Caribbean's Keeper (16 page)

Cole looked back at David and asked, “Yeah. What time are we meeting?”

David read another text, sent one back and turned his attention back to Cole. “Let’s meet in the lobby at noon.”

Cole nodded and asked, “Am I checking out?”

David shook his head no. “No, no, you should be back here a day or two after, sipping rum and smoking cigars to your heart’s content.” He smiled to lighten the mood.

The two parted ways, and Cole made his way across the street and back to his room in the Marriott. Despite the unknown of the next day, he had little trouble getting to sleep.

g

The following morning, he was up just after eight. After a breakfast from the hotel coffee shop and a few cups of coffee, Cole spent almost an hour in the hotel gym. He worked out hard, but couldn’t take his mind away from thoughts about the run he was going to make. He hated the fact that he didn’t have any details. He didn’t even know what to bring.

Taking a shower in his room, he dressed in a pair of shorts, his running shoes, and the same shirt he’d worn on the flight down. He had a light water repellent jacket and brought it along just in case. He also tucked five hundred-dollar bills into his pocket along with his passport and locked up the rest of the cash he’d brought in the safe in the room. Making his way downstairs, he had some time to kill before noon, so he made his way into the sports bar in the back corner and ordered a Cuban sandwich and water.

Young Panamanian women wore soccer jerseys and knee-high socks to match the sports theme in the bar. It seemed out of place in Panama, but the other patrons didn’t seem to mind. It was someone’s interpretation of an American sports bar. Flat screens showed soccer games from around the world. Cole’s food came with a heaping portion of french fries, and he made sure to down half a dozen glasses of water to hydrate before the trip. He sat by himself and paid little attention to the televisions, his mind consumed by the task ahead.

Finishing up, he walked to the lobby and found David waiting for him. They greeted each other like old friends and made their way out of the lobby into the midday sun. It was hot and the heat reflected off of the buildings, only making it worse. The night before was warm, but now, at noon, it was entirely uncomfortable, but still the locals on the street all wore jeans. Cole looked around the daytime traffic and couldn’t figure out how people could hustle around without sweating through their clothes.

David directed Cole over to a waiting van. Climbing in, the air conditioning was running at full strength, and Cole settled into his seat against a window. He looked across the street to the now-quiet Habana’s and thought about the previous evening. It was a far cry from the debauchery of the night before as one older gentlemen swept the floors and a few men sat around smoking cigars in the shade. The van inched into the traffic, where horns blasted, people seemed to jump out in front of the traffic at the last second, and no one gave a damn about stop signs or traffic lights. It was chaos, but somehow it worked.

David said nothing as the van pressed on through the city. It meandered through some side streets, into even less inviting parts of town, and finally merged into the moving traffic of what served as a main highway. They were heading north, paralleling the Panama Canal. As the van made its way out of Panama City, the country opened up around them. They were finally on a two-lane highway through open fields where cattle grazed. There were lean-tos built of scrap metal dotting the landscape and kids rode bikes down dusty trails. Some fields were growing crops and others were overgrown tangles of brush. It looked inhospitable, but there was a tropical feel and the occasional thick canopy of a jungle offered brief respites from the sun. They drove clear across the country to the Caribbean side, and three hours passed before they came to a stop on a dead-end gravel road. In front of the van sat a small bay with the rusted-out hull of a barge aground in the middle. A few small workboats bobbed gently in the breeze, and on the far side of the harbor against a backdrop of palm trees, two flatbed trucks were being offloaded by a bunch of guys to a panga floating ten yards off the beach. Cole and David walked over to the trucks and one of the men broke off from loading to greet them.

“Is this the cowboy?” He extended his hand to Cole.

Cole took a firm grasp and grinned.

David piped up and said, “This is your guy. His name is Cole. He’s making his first run down here, but he has a bit of a reputation from running boats up north.”

The man looked pleased. “Great, great, you are early which is good. We will have her loaded and gassed up in about an hour. You just relax and we’ll finish getting her ready.”

The panga looked to be in decent shape. Pangas were unique to Central America. They were the workboat of every fisherman from Mexico on down. Built of fiberglass, they were usually painted in pastel colors with beautifully upward sloping bows and graceful lines. Normally, they were an open cockpit with a small center console just forward of the engines. This one had two outboards, both carrying 275-horsepower engines. Sometimes pangas had only one, and Cole was thankful this one had two motors in the event that one seized up on him. Both the outboards looked to be in good shape and newer than the panga itself.

Perhaps it was stolen or perhaps it was reserved for jobs like this, but from the dings and scratches along the hull, Cole figured it had seen its fair share of time on the open water. With a wide bow and the upslope, pangas could handle open water better than the sportier models in the States. Pangas weren’t built to dazzle or set speed records, but they were a workhorse and many seagoing men trusted their lives to these boats. Cole had never driven one, but he had always admired their lines when he was a boarding officer working in the Caribbean.

The six men finished loading bales onto the deck of the panga and began spreading fishing nets and gear over the top to give off the appearance of legitimate intentions. It was almost five in the afternoon when the last of the two external plastic fuel tanks were topped off. Cole knew that most smugglers used big drums and thought it clever that this panga was outfitted with square plastic tanks painted white to blend in with the white fiberglass bench seats. Even from ten feet away, he had a hard time spotting any tell-tale signs of drugs.

The same man came back to Cole and gave him a quick rundown. Two of his guys would go with Cole. One, Hector, was just along for the ride if anything came up, but the other, Diego, was a whiz with engines and would handle any mechanical trouble that came up on the run. Diego was a veteran and the old man assured Cole that he was in good hands. Diego had an athletic build and moved quickly around the panga, giving Cole a thumbs-up when they made eye contact. Hector, on the other hand, was pudgy and angry with Cole’s presence. After exchanging looks with Cole, Hector looked down at the water and muttered a few words under his breath. Diego yelled something back at Hector, putting him in his place, then flashed a smile back at Cole to let him know all was well.

The old man handed Cole a handheld GPS and explained that this trip would go a bit under 300 miles of open water to the border of Costa Rica and Nicaragua. The waypoint saved in the GPS was a river mouth where Cole would have to cross a shallow sandbar then take a left turn up the river to a small set of shacks. Diego and Hector would know where to drop off the boat. They planned for it to take 12 hours. Casting off a few hours before sunset, Cole would be there in the morning before the sun was up.

Along with the GPS, the man gave Cole a smaller bag. Cole took it and it felt heavy. He unzipped the bag just a bit and saw a Glock pistol and a half-dozen magazines. Crouching down, Cole set the bag on the dirt. Picking up the Glock, he could tell it hadn’t been cleaned in a long long time. Salt had dried all over the frame and it had been shot since its last cleaning. Gunpowder residue was caked all over the forward end of the slide. Cole inserted a magazine, felt it click in place, and racked the slide with the gun pointed down and away from the others. It chambered a round with just a bit more grit than normal. If he had to take a dirty gun with him, a Glock was a good choice. It would run with just about any amount of dirt and grime covering its innards. He tucked the pistol in the small of his back, tightened his belt a bit to hold it firm, then tossed in his jacket with the spare magazines and zipped the bag back up.

Meanwhile, the man and David went back and forth in Spanish and Cole couldn’t pick up any of it. Turning to Cole, David asked if he had any questions. “Yeah. How do I get back here?”

The other man chimed in. “Don’t worry cowboy, we’ll take care of that. You just get this boat and this load to Nicaragua.”

Cole could do little but accept the man at his word. “Well, OK then. See you when I see you.”

Cole took his shoes off and held them in his hand as he walked through the knee deep water over to the panga. The shallow water was warm and felt wonderful against his bare feet. He tossed the bag of magazines and his shoes over the side and onto the deck. Diego extended a hand and helped Cole up and over. Standing onboard for the first time, he felt the sturdy deck beneath his feet and the rough finish of the fiberglass. When built, no one had bothered to take the extra time to sand it down for aesthetics, but as Cole walked around inspecting the fuel lines and the console, he felt confident she could handle the open water.

There were two keys in the ignition. Cole turned one and the first engine kicked and moaned for a brief second before coming to life, spitting a stream of cooling water out the side. He turned the second key and she was alive moments later as well. He adjusted the trim a bit and his two crew settled into seats forward of Cole. They sat facing away from him, their hands pressed against the seat behind them and made small talk.
No big deal
, Cole thought, although he knew that a boatload of cocaine was, in fact, a big fucking deal. Here he was, once again, crossing a threshold. But here on the quiet Caribbean coast of Panama, it seemed far enough removed from
Delaney
that there was little need for concern. He smiled and gave a half-assed salute to David and the other man as he backed the panga away from the shoreline.

There was plenty of room, but he twisted the motors anyway, putting the left one clutch ahead and reversing the right. The bow spun around smartly into the wind and Cole idled ahead through the small harbor. He didn’t look back at David or the safety of the shoreline, knowing that he couldn’t turn around at this point. Before him stood a challenge, and Cole was hell-bent to see it through to success. He motored slowly for some time and felt the sea breeze pick up against his face. The color of the water was somewhere between green and blue and puffs of wind danced across the surface as he rounded a sandbar and saw a monstrous jetty in front of him. It was a great feeling to be out of the city and back on the water. Despite the risk of being caught, or lost at sea, or hunted down by another cartel, Cole was thankful to be on the open water again.

To his left, he could see the unending line of tankers anchored off the canal waiting for their turn to cross Panama. Ahead and to his right there was a break in the jetty and beyond it the Caribbean Sea. Cole turned slightly right and pointed for the channel. Diego looked back at Cole and gave him a thumbs up. Hector sat facing forward, slumped as if he was pouting. Diego, throwing his fist up into the air, yelled, “Vamanos!”

Cole throttled up to about 15 knots. The bow rose up and out of the water then settled down just shy of a full plane as a cool and stiff breeze filled in. The water was deeper and a darker blue as they crossed the entrance and hit the full expanse of the Caribbean. There was a chop of about three feet, but the panga held her course well. Cole worked the throttles a bit until she found her rhythm amongst the waves, the whitecaps, and the sea spray.

Fuck Hector
, he thought. Cole yelled back at Diego, “Vamanos!”
Let’s Go
.

Chapter 8 – El Caribe

THE SKY SHOWED the first signs of sunset as Cole leaned back against the raised seat behind him. It wasn’t enough to sit down on properly, but pressing his back against it took some of the load off his feet and stabilized his footing amid the rolls. He ran at just under 20 knots until almost eight o'clock in the evening. Looking ahead, the last hints of light disappeared behind a low cloud on the horizon. He had been driving northwest since he passed the jetty and had covered only 30 miles. Land no longer visible, Cole grasped the magnitude of this run. Had it been Florida, he’d be a third of the way there, but now in the open Caribbean, he had covered only a small fraction.

Cole brought the throttles back to idle and the panga slowed. Her bow pushed one last wave ahead then settled. Hector and Diego looked back at Cole and saw that he was scanning the sky around them. Cole took his time looking for any signs of aircraft. Seeing none, he scanned the horizon all around for ships and also saw nothing. He was all alone on the sea as the panga bobbed and the two outboards hummed against their mounts. There was a good breeze from the north and it was full of cool air, chilled even more as the night took hold. Cole grabbed his jacket and zipped it halfway up. His arms, face, and legs were already covered in a fine film of dried salt from the sea spray and humid air. Taking a deep breath, Cole smiled at the two up front.

“Vamanos,” Cole yelled again. They both just laughed, muttering back and forth, probably calling him names in Spanish.

Cole pushed the throttles halfway up, and the bow rocked up and over the water. He turned her northward with a half-spin of the wheel and matched her to the reference on his GPS. It was the only light on the boat, and Cole kept it tucked in front of the throttle quadrant. Satisfied with his course, he looked at the magnetic compass and committed 335 degrees to memory. If the GPS died, a compass was all he had to go off of. Cole punched the throttles and felt the panga surge up and ahead.

Unlike the overpowered center-consoles he’d run in Florida, the 550 horses pushing this panga were perfectly tuned to this boat and its cargo. She easily made 30 knots and danced with grace over the swells. It was a simple design, and Cole appreciated its seakeeping. What a panga lacked in sleek design, she more than made up for with subtle grace.