Hunter's Moon (16 page)

“Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“The man didn't have to threaten me. Hell, I still don't know exactly where we're going. But I wouldn't've missed taking a trip like this, unless . . . unless he's on some kind of destructive mission—”

I held up a warning finger as Wilson's head appeared in the companionway. He came up the steps carrying a nautical chart.

“I feel like I'm interrupting, gentlemen. Comparing notes?”

I said, “Tomlinson's worried you're planning something destructive. He was telling me he would've come along even without the coercion. I probably would've, too.”

Wilson appeared pleased by my honesty. “The definition of coercion varies. Didn't we talk about that? I'm offering you both something of value in return.”

Tomlinson said, “If I committed a crime, man, I have a moral obligation to pay. Reciprocity, man. That's what karma's all about.”

Wilson looked at him sharply. He said, “
If
you committed a crime. You really don't remember—?”

“I
do
remember. That's what I'm saying. I helped build a bomb. A man died and I'm guilty. For me, there's no such thing as a pardon. It doesn't matter that it happened twenty years ago.”

The former president was paying attention, no longer impatient. “Then why did you say if?”

Tomlinson was lounging shirtless, using his toes to steady the wheel. He straightened, thinking about it. He'd been institutionalized after the bombing. Weeks of electroshock therapy had scrambled his memory synapses. “I . . . don't know. You're right. I've admitted that I'm guilty. There isn't a day goes by that I don't expect the cops to come banging on my door”—he glanced at me—“or worse. A bullet through the old coconut, maybe.” He reflected for a few seconds more. “I don't know why I said ‘if.' It just came out.”

Wilson was studying him, nodding, as he took a seat beside me on the starboard side and unrolled the chart. “Think about it. If you don't care about a pardon, maybe you care about the truth.”

Tomlinson sat back and his toes found the ship's wheel. “The truth, man, absolutely.”

I was tempted to say the definition of “truth” is even trickier than the definition of “coercion,” but the former president had taken charge. I listened to him say, “The truth is part of our bargain, too. I'll give you the information I have. You two have a lot in common. I think you'll find it . . . interesting.”

“When?”

“When it's time, Doc. That'll have to do.” He had the chart on his lap, holding it with both hands so the breeze didn't take it. “There's a more pressing matter. Our destination.”

“I've been wondering, man. For the last half hour, I've been taking it slow, just like you told me. Letting
No Más
have her head.”

Wilson touched an index finger to the bridge of his glasses. “Then let's make a decision.”

IT WAS ONE OF THE BIG NOAA CHARTS THAT SHOWED the Gulf of Mexico and bordering land regions. The former president unfolded it, then folded it to narrow the aspect. He placed it on his lap so we both could see, before asking, “How long would it take us to sail to Tampa Bay?”

Tomlinson answered, “Depends on where in Tampa Bay you want to go. It's ten or twelve hours to the sea channel—that's the easy part. After that, it's twenty-five miles or so to the port. But lots of narrow channels.”

Wilson nodded. “The Bahamas?”

“Two full days at least, no matter which way we go.”

“What about Key West?”

“Twenty-four hours, plus an hour or two—if this breeze holds.”

“You've made the trip?”

Tomlinson removed his toe from the wheel and knocked a knuckle on the oiled teak. “If this lady leaked asphalt, there'd be a highway between Dinkin's Bay and the patio bar at Louie's Backyard.”

“What about Big Torch Key?”

Big Torch Key was only a few miles from Key West, but Tomlinson said, “Add a couple more hours, because we draw too much water to go in through Florida Bay. There's a good anchorage at Key West, then we'd sail out and around. Come in from the Atlantic side.”

“I see.” The president moved his hand west, across the chart. “What about Mexico? How long to sail to the Yucatán?”

The Yucatán Peninsula extends almost to Cuba, forming the southwestern rim of the Gulf basin.

Tomlinson looked at me, his expression saying
Far out
as he replied, “Cozumel's three hundred ninety nautical miles from Sanibel. From Key West, it's three hundred ten miles. That's on a rhomb line, of course. So . . . depending on weather, it would takes us about three days.”

“You're very quick with the data. I take it you've made that crossing, too.”

I wondered if Tomlinson would change the asphalt analogy to bales of marijuana.

“Sure. Usually from Key West, but I've done both. It can be a dream trip, or a nightmare. Depends on how hilly it gets. Either way, we'd have lots of time for private study. We can start your introduction to meditation.”

Tomlinson had referred to the former president's interest in Zen Buddhism a couple of times since we'd been aboard. Now, as before, Wilson ignored him.

The president rolled the chart. “Take us to Key West, Mr. Tomlinson.” He went down the steps into the cabin.

I was putting the destinations together; events, too. Thinking:
We're going to Panama . . .

 

 

 

ONLY A FEW MINUTES LATER, THOUGH, WILSON REAPPEARED, his face stern. “Gentlemen, we had an agreement. No electronic devices except for the things I personally okayed. Not on this boat. Not on your person at any time during the trip.”

Why was Wilson looking at me?

I said quickly, “I had a cell phone and a little GPS. Your guy, Vue, took both. I wasn't happy about it. And I expect to get them back—but those were the only electronics I had.”

Wilson said, “Then this is just an oversight.” He held out his hand to show me one of the two small flashlights I had left. “I didn't go through your gear. That's
your
job. I found this hanging on one of the lockers forward.”

I was confused. “It's a flashlight, Mr. President. It's not a radio.”

He looked at me until I realized I'd slipped again. “Sorry . . .
Sam.
But you've lost me. Are you saying we can't carry anything that uses batteries?”

He shook his head. “Not batteries. Computer components.” He handed me the light. “Those little buttons—that thing's programmable, isn't it?”

The man was right. The new generation of LED lights used Intel chips; a few had memory cards. I hadn't even thought about it.

“I've got to be tough about this. You men are aware of my . . . timetable. There are things I want to accomplish. And I only have two or three weeks. I can't risk an interruption. That flashlight could have a tracking chip in it. Turn on the light, it sends a locator signal.”

Tomlinson said, “Whoa, man. I've got a personal relationship with paranoia. We go
way
back. But the three of us are shipmates now, and you've got to trust Doc and me—”

I interrupted, “No, he doesn't. And he shouldn't. He's right.” I had the cap off the flashlight, inspecting it. “There's no transmitter chip—not that I know of, anyway. But there doesn't have to be. Some computer components have their own electronic signature.” I looked at Tomlinson. “If one of us wanted to signal our location, this is the sort of thing we'd use. There're GPS tracking sticks smaller than this. It's not my field, and I don't know how sophisticated the tracking equipment is—”

“It's the most sophisticated on earth. If people get serious about finding us, they'll pull out the stops.” Wilson touched his thumb to an index finger, then his middle finger. “There are two ways to defeat superior technology. One, change the objectives of engagement. Two, change the arena of engagement. Do both and your chances improve.

“We're changing arenas. The technology they'll use is twenty-first century. But aboard this boat”—Wilson looked at the sail: a sanded wing transecting a tropic sky—“we've moved back in time a hundred years. Modern tracking systems are programmed to monitor
modern
threats. Not the stuff we're using.”

Because Wilson had insisted, we'd stripped
No Más
of her VHF radios, EPRB emergency transmitters, GPS, and SONAR gear and left them with friends on Cayo Costa.

Tomlinson said, “I've done astral projection, soul travel—you'll learn that meditation is the
vehicle
of spiritual experience. But this is cool. We've shifted centuries.”

“In terms of electronic signature. Yes. The National Security Agency has amazing monitoring technology. Details are classified, but I know their capabilities. Use a cell phone in the Afghan mountains and our people can triangulate the position within a minute. With prior authorization, we can have a laser-guided missile under way within ninety seconds. The technology is brilliant, but it's also very specialized. And that makes it vulnerable.”

During our canoe trip from Ligarto Island to Cayo Costa, he'd asked if I'd brought a draft of the paper Tomlinson and I were writing. But this was the first time he'd mentioned the subject.

“An early indicator of overspecialization is when a technology no longer addresses the problem that made it necessary in the first place. Intercepting an adversary's communications dates back thousands of years. Our monitoring systems can track a cell phone on the other side of the earth. But they're not equipped to monitor the primitive transmitters you and your friends were using this morning.” Wilson was looking at Tomlinson, expecting him to be confused, and maybe a little disappointed because he wasn't.

“The drums, man,” Tomlinson said. “Yeah—transmitters. A communication system so old that our brains can't translate the language. But our hearts still understand.”

Wilson said, “You could set up a network, send messages back and forth, and the finest surveillance systems in the world would never record a beat. Lots of noise but zero signature. Drums. When you're up against the National Security Agency, you're much safer living in the Stone Age.”

 

 

 

DRUMS?

During the last year, I'd spent time in the Stony Desert, between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where domes of ancient mosques turn to pearl in moonlight. Was that how they avoided spy satellites—hammering out messages on rocks and goatskins?

Wilson caught my eye. “ ‘Zero signature'—it's an interesting term. I came across it in my reading a year ago. When you think about it—
zero signature
—it has philosophical implications. People who accomplish nothing. People who stand for nothing. But it also describes someone who is very good at what they do. Brilliant reconstructive surgeons. Architects, petroleum engineers. And . . . other professions. Were you guys Boy Scouts?”

Tomlinson's expression read
Are you serious?
as I replied, “No. I've never been much of a joiner.”

“Too bad. One of the founders was a great naturalist. He had a theory that every living thing leaves an uninterrupted track, from birth to death, that's readable to a skilled tracker. And he believed the converse was true: A skilled tracker knows how to cover his tracks. That's what we're going to find out.”

“How, Sam?” Tomlinson was into the conversation, loved the idea that we'd switched centuries, I could see. I could also see that he was getting twitchy, tugging at his salt-bleached Willie Nelson braids. It was after six—
beer time
—but Wilson had ordered him to limit his alcohol intake and banned marijuana.

Wilson replied, “By the way we communicate. I'm going to use your drum technique tonight. Sort of.” Meaning we'd find out. “But right now, we need to finish this electronics issue.” He pointed at the flashlight. “Is that all you're carrying?”

“I've got another flashlight in my bag, but it's a simple penlight. I'll show you—”

Wilson put his hand on my shoulder when I tried to stand. “No need. Your word's good enough.” His sincerity somehow added to my sense of indebtedness. “The question now is, what should we do with it—your light, and any other items aboard this boat that might compromise us?”

I was holding the little LED. A fine piece of equipment. Machined aluminum body and a dazzling beam. It wasn't as nice as the Blackhawk I'd left with Wilson's would-be assassins, but it was
nice.