by Lyle Howard
Instinctive agility and an uncanny sense of balance were two physical attributes which Lance had always taken for granted. Racking up perfect scores on the obstacle course in Fire College had prepared him for just about any test of his equilibrium and coordination, so maintaining his stability on the jet-ski was proving to be a cakewalk. The jet-ski picked up momentum under Lance’s increasing confidence at the controls, and soon the vehicle was at top speed, the ramshackle marina was little more than a dimly lit speck glittering in the distance behind his wake.
To the north, the bright lights of Port Everglades were growing in size and clarity. To his left, Lance buzzed by some of the more affluent waterfront residences that dotted the intracoastal seawall. To his right, dockside restaurants and bars that separated route A1A from the water were doing box-office business for a midweek night. The pulsing rhythm of reggae music boomed from one of the open-air bars as Lance raced by to the cheering encouragement of a few of the bar’s patrons, who believed in the spirit of happy hour the way a priest would believe in the spirit of Christmas.
Trying to pick out a set of running lights against the backdrop of the port was like trying to pick out a specific star on a moonless night without an astrological chart. The sea spray that kicked up over the front of the jet-ski didn’t help matters, either. Sometimes the spray would trickle onto Lance’s face but, more often than not, it would splash over the bow of the tiny vehicle in full sheets, blinding him for seconds at a time.
Coming to the bridge where they had been detained in traffic minutes earlier, the waterway narrowed and the wake from ships that had passed through long before still ricocheted back and forth against the seawalls, creating a turbulent thrashing of water against concrete.
Lance had to decrease the power to his engine and pull and twist at the controls just to keep the jet-ski from being battered against the bridge’s superstructure. The straining howl of the engine reverberated under the bridge. Lance kicked out with his right leg as one of the bridge pilings came a bit too close for comfort. The jet-ski rocked back and forth like a cork bobbing in a washing machine during the spin cycle. Lance had to summon all of his strength just to keep the jet-ski pointing north toward the port.
The thunderous din of cars rolling over the metal grating above his head sounded like every bee in the world had congregated above him. Lance quickly realized that he had lost his sense of direction, so he focused all of his attention to the steering of the jet-ski. As soon as he was able to pick out the bright lights of the port, he knew he was headed north again. Gunning the throttle, the jet-ski leapt out of the water like it had been shot from a cannon. Lance leaned forward in midair to level the nose of the machine as it skipped out from beneath the bridge the way a smooth stone skips across the face of a calm lake.
Costly time had been lost in the struggle beneath the bridge. If Lance stood any chance at all of catching up to Eddie Dolan, he had to run full throttle the rest of the way, no matter what obstructions crossed the jet-ski’s course.
Lance twisted the throttle until the engine screamed. The jet-ski was no longer gliding across the water, but leaping in great strides and bounces. Lance was up on his feet, using his leg muscles as shock absorbers to cushion the impact every time the machine touched down. Whenever the jet-ski would leave the security of the water to become maladroitly airborne, the engine would whine a hollow, shrill sound as a plume of smoke and sea spray would leap from its exhaust pipe. It was the machine’s way of telling Lance that if Yamaha had wanted it to fly, they would have built it with wings.
At the southernmost berth in the port, the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy was in Fort Lauderdale for a week and a half of liberty. As Lance streaked by the ship’s gray hull, the carrier seemed more than huge. It almost blocked the entire night sky. Each ring of the ship’s enormous anchor chain was probably bigger than the jet-ski itself. If Lance hadn’t been closing in on Eddie Dolan, he might have felt insignificant.
The way Port Everglades was laid out was simple enough. It had only one channel leading out to the ocean. That cut, or inlet, leading out to the sea was less than half a mile away. Lance could just make out a large sailboat turning starboard to head out to the Atlantic.
A sailboat the size of the Animal Magnetism was usually equipped with a small inboard engine in case of calm winds or problems with its sails. A jet-ski running full throttle would have little problem making up a twenty-minute head start if the man at the helm of the sailboat was in no hurry. Eddie Dolan was in no hurry.
Sipping a cup of piping hot coffee, Dolan zipped his yellow parka halfway up his chest. The night was as clear as a window, and the stars were glistening overhead like his own private light show. He leaned back against an orange flotation cushion and began steering the boat with the green soles of his deck shoes. The wind was picking up out of the east, causing the Stars and Stripes that he had hoisted up the main mast to flap wildly. Even Dolan’s ponytail was snapping back and forth in the increasing draft, so he tucked it under the baseball cap he always seemed to be wearing. The Animal Magnetism was handling magnificently tonight. All of the time and effort Dolan had expended on the installation of its new trim lined rudder had really paid off. It was majestic nights like this that even made playing hooky from work seem worth it.
Feeling the sudden call of nature, and perhaps a bladder overflowing with one too many mugs of coffee, Dolan lashed the chrome steering wheel to a nearby mooring cleat with a length of nylon line. The Animal Magnetism was nearly out of the cut, so he was confident that the makeshift autopilot would hold the boat steady on a due east course until he could return to the helm.
Flipping on a light below deck, Dolan worked his way through the galley, stepping over an empty, spare propane tank used to run the ship’s gas stove. He had never been one for fancy cooking, and his seagoing meals usually consisted of cold cut sandwiches and canned fruits. As long as the generator was pumping electrical power to the refrigerator, the cooler was well stocked, and he had a few of Munoz’s joints to smoke, Dolan could live high on the hog on the open ocean for weeks.
Stepping into the small lavatory, or head, just forward of the galley, Dolan let out a sigh of relief as he emptied himself into the toilet. The drone of the engine purred lightly beneath his feet as the Animal Magnetism cleared the final jetty and glided gracefully out to sea. The curious way a mother can tell if her baby’s breathing isn’t just right, was the same reaction Dolan had as he suddenly cocked his head to one side. The foreign sound was faint at first, but it grew louder as he zipped his fly and pumped the toilet handle. He settled to his knees and placed his hand against the deck, expecting to feel a strange vibration emanating from the engine, but there was none. The sound was not coming from the bowels of his boat. Dolan knew that could only mean one thing … someone was coming alongside!
Lance was only going to have one chance at this, so his timing had to be perfect. Unlike the Intracoastal Waterway, which was protected on two sides by land making the current fairly calm, the open ocean was a torrent of swells and cresting waves which would toss even the most experienced jet-skier off their machine in a matter of seconds. If the Animal Magnetism made it through the cut and into the Atlantic, Lance knew the four-to five-foot waves would make his little misadventure under the bridge seem like wading into a kiddy pool. There was no doubt in Lance’s mind that he’d never be able to board the sailboat once she passed the jetty which marked the entrance to the port.
Abe Lincoln got lost trying to find the entrance to the Port Everglades Coast Guard station. Ten minutes had become fifteen minutes; fifteen then turned into twenty.
The U.S. Coast Guard maintains three principal South Florida bases. The first is located just east of downtown Miami, some thirty-five miles south of where Lincoln was driving. The second, an airbase at Opa-Locka Airport in central Miami. The smaller, less strategic base at Port Everglades served a vital function in search and rescue as well as a pivotal role in the war on drug
smuggling, it did not provide the manpower capability of either of its two southern counterparts. The complex sat on a jagged peninsula of land where the intracoastal intersects with the cut leading out of the port.
Lincoln was furious with himself as he barreled down the beach road which led to the entrance of the base. As the police car skidded from side to side, its tires grappling for traction on a loose bed of pine needles and fine sand, poor Rex was being pitched around on the back seat like a loose bag of groceries.
“Why the hell don’t they light up this damned road?” Lincoln hollered as he tried to keep the car going as fast as possible while still maintaining control.
In the back seat, Rex whined as his head was slammed against the armrest and his feet went out from under him.
“Sorry about that, boy,” Lincoln apologized, as though the dog could really understand.
If he hadn’t stopped to ask directions from two teenagers who were half-naked, and making out in the back seat of their parents’ station wagon, Lincoln would still be driving aimlessly around the piers on the other side of the port.
Through the thick foliage of pine trees that lined the narrow, twisting beach road, he finally glimpsed the flicker of halogen lights coming from the direction of the base. He pounded his fists victoriously on the steering wheel. “Well, it’s about damned time!”
The base complex consisted of a single prefabricated metal hangar, painted white with the familiar orange stripe and Coast Guard insignia. As Lincoln swerved through the unguarded front gate, a floodlight, which was activated by a motion detector, burst on, turning the night outside the hangar into high noon. Automated video cameras positioned strategically around the base came to life, following every movement of the errant police car.
Reaching the front of the hangar, Lincoln slammed on the brakes, sending the car screeching across the damp tarmac that surrounded the headquarters. Before he could unbuckle his seat belt, the car was surrounded by four guardsmen, one on each side of the vehicle, leveling handguns directly at him.
“Don’t move!” the guardsman beside the driver’s door ordered.
“But I’ve got … “
“Both hands on the wheel where I can see them!” In the back seat, Rex scanned his eyes from window to window. An extended arm holding a weapon in a threatening posture was the textbook signal for the dog to attack, but there were four of them and he was totally mystified on how to react.
Lincoln held up his palms to show that he was unarmed. “Can’t any of you imbeciles read the word ‘police’ on the side of the car?” Lincoln yelled.
All four guardsmen backed off a step as Rex began pacing back and forth across the rear seat. His thick pink tongue was wagging like he had just been called for supper.
“Out of the car … slowly … one hand at a time ….”
Lincoln reached for the door handle with one hand and gingerly stepped out of the car.
“Turn around … both hands on the hood!”
Lincoln glared into the pimply face of the young lieutenant, who was obviously enjoying his newfound fling with power. “You ‘re making the biggest mistake of your life, pal.”
The lieutenant grabbed Lincoln by the elbow and spun him around until the detective’s belly was flat against the driver’s side window. “Cover me while I frisk him,” he ordered one of his subordinates.
A tall, lean guardsman that had been standing behind the car walked around and stood behind both Lincoln and the lieutenant who seemed to be running the show.
“He’s got a gun!”
Lincoln shook his head in frustration, and Rex began barking helplessly through the window.
“Uh-oh.”
The guardsman holding the gun tried to peek over his superior’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s got a badge, too.”
Lincoln spun around and grabbed his service revolver out of the dumbfounded lieutenant’s hand. He raised the back of his hand to slap the young officer silly, but then thought better of it. “You’ve got a lot of learning to do, kid!”
“But … I ….”
Lincoln slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. “I’m driving a police car, for God’s sake!”
“But you were driving like a maniac…”
Lincoln looked out toward the docks where a thirty-five-foot cruiser was moored. “Where’s the man in charge? And .. .please, don’t tell me it’s you, or I’m never gonna pay another penny of taxes again.”
The lieutenant frowned, and then nodded to the guardsman standing behind him. “Go get the skipper.”
Less than a minute later, a distinguished-looking officer with a silver-gray beard that reflected the moonlight dressed in a blue jumpsuit and matching baseball cap, strode out onto the tarmac. “Captain Eugene Wells,” he said, extending his hand.
Lincoln shook it heartily. “Detective Abraham Lincoln, Broward County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Abe … Lincoln … You’re kidding, right?”
The detective shrugged.
“Cruel parents?” Wells inquired.
“Well-meaning parents,” Lincoln insisted.
“Sorry.”
“No harm.”
“Now what can the Coast Guard do for you, detective?”
Lincoln pointed out at the choppy water where the inlet met the intracoastal. “I’ve got a murder suspect who I believe to be making an attempt to elude capture, heading this way up the intracoastal.”
Wells rubbed his whiskers. “Why wasn’t this radioed in to us?”
An easterly breeze suddenly gusted through the pine trees surrounding the base, causing Lincoln to pull his coat lapels around his throat. “I’m working in tandem with an arson investigator on this case, and we thought we were going to nail the suspect before he set sail.”
Wells looked over at Rex pacing in the back of the car. “This arson investigator of yours … is a dog?”
Lincoln looked at Wells like he was crazy. “No, of course not. My partner is in pursuit of the suspect right now. They should be passing by here any minute.”
Wells walked down to the edge of the water and signaled for three of his men to ready the cruiser. “Describe the two vessels to me.”
“I don’t know much about boats,” Lincoln admitted.
“The best you can.”
Lincoln stepped over a rope one of the guardsmen was untying from the dock. “A big sailboat called the Animal Magnetism and a jet-ski.”
Now it was Wells turn to look at Lincoln as though he were insane. “Who’s chasing who?”
“The suspect is on the sailboat.”
Wells made a sour face. “And your partner is chasing the sailboat on a jet-ski?”
Lincoln nodded casually as if events like this were commonplace.
Wells shook his head up at the starry sky as he stepped aboard the cruiser. “Why me, Lord?”
Lance was gradually gaining on the sailboat, riding in its’ wake, until he was close enough to see the ship’s diving ladder and read the emerald green name painted across its transom.
The tide was coming in, and the swells grew choppier as the Animal Magnetism made its way out through the cut and into the open ocean. In a few more seconds, Lance would be powerless to control the jet-ski, and he would probably be catapulted into the churning dark water like a child’s jack-in-the-box.
The sailboat lifted and dropped with each passing swell as Lance tried to move in closer. The Animal Magnetism, like most sailboats, had rope rigging running the length of its entire circumference, and Lance spotted it just as he was about to lose command of the jet-ski.
The roaring machine shot out from between his legs just as he clumsily dove for the slender rigging, and his body hit the hull of the sailboat with the full impact of a bone-crushing professional football tackle. Only his right hand had managed to seize the rope and now he was being dragged alongside of the sailboat, twisting back and forth in the thrashing water like a rag doll, buried
up to his shins in the inky darkness, desperately trying to reach up to the rope with his free hand. The impact of the collision had knocked most of the wind out of his lungs, so he hopelessly gulped for air, but all he received for his trouble was large mouthfuls of bitter-tasting salt water.
Already a hundred yards behind the sailboat, the jet-ski was circling aimlessly at the entrance to the inlet, as it was designed to do. The dead man’s cord had pulled free when Lance had jumped, and now it was hanging down loosely from the wrist that was holding the rope rigging.
The sailboat pitched bow down as a four-foot swell passed beneath its keel. Lance vaulted out of the water like he had somehow learned to defy gravity and then was submerged up to his waist as the stern settled back down. One more of those, Lance thought to himself, and he’d never be able to hang on.
Looking to the rear of the sailboat, he judged that he was only seven or eight feet away from the transom, where he had seen the ship’s diving ladder. If he could pull himself along the rigging to the stern of the boat, climbing aboard would be a simple task.
Doing a one-armed pull-up was tough enough, but to have to perform it soaking wet while being dragged in the water, made the maneuver even more difficult. Lance turned his body flat to the hull and strained until he thought his right arm would tear out of its socket. Kicking with his feet the way a performing porpoise uses its tail fin to propel itself out of the water during a high-jump, Lance lifted himself out of the water until the fingertips of his left hand finally grasped the rigging.
He hung there momentarily, draped over the side of the boat like a wet towel hung out to dry, while he allowed his muscles to relax. Over the thunderous pounding of the waves against the hull, he could detect movement on the boat. Lance looked up, and, standing directly above him, Eddie Dolan was staring back at the port through a pair of high-powered binoculars. It seemed that Dolan hadn’t noticed the pair of limp arms that clung to the rigging only a few inches away from his thighs.
