The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

by William Wresch

  Chapter 5 –

  A fishing trip I never want to repeat

  Starr called a little after nine. I'd had a good breakfast in the hotel dining room. I was one of maybe four diners. Summer in New Orleans is never very popular for travelers, but this seemed light even for the season. Was business activity down? I would check on that later. For now, my job was to get down the Belle Chase highway to the little town of Venice. I have no idea why they called it a "highway." The road was tiny, in poor repair, and went on forever. Several times I wondered if I was driving to the Venice in Italy. It was just feet from the Mississippi and I could imagine the whole highway being underwater with just a little rain. Having already experienced one flood, I was in no hurry for another. As I drove, I looked for high ground. There was none I could see.

  Eventually I got to Venice and took the road to the harbor. What was the town like? Small homes on stilts. I wondered how often residents commuted to work via boat. The harbor was also small. It held maybe fifteen boats, and oddly enough it appeared all fifteen were in their berths. Was today a bad day for fishing? I parked next to a large warehouse and walked down the dock. I didn't have any trouble finding the right boat -- it was the only one with people on it.

  "Should I know something?" I asked, pointing around me at the rest of the boats.

  "There's lots you should know," Starr said. He was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and a huge straw hat. From the way his skin shone you would think he was a walking advertisement for sun screen. "Get on board. We have lots to tell you." I climbed up onto the deck. It was not much of a boat, maybe twenty five feet, wooden, badly in need of a fresh paint job. It was outfitted with a couple fighting chairs at the stern, and had the common arrangement of a bridge and then a flying bridge so the captain would have extra height to view the horizon. The owner was up on the flying bridge fooling with his engine. I would guess his age about fifty, but he was so deeply tanned, he could have been a decade either direction from that. He had the widest back I think I have ever seen on a man. Whatever he lifted, he lifted it a lot. He kept starting and restarting his engine, paying no attention to us.

  "That's Charles Desautels." Starr pointed up at the owner. Desautels must have heard his name, for he looked down at us, waved briefly, and then went back to his engine.

  "Can this thing make it out of the harbor?" I asked.

  "Has it struck you that the harbor is full?"

  "Yes, I am not completely stupid. Is there a weather system moving in?"

  "No, there is a mechanical system that has already moved in. Every boat in this harbor has mysteriously had engine trouble."

  "Let me guess. All the parts need to come from Fond du Lac. But that problem should have been solved two months ago. We do the shipping now."

  "Do you? You might want to check." Okay, I am up for a challenge. I pulled out my phone. The cell coverage was weak, but possible. I called back to Philadelphia and got my father.

  "Dad, do you know anything about boat motor shipments coming out of Fond du Lac?"

  "I know we might have made a mistake signing that contract. Our trucks are being hijacked, or if they make it to a truck stop, they are vandalized. Fully half of the problems we have with security come from the shipments from just that one plant." He paused, and then asked, "Why are you asking about that company?"

  "I am sitting in a harbor in a town called Venice, Louisiana, and none of the boats are moving. The entire fleet has been vandalized and no new parts are getting here. The town is shut down."

  "If we can figure out the linkage to our hijackings, we might be able to improve our security."

  "I'll get back to you later today if I can make any connections. Say hi to mom for me." And I got off.

  "Okay, Mr. Smart guy." I said to Starr. There was a smug look on his face I really didn't like. "You probably overheard most of what my father said. We have been getting hijacked more than in the past, payback from the Foster clan has been our guess. Now there seems to be a pattern. But why boat motors?"

  "These guys all fish out of North Pass. My guess would be someone wants them to stop."

  "And why would that be?"

  "Why don't we go take a look?" His smug expression now included a challenge. I really didn't like this guy.

  "Do you think this old tub can make it that far? It doesn't sound like the engines are up to it."

  "This old tub is the one boat in the harbor with a diesel engine, and it is the one boat in the harbor that can still operate. Could be a coincidence, but I think not. As for the engine, you can imagine Charles has seen all his friends lose their motors. He wants to be really sure of his before he takes us out into the Gulf. Seems reasonable to me." The guy was a jerk, but he was right -- it made sense to be sure of the motor before we went out. So we sat and waited another twenty minutes while Charles tested and retested his motor. Finally, he seemed comfortable with it, and we cast off.

  The Mississippi is a strange river this close to the gulf. There are the channels and there is the sediment on each side. All the topsoil of the plains has been brought down here and dumped. On it are grasses, shrubbery, trees, and odd debris. You see something flashing in the water and wonder if it is a fish, only to see it is a car fender. Was any of this new debris from Kaskaskia? Who knew?

  Charles spent mile after mile still playing with his engine. We would speed up, slow down, even idle from time to time. He was a worried man. Starr and I sat in the fighting chairs, long heavy fishing rods at our elbow, but ignored. I was pretty sure fishing was not on the agenda.

  "So," I asked over the engine noise. "Why are we here?"

  "One of my many and colorful jobs is to get drunks out of jail and get them on a plane home -- American drunks, of course. About a week ago I got three drunks out of lock up, and they were still fighting mad. That is not normal. Usually the drunks are completely hung over and barely say five words. They just want a ride to the airport with as little trouble as possible. These three wouldn't shut up. They had been wronged. Some people had gotten them drunk on purpose, just so they could fire them. The point was to get them out of the country because they had been complaining about the oil rig they were working on - no safety, no permits, no inspections. Guys got hurt and nothing happened. They complained, and next thing they knew, they were in jail. I should do something about it."

  "Let me guess, the rigs were in the Gulf near North Pass."

  "There you go, a winner on the first try. You should put on some sun screen, by the way. You Irish burn like crazy. And that hat isn't going to protect the top of your ears." I am well aware of how quickly I burn, so I had on long cotton pants and a long sleeve shirt, even socks since I have burned the tops of my feet and it really hurts. He was right about my ears though. He offered me a tube of sunscreen and I took it.

  "I understand why you are here. Why am I here?"

  "Let's assume there is something out there that shouldn't be there. I can tell my government, but who tells the Canadians? Are they going to listen to me? I don't even know which side of the government might be behind what is going on there, assuming something is going on. So, I open my Rolodex to - people who might have a connection to the Canadian government. And, oddly, your name came up."

  "So you shot me that email."

  "Wow, you are sharp today."

  "I assume you already have a pretty good idea what we are going to see - illegal drilling."

  "Yes, but by whom? It could be the LNA trying to pull some cash to pay the troops. Maybe it's even the Green Bay folks trying to get some cash out of the water before Louisiana leaves the fold. So, we take a little boat ride, drown some bait, and see what's out there." That pretty much ended his description. Even if he had more to say, it was damn hard to say it. Charles was deafening us with periodic racing of his engines. Was he never going to be satisfied?

  So we continued down the river, star
ing at the shoreline, occasionally getting out of the way of ocean-going ships, making mile after mile. Cheniere Pass came at us first, the place where the river split in thirds. Charles worked his way around the jumble of buoys and picked the route to North Pass. It wasn't quite like picking one of three exit ramps off a highway, but it did have a little of that feel. Then it was back to following the channel roughly north and east toward the Gulf. That took another hour, time Starr used to camouflage our actions by finding a bucket of bait and setting up our poles. Once we hit the Gulf we were at least going to pretend to be fishing.

  So far, everything had seemed reasonable, but then we hit the Gulf and I realized how mad this was. The Gulf just goes on forever. Looking out at the endless expanse of water, how were we supposed to locate any oil rigs at all, much less ones that were supposedly illegal? We could cruise for months and not see anything.

  "Now what?" I asked.

  "Now we let Charles steer towards the fishing grounds the Venetian fishermen preferred. Since somebody doesn't want them there any more, it stands to reason that's where we start our search." That actually seemed pretty reasonable. So I threw a line into the water, put one hand on my fishing rod, and hoped no stupid fish would bother us while we steered due east.

  Did I mention the Gulf is big? For the next two hours we steered due east, making pretty good time in this sad old boat. What did we see? Water. If I were a poet maybe I could extol the virtues of the Gulf -- the wave patterns, and the riffs that appeared with each change in wind, the changes in color and hue. Maybe. But all I saw was water - endless water.

  Finally, after two hours we saw sticks on the horizon -- oil rigs. It took us another twenty minutes to get close enough to make out any detail. They were quite an assortment. There was one platform that had a ship moored to it, apparently filling it with crude. Other rigs were for drilling, others for pumping. Starr had done some research on of-shore drilling so he had some idea what he was looking at, and he gave me a general overview of what he saw. I took pictures, using my maximum telephoto lens. Starr told Charles not to get too close, so we turned to the right once we were at a good viewing distance, and we did our looking while trying not to be too obvious. Occasionally we even played with our fishing gear. Ten minutes later we were headed back west, still trolling, or at least looking like we were trolling.

  "Did you notice the signs?" Starr asked.

  "I'll have to check my image file." I started back through the thirty or so pictures I had taken, and looked for any with writing on them. I found two and blew them up on my camera, showing them to Starr. "Property of Retsof Refinery, keep out"

  "Good, We can start going a search on that company when we get back to town."

  "You don't need to. I already know who they are."

  "And?" He seemed a little impatient, but I was enjoying my own brilliance. I made him wait a few seconds before explained my deduction.

  "These aren't very creative people, and they don't feel the need to hide very well. Just read "Retsof" backwards."

  "Foster? That's the best they can do to hide their involvement - spell their stupid name backwards?"

  "Just because you are rich, doesn't mean you are smart. Or, and here I hope I am wrong, they have absolutely no fear of discovery. They have the right friends in the right places, so they feel safe doing whatever they are doing."

  "Time to get back to the office and turn this over to someone with a higher pay grade." Starr told Charles to get the boat back home, and we did a gentle correction as he aimed for the North Pass entrance to the Mississippi. At one point Starr broke out some sandwiches and some water, and we took in our lines and tossed out the bait, but otherwise, we just sat for the next three hours while the boat made it to the river and then worked its way up the channels to home.

  Venice harbor is small, and it was full, so Charles slowed the boat almost to a crawl as he steered through the harbor entrance. We were just inside the breakwater when his head exploded. He was up on the flying bridge. The back of his head was atomized and rained down on Starr and me as we stood below. An instant later we heard the report of the rifle that had shot him. The sound of the shot registered with us at some level, and we both dropped to the deck. Unfortunately, that was nearly useless. There must have been dozens of guns firing at us, and of course the old wooden planks were perforated instantly. Starr was hit twice almost before we could hit the deck. I was getting hit with pieces of wood as the gunwales exploded in at us. I had no idea what to do other than to escape, low and then lower. Starr was yelling something, but I couldn't hear it. I just grabbed him by the collar and pulled him behind me toward the stairs leading down into the cabin. We both went down head first, slumping on the floor at the base of the stairs. I looked around for some place lower, but I had no idea how to get down into the bilges. For the moment, this is where we would stay.

  Starr was bleeding from an arm, and that looked bad, but his worst wound seemed to be in the abdomen. He was holding his belly with one hand, keeping pressure on. At least one of us had taken a first aid class. I took off my shirt and rolled it with the arms stretched out. I then got it around Starr's middle and tied the arms tight. Meanwhile, we seemed to be below the water line, so no bullets were reaching us, but everything above the water line was being blown in on us. Were they using machine guns? All the windows shattered, blowing glass everywhere, and cabinets that once were part of the galley were blown apart, covering us with dried cereal and coffee grounds.

  Through all this, the boat maintained its forward motion. We were crossing the harbor. And then we were at the other side. I felt us hit the first boat, and then it ground along one side of our boat before we hit the second boat. Would these boats give us some protection? No. I understood now that we had grounded, the gunmen could now just walk up on our deck and finish us off. I looked around for someplace to hide. How desperate is that? Trying to hide on a small boat. Meanwhile, the shooting jumped several levels. It sounded like thirty guys were putting bullets into our boat. That made no sense.

  And then it stopped. There were a final few shots, but the barrage ended. They would come for us now. I looked around the cabin for any kind of weapon. A flare gun? A kitchen knife? All I saw was broken glass, cold cereal, and coffee. This is where we would die. I heard two men jump onto the deck. At least it would happen fast.

  "Murphy. Are you down there?"

  "I've got a gun and I will shoot the first person who comes into this cabin."

  "Do you have any idea how dumb you sound? I doubt you even have a fishing knife." I was trying to identify the voice. I knew the voice. Who was this?

  "Who are you?"

  "Colonel Goulet."

  "I thought you would be a general by now."

  "Enough nonsense. Get up here now. I think we got all of them, but we should get back to town with our wounded."

  "We need a medic down here. David Starr of the consulate has been shot." I heard them talking up on deck, and then another person came on board. He poked his head around the doorway.

  "How bad is it?"

  "He has been shot twice. I think one is pretty bad." It would have been real good if Starr had been able to speak for himself, but he appeared to be barely awake. He was mumbling and moving slightly, trying to hold his belly together. A man in an LNA uniform came down the stairs and knelt next to Starr.

  "There's not much I can do beyond what you have already done. We have used up our medical supplies on three of our own who were wounded. We will get him into a car. If he lives to the hospital, he has a good chance. But you are right, that wound looks bad." He called up the stairs and two more men jumped on board and then came down the stairs. Starr was a pretty big guy, and wrestling him up on deck and then onto the dock was not easy. And, I suspect it was not pain free.

  I followed him up on deck. There was Colonel Goulet wearing fatigues and carrying a pi
stol. His uniform was torn and dirty, and his face was bathed in sweat. He looked like a man who had run ten miles and fallen down every mile.

  "What happened?" I asked. You can always count on me to go straight for the obvious.

  "They were waiting for you. We were tipped off, but we still got here about ten minutes too late. There were six of them, all dead. And we took two dead and three wounded trying to save your sorry ass. You can thank me later. Right now, we need to get out of here."

  "I'll thank you now, although I still don't know what is going on. Why kill Charles? What did he ever do?

  "He took the wrong people on a charter. Now keep moving and get in the car."

  "I have a car of my own."

  "Really?" He pointed to my black limo, now a beat up hulk on flat tires. Various liquids ran from underneath. This was probably the last straw for the leasing company. I doubted I would be getting another car from them any time soon. Goulet pointed to a large Peugeot SUV. Three that were identical to it were already leaving the harbor. No doubt that is where the wounded were. Goulet and I and two of his soldiers were the last ones to leave. I asked about Charles. Goulet said the local police had been notified, and they would take care of it. I hoped that was true. The man deserved better than to be shot and left collapsed on his boat like a pile of old clothing.

  Where were we going? Back to New Orleans, back up the endless highway. I noticed that Goulet kept his pistol on his lap and the man riding "shotgun" in the front seat really did look like he was ready to fire, only he carried an automatic weapon rather than a shotgun. The fight might or might not be over.