitoring our position, and we’re on the satellite. I’m hoping we’ll also get pictures of the third boat and be able to track it to see where it goes.”

  Arcineaux was shaking his head. “I went along with this,” he said. “I even asked to be included, so I have no one to blame but myself. But I gotta ask you. Seems to me all you got was the name of a ship that’s now at the bottom of the sea, and you’re getting all the information you need from communications satellites. Was this trip worth it?”

  “I’ll make sure you are fully compensated for—”

  “I’m gonna throw you overboard if you finish that sentence. Answer my question.”

  “Probably not,” Boucher said. “It was foolish. It was reckless. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you really chasin’, Judge? You got any idea? I’m just a Coonass water rat, and God knows I’ve made mistakes of my own, but I’m gonna leave you watching a hole in the boat that shouldn’t be there—one that might end our lives a lot sooner than either of us planned—just because you wanted to play eyewitness. You might give that some thought.” He stared over the wheel and out to sea. “Now go below and keep an eye on that leak.”

  Boucher went below and scavenged the boat’s complement of fishing gear. He found a pair of waders, sat on a bench, and put them on. He was reasonably warm and dry and could sit in relative comfort while the water rose around his legs and he watched the leak that might doom them. He thought about what Arcineaux had said. Fitch had told him much the same. Impending demise does concentrate one’s focus.

  He found a wooden spoon for mixing salads in a galley drawer and used it as a gauge to measure the water. After several hours of slow cruising, it had risen several inches. He called for Arcineaux to come below.

  The skipper looked at the rising water. “I’m on a heading for Port Isabel, Texas. I think I oughta call in our situation.”

  “You must. Dumont’s ship isn’t anywhere near us now. We’re headed for Texas, and his ship’s returning to Houma as fast as it can. We should be fine.”

  “I ain’t been worried about him for a while now.”

  “Then why haven’t you called for help?”

  “Salvage laws. I call for a tow, I might be givin’ up my boat. You know anything about salvage law on the seas, Judge?”

  Boucher nodded. For centuries courts had favored those who engaged in rescuing lives and property at sea, and the definition between rescue and salvage could be a fine one. Professional salvors were generously compensated. Arcineaux might lose his boat to a salvor successful in bringing it in. It was a tough call. He was weighing the odds as he examined the damaged hull. “If the hull splits, there might not be time for you to get on deck. I’m gonna call for help.”

  Arcineaux got on the radio’s emergency frequency. There were a number of fishing boats close enough if they had to abandon ship. With a salvor, he had a chance.

  “When the salvage boat gets here,” Boucher said, “let me do the talking. We’ll set a fee and sign a contract. I’ll tell them I’m a judge. I’m not going to let them take your boat, Fred.”

  Arcineaux shrugged. “Might help.”

  Boucher then called Fitch. “Three nearest airports from Port Isabel are Brownsville, McAllen, and Corpus Christi. There are several smaller regionals. Don’t know when I’ll hit land, but I’ll get the first flight back. Skipper’s going to stay with his boat, bring it back when repairs are done. I’ll have a lot to talk to you about.”

  “Got some news for you too,” Fitch said with a dry laugh. He hung up.

  Boucher joined Arcineaux on the flybridge, the better to look out for boats in their vicinity. Within no time they spotted several, then several more.

  “Some are Samaritans,” Arcineaux said, “some are scavengers waiting to see if we go down. All types of men are called to the sea; all types.”

  Boucher had drafted a contract before the salvage vessel found them. He introduced himself and presented the document. The numbers were agreed upon. All were satisfied. There was no more time to waste; Daddy’s Little Girl was listing badly. The wounded craft and its rescuer were joined, and additional pumps were brought aboard. The cruiser began to right itself. At that point another sport fisher pulled alongside and asked if it could help. It was headed to Port Isabel.

  “Catch a ride,” Arcineaux said. “There’s nothin’ you can do here, and somebody needs to know about what went on out there. I’ll be all right. Let you know when I’m back in port.”

  “Give me a call if you need anything,” Boucher said.

  “You can bet I will. Have your checkbook ready.”

  CHAPTER 26

  WHEN BOUCHER PULLED INTO Port Isabel, he compensated the charter fisherman who’d given him the ride by buying a tank of fuel, which he put on his credit card, then set off in search of an ATM. He bought some comfortable clothes, rented a motel room for long enough to shower, then checked airline schedules on his cell phone. The best route was a flight out of McAllen to Houston, changing planes to New Orleans. There was a drive and then a layover, but he’d be home tonight. He found a taxi for the drive to McAllen. A trip of seventy miles, it was probably the best fare the driver had seen in a while. The woman was short and thin to the point of emaciation, but ebullient.
r />   “How you doin’?” she gushed. “First time here?”

  “Yes, I’m going to McAllen to get a flight back home to New Orleans.”

  “Pity you can’t stay awhile. McAllen’s a great place to visit. It’s not New Orleans, of course.”

  “This close to the border, with all the drug violence, I would think business would be down,” Boucher said.

  “You would think wrong. Tourism is down, but otherwise, business is booming. Trade with Mexico is at an all-time high. We’ve got more jobs than people to fill them, and not many places in the States can say that. The drug situation is a problem, but it’s a work-around. Know what I mean? There’s a lot more going on between the U.S. and Mexico than the drug problem. We’ve even got our own free-trade zone. We also get a lot of wealthy Mexicans coming here to shop. Many of them are buying houses here because of the violence in their home neighborhoods. Nice folks. I feel sorry for what’s going on other side of the border. I pray it never reaches us on this side.”

  Just past the halfway point of his road trip, Boucher was drawn to the sight of military vehicles being transported on a convoy of flatbed trucks. “What’s that?” he asked the driver. “I didn’t know there was an army base around here.”

  “There isn’t,” the driver said. “We’ve got a National Guard armory, but it’s never had that kind of activity, and I’ve been here all my life. My husband and I both served in the Guard. That’s how we met.”

  Boucher got to the airport, bought his ticket, then sat in the departure lounge doing what most of his fellow travelers were doing—making one call after another. He called Mildred. She had left for the day. He had fences to mend there. Malika seemed glad to hear from him but had to cut their conversation short. Fitch was also in a rush. Something was up with him, something not for discussion over a cell phone. Boucher had made three calls, all brief. If broadband communications were the only indicator, one would be tempted to assume there wasn’t a whole lot going on in the life of Judge Jock Boucher.