Lab Notes: a novel (10 page)

μ CHAPTER THIRTEEN μ

They were twenty-four in number—three generations of men wearing hunter’s khaki, riding straight-backed on their mounts, hands resting on the high pommel of their saddles, feet cradled easily in their
estrebos
.

On a chain, inside their shirts, hung their coats-of-arms—concealed, not only to preserve their anonymity as they traveled to their clandestine meeting place, but also to symbolize the group’s belief that anything hidden close to the heart, like a secret or an unpublished vow, ignited the deepest of passions and evoked the strongest commitments.

The horses wore no brand. They stepped along sure-footed, necks held in a regal arch as if they understood they had been bred for the noble task of bearing their masters, perpetually, to their destination—downward four hundred years to the valley floor.

The men were of a singular mind. Their ancestors had stormed ashore from Spanish galleons, taken the land and its many riches and were rewarded handsomely by their king. Centuries later they fought beside Simon Bolivar to clear the land of royalists and gain their independence.

Every third full moon, grandfathers, sons and grandsons, the educated power-elite of Colombia, rode together toward the stone lodge in the high valley to keep their date with a four-century-old tradition.

They were the Knights of New Granada. Their motto: “Retribution and Justice, two edges of the same sword.” Their mission in recent centuries: To preserve the oldest democracy in South America. Undetected. Unrestrained.

Sated from a banquet of roasted wild boar and platters of mountain-grown fruits and vegetables provided by the local Kogi women, the men somberly sipped coffee and smoked cigars on the large veranda.

At midnight, they prayed together before heading to their beds and an uneasy sleep. In the morning they would address some of their most difficult quandaries in two centuries.

At daybreak, the President for Life,
Carabina
, called the meeting to order. The tap of his gavel reverberated through the locked wine cellar. Following custom,
Carabina
appointed
Espalda
to take roll call.

At these meetings, the men went by the nicknames acquired in the academies and on the playing fields of their youth. The roll was in order of the Knights’ initiation dates into the secret society.

Espalda
stood and called, “
Granadero
.” The name echoed around the cave-like arches.
Granadero
responded, “
Aqui
.” “
Caballero
.” “
Aqui
.” “
Caballo
.” The men of the inner circle smirked;
Caballo
had earned his nickname in adolescence because of the size of his genitals. With his customary scowl,
Caballo
answered “
aqui
.” “
Novicio
.”… The roll call went on until the presence or absence of every member had been duly noted.

Carabina
then asked
Espalda
to report, from memory, the minutes from the last quarterly meeting. In more than four centuries, none of the group’s business had ever been committed to paper.
Espalda
began his recitation.

Today, the minutes reflected the Knights’ agenda: to bring an end to the cultivation, manufacture and exportation of mind-altering drugs that plagued their country, undermining their social structure and economy for the past few decades.

Following
Espalda’s
report,
Carabina
opened the discussion to new business.

Novicio
reported that economists estimated revenue from illegal drug exportation had exceeded Colombia’s entire GDP. He noted that most of the country’s legitimate businesses were owned by the grandees present in that room.

Worldwide mistrust of drug-exporting countries made for time-consuming, destructive searches of ships and planes in ports of call, negatively affecting their companies’ bottom lines. Their personal fortunes were at stake.

Caballo
, one of the hardliners, insisted it was time for drastic action. He outlined a plan whereby those shipping lines, known to turn a blind eye to smuggling activities, would be boarded and “chastened” at sea. Private vessels that were suspect would meet with similar fates. Some airliners would have to be sacrificed also as a loud warning that these illegal activities will not be tolerated. After a group discussion of the details, Carabina called for a show of hands. The plans were approved.

Now, it fell to
Granadero
, the second in command, to address the heaviest issue of the day:
narco
-corruption at the middle and highest levels of government.

With downcast eyes, he named people with close personal ties to almost everyone around the enormous table in the wine cellar. Motions were made, votes taken. And despite their personal allegiances, the majority sanctioned far-reaching courses of action.

The symbolic Sword of Damocles was passed around the group until it reached
Granadero
who held it to his heart and pledged to issue the warnings.

Carabina
adjourned the meeting and abruptly left the cellar.

The next morning the Knights of New Granada, with heavy hearts and solemn faces, rode out of the high valley, heading back to their private clubs, mansions and boardrooms. But their thoughts would never travel far from the wine cellar in the formidable
Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta

μ CHAPTER FOURTEEN μ

At dawn, beginning his fourth day at sea, Vincent braced himself in the cockpit as
Woodwind
skied down the face of a mountainous wave, then miraculously lifted her proud bow and climbed toward the next peak. Nearing the crest, Vincent released his death-grip on the pedestal guard, wiped his binocular lenses and scanned the horizon. But his efforts at penetrating the low-lying storm clouds were futile; the source of the persistent blip on his radar screen remained hidden behind an inky squall line to the east.

Woodwind
began her plunge into the next murky trough. Instinctively, Vincent grabbed for a hand-hold to ride out the descent.

Fortunately,
Woodwind
was built for heavy weather. In fact, the boat was faring much better than her skipper. The constant vigilance had exhausted Vincent’s body and eroded his spirit. He had fully expected this single-handed sailboat race from Galveston to Vera Cruz, Mexico to be an endurance test, but he had not anticipated almost total sleep deprivation along the way.

His state-of-the-art autopilot and radar collision alarm, set at a six nautical-mile range, should have ensured hours of carefree slumber. But high winds, rough seas and the resulting roll and pitch of the boat limited him to cat naps, wrecking his plan for a two-hour-on, two-hour-off watch schedule. To make things worse—much worse—over the past twenty-four hours, the radar alarm had sounded every time he drifted off to sleep. Vincent had spent the night dodging waves that washed across the cockpit and agonizing over the possibility of a collision at sea. How had this race—his lifelong dream—turned into a nightmare of soaking-wet fatigue in so few days?

The race had begun with a promising golden sunrise and a fifteen-knot breeze from the southeast that stirred up gentle four-foot swells in the Gulf of Mexico. Vincent had experienced a heightened sense of oneness with nature when he crossed the starting line under full sail. Inspired by shouts from Diane and other well-wishers from BRI, he had stood at the helm chanting a stanza from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
—his favorite poem—in a resonant, theatrical voice: “‘The sun came up upon the left/out of the sea came he! …’”

But his euphoria was short-lived. An unstable low pressure system formed up in the Gulf of Mexico the afternoon of that first day, and weather conditions had continued to deteriorate ever since.

Last night, after the collision alarm had sounded for the fifth or sixth time, Vincent checked the radar and found it to be in perfect working order, confirming his fear. The persistent alarm, along with the ever-present blip on the radar screen meant there was a boat within six miles of him—shrouded in the cloud bank to the east. The annoying vessel seemed to be sailing parallel with him as he diverged away from the Texas coastline.

Vincent regretted his decision to sail west of the rhumb line, along the twelve-fathom curve. Maybe the going was easier out in deeper water. The weather could be better farther offshore. And he probably wouldn’t have worrisome traffic to contend with out there.

He considered altering course to reduce the possibility of a collision. But the wind was blowing out of the south-southeast; he’d have to tack over to an easterly heading, thereby losing valuable time and distance to his race competitors. Maybe he should try communicating with the other boat once more before making any decisions.

Vincent turned on his hand-held VHF radio, tuned to channel sixteen and adjusted the squelch button until the static cleared. He knew most commercial ships and pleasure craft in the Gulf of Mexico monitored that channel. “This is the sailing vessel,
Woodwind
, asking for a radio check. Come back please.” He hoped to raise a response from anyone within hearing distance, particularly from the boat out there in the mist.

After several tries with no reply, Vincent clicked from channel to channel repeating his request. He became more and more irritated as each message went unanswered. Then, shouting a frustrated oath at the radio, he set it back on channel sixteen, and jammed it into a pocket in his yellow foul-weather suit.

He took some deep breaths to calm himself. Anger wasn’t going to solve anything. The nearby boat might have a malfunctioning radio, he reasoned. And in all probability, it was one of the sixty-seven boats in his racing fleet. If only he could see the other boat to be sure.

The radar alarm had been silent for about fifteen minutes now.

He patted the teak cockpit combing. “What should we do next, Ol’ Girl?” he said aloud. Then he laughed. He had been talking to the boat for the past two days, but this was the first time he asked for advice.

Vincent checked his watch and groaned. It was nearly nine a.m., time to go below and report in to the race committee. In these weather conditions, it would take all his strength to make those few steps.

Vincent planned his move from the helm to the cabin carefully. Even though he had reduced his sail power to a storm jib and a double-reefed main two days earlier,
Woodwind
heeled over at a forty-degree angle as she charged up and down the angry waves. He knew the sea would exploit even a nanosecond of vulnerability.

He checked the safety harness around his chest, then held on with both hands as he pulled himself forward to the companionway hatch. Stinging saltwater washed over the bow and lashed at his face. It burned his eyes, poured off his beard and found its way inside his rain gear. Though pleasantly warm at first, the sea water turned to cold, soggy discomfort in seconds.

Vincent slid open the hatch, and only then did he unclip his harness from the lifeline that ran along the deck. He clung to teak handrails as he eased himself down the tilting companionway stairs. The main cabin was in chaos. The pounding sea had dislodged equipment and provisions so diligently stowed. Settee cushions, guitar, pots, tea kettle, dishes, cans and books from the port side of the boat, were strewn along the starboard settee and floor. The slanted cabin reminded Vincent, ironically, of an amusement park fun house. He belched to relieve the beginnings of seasickness and forced himself to ignore the tightening sensations in his stomach. He looked at the drawer where the anti-nausea medication was stored, then stuck to his resolve not to use it unless absolutely necessary; the medicine would further compromise his alertness.

He glanced at the radar screen and confirmed that the glowing green blip had moved farther east. Then he concentrated on the GPS mounted on the bulkhead above the chart table.

Vincent punched some buttons and, in a minute, the receiver flashed
Woodwind’s
latitude and longitude on the screen. Vincent plotted the numbers on his chart.

He now turned on the single-side-band radio and monitored the Vera Cruz Race frequency. Vincent listened as other sailboats reported their positions. None were in his area. It was his turn now. He pressed the microphone button.

“This is
Woodwind
calling the Vera Cruz Race Committee. Come in please.”

An irritatingly well-rested voice responded with, “
Woodwind
, this is Vera Cruz. What is your position and heading? Over.”

Vincent reported his latitude, longitude and heading. “Do you copy? Over.”

“That’s affirmative, Woodwind. That heavy weather you’re having out there should be moving on shore by this evening.”

“Hallelujah!” Vincent shouted. “That’ll be a blessing. This is
Woodwind
signing off.”
And none too soon
. His seasickness was worsening. The bulkheads and furnishings lurched and swayed before his eyes. He
had
to get out of the cabin, and he
had
to eat something—immediately.

Vincent grabbed a pre-made pimento-cheese sandwich and a ginger ale and headed topside. Just as he stepped into the cockpit, the radar alarm sounded and then went silent. Muttering an oath, he glanced down below at the radar screen. Sure enough, the blip indicated a boat about six miles away. “Damn.”

Vincent clipped his chest harness into the lifeline and surveyed his surroundings. He was surprised to see the rain had subsided and the clouds were lifting somewhat, allowing better visibility. At that moment, he spotted something moving in the distance, off his starboard bow. He grabbed for the binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. “There you are!”

Through the glasses, Vincent could see a huge white power cruiser with what appeared to be a large radar dome; or was the vessel a trawler? Or maybe it was a sport fisher. It was hard to see as it moved behind the thinning clouds. Perhaps the crew was waiting out the weather so they could do some fishing.

“They have to be some avid fishermen,” he muttered aloud. “They’re as masochistic as sailors.” Whatever they were up to, he had to shake them soon so he could get some decent sleep.

The fresh air helped quell Vincent’s nausea. He braced himself in the seat and savored his sandwich and soda. Life was improving. There was a promise of better weather, his stomach was full and based on the positions reported by the rest of the fleet, he was at the head of the pack.

Vincent reached up to the coach roof and switched on a camcorder that ESPN technicians had installed inside a watertight Lucite box. He had come forward readily when the cable network had asked for volunteers to record daily progress during the race. The camera was calibrated to get a panoramic view of the boat and the surrounding waters. The camcorder began its three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.

Vincent swiped water droplets from the camera housing and faced the cockpit microphone. “It’s ten a.m. on Tuesday, June 3rd.
Woodwind
is located at approximately two hundred miles southeast of Matamoros, Mexico.” He went on to describe the weather, the set of the sails and other particulars of sailboat racing that he thought might be of interest to the TV audience who would be viewing the tape in about two months.

The camera turned slowly to the right. After one complete revolution, it reversed direction and pivoted back the other way. He completed his report and switched off the camcorder.

Vincent felt somewhat relaxed now that he had seen the other boat and knew it wasn’t the leviathan he had conjured in his mind. A profound sleepiness overcame him. After a quick look around, he settled onto the starboard cockpit seat.

He slept heavily for twenty minutes—until the radar alarm rang out. Disoriented, he jumped up, almost choking himself with his safety-harness tether. He scanned with the binoculars without any success, then peered down into the cabin at the radar scope. The boat—he assumed it was the same one—was back. This time it was six miles
behind
him. “I’ve had it! That’s it!” Vincent shouted. He reached for the autopilot controls and turned
Woodwind
eastward.

As
Woodwind’s
bow crossed through the wind, she came up on her lines, and Vincent could hear the clutter rearranging itself below in the main salon. He released the jib sheet and eased out the main. Already he experienced a sense of relief. Why had the decision to change course taken him so long?

Vincent could imagine the bewilderment of the race officials the next morning when he called in his report: “The bad news is: I’m off course, heading away from Vera Cruz. The good news is: I’m making record time.”

He chuckled to himself, then climbed below and double-checked that the collision alarm was set to sound if he came within six miles of
anything
. He returned to the cockpit, clipped his harness into the safety line and settled onto the port seat for what he hoped would be a deliciously long nap.

Vincent didn’t know what startled him, but he found himself wide awake and on his feet—but not for long. An errant wave jerked the boat and threw him off balance, knocking him to the cockpit floor. He pulled himself up onto a seat and looked at his watch. “That’s impossible,” he shouted. He had been asleep for four hours.

Now he remembered what woke him. He had heard an unusual sound… Maybe it was a dream. No, he was sure it had been real. But this time it wasn’t the radar alarm… It could have been something shifting down below. Or maybe a wave smacked up under the bow. Or possibly a dolphin had jumped, then slapped the water—occasionally dolphins would race beside the boat, then arch up in the air and look at him with one curious eye, then plunge back into the deep… No, that wasn’t the noise he heard either.

He looked around, but the binoculars showed him there was nothing within his two-mile radius of visibility. He moved forward and peered down into the cabin. The empty radar screen offered additional proof that he was alone out there. But rational or not, Vincent couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

At that moment, the VHF radio in his pocket erupted in static. Vincent jumped. “Aha! That’s the noise,” he shouted gleefully. The puzzle was solved.

Excited at the prospect of communicating with someone nearby, he dug the VHF out of his pocket and pushed the button. “This is the sailing vessel,
Woodwind
. Do you read me? Over.” No response. He called twice more, but the radio remained silent in his hand.

Vincent was about to give up and pocket the radio when five bursts of static came back in a regular rhythm, then six more bursts, then four. To him, it sounded like someone on the other end was playing games with their VHF microphone button—and with him. Vincent shivered; the hair on the back of his neck went on alert.