Tomlinson followed me out the door, then north along the shore. Where the beach ended and mangroves began, I could see the gray hull of a Florida marine patrol vessel—Florida Fish and Wildlife, officially. Two uniformed officers were talking to the former president while a half dozen of Tomlinson's group looked on—a couple of them painted but at least clothed. Ginger Love was there, with her Kool-Aid orange hair and signature straw hat.
Wilson was standing next to our plastic canoe. He'd been fishing from it, apparently. When I mentioned it to Tomlinson, he said, "I bet he doesn't have a fishing license. Maybe that's what this is about."
In Florida, a saltwater license is required if you fish from a boat.
"Even if he does, he can't show it. Or his ID."
I said, "I hope you're wrong." I was imagining the president resisting, then news footage of Wilson and Love handcuffed.
Humiliating.
Before we got much closer, though, the officers gave farewell nods, pushed their boat into deeper water, and fired the engine as the little group splintered. Some returned in our direction, a few remained with the former president, Ginger among them.
When Mike Westhoff, one of Tomlinson's few jock pals, got close enough, I called, "What's the problem?"
Coach Mike smiled. "That woman's nuttier than a bucket of loons. If it wasn't for your uncle, she'd be on her way to jail 'bout now."
Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. "Whose uncle?"
"Your uncle, Doc. He's right there." Mike used his linebacker chin to point. "Your Uncle Sam. He was great, the way he handled the water cops."
I was thinking Uncle Sam? The former president's alias had just gotten better.
Ginger, Coach Mike explained, had gotten into an altercation with the Fish and Wildlife officers. "The water cops were on the beach for some reason and she started bitchin' at them. Who knows why. But it attracted a crowd. Ginger has the rare ability to alienate everyone. But then Sam paddles in. He got everybody calmed down."
I said, "What did he do?"
Coach Mike thought for a moment. The man's a football coach, and he also has a Ph.D. in psychology. Even so, he was puzzled. "Damned if I can say. Just started talking. Asking questions, mostly. Very polite, but not faking it. Usually, when someone butts into a fight, they're the first ones cops put on the ground. But Sam, he's cool. You know"—Coach Mike was still digesting the scene—"he reminds me of someone. I can't put my finger on it. He looks a little like that actor, the older guy who plays a pilot, or a senator. Except for the scar, of course—no offense, Doc."
I said quickly, "None taken."
"He get a bad burn or something when he was a kid?"
"Burned, yeah. A long time ago."
"That'll make a person strong. It shows. Your uncle's not wimpy, like the actor, and he doesn't have the TV hair. But in the face, you know what I mean? Around the eyes, and the way he smiles." Coach Mike was nodding. "Bring him to a Jets game sometime. You always have the most interesting relatives. I'd like to get to know Sam better."
I replied honestly, "Some people say that my uncle's unforgettable."
***
As we approached, the waitresses from the rum bar, Liz and Milita, were watching as Ginger Love talked, rapid-fire, moving her hands as if conducting a symphony. Wilson faced her, expression patient. When he saw us, though, he held up a palm, telling us to stop where we were. "Sorry I'm late, guys. I'll be right with you." Setting up his escape.
Pretending we couldn't hear, Ginger said, "Sam, it's such a shame that Doc didn't inherit your charm. Or your sense of civic responsibility. Some men, though"—her laughter was weighted with forbearance—"never grow up. He and Tomlinson are so alike in that way."
I noticed that her eyes never lingered on the president's face.
It's impolite to stare at scars, which is why I'd suggested it.
The Rum Bar waitresses were walking toward us as Wilson replied, "Very insightful to recognize the similarities, Ginger. But I don't agree with your assessment. You should get to know the guys better." What was different about his voice? Had he added a slight Southern accent? I was paying closer attention as Ginger replied,
"Oh, I've tried and tried with those two, my friend. They're both terrified of strong women. Poor Doc, he scampers into his little world of fish and chemicals and experiments. Know why I think he's not politically involved? He's so naïve. If the man was somehow magically transported to a foreign country? A place where life is hard—places we've experienced, Sam—I think he'd be as helpless as a child."
I heard Wilson say, "Well, I hope you're wrong about that," as Milita and Liz stopped with their backs to Ginger Love, close enough for Liz to whisper, "Bitch."
Both women grinned.
"We tried to rescue the poor man. But Ginger pretended like we were invisible."
"Typical," Milita added. She turned to look at Wilson. "We really like your uncle, Doc. I wish he wasn't wearing that wedding ring—a man like Sam, a woman doesn't care about age. Why isn't his wife with him?"
Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. "She transitioned to the next Dharma," he said. "It was less than a year ago."
"Dah-harma?"
I translated. "She's dead."
"Oh no! That's so sad! Geez, poor Sam, I bet he was married to a good one. You can just tell, can't you, Liz? He's so . . . solid."
Liz was nodding but also listening. She timed it so she interrupted Ginger in midsentence when she called, "Sam? Sam! We need your advice about something. Personal, if you don't mind us borrowing him, ma'am. "
Ginger didn't like being called "ma'am." It's something I've noticed in women of a certain age. She stood glaring as Wilson joined us. She was still glaring as we turned down the beach toward our cabin, Milita saying, "If you're going to be in the area for a while, Sam, why don't you stop by the Rum Bar for a drink?"
***
When Wilson, Tomlinson, and I were alone, the former president said, "Nobody recognized me." He was delighted. "Know what I worried about most? Someone recognizing my voice."
I was right about the Southern accent.
"It comes natural," he explained. "I spent the first part of my life in a little piney-woods village. I worked hard at getting rid of the drawl. But it's always right there if I want. Just a hint—actors always overdo it."
Tomlinson leaned to get a close look at Wilson's face. "Did you have a professional makeup artist create that?"
"In a way. But not for me."
"It's artistry, man. Even from here, it looks real. Such a small thing—but what a difference."
"So far, so good, but the fewer people I meet, the better. I was nervous, at first, the way the woman with the hat was looking at me."
The president had given us a condensed version of what had happened between Ginger Love and the water cops. Something to do with her being questioned about a loggerhead turtle shell she'd found. He was more interested in how strangers had reacted to him.
"Most people averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. One of the deputies said I looked familiar, but even he wouldn't look at my face. The woman asked if I'd ever thought about going into politics."
I said, "What did you tell her?"
"Told her I was flattered. But I came too damn close to using a Richard Nixon line—I have to stop quoting presidents. It's become automatic. But I was right. They didn't make the connection."
There was a boyish quality in his tone.
"What's the Nixon line?"
I'd omitted the prefix, which irritated Wilson. "President Nixon said that politics would be a helluva good business if it wasn't for the goddamn press." He looked at his watch, then at Tomlinson. "Can we leave in an hour?"
Tomlinson said, "Sam, we can leave now if you want," celebrating, his inflection saying You did it, man.You're free.
11
Three miles off Redfish Pass, wind out of the southwest, No Más on a starboard tack: Tomlinson said softly, "He used the same leverage on me."
&n
bsp; "How?" I kept my voice low. Kal Wilson was belowdecks, reading.
"He said I don't really know who you are. That there are things about myself I don't know. And that he could get me pardoned. Because the president owes him."
Meaning the current president. During Wilson's last days in office, Tomlinson explained, he signed nine executive pardons as a personal favor for the man who would succeed him two terms later.
I said, "I know. He showed me the list. It checks out—if you believe he'll do it."
Tomlinson said, "Yeah. If." He thought about it a moment as I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before 6 p.m. The Gulf of Mexico was gradually encircling us as we moved off shore.
Waves slid past, gray buoyant ridges that lifted No Más, zeppelin-like, inflating then deflating the fiberglass hull.
"Doc?"
"Yeah?"
"The man didn't have to threaten me. Hell, I still don't know exactly where we're going. But I wouldn't've missed taking a trip like this, unless . . . unless he's on some kind of destructive mission—"
I held up a warning finger as Wilson's head appeared in the companionway. He came up the steps carrying a nautical chart.
"I feel like I'm interrupting, gentlemen. Comparing notes?"
I said, "Tomlinson's worried you're planning something destructive. He was telling me he would've come along even without the coercion. I probably would've, too."
Wilson appeared pleased by my honesty. "The definition of coercion varies. Didn't we talk about that? I'm offering you both something of value in return."
Tomlinson said, "If I committed a crime, man, I have a moral obligation to pay. Reciprocity, man. That's what karma's all about."
Wilson looked at him sharply. He said, "If you committed a crime. You really don't remember—?"
"I do remember. That's what I'm saying. I helped build a bomb. A man died and I'm guilty. For me, there's no such thing as a pardon. It doesn't matter that it happened twenty years ago."
The former president was paying attention, no longer impatient. "Then why did you say if?"
Tomlinson was lounging shirtless, using his toes to steady the wheel. He straightened, thinking about it. He'd been institutionalized after the bombing. Weeks of electroshock therapy had scrambled his memory synapses. "I . . . don't know. You're right. I've admitted that I'm guilty. There isn't a day goes by that I don't expect the cops to come banging on my door"—he glanced at me—"or worse. A bullet through the old coconut, maybe." He reflected for a few seconds more. "I don't know why I said 'if'. It just came out."
Wilson was studying him, nodding, as he took a seat beside me on the starboard side and unrolled the chart. "Think about it. If you don't care about a pardon, maybe you care about the truth."
Tomlinson sat back and his toes found the ship's wheel. "The truth, man, absolutely."
I was tempted to say the definition of "truth" is even trickier than the definition of "coercion," but the former president had taken charge. I listened to him say, "The truth is part of our bargain, too. I'll give you the information I have. You two have a lot in common. I think you'll find it . . . interesting."
"When?"
"When it's time, Doc. That'll have to do." He had the chart on his lap, holding it with both hands so the breeze didn't take it. "There's a more pressing matter. Our destination."
"I've been wondering, man. For the last half hour, I've been taking it slow, just like you told me. Letting No Más have her head."
Wilson touched an index finger to the bridge of his glasses.
"Then let's make a decision."
***
. . .It was one of the big NOAA charts that showed the Gulf of Mexico and bordering land regions. The former president unfolded it, then folded it to narrow the aspect. He placed it on his lap so we both could see, before asking, "How long would it take us to sail to Tampa Bay?"
Tomlinson answered, "Depends on where in Tampa Bay you want to go. It's ten or twelve hours to the sea channel—that's the easy part. After that, it's twenty-five miles or so to the port. But lots of narrow channels."
Wilson nodded. "The Bahamas?"
"Two full days at least, no matter which way we go."
"What about Key West?"
"Twenty-four hours, plus an hour or two—if this breeze holds."
"You've made the trip?"
Tomlinson removed his toe from the wheel and knocked a knuckle on the oiled teak. "If this lady leaked asphalt, there'd be a highway between Dinkin's Bay and the patio bar at Louie's Backyard."
"What about Big Torch Key?"
Big Torch Key was only a few miles from Key West, but Tomlinson said, "Add a couple more hours, because we draw too much water to go in through Florida Bay. There's a good anchorage at Key West, then we'd sail out and around. Come in from the Atlantic side."
"I see." The president moved his hand west, across the chart. "What about Mexico? How long to sail to the Yucatán?"
The Yucatán Peninsula extends almost to Cuba, forming the southwestern rim of the Gulf basin.
Tomlinson looked at me, his expression saying Far out as he replied, "Cozumel's three hundred ninety nautical miles from Sanibel. From Key West, it's three hundred ten miles. That's on a rhomb line, of course. So . . . depending on weather, it would takes us about three days."
"You're very quick with the data. I take it you've made that crossing, too."
I wondered if Tomlinson would change the asphalt analogy to bales of marijuana.
"Sure. Usually from Key West, but I've done both. It can be a dream trip, or a nightmare. Depends on how hilly it gets. Either way, we'd have lots of time for private study. We can start your introduction to meditation."
Tomlinson had referred to the former president's interest in Zen Buddhism a couple of times since we'd been aboard. Now, as before, Wilson ignored him.
The president rolled the chart. "Take us to Key West, Mr. Tomlinson." He went down the steps into the cabin.
I was putting the destinations together; events, too. Thinking: We're going to Panama.
***
. . .Only a few minutes later, though, Wilson reappeared, his face stern. "Gentlemen, we had an agreement. No electronic devices except for the things I personally okayed. Not on this boat. Not on your person at any time during the trip."
Why was Wilson looking at me?
I said quickly, "I had a cell phone and a little GPS. Your guy, Vue, took both. I wasn't happy about it. And I expect to get them back—but those were the only electronics I had."
Wilson said, "Then this is just an oversight." He held out his hand to show me one of the two small flashlights I had left. "I didn't go through your gear. That's your job. I found this hanging on one of the lockers forward."
I was confused. "It's a flashlight, Mr. President. It's not a radio."
He looked at me until I realized I'd slipped again. "Sorry . . .Sam. But you've lost me. Are you saying we can't carry anything that uses batteries?"
He shook his head. "Not batteries. Computer components."
He handed me the light. "Those little buttons—that thing's pro-grammable, isn't it?"
The man was right. The new generation of LED lights used Intel chips; a few had memory cards. I hadn't even thought about it.
"I've got to be tough about this. You men are aware of my . . .timetable. There are things I want to accomplish. And I only have two or three weeks. I can't risk an interruption. That flashlight could have a tracking chip in it. Turn on the light, it sends a locator signal."
Tomlinson said, "Whoa, man. I've got a personal relationship with paranoia. We go way back. But the three of us are shipmates now, and you've got to trust Doc and me—"
I interrupted, "No, he doesn't. And he shouldn't. He's right."
I had the cap off the flashlight, inspecting it. "There's no transmitter chip—not that I know of, anyway. But there doesn't have to be. Some computer components have their own electronic signature." I looked at Tomlinson. "If one of us
wanted to signal our location, this is the sort of thing we'd use. There're GPS tracking sticks smaller than this. It's not my field, and I don't know how sophisticated the tracking equipment is—"
"It's the most sophisticated on earth. If people get serious about finding us, they'll pull out the stops." Wilson touched his thumb to an index finger, then his middle finger. "There are two ways to defeat superior technology. One, change the objectives of engagement. Two, change the arena of engagement. Do both and your chances improve.
"We're changing arenas. The technology they'll use is twenty-first century. But aboard this boat"—Wilson looked at the sail: a sanded wing transecting a tropic sky—"we've moved back in time a hundred years. Modern tracking systems are programmed to monitor modern threats. Not the stuff we're using."
Because Wilson had insisted, we'd stripped No Más of her VHF radios, EPRB emergency transmitters, GPS, and SONAR gear and left them with friends on Cayo Costa.
Tomlinson said, "I've done astral projection, soul travel—you'll learn that meditation is the vehicle of spiritual experience. But this is cool. We've shifted centuries."
"In terms of electronic signature. Yes. The National Security Agency has amazing monitoring technology. Details are classified, but I know their capabilities. Use a cell phone in the Afghan mountains and our people can triangulate the position within a minute. With prior authorization, we can have a laser-guided missile under way within ninety seconds. The technology is brilliant, but it's also very specialized. And that makes it vulnerable."
During our canoe trip from Ligarto Island to Cayo Costa, he'd asked if I'd brought a draft of the paper Tomlinson and I were writing. But this was the first time he'd mentioned the subject.
"An early indicator of overspecialization is when a technology no longer addresses the problem that made it necessary in the first place. Intercepting an adversary's communications dates back thousands of years. Our monitoring systems can track a cell phone on the other side of the earth. But they're not equipped to monitor the primitive transmitters you and your friends were using this morning." Wilson was looking at Tomlinson, expecting him to be confused, and maybe a little disappointed because he wasn't.
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 11
