A Deadly Silver Sea, page 23
part #4 of Zack Chasteen Series
“Yes, after Dutty Boukman. You know him?”
I shook my head, no.
“Dutty Boukman, he was a houngan, a Vodoun priest. Back in 1791, it was Dutty Boukman who held a Vodoun ceremony near Port-au-Prince. He told the people to cast off the chains of slavery and rise against their masters. It was the start of the Haitian Revolution.”
“Boukman,” I said. “Like ‘book man.’ ”
“Yes, like that exactly. That is how he got his name. He was a book man. He could read. A slave who could read. A dangerous thing,” Celeste said. “But it did not end well for Dutty Boukman.”
“How’s that?”
“The French, they cut off his head and put it on a stake in the middle of the city.”
“Goddam French,” I said.
Celeste laughed.
“You should not take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said.
“What about the French?”
“Fuck the French.”
“No way for an ex-nun to talk, a French ex-nun at that.”
“Fuck that, too,” she said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Feels good sometimes just to get it all out.”
“Yes,” she said. “It does.”
The four computer boxes that had helped keep me afloat were still sitting on the deck. Two of the men were now stripping off the cardboard and Styrofoam, revealing the monitors and desktop workstations.
“I’m afraid those things are shot,” I said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Celeste said.
“Soaked with salt water? They’re no good.”
“These people are very resourceful,” Celeste said. “You might be surprised.”
It was then that the engines sputtered. Then sputtered again.
Girard sprung out of the cockpit and headed below. Celeste looked at me, grim. We were running out of fuel.
Celeste throttled back. The Boukman idled along for a few moments and then Girard returned to the deck. He spoke to Celeste.
She turned to me and said, “Girard, he switch to the auxiliary tank.”
“How much in it?”
“Enough for an hour,” she said. “Maybe less.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said.
66
FRIDAY, 8:45 P.M.
Aboard the King of the Seas
The stragglers—a gaggle of fraternity boys from Georgia Tech—were heading up the concrete pier toward the gangway, two of them so drunk they were legless, their buddies having to drag them along.
They had probably indulged in some of the local ganja, too, Captain Palmano figured as he watched their weaving progress from high above on the bridge wing. He didn’t care what passengers did while they were on shore as long as they made it back to the ship on time. And the frat boys were pushing the limit.
Palmano had no qualms about pulling out of port and leaving tardy passengers behind. It happened on a fairly regular basis, actually. Those who missed the boat often expressed outrage. Some of them had even sued, unsuccessfully, to recoup the expense of hiring transport to catch up with the ship. But rules were rules, especially when they applied to the King of the Seas maintaining its schedule.
The final boarding call had sounded half an hour earlier. Most of the passengers had long since returned, not wanting to miss their dinner seatings. It was the last formal meal of the cruise, the big to-do where the wait staff paraded about and put on a show with flaming desserts, hoping to amp up their tips.
The two pilot boats were idling, one off the stern and one off the bow, and as soon as the chief security officer signaled that boarding was complete and the gangway had been raised, the King of the Seas could start to pull away from the pier and begin the slow process of negotiating its way out the channel to the open sea. It was a painstaking process. The ship had to turn around, get its bow pointed out. And turning the King of the Seas around in the channel at Isla Paradiso was like parking an elephant in a broom closet—an improbable proposition on the face of it, one that had to be approached with finesse. The ship, like some willful pachyderm, often seemed to move of its own stubborn accord. And its response time was anything but lightninglike.
The channel was just shy of a half mile wide near the pier, more than enough leeway for the typical cruise ship. But the King of the Seas was more than a quarter mile long, so turning around near the pier presented no shortage of risks. The channel widened as it approached the sea, so the standard procedure was to back out from the pier and then wait until the channel offered a bit more room before getting the ship’s bow pointed out. Even then it was touchy and time consuming.
Captain Palmano was anxious to get going. And the frat boys weren’t cooperating. One of them had lurched to the side of the pier and was now on his hands and knees, retching into the water. A couple of his buddies sat down on the gangway to watch him.
“Imbeciles,” Captain Palmano muttered.
He grabbed the bridge-wing phone, called the security checkpoint on Deck Six, and told the officers to go out on the pier and drag the drunks aboard if that’s what it took. The ship could wait no longer.
As Captain Palmano hung up he was joined on the bridge wing by the ship’s first officer, Enzo Perlini. The two had served together for nearly a decade and soon Perlini would be leaving the King of the Seas to captain one of the cruise line’s other ships. Palmano had brought the younger Perlini along, almost like a son, and while he was proud of his protégé, he was sad to see him go.
Palmano nodded out to sea.
“How does it look out there?”
“Good as can be. The tide is falling. The wind about fifteen knots. But the sea, it is reasonably flat. No storms anywhere to be seen,” Perlini said. “There is just one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Another ship has approached. A cruise ship.”
“One of ours?”
Perlini shook his head, no.
Now that was curious, Palmano thought. Isla Paradiso was a private port, the exclusive domain of the King of the Seas and the ships owned by its cruise line. Other ships typically kept well offshore, avoiding the hazards of the Windward Passage as it met the Isla Paradiso promontory. They usually pointed more to the east and put in at Cap-Haïtien or Labadie.
“What ship is this?” Palmano asked.
“We are not certain,” Perlini said. “It is still about ten miles to the northwest. And we have not been able to make positive identification.”
“Did you radio it?”
“Yes, twice already,” Perlini said. “But so far it has not answered our calls.”
67
It was full-on dark and the Boukman had been motoring along on its auxiliary tank for almost forty-five minutes when Mommie Leena called from the bow.
“Gade!” she shouted. “Genyen! Genyen!”
She was pointing dead ahead. We had approached the ship from its stern and, without the benefit of seeing its full profile, were bearing down on it before Mommie Leena cried out.
I ran to join her at the bow. The ship was still a good mile away, but I could make out the pattern of lights on its decks. A cruise ship for sure. But was it the Royal Star? Still too far away to tell.
I strained to see it better. Whatever it was, it seemed to be sitting at idle. We were closing the gap between it and us at a pretty good rate. A few minutes and we’d be on it.
So what now?
As much as I’d hoped that we’d find the Royal Star, my plan, such as it was, had hinged on coming across another ship first. And then calling for help.
I didn’t have a backup plan. But if this was indeed the Royal Star, there wasn’t much time for strategizing.
“When in doubt, sail straight at ’em, boys.”
Who was it said that? Horatio Hornblower? Jack Aubrey?
Not that it mattered. They both had cannons and plenty of crew to back up their boldness. As for me . . .
The engines coughed, coughed again. I looked at Girard, who had taken over at the helm. He backed off the throttle. The engines purred along for a moment, then sputtered and conked out altogether. So much for running a full hour on the auxiliary tank.
Already the Boukman was falling off to starboard and Girard reacted quickly, letting out the mainsheet while Celeste unfurled the jib, making sure the Boukman didn’t lose all of its forward momentum.
Mommie Leena and I stepped away from the bow as the head sail billowed out and caught the wind. Celeste shouted something and the men, women, and children cleared off the deck and went back down below.
The ship lay straight in the teeth of the wind. It would take at least two tacks, maybe three, before we could reach it. For better or worse that bought some time.
I returned to the cockpit. Celeste stood by Girard at the helm.
“Is that the ship?” she asked.
“Can’t tell.”
Celeste had already taken the Boukman’s emergency kit from the console. And now she reached into it, pulled out a flare gun.
“Hold off on that until we know for sure,” I told her.
If it was the Royal Star, then the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to us.
We ran five minutes to the southeast, then Girard called out the command, the boom swung around, the jib collapsed then refilled, and we began our tack to the northeast.
In that moment, two things happened: I made out the name Royal Star on the ship’s transom. And then its lights went out.
68
FRIDAY, 9:00 P.M.
Glenroy didn’t know why he hadn’t thought to extinguish the ship’s running lights before then. Too much on his mind, too many balls in the air.
The previous several hours had consumed every bit of his attention and energy. Extracting the last bit of moisture from the big container in the engine room. Dividing the white powder, the Mother of Satan, into five plastic bags. Distributing the plastic bags to key points throughout the ship.
And all the while, making sure the Royal Star remained on course, its loopy route tightening and tightening, the ship closing ever inward on its prey.
It had been exasperating. With the bridge closed off to him, Glenroy had to rely on cameras in the engine control room to scan the waters ahead. He didn’t fully trust them. So he had regularly been forced to stop what he was doing, dash up to Deck Four, and eyeball things for himself.
While he was up there, he had checked in on the waiters, the passengers, and the crew. Rigging up Jebailey had done the job. Things were quiet, under control. Yes, the pregnant woman was causing a commotion. The baby could be popping out at any moment.
Fine, let it happen, thought Glenroy. Add one more to the body count.
He wondered what the final number might be. Two hundred and fourteen aboard the Royal Star. They’d all die. That was a given. That alone would outnumber the deaths aboard the SuperFerry in the Philippines, until then the deadliest terrorist attack at sea. More than eight thousand passengers and crew aboard the King of the Seas. It was inevitable that some would escape. But the timing couldn’t be any more ideal. Hundreds would still be in the dining rooms. They’d be climbing each other’s backs trying to get out. Hundreds more in the bars, discos, and entertainment lounges. Sheer pandemonium.
Glenroy imagined the explosions, the fiery inferno as the Royal Star ignited, a blazing torpedo striking the King of the Seas directly abeam. Given such chaos, such utter destruction, the crew of the King of the Seas would not be able to launch the lifeboats. People would hurl themselves off the ship. They would drown, they would burn, they would get sucked down in the death spiral of the two ships.
How many would die? Three thousand? Four thousand?
Oh, glorious day. It could easily double the deaths from 9/11. Jihad in the Caribbean. The world would never be the same.
Just after sunset, Glenroy had spotted the notable promontory at Isla Paradiso and, looming large against the beach, the glittering mountainous mass that was the King of the Seas.
That’s when Glenroy had taken the Royal Star off autopilot and let it idle well offshore. The officers on the bridge of the King of the Seas had probably sighted the Royal Star. They might have even tried to raise it on the radio. But since the Royal Star was still at a substantial distance and posed no obvious hindrance to their navigation, they likely hadn’t given it more than a passing thought.
Indeed, the officers aboard the King of the Seas gave scant thought to any other ships. Theirs was the biggest, most expensive ship afloat and they acted accordingly. Glenroy remembered Captain Luca Palmano from the months he had worked aboard the King of the Seas. Arrogant, just like all the Italian officers Glenroy had ever known. Far haughtier than the Norwegians or the Swedes. But all of them holier-than-thou when it came to how they treated the grunts on the lower decks, especially the black grunts.
Soon they would get their comeuppance. Soon the Day of Doom would be at hand.
Glenroy knew the exact coordinates of the channel at Isla Paradiso, where the mouth of the channel met the waters of the Windward Passage, where the King of the Seas would be at its most vulnerable. He’d had the numbers memorized for weeks. And he had plugged them into the GPS in the engine control room, watching as the screen flashed up the distance—9.2 miles.
From idle to top cruising speed, the Royal Star could reach its target in well under thirty minutes. And as Glenroy flipped off the running lights, he knew it would buy him even more time, allow him to get even closer without raising alarm. Except for the lights in the engine control room, he doused all the other lights, too, leaving on the auxiliary system, just enough to bathe the ship’s interior in a soft amber glow.
Viewed from a distance, the Royal Star was dark, dark as could be. By the time the King of the Seas finally saw it coming, it would be too late to do anything about it. Caught broadside in the channel, the lumbering brick of a ship could not possibly escape.
69
We readied for our third tack, the Royal Star about three hundred yards off starboard.
I’d hatched a plan. Not much of a plan really. More like a total shot in the dark. If nothing else, it would inspire my epitaph: “He took what life dealt him and he improvised. Too bad it didn’t work.”
The Boukman’s dinghy was equipped with a claw anchor, a galvanized Lewmar four-pounder. Its line was far too thin for my purposes, so I rerigged it with thicker line taken off one of the boat’s bigger anchors. I tied a series of overhand knots at two-foot intervals along the line.
I rummaged around in the lockers and came up with a big can of pine tar. You usually find it on wooden boats, not on fiberglass vessels like the Boukman. Mixed with linseed oil and mineral spirits, it makes a preservative known as “boat soup.” On its own, pine tar can patch a hole, fill a seam, or help fix a split stave. And since the Boukman frequently encountered leaky old wooden boats fleeing Haiti, Girard and Celeste made sure they always had the sticky resin on hand in case they needed to come to the rescue.
I scooped out several gobs of the stuff, rubbed it into the anchor line. When I was done my hands were black and gummy, but I could have held on to a pass rocketed by Dan Marino in his prime.
Everyone except Girard and Celeste had gone below. If the waiters were patrolling the decks, they wouldn’t hesitate to open fire. I’d wanted Celeste to go below, too. But she wouldn’t hear it.
“If Girard is here, then I am here,” she said.
Two hundred fifty yards. The wind holding steady. Yes, this tack would take us there.
Girard had offered me the shotgun. But there would be no way for me to carry it. And several of the men had volunteered to come with me. While I appreciated their selflessness—indeed, their gesture damn near brought me to tears—I turned them down. No use making this any worse than it already was. I’d go it alone.
I’d argued briefly with Celeste and Girard. They didn’t like the idea of me boarding the Royal Star by myself. They preferred that we make a run to shore. But sailing into the wind, that could take at least another hour. Time I couldn’t afford to waste.
So we had settled on a compromise. Once I’d boarded the Royal Star—a giant if—they would head for the nearest port, Isla Paradiso. Even this far out, we could see a ship moored there, big as any ship I’d ever seen. They’d get out the word about the hijacking, even if it meant jeopardizing the success of their own mission.
“We’ve come too far not to commit,” Celeste said. “A chance we’ll have to take.”
“You’ll get more fuel, set out again?”
“No, we cannot risk that. We’ll leave as soon as we have found help.”
“All the way to Florida on wind and prayers? No way . . .”
Two hundred yards.
Now I had the chart out and was going over it with Celeste and Girard. By our best calculations, Duncan Town lay about 180 miles back to the west. It’s the only settlement on Ragged Island, part of the Jumento Cays, the croissant-shaped chain of islands that descends about a hundred miles south of Great Exuma in the Bahamas.
“Bad shoals to the east,” I said. “You’ll have to sail past Duncan Town, then hook back and approach from the west. Look for the radio tower by the pink house. Point for that.”
Celeste nodded. She folded the map, put it back in the console. I saw a note pad and a pen inside it. I grabbed them, began writing:
Hello my friend,
These people saved my life. Do whatever you can to help them.
I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Still polishing that helmet of yours?
Cheers, Zack Chasteen.
Then I folded the paper in half and wrote a name on the outside: Brindley Sawyer.
Only about seventy-five people live in Duncan Town. But I knew one of them.
Five years earlier, fresh out of federal prison and anxious to restore some degree of honor to my name, I had landed in a world of hurt on Harbour Island, up by Eleuthera. Brindley Sawyer was one of several people who had helped me out of that jam. Back then, he was a rookie policeman who spent most of his time listening to the radio and keeping his helmet bright and shiny. I used to give him a hard time about it.
