Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (26 page)

The ship’s phone rang and Arcineaux answered. He handed it to Boucher.

“It’s Detective Fitch,” he said, and listened to a series of
uh-huh
s. Boucher told Fitch their location, then handed
Arcineaux the phone. “You gonna keep me in suspense?” Arcineaux asked.

“Fitch was looking at the enhanced videos and photos we took. All the boxes were clearly marked in the Cyrillic alphabet. He says there’s enough in that one shipment for a small war; AK-47s, shoulder-fired missiles, machine guns, and an armored personnel carrier; much of it made in the seventies for the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. He says most of it was crap when it was made. A lot of Russians were killed by their weapons blowing up on them in the field. Wonders if that’s Dumont’s real plan: kill narcos with their own weapons. He was joking.”

“Well, black-market shit don’t come with no Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval,” Arcineaux said. “How close do you want to get to these guys?”

“I’m expecting they’ll get side by side to transfer cargo, bow and stern pointing same direction. They’ll be busy with the loading. One pass by the stern, close enough for me to get a photo with the names of the ships.”

“You bring a camera?”

“With telephoto.”

“If you’d had the coordinates, you could have saved yourself a lot of time and money. There’s this company in Colorado that sells satellite images. You could have bought some satellite pictures.”

“I did,” Boucher said. “It’s been tracking us since we left Dulac and the eye is in the sky as we speak. But it’s
fifty miles straight up. No guarantee it could catch names on the bow or stern. Besides, there’s nothing like an eyewitness.”

Arcineaux laughed.

“What is it?” Boucher asked.

“The legal profession. We got us hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of technology up there, and you still believe in eyeballs. I ain’t been in a courtroom lately. You guys still wear black robes and powdered wigs?”

“Just the robes. Supreme Court Justice John Marshall ditched the wigs at the beginning of the nineteenth century.”

“But you get my point.”

“I’m not sure I do. The legal profession has modernized in significant—”

“What the hell?” Arcineaux said. He was looking at the screen.

“What is it?”

“We might have us another player. Look at this.”

He pointed to the screen. Another ship seemed to be heading to the rendezvous area. It was moving slowly, as if it didn’t want to be seen.

“I don’t know what that is,” he said, “could be anything. This might get interesting. I got a feeling that today’s not going to be as ‘uneventful’ as yesterday.”

They held their speed. Arcineaux turned over the wheel and told Boucher to hold it steady.

“I’m going to bait some hooks and throw out some lines. We’re supposed to be sport fishermen, remember?
I got some whole red snapper in the galley, gonna put a couple in the deck coolers. We get stopped, say you caught ’em yesterday.”

“We’re not going to get stopped.”

“No, I think it’s more likely we’re gonna get our asses shot out of the water. Then what damn good you gonna be as an eyewitness?”

The rolling water, maybe the familiar act of setting out fishing lines, had a calming effect on Arcineaux. After minutes of scurrying about the deck, he returned to the bridge and again stared at the radar screen. They watched as two blips came closer, then seemed to become one. The skipper took the wheel.

“Okay,” he said. “This is where the rubber meets the road. I’m gonna make a single pass close enough for you to snap your picture. Get up on the bow and grab something to hang on to.”

Boucher did as ordered, leaving the bridge, holding on to handrails as he made his way along the narrow walkway to the bow. He seated himself on the foredeck area and bent over, protecting his camera from sea spray, which soaked him as the vessel sliced through the water. He was drenched and cold before he saw the vessels’ names, the
Gulf Pride
the larger of the two. It was obvious at first glance that the transfer had not gone as planned. The two ships were ten or fifteen meters apart, and between them, hanging in midair over the sea, was the armored personnel
carrier. There was no crane or winch; they had counted on nothing more than cables and pulleys, arms and backs. Someone had miscalculated. He was close enough to see men grouped on the vessels and could almost hear them yelling and cursing at each other. He took out his camera from inside his jacket and started shooting, protecting the lens from sea spray as best he could. Through the lens, he saw one man look his way, pointing. The APC suspended between the two ships fell and crashed to the sea. The vessels pulled apart. Arcineaux again opened the throttle, and Boucher had to crawl as the boat’s bow raised and crashed on rolling seas while speeding away from the scene.

“You get your pictures?” Arcineaux asked.

“Yes.”

“Then get outta them clothes right here. I don’t want you dripping wet all over the salon and staterooms.”

Boucher set down the camera and started to undress.

“Uh-oh,” the skipper said. “I take back that order. You might wanna keep them clothes on a bit longer. Look behind us.”

Boucher turned around. The
Gulf Pride
was heading away and already almost out of sight. The second boat was following them, coming on fast.

“I’m thinkin’ that one can outrun us,” Arcineaux said. “I don’t think our fish story’s gonna do us much good. I got a feelin’ they might not want an eyewitness seein’ what just went down. Ya know what I’m saying?”

“Can we alert the navy, the coast guard, anybody?”

“This ain’t exactly downtown New Orleans. It’s just us and them out here. By the time help arrived, there wouldn’t be an oil slick left of us. Remember those guns they got on board? They’re probably thinking this might be a good place to try ’em out.”

The prediction came true soon enough. There was an explosion and then a plume of water five hundred yards behind them.

“They’re sighting in, getting the range. Shit. We’re target practice. And don’t ask. I can’t go any faster. Running these engines all out for as long as I have, we might not need them to blow us out of the water, we might do it to ourselves.”

Another explosion. This one was closer.

“Will you look at that?” Arcineaux said. The computer screen showed another boat giving chase. It was the third boat they had spotted earlier. “We end up in the drink, maybe that guy will come to our rescue.”

There was a whistle over their heads, low enough to make them duck instinctively, then another explosion, this one under twenty yards off their bow. The bow of their vessel raised out of the water with the blast, then slapped down, hard.

“Judge Boucher, it’s been nice knowin’ ya. I think they got our range.”

Boucher jumped at the wheel, pushing Arcineaux
aside. He spun it to port as hard as he could. The vessel barely moved.

“This ol’ gal don’t turn on a dime,” Arcineaux said. He pulled back on the throttle, idling the engines. “Wasn’t a bad idea, though.”

They heard the whistle of another projectile and stared into each other’s eyes. Boucher stepped toward Arcineaux and offered a handshake. He took it. At that moment the explosion came.
Daddy’s Little Girl
rocked like its namesake in a baby’s swing. But they were not blown out of the water. They turned and looked astern. Orange flames and black smoke shot into the sky. They saw the loaded ship explode with such force that it raised in the water as if it had struck a mammoth wave. It crashed back to the surface, ocean spray covering it in a momentary mist—but not enough to douse the flames; they raged higher and higher. Then there were other blasts as munitions exploded and arced in a 360-degree plume, crashing to water in a wide circle. They watched in stunned silence. Then Boucher broke out laughing. Throughout the fireworks display, he and Arcineaux had held their handshake. Now he pulled the man to him and they embraced, slapping each other’s back. They sheepishly separated after the exuberant display.

“Fitch was right,” Boucher said.

“About what?”

“The weapons they bought. It was all a bunch of crap. Something misfired when they shot at us, and they had a cargo hold full of explosives blow up.”

“Could be something else,” Arcineaux said. He stepped back to the radar screen. “The other fellow’s getting outta town too.”

They watched the blip. The third vessel was making a tight turn. It was leaving the scene and not wasting any time.

“Did they do it? Did they sink that ship?”

Those who knew the answer to that question were now asleep in the deep. Boucher and Arcineaux motored from the scene.

“Outrunning pirates always makes me hungry,” Arcineaux said half an hour later. “You take the wheel and I’ll throw together some sandwiches.”

“Aye-aye, captain. I wouldn’t mind a beer—hell, rum, if you’ve got some on board. I think a toast is in order.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll be right back.”

That plan was dumped. Boucher heard Arcineaux scream. “Get down here. Quick!”

Boucher jumped from the bridge to the deck, then from the deck to the galley below. He landed in ankle-deep water.

“We got a problem,” Arcineaux said.

“Were we hit?”

“Could have been shrapnel.” Arcineaux was bustling, tearing through compartments as he answered. “Or the hull lost integrity when we struck the container last night
and cracked from the force of whatever they fired at us. Let me check the bilge.”

A leak in the hull, far out at sea: a nautical nightmare. The first thing Arcineaux did baffled Boucher. He grabbed at the upholstery, pulling a cushion from a bench. This he pressed against the leak. In the salon, he unscrewed a teak table from the floor, turned it over and pressed it against the pillow, then piled chairs on and against it. Water was still coming in through the leak.

“Gotta get the pump goin’,” he said. He rushed below to the engine room and returned with a pump and connected it. He ran the hose to a porthole and turned it on.

“We’re taking on a lot of water. This pump has limits. We can stay afloat if the crack don’t get much bigger. Lemme see if I got anything else.” He ransacked drawers, cabinets, and cupboards. From a drawer, he pulled out a photo. “If this is on board, we can use it. Help me find it.”

Boucher stared at an old photo that had to be the former owner and his wife. They were smiling at their young daughter, selling lemonade from a stand set up on a pier under a tent. The Hatteras could be seen in the background.

“You need a lemonade stand?” Boucher asked.

“No, damn it. I need the tarp they used for cover. It might still be on board. Check the storage compartments in the bow.”

Boucher climbed into the small compartment in the bow of the vessel. No space went unused. Two foam mattresses
followed the shape of the bow with a small space between them. Shelves and storage compartments were built above the beds. He rummaged through one, then another. “I’ve got it,” he yelled.

He crabbed out of the bow space with a rolled-up blue tarp and handed it to Arcineaux.

“C’mon,” the captain ordered, and climbed up to the deck. He gave Boucher one end to hold, took the other, and unrolled the tarp. “It has grommets. That’ll help. Might be long enough. Gotta find some rope.”

“Long enough for what?”

Boucher’s question went unanswered. Arcineaux found several lengths of rope, then went to the helm and shut off the engines. The boat bobbed on the surface. “C’mon,” he ordered again.

Boucher followed along the narrow starboard footpath, grabbing rails to keep from being pitched overboard. Arcineaux stood on the foredeck, unrolling the tarp, tying one end to the railing.

“What are you doing?” Boucher asked.

“I’m going to run this under the keel and tie it on the port side. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a gutshot, but it might help stem the flow of water. Acts like a compress.”

“How are you going to get it under the boat?”

“I’m going in.” Arcineaux began taking off his shoes.

“No,” Boucher said. “I’ll do it.”

Before Arcineaux could argue, he dove over the side.
The cold water shocked him, drove the air from his lungs, and induced an instant state of panic heightened by pain from his bruised ribs. He thrashed his way to the surface, fought the terror of being in the vastness of the unforgiving sea, and swam to the hull. His fingertips were already numb.

“I’m here,” he yelled up. “I’m right below you. Drop the tarp over the side.”

“Okay. Here comes.”

Boucher grabbed the loose end of the tarp. His teeth were rattling so hard that it was difficult for him to open his jaw wide enough to take a deep breath, so he gritted his teeth and inhaled through his nostrils. Then he dived. He guided by keeping the hull against his back as he dove down, under, then up the other side. Pulling the tarp was like wrestling a large fish, but he made it to the port side and broke the surface. “I’m here. How am I going to get it up to you?”

“I’ve got a gaff,” Arcineaux said. “I’m leaning over the side. Try to put the hook of the gaff in one of the grommets.”

“Move a few feet toward the bow.”

It was like threading a needle but with hands shaking uncontrollably. Boucher fitted the hook of the gaff into a grommet, and Arcineaux lifted the tarp. “Got it. Get back on board. Swim to the stern. I’ll be there.”

There was a platform for swimmers at water level across the stern. Boucher tried to hoist himself onto the ledge but was numb with cold. Arcineaux grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. “Go below. I’m going to secure the tarp.”

Boucher toweled off, put on dry clothes, and sat still until his shivering ceased. He joined Arcineaux at the helm as he started the engines.

“Thanks,” Arcineaux said. “You did a good job.”

“Will it work?”

“In principle, it should help some. The water pressure pushes the tarp against the cracks so it limits the flow. But it ain’t a tight fit. We’re cutting through water, and it’s going to seep in between the hull and the tarp. But it’s something.”

“We need to call for help.”