The New Madrid Run (13 page)

The sensei looked up from his inspection of the bullet holes, and paused. His cold eyes almost made Travis flinch. “What would you have us put him in? We have no sheets, extra canvas, or blankets to spare. Would you like her” —he said, motioning below—"to have another look at his butchered body, just for old time’s sake? We are in daily life-and-death situation. If we are to survive, we must think like survivors. Let us concentrate on the living. The dead can take care of themselves.”

The sensei stood up, his voice softer. “Travis-san, these people respect you and look to you for guidance. You must begin to think differently now. You can no longer think simply in terms of yourself, nor can you practice judgment with antiquated ethics. Lives have been put into your hands, and their survival is dependent on you. Iwill help when I can, but these are your people; they will not follow me. You are their leader. Think like one—become one.”

Travis took a deep breath and looked out over the waters, then turned to the Japanese. “I haven’t had to worry about anyone but myself for a long time, Sensei. I’m going need some practice at being a leader again. Stay close. If I get out of line, slap me on the back of the head.”

“It will be my pleasure, Captain,” said the sensei as he smiled and bowed to Travis, who, having become comfortable with the custom, returned the bow, and the smile.

CHAPTER 9

When the sailboat had been cleaned up and the cabin top patched with a can of fiberglass putty from the hold, they decided to have a look at the Cubans’ boat. They upped anchor, sailed over to the other craft, and tied up. Travis reloaded his pistol, then he and the sensei boarded the vessel. Once on the deck, they took the M16s from the dead men before going below.

The hold was a disaster. Empty beer cans littered the floor, along with half-eaten cans of food and
Playboy
magazines. Pictures of nude women in various provocative positions were nailed on the walls. On the galley table was a mirror with a half-ounce of cocaine splashed across it. The only thing that seemed to have any semblance of order was a row of boxes that were stacked against the rear bulkhead. Stenciled boldly on each box, in military script, was:
Property of National Guard.

Travis looked at the sensei, then back to the boxes. “Looks like someone hit a National Guard Armory and maybe an ammo storage facility.” They went over and pulled a case down. The lid was loose, and lifted off easily. Inside, cleaned and greased, lay ten M16s; two had already been removed from the original dozen. With a screwdriver Travis found nearby, they pried the lid off another slightly longer box. Inside were two brand new, ready-to-use Squad Automatic Weapons—SAWs—devastating belt or magazine-fed machine guns that used the same 5.56 cartridge as the M16. Opening the third case, even the sensei’s usually inscrutable face changed slightly. There, packaged in neat rows, were four dozen fragmentation grenades. The
pièce de resistance
, however, came when they removed the boxes of ammunition from atop a large, flat case and opened it. Inside were four M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapons System— LAWS—a one-round disposable device that had replaced the Army’s bazooka, before the new array of weapons emerged in the Iraqi conflict.

Someone certainly knew what they were shopping for
, thought Travis as he studied the deadly arsenal around him. “Looks like someone was planning to start a war,” he muttered.

“Or, at very least, seeking to discourage opposition to their plans,” said the sensei. “When negotiation fails, a sharp sword is your best persuasion.”

“Ah, another Japanese saying,” Travis said.

“General George Armstrong Custer,” replied the Oriental with his half smile. “Perhaps we should take some of this.”

Travis snorted. “Some of it, hell! We just damned near lost our lives because all we had between us was two frigging Wal-Mart pistols. We’re taking it all!”

An hour later they had transferred their newfound armory to the sailboat. They had also discovered several heavy-duty flashlights and a case of Budweiser beer. Carlos, of course, was ecstatic. The most important acquisition, though, aside from the weapons, was an operable Global Positioning System—GPS—a navigational device that determines a position by satellite and can computer-plot courses. Carlos installed the new GPS and when its dark screen lit up, Travis smiled. Now, when he got the preacher’s position, he could compare the new, post-disaster location of Miami Beach with the old coordinates he remembered and interpolate their position from then on.

They finished storing the last of the goods as the VHF radio crackled to life. The preacher’s voice boomed across the speaker. “Good mornin’, sinners and sinnerettes. Have you fallen on your bony knees and thanked the Lord for your lives today? Well, what ya waitin’ for? By the way, where’s that fella who promised me breakfast? It’s damned near halfway through the mornin’ and I’m hungry enough to eat my cat—if I had a cat.”

Travis picked up the microphone. “Preacher, this is the breakfast boy. Unfortunately, we had a problem this morning with some folks who’d decided they would look better in our boat than we would. We got into a firefight and lost one of our people.” Travis paused for a moment, then continued. “Listen, Preacher. We just got our GPS working again. If you’ll give us your exact position, we can probably reach you inside a couple of hours.”

“Right, son. Let’s see, I’m showing 25 degrees, 47 minutes, 30 seconds north; 80 degrees, 11 minutes, 10 seconds west. “Sorry about your loss, son. May his soul rest in peace.”

“Thanks,” replied Travis gratefully. “We’ll see you soon.”

After one more look through the other boat, they upped anchor and departed, leaving the vessel floating where it was.

As she lay on her bunk below, Christina felt the boat heel and move off. She was awake and past most of the tears, but the pain and the horror still gripped her. They writhed inside her, unable to be contained. Her mind kept flashing back to Jan, sprawled out on the cabin. The girl tried to stop it, but the scene played over and over again. She knew she hadn’t truly been in love with Jan, but she had cared for him. They shared much, including hopes and dreams for their tomorrows—but for Jan, there would be no more tomorrows.

Christina lay staring at the ceiling, small tears returning to the corners of her eyes, when she saw a movement at the door. Todd was standing in the passageway, a cup of coffee in his hand. He hesitated for a moment, until he was sure she saw him, then slowly walked into the berth. He went over to the side of the bed as she sat up, drying her eyes with the back of her hands. The youngster stopped by her side and offered her the coffee. She gratefully took the warm cup and did her best to smile. Christina took a couple of sips, then set the cup on the nightstand by the bed.

“Thank you, Todd,” she said, turning toward him. Slowly, haltingly, he took her hand in both of his and held it, his eyes saying all the things his lips could not. There were tears in both their eyes. Instinctively, she understood that they were sharing the tragedy of their losses, and painful as it was, they no longer had to face it alone. They would help each other, and from that moment on, they would both become stronger. She drew him to her, and willingly he came into her arms, clutching her with silent, grateful need.

Half an hour later, just after they spotted the landmarks mentioned by the preacher, Christina came up from the cabin. Her eyes were still red from crying, but her hair was combed and her walk was straight and controlled. She paused, one hand on the rigging, and looked out at the sea, letting the cool salt air wash over her. The sun broke clear of the clouds; she welcomed its warmth on her face and arms. As she stood there, eyes closed, face lifted to the brightness, she heard Travis’ voice next to her.

“How you doing, Chris?”

“I’ll be all right, I guess.” She involuntarily looked over to the cabin top where Jan’s body had been, then glanced at Travis. The question remained unasked, but it was there all the same.

“I’m sorry about Jan,” Travis said. “He was a good man, and he was there when the chips were down. You can’t ask for more than that. We buried him at sea while you slept.” She nodded, staring intently at the water, small tears running down each cheek.

Travis put his arm around her shoulder. “I know that the pain has to pass in its own time, but I think you need to ask yourself what Jan would have wanted of you. He struck me as a man who loved living. He wouldn’t want to see you like this, he’d want you to go on.”

“I know you’re right,” she said, “but the pain’s just too new, and it’s hard . . .”

“One day at a time, Chris.”

They stood there in silence, watching the morning sun glisten off the rolling waves until the sensei called out, “Eleven o’clock off bow, one mile out—the preacher’s boat.”

Travis peered across the sea in that direction. Bobbing gently over the waves in the distance was the forecastle of a shrimper. He gave Christina’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “I’m gonna go below and get the preacher on the horn—make sure that’s our target.”

She nodded, and as he turned to go she called after him. “Travis.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she said with a weak smile.

Travis paused, staring at her. “No problem, Chris.”

Travis contacted the preacher, confirmed that it was him they saw, then asked Carlos to whip up a special breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later they were abeam the shrimper. As they slid up to the larger boat, the door on the forecastle opened and the preacher emerged. He was a large man, probably six-one, with a barrel chest, longish graying hair, and a three-or four-day salt-and-pepper stubble of a beard. He had piercing gray-blue eyes the color of Bahama waters on a cloudy day—eyes that looked thirty years younger than the craggy, sun-bronzed face in which they were set. There was a distinct and immediate robustness about the man, a straightforwardness that matched his radio personality, and the sense of humor that showed in the laugh lines of his face complimented his more obvious qualities. Travis liked him immediately, guessing his age to be a very healthy fifty-five to sixty.

“Welcome, Sinners!” he yelled as they tied off. When they finally faced each other for the first time, the preacher shouted, “Where’s that breakfast you promised me? I’ve reached a critical victual situation on this ol’ tub.” He held up a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “I been on a liquid diet for the past day-and-a-half!”

Travis laughed. “Come aboard, Preacher. Breakfast is just about ready.”

They all settled into the galley while Carlos served cold fish, mixed vegetables, canned peaches, and coffee. After introductions, the preacher ate heartily, and in the process, told his story:

“Was outside Everglades City when the wave hit—just finished installing a new diesel engine and had taken it out for a test run. I just got cleared of the harbor and looked back to see that flippin’ wall of water rushing over the land and right at me. Weren’t no running from it, so I just turned
Jesus’ Love
into that hound from hell and let her rip.”

The preacher claimed after some “serious rockin’ and rollin’,” he found himself and his boat banged up but serviceable—which was more than he could say for Everglades City. He took his deliverance as a sign of God’s reward for his faithful preaching. Further evidence of God’s favor came later, when he found a case of Jack Daniels sippin’ whisky floating amid the debris—lost, he was sure, from one of the many bars in Everglades City. Sign from God or not, it had really brightened his week.

Travis, in turn, related his tale, including how he had met the others and of the recent firefight with the Cubans.

“Sounds like a Louis L’Amour novel,” declared the preacher. “You get through this, son, you ought to write a book. That’s providing there’s a publishing house left to publish it, or someone out there who cares about reading a book, and who ain’t too busy just tryin’ to survive.”

Travis laughed. “I suppose you’re right, Preacher, but the books that will be in demand now are going to be the ’how to’ books:
How to Grow Vegetables, How to Build a House, How to Dress a Deer and Cure Meat—”

“Or
How to Keep Your Neighbor From Shootin’ You For What You Made With Your ’How to’ Books
,’” the preacher interrupted with a laugh.

“You sound like an old friend of mine,” Travis said, thinking of Cody.

The sensei, who had been listening quietly, interjected, “Have you heard anything new from rest of the country? Or beyond?”

“Well, I tell ya,” the preacher began, “things seem to be a tad worse than I thought. Seems like after the initial shock passed, people sorta woke up, shook themselves, and began a wholesale panic that has swept the entire country. Even places that weren’t hit real bad have experienced at least some breakdown of law and order. From what I’m a-hearin’, looting is widespread throughout the nation. The police and the Guard tried to stop it at first. Finally a lot of them just gave up and went home, or joined the looters. You only hold out against the Indians if you know the cavalry’s comin’. In this case there ain’t no more cavalry and there ain’t no percentage in dying for a lost cause.

“The nation, geographically, is shot to hell. The northeast coast is definitely gone—clear down to somewhere near Virginia, and inland up to a couple hundred miles. The west coast, from what I hear, is still havin’ major quakes and is still losin’ ground to the sea as far inland as the Rocky Mountains. The continent is about split in two by the new waterway where the Mississippi Valley used to be. They’re havin’ storms like this country has never seen up north and on the coasts. Torrential rains and flash flooding in the Midwest have killed thousands who thought they’d survived the worst. It ain’t good news, and the way I figure it, there’s worse coming. If you’re alive today, what do you eat? Where do you live? How do you live—especially when winter hits? My guess is that by the end of this winter, we’ll have lost two hundred million people in the U.S. alone, which makes this little event just about the greatest catastrophe in the recorded history of man. Right up there with Noah and the great flood.