Jean Luc shook his head. “No, not to us. To others who would do us harm? Certainly. So why, exactly, are we here?”
“I’m here to make sure that Nacho doesn’t sink my boat when he does what he’s going to do with her. I don’t think he’d purposely damage Raymond Johnson, because he has scruples—”
Jan interrupted, “That’s a stretch.”
I shrugged. “We aren’t really sure who Nacho is, or what he does, but he has, of late, been on our side in a couple of situations, and we’ve learned to at least trust his instincts. So, if he took my boat without permission, he obviously is on some kind of mission. And Becky’s fiancé is with him, so that is a positive. I simply want to make sure that if he needs backup, we are here to help him.”
Jan piped up again. “Okay, another stretch. Hetta just wants to protect her boat and we’re here to help her.”
I grinned. “Guilty as charged. However, Nacho and Jeff might end up in a situation that could cause harm to my boat.”
Roger spoke. “Back to the mission to save Hetta’s boat. Our radios have a thirty to forty-mile range. I suggest we set up a command post in the middle of the thirty-mile perimeter, and cover as much beachfront as possible. We have six portable radios, so including the built-in on my rig, seven stations. No problem with communications. Jan, show us where your next base camp will be.”
Jan tapped the chart. “Right in the center of your target area. Here. Gonzaga Bay.”
“Why did you choose that spot, Jan?” I asked.
“Because we’re easing the kayakers into the realities of kayaking on the Sea of Cortez. Gonzaga has a few creature comforts, such as a couple of restaurants. After we leave Gonzaga, it’ll be bare beaches, with only our provisioning crews for meals and the like.”
“I hope they’re a hearty bunch. The Baja ain’t for sissies. So, since Gonzaga Bay is within Jenks’s guestimate as to where Raymond Johnson is headed,” I said, “we’ll make our base camp there with yours, if that’s all right. Then we’ll spread out from there and space ourselves along the entire thirty-mile beachfront to look for…hell, we don’t even know what we’re looking for, other than my boat. Once we get a visual, we’ll have to wing it.”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re gonna stay with the kayak camp. We’re loading up the extra kayaks and gear right now, and once we get to Gonzaga, I’ll be free to help with the Raymond Johnson thing until the kayakers arrive. And they gotta get a move on, cuz the locals say we’re in for a blow.”
“Crap,” I said. “Norther?”
“No. Elefante.”
Double crap.
❋
Technically, the violent westerlies are katabatic winds—caused by the downflow of cold air—but dubbed elefantes by local fishermen because of the tell-tale clouds resembling elephant trunks that form in the canyons. Jenks and I were caught in an elefante once at Bahia de los Angeles, and they are wild and woolly. And when the winds clash with incoming tides—the northern Sea of Cortez has a thirty-two-foot tidal range—you do not want to be in the water. Cape Horn comes to mind.
At any rate, an elefante hits without warning for those without local knowledge, whipping up waves so fast you have little time to react and get to safety. Which, by the way, is relative. And of course, they hit after dark or early morning, when you are happily anchored in what was an idyllic anchorage.
The wind sometime howls for days, so you have to beat feet as close to shore as possible, where the wind blows over you. Sort of. Strong gusts shake the boat like a dog with a bone, and your vessel gets a good crusting of dirt, but at least you’re tucked in out of the fetch, or building seas. These buggers have been known to pick up a kayak, paddler and all, take it airborne, and flip it over.
Jan’s concern for Chino’s kayak flock was well founded; they had to get the expedition into the new camp at Gonzaga, batten down the hatches, and keep everyone safely on the beach. The local fisherman estimated we had about ten hours until it hit.
Roger checked the coordinates on Raymond Johnson and she was still steaming straight for us, with an ETA of six hours, putting Nacho somewhere near Gonzaga Bay when the elefante started to blow.
Which could work in our favor, because Nacho would have to head Raymond Johnson for shelter and ride it out close enough to the beach for us to easily reach them by panga or kayak. I just hoped Nacho knew about the fast moving outgoing tide that can put a boat high and dry in a short time.
❋
Roger set up our headquarters at Gonzaga, next to Chino’s kayak camp, where he blended in better than he would on his own. That rig of his can really draw attention. We parked the RV south of him, on the highest ground I could find. Becky stayed there with Scruffy and was joined by another leader from the kayak group, Jackie B. She arrived with a truckload of kayaks just after we arrived at Gonzaga Bay. I was pleasantly surprised to see Jackie at Gonzaga; I’d met her at Punta Chivato, where my buddy Gypsy spotted Raymond Johnson cruising north just a few days before.
Baja, over a thousand miles long, really is a small world kinda place.
Since Jackie B was a veteran Baja-ite, Jan deemed her the perfect match for our adventure, and she enthusiastically volunteered to hang with Becky and Scruffy.
Roger, despite my objections, insisted on me teaming with Jean Luc. I couldn’t argue with Roger’s reasoning: should someone approach us, we’d have a rental car and could pass as French tourists. I told Po Thang, who was going with me and Jean Luc, to speak only French. He said, “Voof.”
Craig, in Jan’s Jeep with Baja plates, took the north point. Carrying his fancy camera equipment, he posed as a photographer. He also had a view of the airport, just in case something interesting happened there. The back bay behind the landing strip is great for bird watching, so his high-powered binoculars would come in handy if anyone landed at Alfonsina’s hotel, where we’d booked rooms for the night.
Antoine, a world-class athlete—evidently he didn’t get my slug gene—was assigned the task of jogging and kayaking along the beaches as events demanded.
The radios crackled to life. “Okay gang,” Roger said, “listen up. This here is Dodger. It’s gonna be a long day, so I’d like to do a quick radio check.” He called each person by their code name, which I thought ridiculous, but Roger was our fearless leader.
“Red? Over.”
“Loud and clear, over,” I answered.
He continued the list: Tex (Becky), Papa (Jean Luc), Prince (Antoine), Doc (Craig), Blondie (Jan), and Cheeseburger. Jackie B, our new addition, was dubbed Cheeseburger, for Jack in the Box. I questioned why we needed code names, but Roger, Dodger—give me a break—insisted they were necessary to protect the guilty. Whatever.
Roger continued, sounding very commanding. “Okay, head’s up team. I want to hear about it if you hear a dolphin fart, okay? Anything and everything that might seem out of place, report in immediately. Roll call every fifteen minutes. If, for some reason, you can’t answer, give me two clicks. I can differentiate locations on your radios. If you need help, give it five clicks.”
I was tempted to give it five clicks just to piss him off, but instead vowed to get even with him after this mess for giving Jean Luc that code name: Papa.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jean Luc and I stationed ourselves on a large boulder near the water, and stared out to sea. We took turns walking opposite directions on the beach while the other team members stayed put, scanning the horizon.
Three boring, butt-numbing hours later, Jean Luc returned from a reconnoiter and climbed up next to me. “All clear on the Eastern Front,” he said.
Grateful it was my turn for a walk soon, I handed him the binoculars. “Nothing to report except a sleeping whale at eleven o’clock, Papa,” I said, then felt myself blush. Calling the father of my son Papa was sooo weird. I doubled down on getting even with Roger Dodger.
“So, Red, what shall we do, on a beautiful beach, with not another person in sight?” Jean Luc purred in that sexy
French accent of his.
“Do we have any wine?” I cooed.
He pulled a bottle, an opener, and two glasses from his pack. “Mais, of course, ma petite chou. I am French.”
“Then, mon petite rat, please remove the cork and stick it up your French…wait do you hear a motor?”
Po Thang, who had been snoozing at the base of our rock, sprang to all fours and stared west, doing his instinctive retriever pointy-thingy. Military term.
We scrambled behind the rock, dragging Po Thang, whining and grumbling, with us.
As the motor noise ground nearer, I called Roger. “Papa and Red have company. Not identified, only motor noise. From the west. Over.”
“Stand by. Over.”
Roger had repositioned everyone except Jean Luc and me, as Raymond Johnson changed direction and sped up. Our original thirty-mile target area was reduced to three, so we were situated almost within sight of each other. Roger moved inland a bit, parked on a hill with a visual on all of us.
Nacho had put on some turns and was steering my boat due west with an ETA of under an hour, if he didn’t suddenly change direction. Then we’d have to scramble and guess again as to where he would end up.
A few minutes after we heard the grind and moan of what sounded like a large vehicle slowly moving our way, I spotted rising dust.
Roger spoke into the radio. “All stations. Reposition, but slowly. Blondie and Cheeseburger, bring the kayak truck south, within five hundred yards of Red and Papa. I have a visual on incoming from the west and it looks like a narco truck pulling a trailer, with a hummer escort.”
“Jean Luc, this could be important. You keep an eye on the water and I’ll go back up on my perch and watch our backs. Keep a tight hold on Po Thang so he doesn’t go out to menace those vehicles.”
“Aye, aye, mademoiselle capitaine. And, I shall save the wine for later.”
“Belay that thought, ye scurvy bilge rat.”
He gave me that heart-melting smile of his and I felt an inappropriate tingle in an inappropriate place. Damn him!
The radio crackled to life again. “Blondie, Tex, and Prince, each of you take a two-man kayak offshore, in case we have to evacuate the beach.”
They all responded in the affirmative. Jean Luc and I were the only ones told to hold position. Trying to scan in two directions was giving me a neckache, so I sprawled on the rock, propped my elbows on a beach towel, and concentrated on the road. The dust cloud grew closer until, like a prehistoric monster rising behind the lunarscape, a huge vehicle sporting a manned gun turret lumbered into view, growing larger in my lenses by the minute.
I was practically hyperventilating with excitement as I told Roger, “I have a visual on the vehicles.”
“So do I. Get off that rock, and you and Papa play tourist. They’ve certainly spotted your vehicle by now.”
I slid down the boulder’s smooth surface and updated Jean Luc as he took the binoculars from me.
“I thought I saw something out there.” He pointed out to sea, then trained the binoculars in that direction.
“What is it?” I asked.
He handed back the binoculars. “Five o’clock.”
It only took me a moment to identify my boat.
I was turning to pick up the radio and alert Roger that we’d spotted Raymond Johnson when the Creature from the Black Lagoon rose from the water.
The seaweed-covered demon sloshed toward us while aiming an especially lethal looking spear gun in our direction
Keying the radio, but not raising it to my mouth, I mumbled, “Houston, we have a problem.” The frightening pelagic threat stood, waggled the spear gun, and gave me the universal slit-throat motion for me to put down the radio. I did, but not before getting off five quick clicks.
Damnit all to hell, I thought. If I’d ‘a known I was gonna die today, I could have at least shared a good bottle of red and a roll in the sand with Jean Luc.
❋
Jean Luc and I threw our hands over our heads, but first I clipped Po Thang’s vest to my belt. Not a great idea, as it turned out, as I was in danger of being pulled from my feet by my furious dog.
The frogman pushed up his goggles, spat out his mouthpiece, and ordered us, in rapid Spanish, to control our dog or he would spear him.
I acted like I didn’t understand, so he pointed his spear gun at Po Thang.
“Chien! Shut up!” I ordered in French.
“Voof?”
I leaned down and whispered in his ear, in English, “No bark. Friend.” Which, of course, was a big fat lie, but I didn’t want my baby harpooned.
Miraculously, Po Thang sat and quit barking, but continued a low and menacing grumble.
Our captor ordered us to get on our knees and put our hands on our heads.
We stuck to our roles, feigning incomprehension, so he showed us what to do.
Po Thang took our kneeling as a signal to play; don’t you just wonder what in the hell dogs’ thought processes are, what with being furious one moment, and pouncing for a friendly tussle the next?
However, him knocking me over seemed to amuse the scuba dude. He actually smiled.
Maybe we weren’t in danger after all, but had stumbled upon a Mexican military exercise? It wouldn’t be a first for me.
My five radio clicks signaled dire danger, and radio silence, thank goodness, for the man held out his hand and spat, “Radio,” which has universal meaning, so I handed it to him.
Behind him I spotted Antoine kayaking furiously south toward us, but a pretty good way offshore. My heart stuttered, and I mentally willed him to stay away.
I had to stall. I pointed toward Gonzaga Bay, made a side to side motion with my elbows, since my hands were still on my head, and said, “Kayak.”
“Campo?” he asked.
I decided to understand that and bobbed my head. “Oui. Si.”
Jean Luc, who hadn‘t said a word yet, asked, “Vous êtes militaire?”
The word, military, sounds very similar in French and Spanish. The frogman slowly nodded his head.
I hoped he was about to decide to tell us to get lost, but, as luck would have it, we all heard that piece of heavy equipment groan to a halt behind us.
I swiveled my elbows and head to take a look, and saw the hummer had stopped behind a gigantic piece of rolling metal that looked to be half-truck, half-tank. Both vehicles were painted with crude camouflage.
What had Roger meant when he called that thing a narco truck? Narcos in Mexico are cartel members. Drug runners. Were these guys an anti-cartel squad, or were they cartel members themselves?
Were they our salvation?
Or our executioners?
And why didn’t I just stay in Texas and the heck out of this mess? After all, my boat is insured, and I could prove it was stolen.
“You wouldn’t, by chance, like a glass of wine, would you?” I asked the sea monster.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As the dust around Gigantus, its trailer, and the hummer settled, several soldiers—I sincerely hoped they were soldiers—dressed in full combat camo, sauntered our way. One of them asked our frogman what was going on.
Actually, he said, “¿Qué chingados?: WTF?
Their lackadaisical manner and speech did nothing to convince me these guys were legit military.
The one who seemed to be in charge walked over, asked us who we were and why we were here. I let Jean Luc do the talking. He stuck with French, a word or two of English thrown in, and hand gestures to get the message across that we were French tourists touring Baja by car, and when asked why we had a dog, he said Thang belonged to a friend who was out in a kayak.
The head dude allowed us to take our hands off our heads, but ordered another guy to guard us. He walked away to hold a discussion among others, but not far enough to elude my, as Jenks calls it, super-power hearing. And, with help from a freshening breeze from the northwest—a harbinger of the impending elefante—I heard almost every word they said
.
No one told us we couldn’t talk to each other so I whispered to Jean Luc that the caravan of military-like vehicles was, indeed, awaiting the arrival of a vessel, and they had goods to unload onto it. No other details.
“Do you think your friend is bringing your boat to pick up whatever they are carrying?” Jean Luc asked.
Our guard looked uneasy that we were having a discussion, but didn’t stop us. “I’d bet on it. Evidently, because they haven’t mentioned being in a hurry, they don’t know about…” I almost said the word elefante but stopped myself in time. “Uh, the wind. Maybe we can somehow use it to our advantage.”
The guard had finally had enough of our chatter. “¡Cállate la boca!” he demanded, putting his hand over his mouth to make his point.
We shut up, as ordered.
The frogman was in on the discussion behind us, which had turned to tides and depths. After that, the Creature, as I thought of him, put his dive gear back in order, waded into the water, and disappeared beneath the sea. Where on earth was he going? And for that matter, where had he come from?
Without radio contact, we had no clue where all our buddies were, but noticed that Jan, Jackie B and Antoine had rendezvoused about a quarter mile off shore, and were casually paddling back and forth out in front of us. Raymond Johnson was now clearly in view, but had seemed to stop and hold position. Had Nacho and Jeff spotted Jan’s kayaking crew, as well as Jean Luc, Po Thang, and I on the beach?
From what I was overhearing from the para-military dudes—I’d decided since I hadn’t heard a single “sir” from any of them that they were not really Mexican troops—my hopes of surviving this mess were on a rollercoaster ride.
They seemed to be arguing, all talking at once, but I got the gist. “…French tourists…kayak camp…send them…” Then another voice. “…drag into sea…by the time they are found…arms gone. And another uh-oh, “No witnesses.”
Just a Happy Camper Page 14
