Caribbean's Keeper (17 page)

Hours went by and they continued screaming northward. Cole made minor corrections to his course, bringing her more and more to the left by five degrees. Currents and winds factored into his drift, and he worried more and more about the GPS losing its charge. After almost six hours, she still showed half of a battery, but Cole worried about it. Finding the weakest link in a chain was in his nature and a single GPS was a gaping hole in his plan.

It was after midnight when he brought the throttles back again. He scanned the horizon once more, seeing nothing but the stars. Towering columns of cumulus clouds were backlit by the moon, and it was a beautiful thing to see. Cole looked to the tops and saw the ominous cumulonimbus peaks creeping skyward. Far to the northeast, he saw some lightning concealed in the innards of one particularly large buildup.

Satisfied again that he was alone, he sat on the seat for a moment and drank warm water from a milk jug that Diego had brought him. Ignoring Cole, Hector went about swapping fuel lines from one tank to another and Cole took comfort in the knowledge that he was halfway there. His body was tired, but his mind was alive and sharp. Dipping both his hands in the dark water over the side of the boat, Cole rubbed them together to loosen his muscles. He’d gripped the wheel for more than six hours and felt the fatigue setting in on his body. He twisted left and right to stretch his back as Diego gave Cole a thumbs up and took a new seated position leaning against the side of the panga.

Cole throttled up again and they picked up speed northward. Another hour passed. Cole’s feet hurt and cold had set in on his weakening body. Feeling the effects of exposure, Cole shook his head violently to ward it off as another hour passed. The engines screamed and the panga held her course well. He was thankful that she needed such little input from the wheel to hold her course.

Just as his mind drifted to other things, Hector yelled something and pointed to the sky. Diego climbed up from the deck and braced as he looked up in the same direction. Cole was squinting, but couldn’t see what they were talking about. It couldn’t be good.

Cole heard one of them say “airplane” in broken English. They were both yelling and pointing and yelling more back at Cole. Then Cole saw it. Against the moonlit sky and not too far south of them, the silhouette of a plane came into view. It was low, maybe 1,000 feet, and had no lights on. There was no chance of it being a commercial flight or anything other than what Cole feared it was. It was a few miles from them, paralleling their course just off Cole’s right shoulder. A minute went by and the plane made a slow lumbering turn towards Cole.

Fuck
. Cole had some time to think, but he knew they’d spotted him. Hector and Diego were talking to each other and left Cole to his own thoughts. It was a big ocean, but Cole had no way of knowing who the plane was talking to. It passed off Cole’s right side and was now ahead of them, but turning back around. It disappeared behind some clouds, then reappeared moments later, pointed at the panga.

Cole kept the throttles down and pressed on at 30 knots. The plane was dead ahead and pointed at him. It descended to the point that it almost seemed to be touching the surface. Cole could see moonlight reflecting off its fuselage and it couldn’t have been more than 100 feet above the sea. At a half-mile or so in front of Cole, the plane energized every light it had. Cole squinted as the illumination damn near blinded him and the plane passed in a split second right over the top of the panga. It was so damn low that Hector and Diego ducked. Even Cole couldn’t help but duck down a bit as it screamed overhead. The massive propellers drowned out the sound of Cole’s engines and he recognized it as a P-3 Orion as it climbed up and away behind him. It’s exhaust warmed the nighttime air momentarily, and Cole smelled the burnt jet fuel in its wake. The U.S. Navy and U.S. Customs both flew them down here, and it had passed over him so quickly he couldn’t see any markings to figure out who it was.

It would take a few minutes for the P-3 to come back around. There was nothing the plane could do by itself except annoy him for the next three or four hours. But the P-3 crew was surely talking to every ship within 100 miles. And there was no doubt in Cole’s mind that every ship in the fight was turning in his direction.

He’d spent many nights on
Delaney
chasing down Go-Fasts. All too often, Cole and
Delaney
missed their targets. It was next to impossible to find a Go-Fast and all the more difficult at night. If a warship wasn’t perfectly positioned to intercept a panga, it stood no chance of catching up to them. Cole knew he was still in decent shape. The P-3 came back around and settled into an orbit around Cole. Diego and Hector were still pointing and talking wildly. Cole calmed his nerves and focused on the next few hours. Any fatigue was gone and he was now at full strength with the help of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

To his west, Cole saw a good line of thunderstorms. It was early in the morning and he still had four or even five hours before the sunrise. Ahead of him were clear skies and to the east were smaller clouds. He knew enough about flying to be sure the P-3 would keep its distance from the thunderstorms. From the bridge of
Delaney
, he’d spent hours listening to the secure radio communications between the planes as they negotiated the horrific summer weather in the tropics. Many times they could not complete searches due to the convective storms. He figured the clouds to the west might give him some separation from the P-3.

He turned 45 degrees to the west and headed for an intercept with the meanest-looking thunderhead. The P-3 held its orbit for the next hour and Cole carefully scanned the horizon for any lights or silhouettes of ships, but he saw none. The P-3 made another low pass of Cole, this time coming up from behind him and startling him as its engines screamed overhead. Cole cursed the plane and its pilots under his breath. He again felt the hot exhaust and smelled the burnt fuel, figuring that the pilots were probably just bored at this point and looking for ways to entertain themselves. What Cole didn’t know was if they had company on the way. He remembered the conversation about the gunfight with the Coastie crew.

His mind wandered.
Maybe these two jackasses are playing with me while they wait for the real show to begin?
Maybe me and my small crew are already dead and we’ll be the last ones to figure it out.
The thunderstorm was picking up a bit ahead of him now, and he felt some cooler air across his face as he got closer. It was a mature storm, now dumping its cold air from tens of thousands of feet above him onto the surface of the sea and lightning lit the innards of the dark clouds every few seconds. The wind shifted as he pointed directly into the middle of it. He could see a squall line of rain not too far ahead.

Cole kept the throttles up and looked behind him. The P-3 had fallen back a bit in his trail and was flying a lazy S-pattern behind him. The rain first hit as a mist, cold against his face. For a second, Cole felt relief from the salt that covered his body. He reached up and zipped his jacket all the way, pulling its hood over his head. Just as quickly as he’d felt the mist, it opened up into a downpour, and Cole couldn’t see more than 50 feet in front of him. He looked down at the GPS and verified that a correction to the north would put him back on course. He’d added half an hour to his trip by deviating, but in rain like this, the P-3 had surely lost him. Cole figured they would try to wait him out, but at least he’d shaken them for the time being.

Heading slightly west of north, the driving rain held up for some time. Lightning and thunder were intermittent, but a few bolts flashed down and out of the clouds, striking the water around him. Diego and Hector huddled against each other and were done talking. At this point, they were cold and wet and trying their best to wait out the storm as Cole powered through it. Adrenaline had warmed Cole initially, but as he pressed through the storm for the next half hour, he was cold once again. He felt his hands cramp around the wheel and his fingertips were numb. He was thirsty, but didn’t take the time to find his bottle of water.

The wind died as he drove under the center of the storm. Rain poured from a bucket over his head and his shorts stuck against his thighs. If there was any silver lining, it was the fact that the fresh water had rinsed away the salt and his skin no longer itched. Looking down at his GPS, Cole was just under 60 miles from the rendezvous.

It was nearing four in the morning when he emerged from the rain. He was north of the sheltering storm cell and had covered nearly 45 miles in driving rain. At first, he was still under a heavy low-cloud deck and the sky was obscured. With no horizon that he could see, the sea blended into the dark grey sky. It was a picture worth painting and its beauty took Cole’s mind off of his current troubles. As time passed, the clouds opened up again and Cole yelled at the two up front. They looked back at him and Cole motioned for them to look around the sky. They spent a minute or two canvassing the stars back and forth then smiled back at Cole. Diego gave Cole a big toothy grin and a thumbs up. The P-3 was gone. They were probably on their way back to base, having ceded victory to Cole. Cole laughed, shook his head, and wondered if they were headed to
Habana’s
to toast Cole’s prowess. Probably not, but Cole kept the thought in his head for amusement. Once again, he’d beaten them with calculated risk. His feet throbbed, his hands were painful against the wheel, and his back felt like he’d carried a ton of bricks, but he was on the home stretch.

By five a.m., the sky to the east was purple and red. Cole zoomed out the GPS screen to look at how far he’d travelled through the night. It gave him hope he was almost done. As the stars faded and the eastern horizon turned orange, Cole could make out the tree line to his west. He cross-referenced his GPS again and knew he was within a few miles of the river bank.

With the morning light, Cole’s fatigue faded. To the east was daylight. Above him hung all the shades of a Caribbean morning that he loved so much. The water reflected the first glimmers of sunlight, and Cole could see the rolling waves and mist marking the reefline ahead. Salt spray rose up from the swells and was carried by the morning land breeze. Cole throttled back as he hit the waypoint and he turned off the GPS. It had been 12 hours. Even with the delay from the P-3, he’d made great time. He was now gliding through the water and standing on his toes looking for the river mouth. With a swell from the northeast, it was hard to pick up, but Cole thought he saw an opening where the waves were not as severe. He had no way of knowing how big they were as they crashed over the reef, but if he hit the middle of a channel the waves would roll right through and so would he.

Cole inched closer to the shoreline and paralleled it northward. The panga rolled with each passing swell and at the top of each crest, he could see over the waves to the sandy shoreline. Further north, he spotted the river. As he smiled, Diego yelled something in Spanish and pointed seaward again. A larger set of waves had snuck up behind Cole and he was still south of the river mouth. By the looks of the swell, Cole wasn’t going to make it back out before the first wave broke. He jammed the throttles and paralleled the building waves. The lip of the first wave formed just as the panga surged over the top of it. Airborne for just a second, the panga slammed back down on the backside of the wave. Cole steadied himself before seeing the next wave was even bigger, probably six feet on its face, and driving towards him. With the throttle still down, Cole looked back to his left towards the land and saw the channel only a few hundred yards away. He then looked back to his right and saw that the wave was already breaking.

Whitewater was rushing towards him and all Cole could do was drive further inshore away from the breaking wave to buy some time. The motors struggled a bit in the churned up shallows and Cole knew he was only in a few feet of water. If a wave caught him, he’d wreck the boat and lose his cargo. With no other option, he raced for the river mouth and waited. It was only a few seconds before he found deeper water—the river—and the wave petered out, but it felt like an eternity. The stress lifted as he brought the throttles back and saw deep dark blue water around him. The two up front shook their heads, but both gave Cole a grin. Cole ran both his hands through his matted hair in disbelief.

He pointed her up the river and looked back to bid the Caribbean goodbye for now. He was hard on himself for slipping too far inshore and nearly having been caught by the surprise swell. He’d fixated on one thing, finding the river, and nearly lost the boat because of it. Cole shook it off and thought again that it’s better to be lucky than good. His cowboy seamanship had worked.

Daylight had taken full hold, and while it was still early morning, the sun reflected off the palms that sat motionless in the now-still morning air. Mangroves and brush stretched out to the waterline, and the river turned brownish as Cole passed a narrow opening between two shallow spits of coral. There was nowhere to pull up to and not a soul in sight.

Cole heard birds in the trees and the smell of lush vegetation overtook that of the salt air. Diego looked back at Cole and motioned with one hand to take a left into what looked like a small inlet. It seemed like another world. Just inside the cut, there were a few dilapidated buildings with rusting tin roofs. Two scrap-wood docks jutted out into the river, but Diego motioned Cole further along. The panga now crept through still water at a walking pace as Cole played the throttles back and forth from idle. Under a palm canopy 15 yards ahead, Cole saw an older man waving from the bank. He stood on a web of a tree roots and was barefoot in shorts and a dirty shirt.

Cole nudged up to the shore and the older man took a line from the bow of the panga and tied it off to a tree. Cole’s crew hopped over and tied off the stern, bringing it in close against the shore. The second guy disappeared momentarily and came back with a tattered burlap tarp. All three men then went about pulling the tarp over the hull. Under a canopy, tucked up against the bank of a nameless river and hidden under a tarp, no plane would ever spot Cole’s panga now. He was safe once again.