by Bobby Akart
“Before long, they heard about Tarpon Springs, and every member of the Andino family flocked to the coastal village. Along with others, my grandparents became a part of this incredible Greek coastal town located in America.”
His wife, Katerina, added, “It’s the largest concentration of Greek-Americans in the nation. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were in the old country.” Unlike her husband, she didn’t have a hint of an accent although her facial features and black hair befitted her Greek ancestry.
“Why were you in Mississippi?” asked Tucker.
“New Orleans, actually,” replied Andino. “My company, um, our family’s company operates sponge boats. We are part of the so-called sponge capital of the world in Tarpon Springs. We Andinos come from a long line of sponge divers.
“Anyway, Kat and I have never been to New Orleans. When a trade show was announced there that involved the natural sea life products we sell wholesale, we volunteered to make the trip. We never expected this to happen.”
“None of us did,” added Lacey as a wave of sadness swept over her. She didn’t reveal to the Andinos that Owen had died. In fact, she wasn’t certain she could say the words aloud without becoming an emotional mess. She coped with her husband’s loss by trying to stay strong for Tucker and focusing on getting them home to Driftwood Key.
“Are you familiar with driving a fishing boat of this size?” Andino asked.
Lacey chuckled. “My dad has a Hatteras that’s slightly shorter. He let me drive a few times, like, oh, fifteen years ago.”
Andino laughed and nodded. “May I take the helm? This is similar to the vessels we sail in our sponging operation.”
Lacey smiled and stepped aside. She allowed Andino to peruse the boat’s controls and check its gauges. He jutted out his lip and nodded repeatedly, indicating he was comfortable with what he was seeing. Then he reached over his head to turn on the boat’s marine radio. He slowly scanned through the channels but scowled when he received nothing but static.
Lacey spoke while he assessed their electronics. “We have a two-way radio, or actually, it’s a ham radio given to us by a friend. We tried it a few times when driving to Bay St. Louis but never could reach anybody.”
“We’ll try it again later,” said Andino. “Let me chart our course for Tarpon Springs, using a steady pace to conserve fuel. I’ll do some calculations to ensure you can make it to the Keys. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect,” responded Lacey, who then turned to Andino’s wife and daughter. “Are you guys interested in checking out the galley? I’m starving.”
Andino’s daughter shyly nodded her head. She’d seen everything unfold on the dock and would likely never get it out of her mind. The three women went into the galley, leaving Tucker and Andino alone together at the boat’s helm.
“Are you a sailor?” asked Andino.
“No. I’m more into hiking, camping, and snowboarding.”
Andino sensed a sadness in Tucker. “I guess you’ve seen a lot on the road, huh?”
Tucker grimaced and nodded. “My dad died.” He just blurted out the words. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. It was simply a natural reaction to recalling what they’d endured since they’d left their home in Hayward.
Andino continued to study the GPS and looked toward the dark water off the stern. It was a response he hadn’t expected.
“I’m sorry, Tucker. This is not the kind of life any of us expected to endure. Would you like to talk about it?”
Tucker rolled his head around his shoulders and then sighed. “No, thanks. Not really. The thing is, it happened so fast and unexpectedly. We had people who were really trying to help, but Dad had suffered too much. Mom and I are just trying to get to my grandpa’s so we can figure it all out.”
Andino respected Tucker’s wishes, so he changed the subject. “You two will have a lot of sailing ahead of you after you drop us off in Tarpon Springs. Your mom can’t do it alone, you know?”
Tucker agreed, and then he picked up on Andino’s subtle suggestion. “Will you teach me what you can about this boat and how to drive it?”
Andino patted Tucker on the back and studied his face for a moment. A boy becomes a man when a man is needed. It was Tucker’s time.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, November 6
Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek
Florida Keys
The concrete girder bridge that crossed Jewish Creek rose sixty-five feet above the water. Until it didn’t. The strategically placed TNT explosives at the base of the bridge supports effectively knocked the legs out from under the giant, causing it to separate where the steel beams were welded. The side and median barriers across the bridge, which had been painted Belize Blue upon the recommendation of famed marine artist Robert Wyland, crumbled and then sailed into the water below.
As did the dozen or so refugees who’d raced ahead of Jimmy and a hobbled Peter. It was Peter’s injury, which took away his normal fleetness afoot, that saved his life. Jimmy, on the other hand, wasn’t safe.
The blast below the bridge caused the entire structure to shudder as the massive force rolled through the structure. Both men were thrown upward. Peter fell hard on the concrete with his right arm hanging over the edge and his face staring into the dark abyss below.
Jimmy was gone.
Peter jerked himself away from the edge and rose onto his knees. The concussive blast caused his ears to ring and blurred his vision, not that he could see far in the darkness anyway. Smoke and debris floated in the air as the wind currents along the creek forced the lightweight material upward. Behind him, the shock wave toppled over the temporary lighting, causing beams of light to point in multiple directions. The frightened wave of refugees had turned around as the blast chased them off the end of the bridge and back toward the mainland.
Peter stood and called out his friend’s name. He repeated it over and over again until he was begging for Jimmy to answer.
Then he heard it. Faint, at first. Muted by the shouting of the refugees. A voice.
Peter dropped to his knees and carefully crawled to the edge of the bridge to look over. His chest was heaving from the anxiety of staring into the black space. He hollered again.
“Jimmy!”
“Down here! Peter, I don’t know if I can hold on!”
Peter remembered he had one of the tactical flashlights in his cargo pants pocket. He ripped open the Velcro flap and retrieved it. After nervously turning the flashlight in his hands so he could press the rear button, he illuminated it and began to scan the side of the bridge structure that had been left exposed by the blast.
The concrete box girders had crumbled apart, as the weight of the structure was too much once the foundation supports had been blown apart. With the highway’s load transferred to the girders, absent the concrete and steel foundation, gravity had pulled the structure into the creek.
The bridge’s deck, the roadway itself, had been ripped apart in a fairly straight line from one side to the other. Concrete and rebar were exposed in addition to parts of the girders. Peter hastily shined his light along the edge of the bridge in search of Jimmy. His eyes grew wide, and he gulped when he found him.
Jimmy was hanging on to a twisted piece of steel rebar that jutted out of the concrete roadbed, which continued to crumble. Bits of concrete were breaking off and falling sixty-five feet into the creek, a distance far enough away that the splash couldn’t be heard.
“I can’t do this much longer,” said Jimmy in a remarkably calm voice. “Can you see the water below? Can I drop?”
Peter shook his head rapidly from side to side, knowing full well Jimmy couldn’t see him. Not only could he not see the murky waters below, but it was also too dangerous to even consider. He had to bring Jimmy back up somehow.
His first inclination was to find help. He quickly glanced around and used his flashlight to search out anyone who could hold his legs while he reached down to grasp Jimmy’s hands.
Everyone had fled in fear the bridge would collapse further.
It just might, Peter thought to himself, but he had to do something. He turned around and lay on his belly, inching over the edge more and more until he could see better. He continued to shine the light against the torn-open side of the bridge. Rebar was jutting out in a variety of twists and bends.
“Jimmy! Can you reach the curved piece of rebar to your right? Do you see it?”
Peter shined the light on a piece that been bent at an upward angle to create a hook. Jimmy continued to hold on with one arm. He was facing away from Peter toward the other side, making it difficult for him to see the ripped-apart side of the bridge.
“Hold on,” he said, using an ironic choice of words. Jimmy reached up with his other arm until he’d grasped the rebar. He slowly twisted his body until it was turned toward the right. “I see it.”
Peter held his breath as he watched Jimmy gently sway his body back and forth to create some momentum. With the last swing he removed his left hand and half-jumped to grasp the hook-shaped piece of rebar.
“You got it!” exclaimed Peter.
He studied Jimmy’s position. His arms were spread apart and stretched over his head. His left hand was closer to the edge of the bridge, but he also would have more rebar to use for his climb upward. He was about to give his friend his next set of instructions when the sound of truck horns and shouting filled the air.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, November 6
Overseas Highway at Jewfish Creek
Florida Keys
Peter turned briefly to see what was causing the commotion. Headlights could be seen in the distance, and the low rumble of diesel engines, not unlike the truck he’d taken from North Carolina to Homestead, could be heard. He returned his attention to Jimmy.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Better now that all the weight is off one arm. What’s next?”
Peter studied the rebar. “Hold tight with your left and bring your right to the same piece. Then pull yourself up slightly. There’s another straight piece just above it.” He leaned his body over the edge and directed the light to the piece he was referring to.
Jimmy took a deep breath and strengthened his grip on the hook-shaped rebar. He pulled himself up six inches and then reached upward, slapping the side of the bridge structure in search of the straight piece. Dust and debris fell on top of his head, causing him to lose focus. His body began to sway back and forth as his left arm quivered under the strain of his body weight dangling in the air. After blindly searching for the rebar, he found it and gripped it.
“There ya go, Jimmy. Good work!”
“This piece is kinda loose,” he responded.
Peter reached his arm down toward Jimmy’s hand. They were only inches away but not close enough to get a good grip on one another. Plus, even in a prone position, Peter wouldn’t be able to support the body weight of the heavier man. Jimmy would likely pull Peter over the side, leaving them both tumbling toward the water six stories below.
“Does it wiggle?” asked Peter.
“A little, but if I tug on it, it seems to hold.”
Peter took a deep breath. His palms were sweaty, so he could only imagine what Jimmy’s were like. He put the tactical flashlight in his mouth and leaned over the edge a little bit more. He grabbed the next piece of rebar and gave it a good shake. It was solid. He inched backwards and pulled the flashlight out of his mouth. He focused the light on Jimmy’s hands.
“You’ll have to move quickly, but there’s another piece of rebar just to the left and above your right hand. You can either stretch your right arm up or, if you think you can hold on, pull up and grab it with your left hand.”
He had to give Jimmy the two options. His decision would depend on how confident he was that the loose piece of rebar would hold.
Without saying another word, Jimmy released his grip on the hook-shaped piece and kicked his legs as he tugged on the loose rebar. A second later, he had a firm grasp on the piece closest to the edge of the road. Now Peter was able to help.
He inched forward with the flashlight in his mouth. He stretched his right arm downward until his fingers could touch Jimmy’s hand. He nodded up and down to indicate to Jimmy he was ready. The light danced from Jimmy’s hands to his face, revealing the sweat pouring out of his forehead.
Showing trust in his friend, Jimmy reached up with his right arm to grab Peter by the arm. The two men clasped their fingers around each other’s forearms, and Peter began to pull upward. As he did, Jimmy reached for another protruding bent piece of rebar for support. Peter slid backwards and tugged while Jimmy got a grip on another piece.
With a grunt and a strong pull, Jimmy was brought upward to a point where he could hold on to the edge of the pavement. Peter rose to his knees and grabbed both arms. Seconds later, Jimmy was hoisted upward and fell onto Peter’s chest, knocking both of the men backwards until they collapsed on the pavement.
They both rolled over onto their backs and began coughing fits. Throughout the entire ordeal, they’d been breathing in the concrete dust and debris left lingering in the air after the explosion. That, coupled with the ash and soot that had begun to find its way into the lower latitudes, caused the guys to hack and cough as it was sucked into their lungs.
“Let’s not do that again, okay?” asked Jimmy jokingly.
Peter’s chest was heaving as he spoke. “Do you remember the tree forts we used to build when the bungalows were under construction?”
Jimmy chuckled and then coughed again. “We were, like, eight years old.”
“Yeah. My grandpa would get mad because we quit using scrap lumber and started pilfering two-by-eights out of the contractor’s stack.”
Jimmy slapped his friend in the ribs. “We had a helluva fort that one time. It had rope swings and platforms built between the palms.”
“We thought we could head to Sarasota to join the Ringling Brothers Circus. Remember?” Peter asked.
“Yeah. Then our dads ruined our dreams.”
“And whipped our asses, too.”
The guys busted out laughing as they reminisced about their days growing up together. They finally sat up and rested their elbows on their knees as they looked across the void where the Jewfish Creek Bridge once stood.
Peter rolled his head around his neck and shoulders. “We could wait ’til morning and swim across.”
Jimmy shook his head side to side. “Nope. They’ve already thought of that. They’ve stretched that razor wire stuff all along the shoreline right at the water’s edge. We’d never be able to set foot on dry land before we were shredded.”
“Geez, Jimmy. This is craziness,” said Peter as he glanced in the direction of Gilbert’s Resort, which was located just below the bridge on the mainland side of Jewfish Creek. He gestured with his right arm. “Maybe somebody down there would give us a lift. Hell, it’s just a few hundred feet.”
“They were evacuated, and the boats were moved yesterday,” countered Jimmy. “Peter, they’ve thought of everything. My aunt’s been working overtime to set this whole thing in motion.”
“Lindsey? What does she hope to achieve?”
“Create the Conch Republic, I think. There’s not been anything official announced. I think she was waiting until we were cut off from the rest of the country.”
“It’s not gonna work, Jimmy. They’ve sent a convoy of National Guard trucks full of troops to Homestead. I passed them on the road and heard they were staging at the speedway.”
Jimmy shrugged and was about to speak when they heard voices and heavy footsteps moving rapidly in their direction. As they turned, a woman raised her voice and pointed toward them.
“There! They’re part of all of this.” Several flashlights danced across the pavement until they lit up Peter and Jimmy. They suddenly fanned out until at least eight different lights washed their faces and clothing.
“What?” Peter asked, confused by what the wo
man was referring to. Then he caught a glimpse of the back of Jimmy’s tee-shirt. He hadn’t paid attention to it before, but now he realized why the woman made the statement. The green shirt had MCSO emblazoned across the back in gold lettering.
“And he’s one of their soldiers!” shouted another man. “See his camo?”
Peter looked down at his hunting clothes that he’d worn since he left Virginia. “Wait! You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Shut up!” a real soldier ordered as he shoved the barrel of his M16 in Peter’s face. “Flat on the ground. Facedown. Now!”
Another guardsman approached and pointed his rifle toward Jimmy’s chest. The guys slowly turned around. Apparently, it wasn’t quick enough for the angry guardsmen. Both men used the butt end of their rifles to drive Peter and Jimmy onto the pavement.
“You can’t do this!” shouted Jimmy. The guardsmen kicked both of their legs until they were spread apart.
“Frisk them!” shouted a voice from the darkness. A hulking figure emerged from a small crowd that had gathered to watch the National Guard members manhandle Peter and Jimmy.
“Hey! Take it easy!” shouted Peter. He began to wrestle with the two guardsmen who were shaking him down.
“Sarge, he’s got a weapon!”
“Cuff him!” shouted the sergeant. “The other guy, too. Take them back to the base.”
“You can’t arrest us!” shouted Peter before adding, “We didn’t do anything!”
“That’ll be for a military tribunal to decide, pal,” the sergeant hissed as Jimmy and Peter were pulled onto their feet.
“What are you charging us with?” Jimmy asked.
The sergeant responded by firing back with one nebulous charge after another. “Insurrection. Treason. Sedition. Destruction of public property. Violations of the president’s martial law order. That’s just for starters, asshole!”
