The New Madrid Run (12 page)

“What about the Turkey Point nuclear reactor in South Miami?” Travis asked.

The preacher chuckled. “If that had been a problem, son, we wouldn’t be talking now, we’d be a-sizzlin’ like a couple strips of bacon in a frying pan. Evidently they got it shut down ahead of time, or maybe the reactors were down for repairs. Who knows? There weren’t no earthquakes here, just a little shaking and lots of water. All I know for sure is that it didn’t blow up or melt down, or whatever they do.”

Travis stared at the radio, thinking, as the preacher talked. After a few moments he said, “Listen, Preacher, I figure we’re about twenty to thirty miles southwest of your position. I’d like to talk with you some more before we make any major decisions. If we can find you, how about if we tie up sometime tomorrow morning and let us treat you to breakfast? You pick the restaurant.”

The preacher laughed again. “Sounds good to me, son. I could use the company. If you’re pretty sure about that southwest position, just set a forty-five degree course and look for what’s left of the big buildings off South Miami Beach. Stay east of them, in deep water, and come in from that direction. Look for the tallest building. I’m anchored just east of it. I’ll give you a holler on the horn tomorrow morning, just to make sure you’re on target.”

Travis replaced the microphone and turned to his companions. “This is the way I figure it: The guy may be a little bourboned-out, but he’s got access to incredibly valuable information which can help us make intelligent decisions for any course of action we take. This isn’t a dictatorship. I want your input. But for my money, I’d like to sit down with this fellow for a day or so and learn as much as I can before continuing on.”

Everyone agreed.

“All right, that’s that,” Travis declared. “Let’s set course and get underway. We still have three hours of daylight left.”

They sailed without incident for the rest of the day, a light sea and favorable winds giving them a chance to relax.

Young Todd caught two nice mackerel during the afternoon and Carlos treated them to another delicious dinner. Spirits were, for the first time, almost optimistic. The worst was over. Civilization was still out there and they were going to find it. Travis had listenedcarefully to what the preacher said about the inland waterway and the central U.S. being intact. He was beginning to formulate a plan, but he needed more information before he spoke with the others.

When supper was finished and the dishes done, Carlos brought out a slightly water-warped deck of cards he’d found onboard and the group played poker for about an hour. The sensei sat off to the side and cleaned his swords. As the game began to break up, Travis went topside to check everything before bed, as was becoming his routine. He sat for a moment on the cabin roof, watching the dark waves crest and fall, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, surprised, to find Todd standing a few feet from him. The boy looked at Travis, uncertain, then stared past him at the cold, moonlit water. Travis studied the child for a few seconds, then, in one of those rare moments of mutual understanding, raised his arm and beckoned the young lad to him. The relief of being understood flooded across the boy’s face as he came forward. Travis put his arm around him and held him. No words were spoken—none were needed, as the pair sat and watched the reflection of the yellow moon dance on the blue-black water.

CHAPTER 8

The following morning Travis was awakened by the sunlight as it streamed through the porthole and flooded his bunk. He opened his eyes and he realized that something else had roused him—voices. Cuban voices, not Carlos’, were coming from topside. As he quickly pulled on his shirt, that familiar feeling crept over him, and something deep inside shouted a warning. He grabbed the nine-millimeter from the drawer next to the bunk and shoved it into his belt at the small of his back as Jan showed up.

“There’s somebody up top in another boat. Cubans, I think.” He was attempting to be casual but his eyes betrayed him.

Travis looked at the other gun in the drawer, then on impulse took it out. “Can you use one of these?” he asked.

“Yeah, no problem,” Jan answered confidently.

Travis handed him the weapon. “Keep it tucked in your back, out of sight.” Jan nodded.

The others were awake and standing by the stairs to the hatch as the two men reached them. “Jan and I are going out. You folks can’t do any good up there and I don’t want them knowing how many of us there are. We’ll talk to them, see what they want.” The others nodded tensely. Travis could tell that the sensei wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but saw the wisdom of it.

The pair moved up the hatchway and out onto the deck. Anchored about twenty yards from them, was a fifty-foot Miami Cuban fishing boat. Beside the forecastle of the trawler stood two young Latin men. One was tall and lean—jet-black hair greased back against his skull, no shirt, a thick gold chain around his neck, nervous eyes. The other was large and well-muscled, with hard, bright eyes reflecting a fresh high,—faded blue jeans, a Carlos Santana T-shirt, and a bandana around his head. Most ominous of all, however, were the M16 rifles they held casually at their sides.

Travis and Jan halted in front of the cabin, and the big one spoke: ”
Buenos dias, amigos. Habla Español
?”

“No, we don’t speak Spanish,” Travis answered, even though he did speak some.

The Cuban snorted disdainfully, as if the reply had been a rebuke. Then in English he asked. “How many people you have with you,
amigo
?”

“Just a couple. How about you?”

“Jus’ me and my
amigo
here, tha’s all, man.” Travis was positive he had heard at least three voices—maybe four—before he went topside. Every instinct in his body told him it was all about to hit the fan. The heavy Cuban smiled, exposing a mouthful of big, white teeth. He shifted his weapon slightly. It was a casual move but there was a subtle message of intimidation there. “Tha’s a very nice boat you have,
amigo
. How come you have such a nice boat like that?”

“I won it in a raffle last week.”

The smile drained from the Cuban’s face. “You know,
amigo
, we need some food. Maybe you have some you could give us, huh? Maybe if you don’ have too much food, maybe you have something you could give us so we could buy some food somewhere, huh,
amigo
?”

“Listen, buddy,” replied Travis, “my partner and I are out of just about everything but saltwater and sun. How about if we just up anchor—we’ll go our way, you go yours.”

The Cuban turned and casually spit over the gunnel, then brought his attention back to Travis. “Maybe we do that man, maybe we do that.” Then in a staccato burst of Spanish, he spoke to his friend, who moved over about ten paces.

Carlos’ voice came urgently from the hatchway. “He just tell his
compadre
to move down so to get you in a crossfire,
Jefe
.”

Jesus Christ,
Travis thought, a
fter all we’ve been through, now we have to get caught
in an ocean version of the O.K. Corral
. “Slide over some, Jan,” he whispered. “When they start to raise their guns, you shoot the one on the left. I’ll take the big guy with the Colgate smile.” Jan nodded and moved down slowly, obviously frightened, but maintaining.

No one knew, least of all the Cubans on the other boat, that Travis was an expert with a handgun—a natural, they called him. He had carried a service issue .45 in Vietnam for two years, and after the service had still practiced regularly.

Suddenly, without warning, the big Cuban shouted and started to raise his rifle. Travis had been standing with his hands on his hips to give him quick access to his gun. When the other man made his move, Travis dropped to one knee, drew his pistol and clipped off three rounds. Instantly, a trio of messy red dots appeared in the man’s chest, throwing him back against the forecastle of his boat, arms flailing. A split second later, automatic rifle fire sprayed the top of the cabin next to Travis, missing him by inches as he hit the deck. The other Cuban was still standing, about to fire again, when Travis got off three quick shots in his direction. Unfortunately, the rolling of the boat threw the rounds off slightly, splintering the wood next to the man’s head and sending him flying for the cover of his gunnel. Travis found himself lying wide open in the middle of the deck, and in a hell of a quandary. If he got up and ran for the safety of the steering cockpit, the Cuban could pop up and kill him easily with that automatic rifle. But if he stayed where he was and waited for the fellow to come up from behind the gunnel, he had to get him right away, or he was dead for sure.
Six of
one . . .
he thought. Just then, the Cuban stood up as though he was Vin Diesel in a bad “B” movie, and started to fire. Travis aimed quickly and touched off four more rounds. The smaller man did an imitation of his friend as a red line stretched up from his stomach to his throat.

“
Adios
,
amigo
,” Travis muttered grimly as he watched the man slide down the blood-splattered wall of the cabin.

As he stood, Travis realized he hadn’t heard any fire from Jan. He looked over his shoulder to find his compatriot sprawled out across the top of the cabin. Jan’s chest and back had been laid open by the murderous 5.56 rounds that had sprayed the boat; his sightless eyes stared vacantly at the sky. Quickly, Travis moved over to him, knowing already that it was too late. He was kneeling by the dead man when a movement on the bow caught his attention. He looked up to see another Cuban pulling himself up over the bow with a rope attached to a gaff hook. The man had swum across and hooked the gaff to the bow rail while the firefight was going on. As the Latino stood up, Travis automatically raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, but there was no report. He suddenly realized the slide on the weapon was locked back—he had expended his last round.

Realizing the situation, the Cuban smiled and reached down to pull a pistol from his belt. Travis braced himself for a rush at the man, knowing it was suicide, when suddenly from around the other side of the cabin came a hundred and fifty pounds of snarling muscle and teeth. Flying low, Ra struck the Cuban in mid-air as he straddled the bow rail. The dog hit the startled man with such force that he flew backward a good six feet before he even started to fall, Ra’s fangs buried in his throat. The bandit didn’t have a chance. He was dead before he hit the water, but Ra refused to release him until he began to sink. Only then did the animal break away and begin swimming toward the stern of the boat.

Travis exhaled the breath he’d thought to be his last, stood up, and turned toward the rear hatch.

There, standing on the stern, dripping wet, gun in hand, was yet another Cuban. He had obviously witnessed the last exchange. He wasn’t frightened and he wasn’t in a hurry. He had things in control. The bandit motioned with his gun to the others in the hatchway.

“Up, up, all of you.
Andele
!”

Carlos and Christina moved up and out first, then Todd. The sensei came last. As the Japanese cleared the cockpit, Travis noticed that he was wearing his sword.

The Cuban saw it as well. “Take knife off, now!”

The sensei was a good five feet from him when he started to comply, but as he reached across to undo the belt, his hand brushed the hilt of his sword. In a millisecond, so fast that the blink of an eye would have missed it, there was a blurring arc of steel. The Latino’s gun, and the hand that held it, suddenly leaped from his wrist. The astonished bandit had only enough time to look down at his wrist, mouth gaping in surprise, when another arc took his head cleanly from his shoulders. Before the body could even recognize it was dead, the sensei spun and side-kicked it over the rail. Then he turned, flicked the blood from his sword, and sheathed it. His expression never changed.

The entire transaction took less than two seconds. The Oriental looked over at the other boat and the two dead men, then swung around to Travis. As their eyes met, there was new respect from both: credibility that can only be earned by absolute deadly experience.

The moment was shattered by a scream as Christina discovered Jan lying across the top of the cabin. She ran over and knelt beside him. The girl reached out to him, but stopped and drew her hands back to her mouth, a look of horror and revulsion on her face. “Jan. Oh Jan. God no. No,” she moaned, swaying slightly as she stared at the torn and bloodied body. Travis moved quickly to Christina’s side, lifting her up by the shoulders, and holding her.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” he whispered. “There’s nothing we can do. He’s gone.” As she sobbed, he pulled her away from the body and took her below.

He helped Christina onto the bunk, then sat down beside her. As she cried quietly, Travis was, for the first time, aware of her vulnerability. He realized then that beneath the practiced exterior of confidence and independence was an innocence—not virginal, but genuine, like his Michelle, and he wanted more than anything to take the girl in his arms and tell her that he would see her through this sadness and protect her and . . . but he didn’t. He brushed the hair from her face and eyes and gazed down at her. His hand lingered on the side of her face and she reached up and took it, holding it tight with both hands against her cheek. They stayed like that until her sobs quieted and her breathing relaxed, and she slept.

Travis left her and went up on deck. He noticed immediately that Jan’s body was gone, and turned to Carlos as he cleaned the blood off the deck. “What happened to Jan?”

Carlos pointed to the sensei. “He tell me ’throw him overboard,’ so I did. I no gonna argue with that hombre.”

The sensei had pulled Ra aboard, and was up front inspecting the damage done by the gunfire. Travis walked over, his sense of propriety disturbed by the inadvertent throwing of Jan’s body into the water. “What’s with tossing Jan into the sea? No funeral, no words, no nothing?”