Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (19 page)

Wiggins and Tex nodded, and after another short awkward silence, Wiggins spoke. “I’ll kill the lanterns.”

“I’ll get the barn door,” Tex added, and Levi and Anthony got into the cab of Old Blue.

Ten minutes later, Levi was driving through the darkness, lost in thought, when he felt Anthony’s hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t you fret, Levi,” the older man said. “You did all you could.”

“Let’s just hope it was enough,” Levi said.

M/V
Pecos Trader

Florida Strait

Day 13, 2:00 p.m.

Hughes pressed the binoculars to his eyes and strained to make out more detail of the line of white marking the ocean’s surface to the east, where the gentle swell was breaking over a barely submerged reef.

He heaved a sigh of relief and lowered the glasses. “I think that’s Elbow Cay behind us, so at least I can scratch running aground off my list of things to worry about today.”

Beside him, Chief Matt Kinsey chuckled. “Which still makes the list pretty long, I imagine.”

“You mean like staying as far away from the US coast as possible and hugging the Bahamian shallows, with absolutely no working navigational aids while simultaneously hoping to avoid detection by US radar and stay clear of Cuban waters?”

“Well, you’re two for two, so far,” Kinsey said. “You’ve managed to avoid grounding in Bahamian waters, despite lack of navaids, and my Coast Guard folks haven’t hailed us yet, so I’m thinking that’s a good indication the alert from the navy at Jacksonville got lost in the confusion.”

“Yeah, I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised,” Hughes said. “What do you make of that?”

Kinsey shrugged. “I’m thinking everybody’s shorthanded. If they haven’t hailed us by now, we might have a shot at sliding by unnoticed, as long as we stay as far south as possible.”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Hughes said. “All in all, I’m starting to feel a lot better about this.”

“Captain! I think you’ll want to see this,” called Georgia Howell from the radar.

“What is it?” Hughes asked as he and Kinsey crossed the bridge toward the radar.

“I’ve got a small, fast target approaching from the south,” Howell said, “making better than forty knots and headed right for us. ETA approximately ten minutes.” She moved aside to let Hughes take her place.

“What do you make of that, Matt?” Hughes asked.

“Smuggler maybe? Some well-heeled Cuban-American taking advantage of the chaos to reunite more of the family?”

“Maybe,” Howell said, “but then why isn’t he headed straight for the Florida coast?”

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” Hughes said, and walked to the port side of the bridge to stare south through his binoculars.

A few minutes later, he spotted a speck on the sea, growing in his binoculars as it raced toward the ship. It was a fast patrol boat, similar to the Coast Guard boat they carried as deck cargo, with several uniformed men aboard and a menacing-looking bow-mounted machine gun.

“Oh shit,” Hughes said, “that’s a Cuban patrol boat.”

“What the hell do they want?” Georgia Howell said. “We’re a good ten miles outside Cuban waters.”

“Maybe they don’t see it that way.” Kinsey turned to Hughes. “What are you going to do, Captain?”

“Well, normally I’d call the Coast Guard, but now? Who the hell knows?”

“Ahh … I think I’d rather be on a FEMA storage tanker just about anywhere than in a Cuban prison,” Georgia Howell said, “because given what’s going on, I don’t think anyone’s going to be spending any resources trying to get us back.”

“Good point,” Hughes said, moving to the VHF. He keyed the mike and started to transmit. “US Coast Guard, US Coast Guard. This is—”

Everyone dropped to the deck instinctively as the port bridge windows shattered and spiderwebbed from a well-placed burst of machine-gun fire, followed immediately by an amplified voice with a thick Spanish accent.

“AMERICAN TANKER! AMERICAN TANKER! STOP TRANSMITTING IMMEDIATELY AND STOP YOUR VESSEL OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”

“I think you already did, asshole,” Hughes muttered.

Kinsey and Howell crouched with him on the deck. A few feet away, Pete Sonnier, the AB on watch, squatted near the steering stand. “They seem pretty serious to me, Cap,” he said.

Hughes nodded and looked back and forth between Kinsey and Howell. “Don’t stand on ceremony,” Hughes said, “‘cause it’s not like I have a clue what to do here.” He nodded to where the VHF mike dangled on its cord a few inches off the deck. “I don’t think they can hit us here, so I can probably continue to call the Coast Guard before they can get aboard. I’m sure the Coasties can have an armed chopper over us before they can force us into Cuban waters.”

“Presuming anyone answers our call in a timely manner,” Kinsey said. “Remember they’re shorthanded as hell and low on resources. And if we do play that card and no one responds, I’m pretty sure our new amigos are going to be pretty pissed.”

“AMERICAN TANKER! DO NOT TRANSMIT AND STOP YOUR VESSEL AT ONCE OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE! BE ADVISED WE ARE EQUIPPED WITH ROCKET-PROPELLED GRENADES AND WILL USE THEM! REPEAT, STOP YOUR VESSEL AT ONCE!”

“All right, that’s it,” Hughes said. “Georgia, ring the engine room and tell them to stop the engine. I’m going to have to talk to this asshole.”

Howell nodded and duckwalked over to the control console and reached up for the phone. Within seconds, they felt the vibration change as the big diesel rumbled to a halt and the ship started to slow. When he was confident the patrol boat had seen the ship slowing, Hughes rose and walked toward the port bridge wing, motioning the others to stay back out of sight.

He approached the side of the bridge wing with his arms raised so they’d have no doubt he was surrendering. When he spotted the boat approximately a hundred feet off the port side, the first thing he saw were armed men, one at the stern with an RPG and another manning the machine gun in the bow. Both weapons were pointed directly at
Pecos Trader
’s bridge—and him. Midships in the boat near the small glass-windowed pilothouse stood another man, obviously in charge, with the bullhorn in his hand and a pistol on his hip. There was a fourth man in the pilothouse at the wheel. All four wore the uniforms of the Cuban Border Guards. The officer type raised the bullhorn to his mouth.

“AMERICAN TANKER! YOU HAVE ENTERED OUR WATERS WITHOUT PERMISSION AND HAVE VIOLATED OUR SOVEREIGNTY. COME TO A COMPLETE STOP AT ONCE AND DEPLOY YOUR PILOT LADDER. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO USE YOUR RADIO OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE. LOWER BOTH YOUR ARMS AND THEN RAISE YOUR RIGHT ARM IF YOU UNDERSTAND!”

Hughes considered shouting a protest in return, but suspected it would be useless. He dutifully lowered both arms, then raised his right arm as instructed.

“GOOD! NOW DEPLOY YOUR PILOT LADDER AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COMPLY. LOWER AND RAISE YOUR RIGHT ARM AGAIN IF YOU UNDERSTAND.”

Hughes did as instructed and waited a moment to see if there were further instructions. When there were none, he turned and went back into the wheelhouse.

“You heard?” he asked Kinsey and Howell as he approached their position back in the chart room, out of sight from the patrol boat.

They both nodded, and Hughes continued, “Anybody got any ideas, or should we all start brushing up on our Spanish?”

“Well, obviously we aren’t in Cuban waters, and he doesn’t want us to use the radio, or use it himself,” Howell said, “which I’m figuring is why he’s using the bullhorn; he doesn’t want to attract anyone’s attention.”

“I agree,” Kinsey said, “and as screwed up as things are in the States, I suspect it’s ten times worse in Cuba. These guys, with or without Cuban government authorization, probably figured they can take advantage of US inattention to snag as many resources transiting near their island as possible. Kind of make sense, actually.”

“Question is,” Hughes said, “what are we going to do? They can’t get on board easily until we lower the pilot ladder, but if we don’t let them on, they’ll just stand off and machine gun us or hit us with RPGs. The cargo is inerted, so they probably can’t blow us up, but even if we evacuate the bridge and keep everyone locked down in the house, a couple of RPGs into the bridge would probably wipe out all our controls and we’re toast anyway. But on the other hand, if they DO get on board, we’re screwed too, because they’ll force us into a Cuban port.”

“Not necessarily,” Kinsey said, “could you see how many they have aboard?”

“Four,” Hughes said. “An officer type and three others, one at the helm and two handling weapons.”

Kinsey considered a moment, then said, “Okay, I think we can handle that, but I need a bit of time. How long can you stall them?”

“AMERICAN TANKER! YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO DEPLOY YOUR PILOT LADDER OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!” came the amplified voice.

“Obviously not long,” Hughes said, turning to Howell. “Georgia, get some of the deck gang and start rigging the pilot ladder, be as visibly awkward and clumsy as possible. How long do you think you can drag it out without being too obvious?”

She shrugged. “Ten minutes anyway, maybe fifteen.”

Hughes looked at Kinsey.

“That will have to do,” Kinsey said. “Let me get my guys lined up.”

Once again, the amplified voice rose from the ship’s side.

“AMERICAN TANKER! YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO DEPLOY YOUR PILOT LADDER OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”

Howell nodded and started for the stairwell door as Hughes looked toward the port bridge wing. “I better show myself to keep this guy calmed down until he sees us working on the pilot ladder.”

Kinsey nodded and started for the stairs behind Howell as Hughes moved out on the bridge wing again to motion to the Cubans that work was in progress.

Ten minutes later, Hughes stood at the ship’s side on the main deck, watching Georgia Howell direct the final securing and deployment of the pilot ladder as the Cuban boat floated twenty feet away, the Cuban officer on the small boat visibly irritated by the delay. Finally the rope ladder unrolled down the ship’s side, and the little boat nosed in toward it. The officer motioned a man to lead the way up the ladder while he and the second Cuban sailor hung back, waiting their turn. Hughes stepped away from the side of the ship and moved toward the open watertight door of the deckhouse, where Matt Kinsey waited just out of sight.

“Looks like three out of the four in the boarding party,” Hughes said softly, “the officer and two sailors. The officer has a sidearm, and the other two have what look like AKs.”

“Good,” Kinsey replied. “I figure the officer type will place himself on the bridge and send at least one guy to the engine control room. They don’t have enough people to completely contain and control the crew, so I’m thinking he’s just going to control the bridge and engine room and get us into actual Cuban waters ASAP. He’ll probably call help from there. Now we just need to figure out where he decides to put the third guy, and we can take them down fast. If we can achieve complete surprise, this might be painless for all concerned.”

“What about the boat? If he gets away or calls for help, there’s no way we’re outrunning any reinforcements at our blinding top speed of fifteen knots.”

“Well, the officer used the bull horn, so I’m counting on the fact they’re probably under orders to maintain radio silence outside of Cuban waters,” Kinsey said, “and as far as the boat getting away, I’ve got that covered. Trust me on that.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Hughes said. “Now I gotta go greet our visitors. When I figure out what’s up, I’ll pass the word.”

“Okay, but remember, if any shooting starts—”

“I know, hit the deck. Everybody knows.” Hughes moved back to the ship’s side near the top of the pilot ladder.

He reached it just as the first Cuban stepped on the deck, his head on a swivel as he unslung his assault rifle and motioned the Americans away from the ladder. The officer was next, and after a quick glance at the assembled Americans—that lingered on Georgia Howell a bit too long—he stepped over in front of Hughes.

“You are the
capitan
?” he asked.

Hughes extended his hand. “Yes, I’m Captain Jordan Hughes.”

The Cuban ignored the outstretched hand. “I am Lieutenant Hector Ramos of the
Tropas Guarda Fronteras
or, as I believe you
yanquis
refer to us, the Cuban Border Guard. You have entered the waters of the sovereign Republic of Cuba without authorization,
Capitan
, so I regret to inform you I must place your vessel under arrest. We will proceed at once to the nearest Cuban port, which is in this case Matanzas, where you will stand trial. If it is found your trespass was unintentional, you and your crew may be returned to the United States, but unfortunately your vessel and your cargo will be forfeited.” He smiled for the first time. “And you appear to be fully loaded, so exactly what is your cargo?”

“There must be some mistake,” Hughes said. “We’re at least ten miles from Cuban—”

The Cuban’s face clouded. “There is indeed a mistake,
Capitan
, and you have made—”

“
Teniente, mira el barco alli!
” said the last Cuban to board.

Ramos’s gaze followed the pointing finger of his subordinate to the bright orange hull of the Coast Guard boat stowed on deck some distance away. Unconsciously he rested his hand on his sidearm.

“You are a military vessel? You have US Coast Guard aboard?” They were accusations rather than questions.

“No, no,” Hughes said. “We are only carrying the boat as cargo. We’re supposed to deliver it to the Coast Guard station near our destination in Texas.”

Ramos studied the boat for a moment, then smiled. “It is a fine boat,
Capitan.
Unfortunately you will not be able to make delivery as intended, but I can assure you it will make a welcome addition to our little fleet and we will make good use of it, after an appropriate change of color, of course. Now, I repeat, what is your cargo? It is unusual to see a loaded tanker southbound in these waters.”