Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (20 page)

Hughes shrugged. “These are unusual times. We are carrying diesel and gasoline. We were unable to enter port at Wilmington due to lack of a pilot, so we decided to return to Texas, as most of the crew lives near there.”

“A most fortunate decision for the people of Cuba,” the Cuban said, pleased by the unexpected bonus of the patrol boat and somewhat more relaxed. He turned and spit out some rapid-fire Spanish.

“Now,
Capitan
,” he said, “please have an officer escort one of my men to the engine room and instruct the crew there not to make any trouble. Then I will go with you to the bridge and we will be on our way. Understand?”

Hughes nodded and motioned Howell over. When she arrived, he said, “Please take one of these guys to the engine room and tell Dan not to try anything funny.”

She nodded and Hughes looked at the Cuban, who nodded in turn and directed one of his men to follow Howell.

“Now,
Capitan
, the bridge, if you please,” the Cuban said, and Hughes led the way across the main deck to the deckhouse entrance to start the long climb up to the bridge. He noted with satisfaction both the remaining Cubans were following him.

On the bridge they found an anxious Pete Sonnier peering out the port bridge window to where the Cuban patrol boat had moved out a few hundred feet from the ship. The AB turned when he heard the door open and blanched when he saw the two armed Cubans with the captain.

“Everything’s cool, Pete,” Hughes said. “We’ll get through this.”

Sonnier nodded and moved to the steering stand.

“Is she still on the mike?” Hughes asked.

“Oh … yeah, I guess so,” Sonnier said. “When the mate called down and stopped the engine, I didn’t even think about the autopilot.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hughes said. “I guess we were a bit distracted.”

He turned to Ramos. “With your permission, I will have the helmsman take the ship off autopilot, as I presume you intend to give us a new course.”

“Exactly so,
Capitan
, and after you do that, please call the engine room, as I wish to speak to my man there.”

Hughes nodded. “Take her off the mike, Pete,” he said, then walked over to the console and called the engine room.

“Engine room, Chief speaking,” Dan Gowan answered.

“Is the Cuban down there with you, Dan? The guy up here wants to speak to him.”

“I’ll put him on,” Gowan said, and Hughes handed the phone to the Cuban officer.

There was a short exchange in Spanish, which seemed to satisfy Ramos, and he hung up the phone.

“Very well,
Capitan
,” he said, “please order the engine back up to sea speed and come to a new course of two hundred ten degrees true.”

Hughes nodded and did as instructed. Vibrations throbbed through the hull as the massive ship slowly built speed back up. They rode in silence, Sonnier behind the wheel, staring ahead except for occasional glances at the gyro repeater, and Hughes studying the Cubans as they, in turn, studied the bridge console and instrumentation. After ten minutes Hughes broke the silence.

“You said if we were found not guilty, we would be returned to the US. How?”

Ramos shrugged. “That is not my concern.”

Prick, thought Hughes, but rather than punching the guy, he returned the shrug and smiled. “It will work out, I suppose. Would you like something to eat? We have plenty and my cook makes very good sandwiches. Roast beef? Ham and cheese?”

The look on the Cuban’s face was a combination of greed and suspicion.

“Don’t worry,” Hughes said. “I’m not trying to poison you. How about I have a variety sent up and you choose which one you would like me to eat first? Would that be satisfactory?

Ramos considered it for a moment, his hunger obvious. “Yes. That would be acceptable … and thank you.”

“No problem.” Hughes walked to the phone to call the galley.

“Yeah, Polak,” he said into the phone. “Send up an assortment of sandwiches to the bridge. Yeah, mix ‘em up. Enough for Sonnier and I and our two guests. Oh, and while you’re at it, send some down to the engine room for the chief and our guest down there.”

“Got it. Two on the bridge, one in the engine room,” said Kinsey in Hughes’ ear, “which side is the patrol boat on?”

“I’m not sure when we’ll make port, Polak. Several hours at least,” Hughes said into the phone.

“I copy, the boat is on the PORT side of the ship,” Kinsey said, “glance at the bridge clock NOW and in exactly five minutes, create some diversion to get the Cubans to the STARBOARD side of the bridge and well out of sight of the boat. Do you copy?”

“Copy that Polak, and send some spicy brown mustard up with the sandwiches, okay? Great, we’ll be waiting.” Hughes hung up.

Ramos raised his eyebrows. “I must say,
Capitan
, you are taking your arrest remarkably well.”

Hughes shrugged. “I learned long ago life is less stressful when you don’t worry about what you can’t control.”

“A very intelligent philosophy,” the Cuban said.

They lapsed back into silence as Hughes kept watch on the bridge clock in his peripheral vision. At approximately the four-minute mark, he strolled over and studied the radar screen, then screwed up his face in a look of puzzled concern.

“What is it?” Ramos asked, moving toward the radar.

Hughes shook his head as Ramos joined him at the radar. “I don’t know. Some sort of radar contact, but it’s intermittent. There!” He pointed to a nonexistent blip. “Did you see it?”

“I saw nothing,” Ramos said as Hughes moved from behind the radar to retrieve his binoculars from the storage box by the bridge window, then turned and started out the door to the starboard bridge wing.

“Where are you going?” Ramos demanded.

“There’s something to starboard. I’m going to check it out.” Hughes hurried out the door before the Cuban could object.

He rushed to the far side of the bridge wing, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scanned the open ocean for the nonexistent radar contact. He heard Ramos approach behind him, and he lowered the binoculars and shot a quick glance back at the Cuban. Ramos was scowling as he approached, and behind him, Hughes could see the second Cuban was also interested and was standing in the wheelhouse door, watching the confrontation about to unfold between his superior and the
yanqui capitan
.

Hughes turned and pressed the binoculars back to his eyes.

“There is nothing! Come back inside at once, or I will—”

“There!” Hughes lowered the glasses and pointed into the distance. “See for yourself.” He offered the binoculars to Ramos.

Ramos put the glasses to his eyes and looked out over the open ocean.

“And what exactly am I looking for?”

Matt Kinsey stood with the door from the stairwell to the chartroom slightly cracked, straining to hear the conversation on the bridge. When he heard Hughes exit the wheelhouse over the Cuban’s objection, he waited a few seconds and then eased the door open quietly to enter the chartroom, crouched low behind the large chart table, two of his men close behind. They were all armed with pistols.

He peeked around the chartroom curtain and cursed. Both Cubans were on the starboard side, but one was in the wheelhouse door, blocking access to the second. They had to take the first man swiftly and silently to subdue the second before he could react. And there was no time; Hughes couldn’t distract the Cuban officer forever.

Kinsey flashed a signal, and one of his men holstered his sidearm and drew a stun gun. Kinsey and his backup charged, widely separated so they both had clear shots at the Cuban in the doorway with his back to them, while the Coastie with the stun gun circled far left, approaching the Cuban swiftly while staying out of the other two men’s fields of fire.

The man with the stun gun leaped on the Cuban, placing his left arm around the man, pinning the AK tight against the man’s body by hugging him close. He jammed the stun gun electrodes into the Cuban’s neck, intent on incapacitating him and dragging him from the doorway without alerting the Cuban officer.

It almost worked.

Unfortunately, the young Cuban was a very recent conscript, pressed into service only after the blackout. Long on enthusiasm if short on training, not only was the young Cuban holding his finger inside the trigger guard, he’d inadvertently moved the fire selector switch to ‘full auto’ mode. Electricity coursing through his nervous system contracted the muscles in his trigger finger, sending a loud burst of automatic fire ricocheting off the bridge wing deck. The surprised young Cuban, and his equally surprised assailant, collapsed in a tangled heap in the wheelhouse door, foiling Kinsey’s plan to rush the bridge wing.

Hughes flinched and ducked instinctively as something stung his left ear and all hell broke loose behind him. His ears rang from the unexpected gunfire, and things seemed to move in slow motion. He spun to see Kinsey just inside the wheelhouse door, staring in horror at a tangle of arms and legs blocking the doorway. Then Kinsey pointed a gun at Ramos, who dropped the binoculars and began to claw his sidearm from its holster. Hughes rose from his crouch, partially spinning as he put all his weight and strength into the right elbow he hammered into the Cuban’s face. Something gave under his elbow, and Ramos collapsed, his pistol still in the holster.

Hughes steadied himself on the bridge rail and watched as Kinsey and his men cleared the young Cuban from the door and then rushed out to subdue Ramos. The Coasties fell on the two Cubans with duct tape, and as they were trussing them up, Hughes heard Pete Sonnier call from the wheelhouse, his voice cracking from stress.

“The boat heard, Captain. She’s circling our stern!” Sonnier yelled.

“Shit!” Hughes said, looking at Kinsey. “What now?”

Kinsey looked up at the top of the wheelhouse. “TORRES!” he shouted. “THE BOAT’S CIRCLING ASTERN. YOU GOT THIS?”

“I’M ON IT, CHIEF!” came the reply, and Hughes looked up to see a face peeking over the edge of the deck on top of the wheelhouse, obviously one of the Coasties lying prone to keep from being spotted by the boat.

“LIKE WE TALKED ABOUT, TAKE OUT ANY COMMS FIRST.”

“PIECE OF CAKE, CHIEF. I ALREADY CHECKED IT OUT WHEN THE BOAT WAS ON THE OTHER SIDE. TWO ANTENNAS.”

“ROGER THAT! YOU ARE WEAPONS FREE!”

Hughes saw the man nod, then the head disappeared to be replaced by a thin pipe. It took him a moment to realize it was a rifle barrel.

“What happens if he runs?” Hughes asked. “You gonna shoot the boat driver?”

“Only if he makes us,” Kinsey said. “Now let’s get inside. The less he can see, the closer he may come to try to figure out what’s going on, and that will make it easier for Torres. He’s good, but he’s not a magician.”

Hughes nodded and followed Kinsey back into the wheelhouse.

“That’s got to be a pretty tough shot,” Hughes said, when they were back out of sight.

Kinsey shook his head. “Not a problem. Torres is cross-trained as a chopper gunner. He used to fly with the HITRON squadron out of Jacksonville and his job was to incapacitate the ‘go fast’ smuggling boats. And among the equipment we’re ‘transferring’ to MSU Port Arthur, there just happens to be two fifty-caliber Barrett sniper rifles. He’ll get the job done.”

Just as he finished speaking, the boat pulled into view, steering a parallel course two hundred yards to starboard. The boat held station for several minutes, and it was apparent it would come no closer.

“Doesn’t look like he’s gonna take the bait,” Kinsey said. “Torres will have to take his shot—”

A shot rang out and the top of the wheelhouse on the boat erupted as the shot took out one of the antennas. In less than two seconds, a second shot wiped out the remaining antenna.

A rooster tail shot up behind the boat as the driver rammed both throttles to full speed and turned to race directly away from
Pecos Trader
. No shots followed.

Hughes tensed, waiting for another shot, and the boat opened the distance at almost fifty knots.

“He’s getting away—”

The shot shattered the silence as the big slug tore into the starboard outboard, shutting it down forever as the boat suddenly swung to starboard and slowed abruptly. The driver struggled to compensate for the now uneven thrust, wrestling the wheel as the boat continued on an erratic corkscrew track. A final shot sounded and the port outboard coughed smoke and died, the boat drifting powerless several hundred yards from this ship.

“I take it back,” Kinsey said, “maybe he is a magician.”

Warden’s Office

Federal Correctional Complex

Beaumont, Texas

Day 13, 5:00 p.m.

Spike McComb leaned back in the chair, put his feet up on the warden’s desk, and smiled. He had on a relatively clean correctional officer’s uniform and his hair was neatly trimmed. Across from him sat Owen Fairchild, aka ‘Snaggle’ for his dental issues, similarly dressed and barbered.

“Some of the boys are pissed, Spike,” Snaggle said. “You said we was goin’ on jackrabbit parole and we’re still here.”

“‘Cause I ain’t a dumb ass,” Spike said. “It didn’t come to me right off, but I finally figured out this is the best place we could be.”

Snaggle shook his head. “Don’t seem right, breakin’ out of the joint and then hangin’ around. There ain’t much law around, and lots of easy pickings.”

“And after we take what we want, where we gonna keep it? And when all these dumb asses get all boozed up and are lyin’ around drunk, what’s to keep a bunch of other assholes from sneaking up and blowing ‘em ‘way? Answer me that, genius.”

Snaggle shrugged and said nothing. McComb pointed in the direction of the maximum-security unit. “Over there at max security, we got about the closest thing to a castle we’re likely to find. Razor-wire-topped fence AND big thick walls with guard towers all around and one way in and out. All those things designed to keep us in is just as good to keep people out. Not only that, but we got all the cells we need to keep people to work for us and we got plenty of guns, for now anyway.”