The New Madrid Run (16 page)

“Oh yeah. I’m an old Army boy,” the preacher said as he shouldered the weapon. Travis looked at the sensei. “You?” The sensei stepped over and pulled one out of the box, then grabbed a magazine from an adjacent box and snapped it in efficiently. Turning toward the ocean he cut loose a short burst.

Travis smiled. “I should have known.” He turned to Christina. “I can show you how to use one of—”

She gestured to the sensei and he handed her the weapon. She threw the bolt expertly, brought the weapon to her shoulder and clipped off three precise rounds at the ocean. Then she lowered the muzzle and turned. “My father was a hunter. I was the son he never had.” Again, Travis had to smile, realizing he was becoming more impressed with who she was rather than how she looked.

Each of them took a rifle along with six magazines of ammo. They also broke into the box of grenades and stored half a dozen within easy reach on both the sailboat and the shrimper. Next time they’d be ready.

It was late that afternoon, when all the weapons had been put away, the boats anchored, and supper was being served on the big boat, that they noticed the weather change. There had been a fair southeasterly breeze for the past two days, with light rolling seas. Suddenly, within a matter of minutes, it was as if Mother Nature had taken a deep breath and held it, sucking up all the breeze and calming the seas flat as ice. Christina was the first to see the blackness creeping up on the edges of the horizon. “That doesn’t look pretty.”

The preacher gazed out at the ominously darkening sky and frowned. “I been a-hearin’ about these storms the rest of the country’s having and I been wonderin’ why we ain’t seen one. I think we’re about to.”

Travis got up from the table. “All right, everybody, let’s get back to the sailboat. We’ve got to batten down everything that moves. Preacher, I don’t have to tell you the drill. You’ve been there before.” Looking at the blackening sky, Travis spoke again. “We’ll probably get separated if this is as bad as it looks, so the best we can do is ride it out and stay in contact by radio. We’ll find each other after the storm blows itself out.”

“Right you are,” bellowed the preacher. “The Lord will protect. Believe ye of little faith, witness Him work His mighty wonders. Now get the hell out of here, and prepare yourselves for a little of God’s nonaerosol cleansing.” He lumbered off to secure his boat, Carlos trailing behind.

The storm rolled in like an ebony chariot, a nightmare of unearthly speed and power. Horrendous clouds billowed and mushroomed across the sky, turning the day into night in minutes, and from the dark center came a howling wind, shrieking and screaming like a demonic chorus. Lightning erupted across the sky; daggers of fire split the heavens, striking and illuminating the sea with incandescent flames.

Travis reefed the sails, battened the hatches, and tied down everything that jiggled. The two boats separated, to give each other the safety of distance while fighting the storm; then the crews aimed the bows into the approaching onslaught and prayed as they faced a sailor’s greatest fear. After firing up the diesel engine to help maintain direction and inertia, the sensei and Travis tied themselves into the safety harnesses in the cockpit and Travis took the wheel. The others remained strapped in below.

The rigging rattled and shook as the relentless wind tore at it, and the boat slammed into ever larger and more frightening waves. A solid wall of cold rain struck them hard enough to make Travis wince. The rain continued to sting and blind the two men while the vicious waves battered the boat and attempted to wrest control from them.

In their struggle against the gale, time became an indiscernible factor. When Travis’ cramped and numbed arms could no longer hold the wheel against the seas, he gratefully turned it over to the sensei, who took over with equal tenacity and skill. For two hours, while the tempest raged around them, they switched control--when one of them could hold no longer, the other sensed it and took the helm. As the storm peaked and finally waned, a friendship emerged from the relationship that already existed. They had sailed through hell together and looked the devil in the eye . . . and the devil turned away.

Although they had been tossed about like a matchstick, damage to the craft seemed to be minimal. The good mast had held. The sails were still reefed and nothing topside was broken. The Avon raft, tied behind the boat, was the one major loss they sustained. In the worst of the storm, while changing places, they had nearly lost control of the boat as it was broached by a huge wave. The line to the raft slackened, then sprang tight, snapping with the sound of a rifle shot.

As the winds and seas subsided, the sensei took the wheel and Travis went below to check on the others. Thanks to advance preparation, the inside of the cabin was still intact. Christina and Todd had strapped themselves to their bunks and, other than a little seasickness and a bruise or two, had come through it well. Ra had allowed himself to be bound to a mattress in the forward berth, and had survived the storm without injury. They had been lucky. He wondered how the shrimper had fared.

The preacher held the wheel as he faced the onslaught in grim silence. The little Cuban, white with fear, stood beside him, witnessing the monstrous storm rushing toward them.

The winds hit them like God’s own hammer, and the waves effortlessly tossed the fifty-foot shrimper from crest to crest. The tempest was just reaching its full fury when the preacher realized he had left his VHF antenna in the UP position. There was no question that they would lose it if it remained that way. The preacher was torn between leaving the wheel to an inexperienced seaman like Carlos while he went out, or sending Carlos out to face the dangers of a slippery deck and enormous waves.

He slammed the wheel with a big hand. “Son of a bitch, the antenna’s still up. We lose that, we’ll never find the others again. There’s no way around it. I’ll go out, but you gotta hold this wheel tight and steady, or this storm will take us both.”

“No.” said Carlos, steadying himself. “Carlos go. I no can steer boat in this. I go fix antenna.”

The preacher could see the fear in the little man’s eyes at the prospect of facing the storm alone on the deck. He knew it was the right decision but he hated it. “Shit! Okay, okay, but you be damned careful. You keep your ass glued to that cabin like a bug to a windshield. You hear?”

Carlos stepped out of the wheelhouse and was hammered against the cabin by sheets of blinding rain. The winds clawed at him, and the deck shuddered beneath his feet. He grasped the cabin door handle, orienting himself and attempting to get his racing heart under control. It was no use—he felt the same mind-numbing, incapacitating fright he had experienced as a child when his father, drunk and angry, would smash his way into their one-room shack, seeking to vent the frustrations of poverty and position on his woman and the scrawny child she had borne him. Seared into his memory was the sight of his father, the screaming, angry giant looming over him, deriding him for his weakness, his frailty, and his size. Overwhelmed by the same helplessness and terror, he stood rigid as death, welded to the wheelhouse door with both hands.

At that moment, a large swell broke over the bow and washed across the forecastle. The cold water drenched him, cutting his senses like the blade of a knife. He shook his head like a dog, rising out of the miasma of fear and uncertainty. He was no longer a frightened child. He was Carlos Venarega, a man, and he would do what was needed of him, or die trying!

He swallowed his panic—he physically pushed it down inside him and buried it under a layer of determination. He moved away from the door, struggling to remain upright on the bucking boat while keeping his balance against the slippery deck and the crushing waves. Finally, after a few terribly long minutes, he made it to the rear of the wheelhouse where the antenna was. Holding an empty equipment rack with one hand, he loosened the adjustment lever on the fiberglass antenna, pulled the rod to a horizontal position, and tightened the adjustment again to keep it safely in place. Pleased with his success, he turned to begin his trek back to the wheelhouse door when the boat, struck sideways by a wave, lurched crazily to starboard. Carlos was in the process of switching grips when the boat tipped hard to the right and ran a rail into the water. Losing his balance, he was thrown backward, and found himself sliding toward the buried rail and the ocean. With a shriek, Carlos made a desperate grab for safety, missing by inches. The back of his thighs hit the rail and he was tossed head over heels into the angry sea. Death opened its arms and waited to embrace the small, brave man.

***

Patches of stars in the coal-colored sky began to break through the thinning cloud cover. The seas were still jumbled but far less dangerous and beginning to calm. Travis thought that, once again, Mother Nature had thrown her best at him and he had survived. Having made sure that Christina and Todd were all right, Travis went to the radio and tried to raise the preacher.

On the third try, the older man’s tired, gravelly voice came over the air. “I read you, Travis. I’m here. The boat’s a little banged up but she made it.” There was something in the preacher’s voice that Travis didn’t like; it sounded as flat as day-old beer.

“Preacher, you all right? ”

“I’m okay, but I lost Carlos—”

Travis, shocked and instantly frightened for the little man, keyed in, “How? What happened?”

The preacher spoke again, regret etching every syllable. “My antenna was up—he went out in the storm to put it down. We got hit sideways by a wave about that time. I heard him scream, then he was gone, washed over the side. God rest his soul.”

“Oh no,” Travis moaned.
Lord,
he thought,
just when things were looking hopeful—when we were all feeling so confident—to lose Carlos!

They had been together only a short while, but had suffered so much collectively that losing one of the group was like losing a family member. Moreover, it made death and destruction tangible again. Just when there seemed to be a small light at the end of the tunnel, when it seemed they might all survive, the storm from hell had rolled through and snatched someone, just to remind them all . . .

Travis paused for a moment, then keyed the mike again. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have anything to do with it. You go on from here, you hear me.”

“I know, I know,” replied the preacher wearily. “It’s just that, damn it, man, if I hadn’t forgotten to put the antenna down—God! I sent him out into that.”

Travis broke in immediately. “If I know Carlos, he volunteered to go. He made the choice, Preacher, not you.”

“I guess it don’t much matter now,” sighed the older man. “He’s gone and I can’t bring him back, though I’d take his place if I could.”

Travis decided to change the subject. “Your GPS still working? If so, give me your co-ordinates so we can tie up.”

“Yeah, it’s workin’. Twenty-five degrees, 39 minutes, 20 seconds north; 81 degrees, 24 minutes, 5 seconds west.

“Okay, gotcha,” Travis said. “Stay there. We’re gonna get some sleep and start out at first light. We’re only a couple hours from you, so hang on. We’ll see you in the morning.” Travis hung up the mike and turned to see the tears in Christina’s eyes.

“Oh God, Travis. He made it so far, he fought so hard . . .”

He took her in his arms and held her as she cried, tears of frustration and pain rimming his own eyes.

CHAPTER 12

Travis lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. For all that he’d been through, and as tired as he was, sleep just wouldn’t come. He kept thinking about losing Carlos, and what a psychological blow it had been to the group. Moreover, for the first time in quite a while he found himself apprehensive about the future.

The responsibility for the lives he directed lay heavily on him. He closed his eyes. “Lord,” he said. “I know it seems the only time I talk with you anymore is when I need something, and I guess this is no exception, but I’ve got some people here relying on me and I need a little guidance. Just help me make the right decisions to get us through this, please. And Lord, take good care of my little buddy, Carlos. He did his best while he was here.”

The sensei woke him just after sunrise. Christina, Todd, and the two men had a quick, cold breakfast, then upped anchor and headed for the preacher. There was little conversation. The loss of Carlos had stolen the triumph in their survival of the storm.

The weather had cleared, but there was still a stiff wind and a rolling sea. They’d been sailing for about two hours; the sensei had the wheel when Travis decided to go below and touch base with the preacher. He was in the midst of a brief conversation with the shrimper when the sensei appeared at the stairs of the cabin. Something in the old warrior’s eyes brought Travis immediately to attention.

“We have company on the horizon—two boats and they’re headed this way.”

Travis got up, that “watch-your-ass” feeling crawling all over him. “I don’t want company. Let’s run from them, see if we can make the preacher.” He brought the mike up again. “Preacher, we’re about five or six miles west-southwest of you and we’ve got company I don’t feel good about. Put it in gear and get over to us as quickly as possible. And break out your bazooka.”

They put out every inch of sail she had and the boat moved out swiftly, but it was soon obvious that she was no match for the powerboats behind them. In less than twenty minutes, the two craft had circled them in a pincer movement, positioning themselves directly in their path. Travis dropped the sails; they weren’t going anywhere.

One of the boats was an expensive sports fisherman, the other was a small Coast Guard cutter. Normally that would have offered some sense of security, but as the cutter neared they could see that something was amiss. It hadn’t been maintained like a government craft. The men on board didn’t look like any military crew they’d ever seen
—
their hair was shaggy and long, they were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, and there were marks along the cabin that looked distinctly like bullet holes. Travis and the sensei glanced at each other, and without another word, headed for the cabin and the guns. Just as the two vessels eased in front of the sailboat, the preacher called.