Spy (16 page)

“I’m gonna tell you something, Sheriff. I’ll go. But its people like you are going to ruin this great country. There are already more of them than us down here in West Texas. Hell, whole towns of ’em without a single white inhabitant. Not one! You want to give them the whole state? Is that your idea of right and wrong? Goddamn it, I don’t understand you anymore. I thought you were one of us. Hell, I voted for you in the last election. Now I ain’t so sure who the hell you are, Franklin.”

“I’m the law, Ed. That’s all. Now go on home.”

“The law. You think these three here give a flying fuck about you and your laws? Hell, they each paid their coyotes five thousand yankee dollars for the privilege of breaking your damn law. That’s the problem, ain’t it? It’s the damn law that’s going to ruin everything, you don’t start enforcing it for real. Come on, boys, let’s get the hell out of here before I puke on somebody’s badge.”

“Sheriff?” Homer said. He was sitting in the dirt beside the smallest boy, Manuelito, who seemed to have fallen asleep in the deputy’s lap.

“What is it?”

“This one here just died.”

I
got it!” Luis said.

“Got what?” Stoke asked.

“I finally figured out the whole anchor thing.”

“Yeah? Good,” Stoke replied, his mind somewhere else, namely his current life expectancy if he didn’t get his arm stitched up soon. “Tell me quick.”

Luis said, “Wait, yeah, I think this will definitely work.”

“Tell me what you got, Luis.”

Luis thought about it another second and then his face brightened. “What I’m thinking, hey, we just leave the anchor here. See? I crawl forward through the cabin up into the bow locker and untie the bitter end of the anchor line. Then we just let the line run out of the boat when we back down and get the hell out of here.”

Stoke just looked at him.

“You see? Fuck the anchor, man, we come back and get it later. Or, not!”

“That’s a very good plan, Luis. Seriously. If we were leaving right now. But we’re not, see? We didn’t come all the way out here to leave that gunrunner alive over there on that island. Who is he? Where’d he come from? Where was he flying home to? We’ve got something big down there in the deep and we need to know who’s dealing these weapons. And, dead or alive, I need to get a look at that shooter in the bushes, okay? And, in the unlikely event that he survives, have a chat with him about where he got those Russian missiles.”

“Cuba.”

“Cuba. How do you know that? You find something you forgot to mention? I thought you said the plane was clean.”

“I don’t know. But it’s a good guess, right? So now what?”

“I’m still thinking.”

Stoke was still feeling woozy. The tourniquet helped a little. But, and it was a big one, could he really get up on his knees with the Mini-14, mark the guy’s location and shoot him before he passed out from blood loss or the bends or whatever his problem was making him so light-headed? Possible, but very low probability of a successful outcome. Normally, he’d slip over the side, swim underwater around the little island and come up behind the guy. But, in his present condition—

He looked at Luis and then he looked at the rifle and then back at Luis.

“Don’t look at me, man.”

“Who’s looking at you?”

“You.”

Damn. Luis was right. He just couldn’t see Sharkey doing this. In any way taking the guy on the island out. No possible way you could expect a one-armed man to try to pull this off. Recently wounded in his one remaining good arm, no less.

Stoke knew approximately where the shooter was, had a rough idea based on the muzzle flash and the angles these shots were coming from. The guy was crouching down in the mangroves on the left side of a little cove near a stand of stumpy cabbage palms. Another thing. He was convinced that the shooter was the copilot. Had to be. No other reasonable possibility. Down at the plane, Stoke had seen what looked like the last remains of blood smears on the right-hand windshield. Like somebody’s head had hit it real hard. So. Copilot bangs his head but survives the crash, cleans up the cockpit and his dead buddy, and swims ashore. Yeah, that had to be it.

The survivor had to be one hurting gaucho after thirty-some-odd hours out on that little spit of land all by his lonesome. It was hot out here. Lots of skeets to keep him company. Maybe hurt, maybe no food or water. Hungry. Thirsty. And seriously pissed off that the pretty blue fishing boat he’d seen steaming to his rescue had not come to his rescue after all. Hell, anybody would be upset.

Well, one thing was sure, Sharkey was in no condition now to take the guy out. He was curled up in the stern with his one bandaged arm wrapped around his knees. Sitting over in the corner by the bait box forward of the transom. Staring at Stoke and wondering what he was going to have to do next. But there was another way out of this. Stoke had an idea.

“Take the rifle,” he said to Luis.

“Me? I’m doing it? I told you! I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Listen, okay? Relax. I’m not asking you to stand up and shoot anybody, Sharkey. I got a much better idea. Just slide over here and take the damn gun. Now.”

“Aw, shit, man. This is so messed up.”

“Do it.”

He did it.

“Now,” Stoke said, in a very soothing way, “I want you to take this gun over to the bridge tower ladder.”

“Climb up?”

“No, not climb up. You think I’m crazy? No, what I want you to do is, scoot over there to the foot of the ladder. Okay? Stay down. Then you take the gun by the muzzle, reach it up high enough so your old man can reach down and grab it by the stock end.”

Luis lit up one of those lopsided grins that went on and off like a neon light. Relief flooded his face as he took the weapon. “Papa’s going to shoot him?”

“That’s right. He’s got the high ground and the best angle. But he can’t afford to miss, tell him, because he’s probably only going to get one shot off before the guy starts blasting him. Papa a good shot? Say yes.”

“Good? I’ve seen that old
hombre
put a mako’s eye out at one hundred yards. Fish was leaping twenty feet in the air at the time, right off our transom. Blam, he dropped him.”

“Well, see what I’m saying, this’ll be cake then. Easy-peasy-Japanesy.”

“You check is it loaded?”

“Damn! Didn’t you see me check it a few minutes ago? Yeah, it’s loaded. Now, listen up, this is important. Tell him to stay down. No heroics till I say so. He’s not to do anything right now except take the gun. He’s got to keep his head down until you’re back in the water.”

“I’m going back in the water?”

“Damn right. You’re going over the transom. Soon as you give Papa the gun. You’re going crawl astern, get your ass up and over that transom on the double, and then you’re going to start swimming like a one-armed bandit, get as far away from this boat as possible.”

“What about the mako?”

“Screw the mako.”

“You’re messing with me, man. Right?”

“How else you think we’re going to draw his ass out so Papa can shoot him?”

“I’m already hit once. How many times I got to get shot today?”

“That’s the whole idea, Sharkey. That’s how we’re going to draw him out. Get him to reveal his position. It’s the only way your old man has a chance of getting a shot off without getting his head blown off.”

“Aw, shit, Stokely, man, I dunno about this. Can’t you think of another plan?”

“We haven’t got a lot of time for tactical discussion here, Luis. You might have noticed I’m slowly bleeding to death. You wanted to get involved in this stuff, now you’re involved in it. Welcome to my world. You’re tuned into the Stokely channel now, brother. All shit, all day, all the time. This is not unusual. Shit just exactly like this goes down all the damn time. All the time.”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Stoke.”

“Luis! Pay attention. You can do this. Now snake your one-armed ass over to that ladder and hand your old man the damn rifle. Okay?”

“Yeah. Fuck. I’ll do it.”

“Gimme your hat first.”

“My Yankee cap? For what?”

“Another idea. I’m going to stick it on top of this rod and jiggle it up and down while you’re crawling. Help distract him.”

“This sucks, man,” Luis said, handing him the cap.

“You’re going to be good at this shit, Luis, I’m serious. You’ve got all the right components. Trust me. I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go.”

“Lots of turnover on your personal life channel? Is that right? Jesus.”

Luis muttered the whole way across the deck. He snaked along using the rifle in his good hand and his left arm fin for propulsion. It looked a little weird but it was effective.

Stoke looked up at the flying bridge. Luis Sr. was crouched up there, staring down at him, screwing the cap back on his bottle of Triple X. His eyes were bright and he had a huge smile on his face. He wasn’t drunk. He just knew damn well what was going on. And he had faith.

Stoke took heart.

The old man of the sea was into it.

Papa reached down for the butt of the rifle when his son managed to raise it high enough for him to grab hold. Once his father had the gun securely in his grasp, Shark dropped back to the deck and instantly started crawling aft. Sharkey was scared but Stoke could see he was going to do the thing, go over the stern and swim away from the boat even though it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

Stoke had moved himself aft, crouched in the corner of the cockpit on the port side. He had Sharkey’s faded Yankee baseball cap on the end of the fishing rod and now, his eyes on Papa up on the bridge, he raised the navy blue cap above the gunwale, jigging it up and down a few times.

Shots rang out instantly and one of them put a neat hole in Sharkey’s Yankee cap. The cap spun but stayed on the rod. The guy could shoot. Stoke scrambled forward a few feet, bouncing the hat around and the rounds kept coming. Luis was huddled by the transom, waiting for Stoke’s signal.

“Go, Sharkey, go, go, go!” he said to Luis.

Sharkey didn’t say anything, he just did it. He pushed up off the deck and over the transom, hitting the water with a big splash, kicking and using his good arm to paddle furiously away from the stern. Stoke kept moving the cap around as best he could, holding the shooter’s attention until the guy figured it out which Stoke knew wouldn’t take much longer.

He looked up at Papa on the tower. The old man looked ready and now was as good a time as any. Most of the rounds were aimed at the Yankee cap and a few were zinging off the stern, going into the water aft where Sharkey was once more unfortunately swimming for his life.

“You see the shooter?” Stoke shouted up to the old man. “You know where he is?”

“Si, señor, yo se!”
Papa said, a huge smile on his face. “I got this fish in my sights. In the bushes beneath the coconut palm tree.”

“You got the angle? You ready?”

“Si. Es muy perfecto.”

“Do it.”

P
APA SHOWED HIMSELF
then, stood right up, bringing the rifle up into firing position and aiming it even as he got to his feet. He swung the barrel to his left and started firing furiously on semiauto into the mangrove bushes. The rounds were aimed at the base of the tiny island’s lone coconut palm tree, splintering it and sending debris into the air.

“Aieeee!”

A scream came from the island. A long dying wail. Papa kept firing, expended the whole mag, and then the screaming stopped for good.

“Bueno, amigo!”
Stoke said, hauling himself up to the gunwale so that he could see for himself what the hell was going on. Smoke was rising from the badly shot up mangrove.

“You think I did it?” Papa asked, grinning.
“Es muerto?”

“Yeah,” Stoke said, grinning, “I think he’s
muerto
all right. We’ll know soon enough.”

“Luis!” Papa cried out, waving his arms at his son in the water about twenty yards astern. “It’s okay! It’s okay! Come back!”

He nudged the throttles, backing down slowly toward his son.

“Your boy was very brave, Papa. Help me get him aboard.”

“What we do now, señor?” the old fella said coming down the ladder with the rifle.

“We got to reel in your catch over there. Identify what make and model he is. Then we put him on ice in the fishbox and take him back to the dock.”

“No catch and release, señor?” Papa said with a smile.

S
TOKE FELT LIKE
he was going to puke or pass out getting to his feet and taking the boathook from its holder underneath the gunwale to help Papa fish Luis out of the water. He stood there a minute, watching Sharkey approach the boat. His head seemed to clear and he thought maybe he was going to be okay here, long as he didn’t try to do too much.

“We did it,” Luis said, climbing into the boat, smiling his ass off. “Hey, Papa, you are some action hero, man!”

“De nada,”
the old man said, still holding the rifle tenderly.

“OK, Luis. Now you get up on the bow and get the hook up. Let’s go see what we caught.”

Papa went inside to the lower helm station and ran the boat right inside the little cove going ahead dead slow. As soon as the bow touched sand he killed the engines. Stoke figured they were in about four feet of water. Sharkey stood on the bow, swinging the hook, and heaved it into the mangroves where it snagged in some thick roots. He jumped in, started wading ashore, headed for the smoking palm tree.

Ten minutes later Stoke was bending over the copilot. He had a couple of holes in his light blue uniform, flesh wounds. He was still alive. Barely. Stoke leaned in close to see the patch on his shoulder.

It bore the emblem of the FAV.

The Fuerza Aérea Venezolana.

The Venezuelan Air Force. That’s who was buying the missiles.

Now why the hell would Venezuela be doing that? If the wounded guy lived, he’d just have to ask him that question.