( 2011) Cry For Justice (31 page)

I checked the radar screen once more. The second contact was still maintaining its course and would pass about six hundred yards south of our position. I settled in for the short wait. James scanned radio frequencies for chatter but found nothing useful.

It did not take long for the second contact’s navigational lights to come into view. I aimed my scope at it, and again all sorts of unwanted data came alive and cluttered the edges of the image as the scope acquired the target. It was another large craft, a cruiser about 150 feet long, moving at a stately seven knots. Not what I had hoped for. I looked at James and shook my head, then went back to the radar screen. No other contacts in range.

Where the hell was Baumann? He had to be nearby. I could almost feel him.

Searching for a single sailboat in the open ocean, at night and running dark, presented a formidable challenge no matter how efficient the pursuit craft is or how sophisticated its onboard instrumentation may be. We had put ourselves in this precise spot on this vast expanse of ocean, fully expecting Baumann to choose the most direct escape route. Of course, he could have changed his mind and gone in a different direction. He had already shown that he was exceedingly sly and cunning. But was he
too
sly and cunning
not
to do the smart thing? I was about to find out.

James and I peered into the vast darkness surrounding us, silently and methodically scanning for something that might well not even be there to find. The slimness of our chances dawned on me: two men in a small boat in the middle of a dark, vast ocean, completely out of options. Odds of finding Baumann this way were simply too staggering to be real. But I hadn’t the luxury of wallowing in despair. Mackenzie’s life was at stake. I had to find her.

The second contact’s running lights were now much closer. Right on cue, the second contact would soon sail about four hundred yards south and west of our position. Radar data reported the slow-moving craft at twelve hundred yards and closing. For some reason the radar signature seemed larger than it had been just a couple of minutes ago. An anomaly, perhaps? I shared my concern with James.

He shrugged and said, “I suppose we won’t know for sure unless we go have us a look.”

I asked him to set a course that would bring us astern of the contact. He spun the wheel and the boat swung about, hitting a wave that sent sea spray onto my face. With the taste of brine came a shiver of anticipation, as if I somehow, something inside me, knew that the end was at hand.

Twenty-nine

The police and Coast Guard would most likely begin their search at dawn. If they sent any search planes out during the night, it would most likely be long-range aircraft out of Florida, which would take some time to get anywhere near our location. Once the sun was up, however, helicopters would set a course for the target area and begin a systematic grid search for the
Stella Maris,
aka
Carpe Diem
. My main concern was the fact that, by that time, Baumann could be in Cuba if he chose, which would place him well out of our reach.

The night air was cool and heavy with moisture. A dark shroud had now covered the new moon, cloaking everything around us in a darker than usual gloom. We were taking big, rolling ocean swells on our starboard quarter, rising up the long side of the dark, watery hills and then riding down the opposite slope a bit faster as our bow bit into the trough only to rise again. The boat rode the swells with ease, the gurgle of its triple Mercury engines a continuous drone in the background.

I told James to cut the engines for a moment. He pointed the bow at the oncoming waves and complied. I studied the radar screen. The cruiser was where it was supposed to be, just southwest of our position, about eight hundred yards away now, but its radar signature had changed yet again. I pointed this out to James and mentioned the shapeshifting signature.

He studied the colorful image on the screen, and his round face split into a big smile. “Lad, I believe you may have just found our fleeing scumbag.”

He flicked on the engines and turned the wheel, putting us on a course roughly perpendicular to the contact’s. I picked up the night-vision monocular and aimed it at distant running lights.

“Search about sixty yards astern and to starboard of the cruiser,” James said. “See what lurks.”

As I examined the reddish image of the cruiser something caught my eye. A dark shape directly behind the large cruiser seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. At first thinking I might have imagined it, I rechecked the settings to make sure the night-vision scope hadn’t produced a phantom image, and then took another look.

“Anything? James queried.

“Dunno yet,” I said.

We crested another large swell, and I scoped the spot where I had seen the unexpected shape. There it was again, and this time the dark image appeared clear as day. I immediately recognized the odd sails, the rigging, the twin masts, and the generous beam of the
Carpe Diem.
I finally had him in my sights.

In a brilliant maneuver, to be sure, Baumann had been shadowing the much larger, slow-going cruiser in an effort to avoid electronic detection. In fact, the setup was so perfect, I had to wonder if it had been planned this way. Was the large cruiser sailing just ahead of the
Carpe Diem
a mere happenstance... or were they an accomplice ready to assist if required? Before I made my move, I needed to be sure.

I studied the cruiser through the night-vision scope. Nothing seemed out of place. It looked like any other civilian pleasure craft making an ocean passage. Except for the running and cabin lights, the ship seemed almost devoid of life, which would be typical for this time of night. The owners or guests were likely in their staterooms, and the rest of the crew was off for the night. The name on the stern said this was the
Perfect Illusion
out of Tortola, British Virgin Islands. I shared my concerns with James, and in seconds he was on the satellite phone requesting a full check on the
Perfect Illusion,
civilian pleasure craft registered in Tortola, BVI.

“We’ll know more in about two minutes,” he said, clicking off the sat phone.

While waiting for the call, we crafted together a plan of action. If all checked out and the occupants of the cruiser turned out to be just victims of opportunity, we would power clear around the
Carpe Diem
to a point somewhere ahead of the slow-moving craft. I would enter the water, where I would wait for the sailboat to approach. James would stand invisibly by. The aim was to get me aboard the
Carpe Diem
unnoticed. Once on board, my first priority had to be Mackenzie’s safety. I would deal with the threats as they presented themselves. I would be at my most vulnerable while getting aboard. I didn’t know how many men Baumann had with him, but I hoped the element of surprise would be enough to carry the day.

The sat phone buzzed. James’s contact reported the
Perfect Illusion
did check out. The boat had sailed out of the New York Yacht Club in Newport, Rhode Island, and was making its annual pilgrimage to its wintering grounds in the British Virgin Islands. Nothing to indicate it had any connection to Baumann.

It was party time.

James announced there were wet suits in the head
 
shower area, just inside the boat’s large center console. I opened the door to the compartment, turned on a reddish overhead light, and found several neatly hanging black neoprene suits against the back wall.

It was hot and oppressive in the small space. I stripped and put on one of the larger wet suits, swearing lustily as the neoprene pulled hairs from my legs and chest. No time for talcum powder. I slung on one of the diving belts and snugged it to my waistline. It had a nice all black combat knife secured in a hard scabbard. I flicked off the light and went topside. James pointed to one of the lockers up front.

“You’ll find everything you need up there, mate.”

He was right: I found another knife and scabbard, which I strapped to my left calf. Fins, mask, and snorkel completed the getup. The element of surprise was essential to my plan. None of the M-4s on board was equipped with sound suppressors. I took the shorter of the two spear guns from the weapons cache. It had a nice webbed strap so it could be slung over the shoulder thoughtful. James gave me a once-over, followed by an approving nod.

I took a moment to study the radar screen once more. We were now roughly two hundred yards ahead of the
Carpe Diem,
and another fifty from the cruiser. Neither had changed course or speed thus far. That part of the plan, at least, was working. I hoped the rest would work out as well.

“Well, son,” James said as he shifted the boat’s triple levers to neutral and heaved to, “this is the point where you get wet and I don’t.” he handed me a small flare stick. “Use that if you need me. God speed.”

I placed the small flare inside my wet suit near my waist and promptly slipped over the side and into the swells. I watched as James and the boat receded into the gloom. I slid up the face of a large swell and down the backside into its trough, only to repeat the roller-coaster ride several more times as I swam into position. The night was dark and perfect, with a thick layer of clouds cloaking the moon and stars in velvety black cloak.

Since the
Carpe Diem
was running dark, I would have to guess the best place to intercept it. I had made my calculations based on the position of the lights aboard the
Permanent Illusion
. It didn’t take long for the cruiser’s lights to come into view. I corrected my position accordingly. I prayed I would be in the right spot when the time came.

I kicked hard, and the long fins bit hard into the water as I fought the swells. I stopped where I thought I needed to be, and treaded water. The swells were six to eight feet with occasional whitecaps. Some individual swells were even higher and, with me in the trough, their sheer size could easily block the sailboat from view. I fought to stay high on the swells as long as I could, searching the gloom for the darkened sailboat.

Taking a moment to reassess my position, I glanced back at the cruiser. It had already passed east of my position and was maybe 70 yards away, its aft lights fading fast. That meant that if my calculations were correct, I should be touching the
Carpe Diem
right about now.

I turned around, and a jolt of adrenaline fired through every cell in my body. The huge shape was coming straight at me!

I had turned just in time to see the long, sharp angle of the sailboat’s massive bow slicing the big sea mounds, spraying foam and water high as it cut a path trough stormy seas. I began kicking as hard as I could to avoid being crushed, and as I cleared the colossal form I felt the tip of one fin brush hard against the massive hull.

Once clear of the prow, I pivoted back toward the fast-moving hulk. In the night radiance I spotted what I was looking for: the docking bumper, still dangling near the stern a mindless mistake and the perfect access point.

I kicked into position and waited. There would be only one chance. The dark hull seemed to race past me, the force of its monstrous wake pushing me away, like an invisible force field rejecting my very presence. I fought to stay as high and close as possible on the big swells. I had to time and pick my moment precisely.

The moment came a hell of a lot faster than I expected.

It materialized almost out of nowhere. Dangling and just out of reach was the docking bumper, skittering along on the wake. Kicking with every bit of energy I had, I lunged forward and up, arms reaching high, fingers splayed, eyes wide. I came off a wave top and suddenly felt my torso clear the water as my fingers made contact with what I hoped was thick rope. I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter; it was all I had. I closed my gloved hands around whatever it was, and held on for dear life.

The sudden onslaught of pain was excruciating. My arms felt as though they were being ripped from my shoulders as I was yanked violently from the wave’s watery grip and thrust forward with spine-stretching force.

I was being buffeted in the sailboat’s massive wake, the craft’s up-and-down motion and the pounding waves smashing my body against the wooden hull. The thumping sounds my body made against the hull were forceful enough to surely get someone’s attention. I had to do something fast.

Struggling against the forces fighting to strip my hands free from their precarious hold on the thin rope, I began to climb hand over hand up the round rubbery shape as fast as I could. My body was now almost completely out of the water. I hugged the big rubberized bumper with my legs and braced myself with my arms and I prayed whatever stanchion the bumper was tied would hold long enough. Another hard couple of hand-over-hand motions, and I grasped the top of the gunwale. I took a moment to catch my breath, and with my free hand, I unslung the spear gun slung on my back. I readied it, flattening myself against the hull. If someone should peer over the rail searching for the source of the disturbance, I had them dead to rights.

I could feel the rushing ocean just three feet below my six, the spray occasionally blasting me with enough force to dangle me backward over the rushing wake. I could feel each pulsation of the massive boat as the keel cut forcefully trough angry waves, the encounter reverberating through every inch of the dark hull.

I had already expended a lot of energy just getting to this point. Gasping for breath, I was having a hard time settling down into proper form for what I was about to do. Note to self: more running, less tequila. I released the safety on the compact spear gun and aimed it above me, waiting for the attention that was surely coming.

Sure enough, a man’s face appeared above me, peering down into the darkness. He had a bandage over his nose the man I head butted earlier. He held a pistol in one hand and a long flashlight in the other.

The spear caught him in the mouth. Dropping the gun and flashlight, his hands reached instinctively toward the pain.