Aftershock & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

  He’d been half expecting something like this. Damn. Should have left them back on Sugarloaf.

  “Don’t wimp out on me, Joe.”

  “It’s not me. Look, you can keep the money. Martha’s getting sick. Just turn around and take us back.”

  “Can’t do that. No questions and no turning back—wasn’t that the deal?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s still the deal. Tell Martha to hang on and she’ll have a new hip tomorrow.”

  As Joe stumbled back to his wife, Terry concentrated on the infrared scanner. Clear and cold except for the faint blob of the Osler straight ahead. Good. Stay that way.

  Terry liked rain. Besides lowering visibility, it played havoc with heat scanners. Radiant energy tended to get swallowed up in all that falling water. But that could be a two-edged sword: Terry couldn’t spot a pursuer until they were fairly close.

  Didn’t worry him much at the moment. Weren’t too many craft that could outrun him in a sprint, and once he slipped past the twelve-mile limit, no one could touch him. Legally, anyway. Always the possibility that some frustrated ATF goon with a short fuse might blow a few holes in your hull—and you—and let the sharks clean up the mess.

  He checked the compass, checked the Loran—right on course. Just a matter of time now. He looked up and froze when he saw Joe Kowalski pointing a pistol at him. The automatic—looked like a 9mm—wavered in the old guy’s hand but the muzzle never strayed far from the center of Terry’s chest.

  “Turn around and take us back,” Joe shouted.

  No way was Terry turning back. And no way was he telling Joe that at the moment. Guns made him nervous.

  Terry eyed the gun. “Where’d that come from?”

  “I brought it along…just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “In case you tried to rob us. Or worse.”

  “Whatever happened to trust?”

  “The Health Resources Allocation Agency’s got mine.” His eyes bored into Terry’s. “Now turn this thing around. I told you you could keep the money. Just take us back.”

  Terry shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t do that.”

  Joe couldn’t seem to believe what he’d heard. “I’ve got a gun, dammit!”

  Terry was well aware of that. He didn’t think Joe would pull that trigger, but you never knew. So maybe it was time to shake Joe up—more than physically.

  “And I’ve got a cargo to deliver.”

  “My wife is not cargo!”

  “Take a look below,” Terry told him, jutting his chin toward the door to the belowdecks area.

  Joe’s gaze darted from Terry to the door and back. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You wouldn’t try anything stupid, would you?”

  Terry shrugged. “Take a look.”

  Joe thought about that, then backed away and opened the door. More hesitation, then he slipped below. A moment later he appeared again, pale, his eyes wide. Terry could read his lips.

  “Medical supplies! Martha, he’s a smuggler!”

  Martha freed up a hand long enough to slap it over the O of her mouth, then returned it to the armrest.

  “The way I see it, Joe, you’ve got two options. The first is you can shoot me and try to get the boat back home on your own. Not only will you have to guide it through the storm, but you’ll have to avoid the shore patrol. If they catch you you’ll go down for murder and smuggling. Or you can follow through with our original plan and—” A blip caught his eye on the infrared scanner, aport and astern, and closing. He forgot all about Joe Kowalski’s gun. “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got company.”

  “Who?”

  “ATF, most likely.”

  “ATF? But they’re alcohol, tobacco and—”

  “They added medical supplies to their list. Get over by Martha and hang on. This could get a little rough.”

  “A little rough? It’s already—”

  “Get out of my face, dammit!”

  Henriques, Terry thought. Has to be him. No one else has such a bug up his ass that he’d brave this storm looking for a runner. Not just any runner. Looking for The One That Got Away.

  Me.

  He jammed the throttle all the way forward. Terryfied lifted farther out of the water and began bouncing along the tops of the waves. Like riding downhill in a boxcar derby on a cobblestone road. With steel wheels. Planing out was impossible, but this was as close as she’d get. The price was loss of control. The boat slewed wildly to port or starboard whenever she dipped into a trough.

  How’d Henriques find him? Luck? Probably not. He was a Conch but even that wasn’t enough. Probably some new equipment he had. Price was no object for the ATF when taxes were paying for it.

  Damn ATF. For years Terry had breezed in and out of the Keys on his supply runs until they’d got smart and started hiring locals for their shore patrols. Making a run these days had become downright dicey.

  He concentrated on the Loran, the infrared scanner, and what little he could see of the water ahead. The blip had stopped gaining. And running on the diagonal as it had to, was actually losing ground. Terry didn’t let up. Unless he hit some floating debris or broached in a freak swell, he’d be first to cross the twelve-mile limit.

  But he wouldn’t be celebrating.

  “Oh, Lord!” Martha cried, staring up the sheer twenty feet of steel hull that loomed above her. “How am I going to get up there?”

  “Don’t worry,” Terry said as he tried to hold his bobbing craft steady against the Osler. “We have a routine.”

  Above them a winch supporting a pair of heavy-duty slings swung into view. The straps of the slings flapped and twisted in the gale-force winds as they were lowered over the side. Terry nosed his prow through the first when it hit water, then idled his engine and manually guided the second sling under the stern.

  The winch began hauling them up.

  Once they were on the deck the crew pulled a heavy canvas canopy over the boat and helped Martha into a wheelchair.

  “Well, she made it,” Terry said.

  Joe Kowalski stared at him. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you in the nose.”

  “Think on it awhile,” Terry said. “Wait till you’re both sitting in a bar sipping a G ’n’ T after a round of golf. Then decide.”

  Joe’s face softened. He extended his hand. They shook, then Joe followed Martha inside.

  As the Osler’s crew offloaded the medical supplies, Terry ducked out from under the billowing canopy and fought the wind and rain to the deck rail. He squinted out at the lightning-shot chaos. A lot of hell left in this monster. But that didn’t mean Henriques had run home. No, that bastard was laying out there somewhere, waiting.

  Not to arrest him. Couldn’t do that once the contraband was gone. And if Henriques did manage to catch him, Terry could thumb his nose and say he’d been out on a little jaunt to say hello to some old friends among the crew.

  But even though Henriques had no case against him, Terry still couldn’t let him get near. It wasn’t fear of arrest that gnawed at the lining of his gut. It was being identified.

  Once they knew his name, his runner career was over. He’d be watched day and night, followed everywhere, his phones tapped, his house bugged, and every time Terryfied left the slip he’d be stopped and inspected.

  His whole way of life would be turned upside down.

  One option was to stay on the Osler and make a break for the coast farther north. But the weather would be better then and officialdom would have copters hovering about, waiting to tag him and follow him home.

  No, he had to use the heavy weather. But even that might not be enough. On the way out he’d had the advantage: Henriques didn’t know Terry’s starting point. Could have been anywhere along the lower twenty miles of the archipelago. But now Henriques had him pinpointed. All he had to do was wait for Terry to make his move. Didn’t even have to catch him. All he had to do
was follow him home.

  Yeah, getting back was going to be a real bitch.

  “Maybe he’s not coming,” Cramer said. “Maybe he’s going to wait out the storm and hope that we drowned out here.”

  Cramer’s whininess had increased steadily during the hour they’d been holding here. It was getting on Henriques’s nerves something bad now.

  “He is coming out, and it’ll be during the storm, and we’re not going to drown.”

  At least he hoped not. A couple of times during the past hour he hadn’t been so sure about that. He’d had Cramer keep the VMA low and slow in forward into the wind while he watched the lights of the Osler through his binocs. But every so often came a rogue wave or a gust of shear wind that damn near cap-sized them. Cramer had good reason to want to hightail for home.

  But they weren’t turning around until the fuel gauge told them they had to.

  Besides, according to the Doppler the rear end of the storm was only a few miles west. The runner would have to make his break soon.

  And then you’re mine.

  “We got heat action, chief. Lots of it.”

  Henriques snapped the glasses down and leapt to the infrared scanner. Fanning out from the big red blob of the hospital ship were three smaller, fainter blobs.

  “What’s going on, chief?”

  “Decoys.”

  The son of a bitch had two of the Osler’s shuttles running interference for him. One heat source was headed north-northeast, one north-northwest, and one right at them.

  Henriques ground his teeth. The bastard had raised his odds from zero to two out of three. God damn him.

  “All right, Cramer,” he said. “One of them’s our man. Which one?’

  “I—I dunno.”

  “Come on. Put yourself out here alone. You’ve got to chase one. Choose.”

  Cramer chewed his lip and stared at the scanner. Probably doing eeny-meeny-miney-moe in his head. Henriques had already decided to ignore whichever Cramer chose. Cramer was never right.

  “Well, it sure as hell ain’t the guy coming right at us, so I’ll choose…the…one…to…the…” His finger stabbed at the screen. “East!”

  Henriques hesitated. Not a bad choice, actually. The Lower Keys were more heavily populated toward their western end, especially near Key West; coast guard base and naval air station down that way—all sorts of folks runners don’t like to meet. And the storm was heading northeast, so that direction would give the most rain cover. He might just have to go with Cramer this—

  Wait a second.

  Well, it sure as hell ain’t the guy coming right at us…

  Yeah. The obvious assumption. So obvious that Henriques had bought into it without really thinking. But what if the runner was counting on that? Send the shuttles right and left, draw the heat toward them, then breeze through the empty middle.

  And remember: Cramer is never right.

  He grabbed Cramer’s wrist as he reached for the throttle. “Let’s hang here for a bit.”

  “Why? He’s got to—”

  “Just call it a feeling.”

  Henriques watched the screen, tracking the trio of diverging blobs. As the center one neared, he lifted the glasses again. Nothing. Whoever it was was traveling without running lights.

  Doubt wriggled in his gut. What if the runner had pulled a double reverse? If so, he was already out of reach…as good as home free.

  “Getting close,” Cramer said. “See him yet?”

  “No.”

  “Still coming right at us. Think he knows we’re here?”

  “He knows. He’s got infrared too.”

  “Yeah, well, he ain’t acting like it. Maybe we should turn the running—”

  And then a dazzling flash of lightning to the south and Henriques saw it. A Hutch 686.

  He let out a whoop of triumph. “It’s him! We got him!”

  “I see him!” Cramer called. “But he’s coming right at us. Is he crazy?”

  “No, he’s not crazy. And he’s not going to hit us. Bring us about. We got us a chase!”

  Cramer stood frozen at the wheel. “He’s gonna ram us!”

  “Shit!”

  Henriques grabbed the spotlight, thumbed the switch and swiveled it toward the oncoming boat. He picked up the charging bow, the flying spray, almost on top of them, and goddamn if it didn’t look like the bastard was really going to ram them.

  Henriques braced himself as Cramer shouted incoherently and ducked behind the console. But at the last minute the runner swerved and flashed past to starboard, sending a wave of wake over the gunwale.

  “After him!” Henriques screamed. “After him, goddamn it!”

  Cramer was pushing on the throttle, yanking on the wheel, bringing them around. But the ankle-deep seawater sloshing back and forth in the cockpit slowed her response. The bilge pumps were overwhelmed at the moment, but they’d catch up. The VMA would be planing out again soon. That cute little maneuver had given the runner a head start, but it wouldn’t matter. Henriques had him now. Didn’t even have to catch him. Just follow him back to whatever dock he called home.

  Terry caught himself looking over his shoulder. A reflex. Nothing to see in that mess of rain and wind. He cursed Henriques for not chasing one of the decoys. The guy seemed to read his mind. Well, why not? They were both Conchs.

  Terry had only one trick left up his sleeve. If that didn’t work…

  Then what? Sink the Terryfied? What good would that do? The ATF would just haul her up, find out who she belonged to, and then camp outside his door.

  Face it: He doesn’t fall for this last one, I’m screwed.

  And being a Conch, it was a damn good chance Henriques wouldn’t.

  Terry spotted the breakers of the barrier reef ahead. Lightning helped him get his bearings and he headed for the channel. As soon as he cut through, the swells shrank by half and he picked up speed. Now was his one chance to increase the distance between Henriques and himself. If he could get close enough to shore, pull in near the parking lot of one of the waterside restaurants or nightspots, maybe he could merge his infrared tag with the heat from the cars and the kitchen.

  And what would that do besides delay the inevitable? Henriques would—

  A bolt of lighting slashed down at a mangrove keylet to starboard, starkly illuminating the area with a flash of cold brilliance. Terry saw the water, the rain, the mangrove clumps, and something else…something that gut-punched him and froze his hands on the wheel.

  “Christ!”

  Just off the port bow and roaring toward him, a swirling, writhing column of white stretching into the darkness above, throwing up a furious cloud of foam and spray as it snaked back and forth across the surface of the water.

  He’d seen plenty of waterspouts before. Couldn’t spend a single season in the Keys without getting used to them, but he’d never—never—been this close to one. Never wanted to be. Waterspout…such an innocuous name. Damn thing was a tornado. That white frothy look was seawater spinning at two or three hundred miles an hour. Just brushing its hem would wreck the boat and send him flying. Catching the full brunt of the vortex would tear the Terryfied and its captain to pieces.

  The hungry maw slithered his way across the surface, sucking up seawater and everything it contained, like Mrs. God’s vacuum hose. Somewhere downwind it would rain salt water and fish—and maybe pieces of a certain Conch and his boat if he didn’t do something fast.

  It lunged toward him, its growing roar thundering like a fully-loaded navy cargo jet lifting off from Boca Chica, drowning out his own engine.

  Terry shook off the paralysis and yanked the wheel hard to starboard. For a heartbeat he was sure he’d acted too late. He screamed into a night that had become all noise and water. The boat lurched, the port side lifted, spray drenched him, big hard drops peppering him like rounds from an Uzi. He thought he was going over.

  And then Terryfied righted herself and the raging, swirling ghostly bulk was dodging past
the stern, ten, then twenty feet from the transom. He saw it swerve back the other way before it was swallowed by the night and the rain. It seemed to be zigzagging down the channel. Maybe it liked the deeper water. Maybe it was trapped in the rut, in the groove…he didn’t know.

  One thing he did know: If not for that lightning flash he’d be dead.

  Would Henriques be so lucky? With the waterspout heading south along the channel and Henriques charging north at full throttle, the ATF could be minus one boat and two men in a minute or so.

  Saved by a waterspout. Who’d ever believe it? No witness except Henriques, and he’d be…fish food.

  Terry turned and stared behind him. Nothing but rain and dark. No sign of Henriques’s running lights. Which meant the waterspout was probably between them…heading right for Henriques.

  “Shit.”

  He reached for the Very pistol. He knew he was going to regret this.

  “Mother of God!” Cramer shouted.

  Henriques saw it too.

  One instant everything was black, the next the sky was blazing red from the emergency flare sailing through the rain. And silhouetted against the burning glow was something dark and massive, directly in their path.

  Henriques reached past Cramer and yanked the wheel hard to port, hard enough to nearly capsize them. The tower of water roared past like a runaway freight train, leaving them stalled and shaken but in one piece. Henriques watched it retreat, pink now in the fading glow of the flare.

  He turned and scanned the water to the north while Cramer shook and sputtered.

  “You see that? You ever see anything like that? Damn near killed us! Hadn’t been for that flare, we’d be goners!”

  Henriques concentrated on the area around the lighted channel marker dead ahead. Something about that marker…

  “There he is!” he shouted as he spotted a pale flash of wake. “Get him!”

  “You gotta be kidding!” Cramer said. “He just saved our asses!”

  “And I’ll be sure to thank him when he’s caught. Now after him, dammit!”

  Cramer grumbled, started the engine, and turned east. He gunned it but Henriques could tell his heart wasn’t in it.