The New Madrid Run (3 page)

The Keys were gone. Below, the debris-littered water agitated like that of a washing machine. The leviathan wave had passed, followed by several slightly smaller ones. They left in their wakes complete devastation. The islands were buried by at least forty feet of water. It was as if the Florida Keys had never been.

Travis gazed down at the flotsam and jetsam that was everywhere. Anything that would float littered the surface of the sea, from palm trees and sofa cushions to huge sections of roofs. Miraculously, a few boats seemed to have survived, though most were badly damaged; a great many were capsized. He circled and watched as what was left of his hometown rose and sank in the milky, green waters. There were all manner of things on the surface below, but he had yet to see a survivor. It was then that he was struck by the thought of Linda. Linda, his lover, his friend, was dead. So was every other friend he had in the Keys.

The moment of introspection was interrupted when he glanced at his nearly empty fuel gauges. “Son of a bitch,” he moaned to himself. He knew he had no chance of making Miami and the mainland on so little fuel. Hell, he wasn’t sure there
was
a Miami anymore.

On impulse he picked up his mike and adjusted the radio frequency. “Miami radio, Miami radio. This is November one, seven, four, niner, delta. Do you read me?”

Nothing but static.

“Miami radio, this is November one, seven, four, niner, delta, approximately ten miles north of Marathon Airport. Do you read me?”

Nothing.

While Travis was using his radio and contemplating his options, which fell into the slim and nil category, he noticed a sailboat about a quarter-mile to the west of him. His attention was piqued when he realized that it still had one of its masts and was right side up. He had to do something in the next half hour, before the engine quit and he did his flying rock act. He took another look at the sailboat in the distance and smiled grimly.

“Any port in a storm,” he muttered.

Still fighting a tremendous buffeting by the wind, he dropped a wing and banked gently downward toward the boat. He made a low-level pass at about one hundred feet and got a good look at her. Then he did it again. She was beat up, there was no question about that, but she wasn’t listing. Even though she’d lost a mast, the other seemed intact and appeared, miraculously, to have its sails neatly bound to the boom.

“Well, Trav, ol’ buddy, I think it’s time to trade this girl for a boat.”

He knew that what he was about to attempt was dangerous as hell, even in the best of circumstances, but the truth was, there weren’t a whole lot of choices.

He took the plane up to eight hundred feet and out a half mile from the sailboat, then turned around and headed back. Throttling off while gradually losing altitude, he aimed for a spot one hundred yards in front of, and fifty yards to the side of, the craft for a point of impact. Travis unlocked his door, grabbed a life jacket from under the seat, and made sure the landing gear was up and tight. He adjusted the prop pitch and backed off the power as the aircraft glided toward the water. He was still a little hot as the plane approached touchdown. He pulled the nose up a bit and the 310 complied by losing speed. As the last twenty feet of height evaporated and the ocean loomed up on both sides of the cockpit, he pulled back on the controls and the tail section caught the water. The jarring impact threw him forward against the controls, banging his head on the door and knocking the breath from him. The plane continued slamming and skipping across the water for a few moments, gradually losing momentum and finally lurching to a halt. Suddenly it was quiet. The only sound was the clicking of the electrical system as it shut down.

Travis, a little dazed, gasped for air as the plane settled onto the rough ocean, and instinctively shoved the door with his elbow.

The door didn’t budge—that brought him around like a slap in the face.

Forgetting his sore ribs and the blood running down the side of his head, he swung around in the seat and hammered the door with one hand while pulling the latch with the other. Nothing. As he turned in his seat and struck the door again, he heard the sound of the water rushing into the cockpit. He looked down. Seawater was bubbling into the cabin from a gash in the floor. It was already covering his ankles.

You frigging idiot, use the other door!

He quickly pulled himself across the seat to the passenger’s door.

He grasped the handle and shoved. Again, nothing—it was jammed just like the other. The water was up to his knees and the plane was starting to list, nose first, into the ocean.

Running out of time, he forced himself to look—really look—at the door before attacking it like a maniac.

It was then that he saw the stress buckles in each door, which were forcing the locking mechanism against the jambs. Amazed at his own calmness, he suddenly knew exactly how to solve his problem: He reached into his chart compartment and pulled out a Colt .45 service model. He wasn’t supposed to carry a gun while flying, but it was a throwback to another time when something like that made him feel more secure.

The water was at his waist, and his hand was shaking noticeably as he aimed the gun at the door lock and pulled the trigger four times. The sound inside the confines of the plane was like a cannon going off, but that was the least of his concerns. Better to be deaf than drowned. He brought down the gun and studied the damage that the hollow-point .45s had done. There was no longer a lock, just a six-inch hole rimmed by ragged metal. He shifted his legs up on the seat and slammed his feet against the door. When it burst open, he almost cried out.

The weight of the engines and the water in the cockpit were rapidly drawing the plane into the ocean. With only seconds left before the aircraft went down, he threw himself out the door and onto the wing where he slipped and fell into the water. Still holding onto the life jacket and the pistol, he struggled to the surface and kicked off his shoes, but lost the .45 as he attempted to don the jacket and get it buckled. He wasn’t ten feet from the aircraft when, with a gurgle and a groan, it was swallowed by the sea.

CHAPTER 2

He spun in the water frantically, looking for the boat. The waves seemed to have no pattern; they dipped and rose and crashed into each other, throwing spray everywhere. He had only a second to look each time a swell threw him high enough to search. Then he was back in a trough, sputtering and gasping and praying he’d see the boat on the next upward swing. The bile of fear rose in his throat as he thought for the first time of what would happen if he couldn’t reach the sailboat, if it drifted away, out of swimming distance.

The sea cast him up again, and this time he caught a glimpse of the mast. That was good news. The bad news was that it was a hell of a lot farther away than he had expected. Travis was a fairly good swimmer and he was wearing a life jacket. In calm water, the two-hundred-yard swim would be a piece of cake. But in these seas, with the wind pushing the boat away from him, it was going to be close.

When another wave washed over him, shoving him down into the water for a second time, he came up sputtering and angry. He set out at a steady pace. Each time he was atop a wave, he got his bearings, then stroked like a madman. Every few minutes he’d rest and catch his breath, allowing the jacket to support him, then off he’d go again.

After the first fifteen minutes, he could tell he was gaining, but it was tough going and he knew that this was a battle he could yet lose. If not for his excellent physical condition, he would have had little chance. He ran two miles most every day and worked out in the gym two or three times a week. As he struggled through the water, he realized it was those punishing daily exercises that were making the difference.

An hour and a half later, his shoulder muscles were screaming in agony. His legs were knotting in cramps, and due to the incessant gulping of salt water, he had thrown up everything but the lining of his stomach. The good news was, the sailboat was only thirty yards away.

When Travis finally reached the hull, he realized it was trailing a stern anchor line. He grabbed the line, pulled himself hand over hand to the boat, and held on. He drifted in that position with the craft for about ten minutes—long enough to gather sufficient strength to haul himself up onto the deck and into the steering cockpit, where he collapsed.

He awoke just as the sun was beginning to set on the turbulent waters. The rise and fall of the waves cast shadows across a darkening sea. Travis rose painfully and stretched his sore muscles, holding onto the wheel in the cockpit. Up to that point, his concentration had been focused on surviving and reaching the boat. His interest now switched to just what kind of boat, and its condition. There was still enough light to see below, and he wanted a look inside the cabin before it was totally dark. Pulling back the hatch doors, he entered.

It was as he had expected: The place looked like a cross between a breaking-and-entering and a bomb explosion. She was an expensive boat and had been outfitted well, almost luxuriously, but damned-near everything that could be broken, was. Dishes, pots and pans, broken furniture, lamps and charts littered the foot-deep water on the floor. The propane stove had been torn loose from the bulkhead and lay face down in the water. Most of the electronics and navigational equipment had been ripped from their brackets.

As he waded through the debris toward the bow, Travis thought he saw something move in the V-berth up front. “What—” he muttered as he stopped, waiting. Again, there was a movement in the gloom. The light was fading fast but it appeared that someone, or something, was lying on what was left of the bed in the front berth. He moved forward slowly, shuffling his feet in the water to make less noise. As he reached the threshold of what once was an attractive sleeping quarters, he looked in at the disarray. The dresser was shattered, drawers were broken, clothing was scattered everywhere. Expensive pictures had been ripped from the walls. The bed frame had collapsed and the mattress was askew on the floor.

But there, partly on the mattress and partly on the rug, was a dog —a huge black-and-brown Rottweiler the size of a leopard. Travis gasped and drew back involuntarily. He studied the creature for a moment from the doorway. There was blood in the water and on the mattress, lots of blood. As Travis inched closer he could see a raw, gaping wound on the side of the animal’s head that still oozed slick and red against the black fur. The dark eyes, though dulled by pain, remained locked on the man.

The dog had apparently been thrown against something when the boat was slammed by the tsunami. There may have been other injuries, but God knows the one he could see was enough. Travis stood there in the fading light. The Rottwelier made a feeble effort to rise and a low growl escaped his mouth. It sounded like an attempt at a challenge, but ended in a moan.

Travis decided to take a chance. “Easy boy, easy now,” he whispered as he moved forward and knelt in front of the dog.

The animal looked up at him, full of anger and pain, and bared his teeth. Another growl, deep and low, rumbled in his big chest, but this time he didn’t try to rise.

Travis had seen too much devastation and death in his life, and now everyone he knew, all those he cared about, were gone. He suddenly realized he wanted to save this dog, to retrieve something from all the ruin. Travis grabbed a shirt from the water-soaked floor, then paused. “I’ll make a deal with you big guy,” he said as he eased in and tentatively touched the massive head. “I clean you up a bit and you don’t eat me when you’re better, okay?” The dog watched the man’s hand as Travis slowly stroked the muscled neck and spoke soothingly. Travis took the other hand and began to wipe the blood from the gash with the shirt. Again, the animal tried to raise its head only to collapse back down. Travis continued a soothing refrain as he cleaned the wound and gently inspected the animal for broken bones.

Half an hour later, it was nearly dark inside the cabin. As far as he could tell, the dog had no other major injuries, but was suffering from a concussion and severe loss of blood. The bleeding had been reduced, but he had nothing with which to close the cut. Maybe he could find a needle and thread tomorrow. If the dog would let him, he’d stitch him up—if it was still alive. He stroked the dark flank once more and murmured, “You hang in there, buddy. We’ll see you in the morning. And remember, we have a deal.” The animal still gazed at him, but there seemed to be less anger in those black eyes.

As he stepped back out onto the deck, gray, windswept clouds buried the last of the sunlight against the horizon, smearing reddish hues across a charcoal sky. Peering out into the darkness, Travis studied the agitated sea. Water movement like this was only found in channels where the current, or fast tides, forced the water against strong winds, causing the waves to roar up and slap against each other. It was as if the whole ocean were being jostled by a giant hand. There wasn’t much surface wind anymore, but high above, at three or four thousand feet, stratus clouds were racing along at almost hurricane speed. There were indeed some strange phenomena taking place.

Travis was reminded of his old friend from the Keys—William J. Cody. Cody had been a partner during a particularly exciting time in his life. He met William J. what seemed like a hundred years ago, at a bar called Sloppy Joe’s in Key West. As it turned out, he, like Travis, flew for a living. The difference between the two was the cargo they carried and Cody’s distinct aversion to Customs clearances. Cody Joe smuggled pre–Columbian gold, emeralds, and rare birds out of South and Central America, fine art of questionable ownership into Mexico and Jamaica, and money into the banks of the Cayman Islands. He had even smuggled diamonds out of Africa. He was always on time and he always delivered. The man had a reputation for being scrupulously honest in a dubious profession—he was much in demand. The only thing Cody wouldn’t smuggle was drugs of any sort. It was a hard-and-fast rule with him, and he never broke it, no matter how much money was offered.