Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  Rivera glanced away from his course for a moment and flashed him a toothy smile and a big thumbs up. “Hell yes, I’m interested. Just talk to my boss and make it happen.”

  Miller was a man of his word-within four hours, they were wheels up and headed south towards Honduras.

  CHAPTER 24

  I was beat. In the four days since leaving Cay Sal, we had sailed almost seven hundred fifty miles in the Caribbean and much of that under difficult circumstances. Even with the autopilot, I was still on deck at least twenty hours out of every day. Tasha would spell me for a couple of hours at a stretch so I could at least get enough sleep to get by. It was not my idea of a romantic cruise at sea by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Tasha, I think we’re going to drop the hook for the night. It looks like there’s a small island about twenty miles south, Isla Cisne. The notes on the chartplotter say it used to be called Swan Island before the Hondurans took it over. Looks damn near deserted, but we can at least get a good night’s sleep. I need to be sharp before we get down to Nicaragua.”

  Tasha replied with an innocent tilt to her head. “Do we have to spend the whole night sleeping?”

  “My God, I’ve created a monster,” I said with a grin I made no attempt to conceal. I unfurled the genoa completely and saw the boat speed jump another knot. In another three hours, I was rewarded by the sight of Swan Island barely visible in the distance as it emerged from the sea.

  On the chartplotter, the western side of the island was showing a dock that appeared to be sheltered from the swells on the windward side of the island. I, for one, wanted to at least get off the boat and walk on solid ground for a few minutes.

  “Tasha, I’m going to start the engine. Would you furl the genoa and drop the main?”

  “Da, Capitan,” Tasha replied with a wave that I thought might have a less than respectful meaning in Russian.

  The dock extended into the water for a hundred yards. I brought Dolce Vita in at an angle to the dock, swung the wheel hard over to starboard, and shifted into reverse. The boat neatly swung in a circle and almost had stopped all forward momentum as the stern swung into the dock. No telling when the dock had been built-it was crudely finished in rough concrete and had old rusted iron cleats that looked like they had been in place since the early 1900s.

  Tasha flipped a loop over an ancient cleat on the wall and tied it to the cleat at the stern. We snugged the boat into the dock with a couple of spring lines and a bow line after placing every fender we had onboard between the fiberglass hull and the jagged concrete of the dock.

  It looked like the island had been deserted for years. There was only the sound of the boobies screeching as they perched on the rocks and the waves crashing on the other side of the quay. That deserted appearance was quickly belied as five uniformed men armed with M16s quietly appeared at the end of the dock. They quickly walked down the length of the dock and stared at us in silence.

  “Su pasaporte, por favor,” said one man who was armed only with a pistol.

  “Aquí están,” I said as we quickly handed over our passport. After a moment’s examination of our documents, I could see the soldiers visibly begin to relax.

  “Would you prefer we speak in English? I am Sergeant Cardoza,” the leader said with a welcoming smile.

  “Certainly I’m Kyle and this is Tasha. I have to say; your English is very good.”

  “Gracias, probably comes from growing up in Miami until I was twenty,” he said. “My apologies for the surprise greeting, but we often have less than desirable visitors arriving on our shores; you are welcome to stay tonight. We were just about to have dinner in a few minutes. Would you care to join us? As you can imagine, we don’t get a lot of company here.”

  I glanced over at Tasha. “Sounds like a great plan,” she said. “The chef will be happy to get a little break tonight,” she said rolling her eyes at me.

  We quickly finished securing the boat to the quay and accepted a hand from the soldiers who reached down to help us to the dock three feet above. The compound, if you could call it that, was only a couple minutes walk along what appeared to be a goat path complete with a few dried goat droppings to help mark the path. We emerged from the dense brush into an opening in the palms about two hundred yards long and one hundred wide with a half dozen structures visible and several others that had apparently surrendered to the smothering embrace of the lush subtropical growth. The buildings were a combination of old abandoned structures and newer Quonset huts that had not begun to succumb to the rust that thrived in the salt air. There was also a small antenna farm with a couple of newer satellite dishes and what appeared to be the remains of an old radio tower towering two hundred feet above the landscape.

  In reply to my questioning look, the Sergeant gave me a quick history of the island. “This is Honduran territory. My men and I are here for forty five days at a time defending the island from all invaders-you might have guessed by now that we don’t have a big problem with that except for the occasional drug smuggler. Mainly, we just do a little snorkeling, play some volleyball, and greet the occasional visitor. There is still an active weather station on the island. The big radio tower you see over there,” he said pointing in the general direction of the rusting antenna, “used to be the original tower for what became Radio Americas. The CIA was in control of the island in the early 60’s and broadcast AM radio on fourteen channels in Spanish. It used to drive Castro absolutely crazy to hear the broadcast coming into Cuba every night from this little island. They finally closed the operation down and moved everything to Miami quite a few years ago.”

  I was about to ask another question of Cardona when the breeze shifted and I smelled what could only be aroma of barbequed pork wafting in the breeze. “That smells fabulous. Do you have pigs on the island?”

  “Nope, that’s barbequed cabra,” Cardona said stroking his mustache with anticipation. “Used to be a lot of goats until they were almost wiped out in the late eighteen-hundreds. Now there’s only maybe a hundred left between the two islands. We try to eat one every month or so just to keep them from over-running the vegetation.”

  Another soldier dragged out a cooler filled with ice and a couple of bottles of chilled Flor de Cana rum. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I said toasting Tasha and our newfound friends. The first one went down too damn quickly and we were well on our way to finishing a second by the time dinner was served. The goat had been slowly smoked on a rotisserie for several hours and was flavored with a combination of the hardwood smoke and chile sauce rubbed into the meat. The soldiers had also prepared a crude ceviche with some of the fresh fish they had caught during the day. Apparently, fresh vegetables were in short supply, but some black beans from the can seemed to go well with the rest of the dinner.

  “Aaah…a little more rum, por favor,” I mumbled. After about three healthy drinks, it was time to call it a night while we could still make my way down the goat path to the dock without falling in the ocean. Tasha was apparently in no better shape than me. She wasn’t talking very much as the night dragged on, but broke into a hysterical fit of giggling as one of the soldiers tried to jump over the fire and apparently singed some sensitive parts.

  “Tasha, this way,” I said trying to keep her centered on the dock. More giggling and she muttered something completely incomprehensible in Russian. We finally made it to the boat and thanks to the high tide, found that the boat was almost level with the edge of the quay. Somehow we managed to get aboard and staggered down the narrow passageway to the forward berth.

  I lay beside her, tried to decide whether it would be polite to take advantage of her in such a condition and had my question answered when she rolled over and started snoring resolutely. Five minutes later, thanks to too much rum and exhaustion, I was unconscious beside her.

  CHAPTER 25

  My favorite alarm went off when the sun peeked in through the open hatch in the forward compartment at seven in the morning. I blearily o
pened one eye to find Tasha already dressed in cutoff jeans and a tank top standing in front of me with a fresh cup of coffee and a smile that rivaled the sunrise.

  “Thanks, darlin’, I’m glad one of us is alive and well this morning.”

  “Obviously, you’re not Russian. We can drink all night and be ready to start the party again the next morning. I’m going to leave you sulking with your coffee while I go exploring for a bit. It’s such a beautiful morning. I’ll be back in maybe an hour or so,” Tasha replied as she pulled on her tennis shoes.

  “Fabulous,” I groused, “I’ll have some breakfast waiting and we’ll leave around two this afternoon.” Finished the remaining coffee in a couple of gulps and went up above decks for my morning constitutional, while Tasha hopped up to the dock and disappeared down a trail to the other end of the island. I wasn’t worried about her getting lost-the island was only three miles long and the most dangerous animal was one of the overly friendly goats.

  I spent the next thirty minutes going through the usual checks on the engine and electrical systems. As I focused on plotting the next leg of the course to Nicaragua, I was distracted by a low thrumming sound in the distance that within seconds clearly became the sound of an aircraft engine. Squinting into the rising sun, I could make out the unlikely shape of a Grumann Albatross circling low for a landing on the grass strip that ran the length of the island. It was obvious that something was amiss, there was a thin trail of smoke trailing from the port engine and an audible roughness in what should have been the smooth rumble of the big radial engines. I grabbed a pair of shoes and the biggest fire extinguisher I had onboard and headed in the direction of the strip.

  Aboard the Albatross, John Pierre had a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead as he nervously scanned the gauges of the aircraft. The first leg of the trip to from Walker’s Cay to Cuba had been fairly uneventful and they had actually delayed for a couple of days while Escabado drank and whored to his heart’s content. Two could play that game thought John Pierre. During the layover, he had managed to meet a lovely young Cuban physician who obviously knew a great deal about the male anatomy and was looking for creative ways to supplement the two hundred dollar monthly salary she received from the Cuban government.

  Their trouble started about two hours into their leg out of Cuba. John Pierre had detected a slight roughness in one of the engines. He looked over at the port engine and was startled to see oil staining the nacelle and blowing into a fine mist as it hit their slipstream. The big radials were notorious for leaking oil, but this was alarming-it had to be either a loose or broken oil line.

  Time for some very hard choices. Cuba was two hours behind them-completely out of the question. The only other options were the Caymans about sixty miles to the Northeast or Isla Cisne, a tiny speck of land that he could see just off the southern horizon. An easy decision; John Pierre was well known to the customs officials in the Caymans and had narrowly escaped being a long-term guest of the local law enforcement on a couple of occasions. “Alexandra, prepare for landing. Looks like an oil leak-we need to check on the port engine.”

  Escabado and the crewman in the cabin were intently following the pilots’ conversation and without being told buckled their seatbelts and cinched them tight.

  “Starting checklist for dry landing,” Alexandra said as she started working swiftly through the items on her clipboard. Dropped the engine superchargers from high to low. “20 degrees of flaps,” she intoned while John Pierre rolled into a lumbering turn for the final approach to the runway. “Extending gear.” She verified the gear down position by looking through the observation window in the floor of the flight deck.

  “On final at 2,000 feet.” John Pierre reached up to the overhead throttles and reduced power on the engines as he lined up for the center of the grass runway. Flew in just over the treeline and still had twenty eight hundred feet remaining on the runway. Nose a little high, the Albatross floated for a couple of seconds and then rolled out on the runway. They continued to the end of the strip and swung the aircraft around. John Pierre idled the engines for a few seconds to empty the residual oil from the cylinders and finally the big radials coughed and wound down to silence.

  He swung the center pedestal up and slid out of his seat grabbing the bulkhead-mounted fire extinguisher as he went.

  “Coming through!” he said scrambling to the hatch mounted in the top of the cabin. As he squeezed through the opening, he was relieved to see that the smoke had stopped and there was no sign of fire. Probably nothing more than oil blowing off the wing. “Miguel, get me some tools. I need to open the engine cover.”

  Miguel promptly handed a toolbelt through the hatch. “Can you fix it?”

  “Don’t know. We have a few small spare parts and hoses, but if it’s anything major we’re screwed.”

  Escabado stuck his head through the hatch. “How long is it gonna be?”

  “Jefe, I am not sure. I’ll know more in a few minutes.”

  “Alexandra,” bellowed Escabado. “Get on the radio. I need a boat here pronto. Tell them to send the ‘Bandito’.”

  “Yes, Jefe,” said Alexandra as she called the cargo ship waiting for them off the coast of Nicarauga. The ‘Bandito’ was a custom built Outer Limits Catamaran. It was carried in a specially built container bolted to the top deck of a small coastal freighter the Lucia Marie that served as Escabado’s floating base of operations. The old, rusty freighter would approach to within thirty miles of the North American coastline at night and offload the Bandito. With a top speed of almost one hundred forty miles an hour, they could drop their load on a secluded dock in the dead of night by the time the Coast Guard could react and scramble a chopper.

  The Captain of the freighter, Juan Pedroza had been cruising aimlessly through Cayos Miskitos for over a week waiting for the Albatross to land. Once Escabado was aboard, he was to smuggle him ashore in Nicarauga on one of the little rivers that dotted the coast. His crew was frustrated both by the delay and the seemingly endless swarms of mosquitoes that seemed to swarm off the small islands that were their namesake.

  They immediately scrambled into action when they heard the command to launch relayed through the hailer on the ship’s bridge. Within minutes, the crane had offloaded the Bandito and she was bobbing gently beside the mothership.

  Juan was making this run personally-partly to curry favor with Escabado, but also because he would have cut off his left cojone to be able to crack the throttles on the Bandito on the open water of the Caribbean.

  He took a moment to admire the sleek lines of the catamaran hull with the closed in glass cockpit that bore closer resemblance to a jet fighter than a boat. The crowning touch was the painting of a sneering bandito with blazing guns and an oversized cigar painted on the foredeck. Juan would never risk his life by making the observation aloud, but he did think it bore a faint resemblance to Escabado. After scrambling down the ladder to the open cockpit, he strapped himself into the racing safety harness and pushed the button to lower the hydraulically operated hatch. With a push of the start buttons, the twin 1200 hp racing engines came to life with a bone shaking roar.

  CHAPTER 26

  John Pierre was sweating profusely within minutes after crawling precariously onto the top of the wing. The combination of the tropical sun reflecting off the polished aluminum and the heat radiating from the big radial engines was quickly becoming intolerable.

  In spite of the conditions, he had an insufferable grin plastered on his face. As soon as he opened the first aluminum cowling covering the engine, he spotted the source of his trouble. The bleed line that allowed excess oil to return to the oil reservoir had a compression fitting that had apparently loosened from the intense vibrations of the engine. Two minutes to tighten the fitting and he was ready to re-secure the access hatch on the cowling.

  He was startled as he saw bushes moving on the other side of the airfield. That sight was quickly followed by the appearance of a lovely woman wearing nothing m
ore than a pair of tiny shorts and a tanktop. Merde he thought. “Just to let you know; we have company out at the treeline”, he said leaning down into the open hatch.

  Alexandra popped her head out the cabin door, saw the woman approaching and gave her a welcoming wave. By that time, Tasha had crossed the runway and was standing at the bottom of the ladder leading to the entry hatch on the side.

  “Hi, do you guys need some help?” Tasha asked.

  “Really nothing major; just a little mechanical problem,” Alexandra said. “You look pretty hot out there; would you like to come up for some water?”

  Tasha, with sweat streaming off her face from her walk through the jungle, nodded once and scrambled up the ladder into the cabin. Stepping into the dark confines of the cabin, she paused for a second to let her eyes adjust to the light.

  In spite of the oppressive heat, she felt a chill course through her body when she heard a low, familiar voice ask, “How about you dance for me, palomita?” Escabado stepped around the bulkhead with his teeth clenched around a cigar. “Popov will be happy to know we found you. But I think we talk first about why you are in a place that God has forgotten. But I think I don’t like surprises-we go out in the bush and see who shows up next.”

  Everyone except the pilots grabbed an assortment of automatic weapons and pistols and scrambled down the boarding ladder into the scrub brush at the side of the runway. The crewman casually held a pistol pointed at Tasha’s head as she crouched down trying to ignore the biting flies that tormented them.

  They didn’t have long to wait before Escabado’s prediction came true. The local Honduran contingent led by Cardoza came running up the goat trail at a slow trot. They had witnessed the approach of the Albatross trailing smoke on its final approach to the runway and since they didn’t hear the sounds of a crash assumed that the aircraft had landed safely.