Jolly Roger

Jolly Roger

         After I picked up the load from the mother ship, I spent the next day loitering in the Abacos Islands at anchor in Hole-in-the-Wall. I was waiting for a special lady, tropical storm Helen, to arrive. I planned to run my 60' Magnum Miss Daisy across the Florida Straits to Fort Lauderdale in Helen's cover.

         Foul weather and the dark of the moon are the smuggler's friends. The radar image of small boats breaks up in storm-tossed waves. And although the Feds have infrared and radar, I had a few new tricks up my sleeve. My Mate and cargo-kicker, Mando and I had sealed the boat's topside openings to make it unsinkable--I hoped.

         This was my first run for Don Porfirio Andrade, one of Cuban underworld's bosses in Miami. While waiting for the storm, I recalled our first and last meeting in the rear office of a Miami disco that he owned.

****

         I was ushered in to Andrade's presence with all the ritual, pomp and circumstance that his high status entailed--namely, I was frisked from stem to stern for weapons or a recording device. I told the guy doing the search, "I don't usually go this far on the first date. Does this mean we're engaged?"

         He snarled a reply in Spanish which I chose to take as a Cuban oath of lifelong friendship. When I scoped out the dark corners of the room, I saw a number of Andrade's pistoleros lounging around in loose-fitting Guayaberas or Hawaiian shirts. It was comforting to know those shirts concealed enough firepower to take down a Soviet Hind helicopter in case we were attacked. Hey, I'm no novice in the biz: I'd seen Pacino in Scarface!

         I was placed in a chair, facing Andrade across a huge desk made of marble and stainless steel. I couldn't help thinking it looked a lot like a slab in the morgue, so I decided to study Andrade instead. He wasn't much more reassuring.

          Don Porfirio was a slim man dressed in a beige silk Armani suit. His black hair and mustache were streaked with gray, but instead of looking like a kindly grandfather, the effect was that of a battle-scarred veteran of the Cuban mafia. He sat quietly, rolling a Montecristo cigar in his fingers, while he slowly looked me over with the appraising and scornful eyes of a Castilian swordsman. Finally, he spoke.

         "The boys tell me you got a fast boat and some big cojones...," he grabbed at his crotch for in case I didn't speak Spanish, "...and wanna make a run for us."

         "Yes, sir." I kept my feet still and my hands folded calmly on my lap. I knew the drill for an employment interview. This was my shot at the big time, and I didn't want to blow it.

         But I didn't think it necessary to volunteer that Miss Daisy had belonged to a skipper who got caught by the Coast Guard. I'd picked her up at a DEA auction. She'd been in bad shape, needed a few bullet holes patched, and the engines redone. Even with the damage discount, she'd cost more than I could afford. I did a lot of the repair work myself, but I was gonna be broke if this deal didn't come through.

         "I don' usually give a new guy a big shipment right off, but this is special, and I ain' got no time to wait. You sure you wanna try it? You think you up to it?"

         "My boat's a Magnum, one of the fastest around. If any boat can do it, she can."

         Don Profirio looked around at his assembled minions and laughed. He threw his hands up in a "whatareyagonnado" gesture that brought howls of laughter, and I joined in to be one of the guys. But he made a sharo cutting gesture and their laughter stopped as though he'd cut their throats, leaving me as the only one in the room chortling away. My chortles were 'chort-lived' and died away into the silence as he spoke again.

          "Estupido! I wasn't talkin' about the boat." I shivered as he gave me a heavy-lidded stare. "You know what happen to you if you run off with my load...," he paused for effect and added, "...or worse, you get caught and talk?"

         I gulped and nodded. Making the big time or not, this was a committment like taking vows in the Church. Except the pennance for breaking my vows promised to be as long and painful as this man could devise.

         "Bueno." He gave a small smile. I was relieved and overjoyed we were smiling buddies again. "On the other hand, you do right by me, I do right by you. If you get caught..." I started to open my mouth, but he raised a hand, and I shut it immediately, attempting to make it look like a cough. He used his hands like a music conductor's baton, and I was learning the routine. "As I was saying, if you get caught and keep your mouth shut, we take care of you inside and when you get out."

         "I'm sure your pension plan is very generous, Don Porfirio, but I don't plan to get caught."

         "Pension plan!" He laughed and his boys laughed too. After a wary look around to make sure I was on solid ground, I joined them. He looked around and waved his hand in a benediction. "I like this guy. Wha's you name?"

         "Er...MacKinnon, Roger MacKinnon."

         "You a real jolly guy, MacKinnon. We gonna call you Jolly Roger." He paused. "Don' never screw up or you ain't gonna be very jolly no more, sabe? "

         I'd savvyed all right and was glad to get out of there in one piece. I gave a little shiver as the memory faded. Now, like any anxious suitor, I just had to wait for Helen to arrive.

****

         The morning dawned as red as any imagined by the old sailor's warning jingle. Miami Weather confirmed the storm would hit the Straits by early evening with a forecast of 50-60 knot winds.

         By late morning, long before her arrival, Helen announced her coming with scudding, white, puffy, clouds that fled before her like defeated enemies. Then the early warning system, seabirds, began to fly off the ocean to shelter on the islands. Waves picked up to five or six feet, bouncing the boat against her mooring line, while the growing wind made the halyards on sailboats in the mooring around us begin a metallic hammering against their masts.

         Saner sailors were setting out extra anchors, but Mando and I finally began our preparations. We donned scuba 'dry suits' and checked our safety harnesses for the last time.
After everything was ready, we lolled around, trying to show each other we were immune to fear.

         Finally, A dark line of overcast clouds and rain showed up on the eastern horiizon and marched swiftly towards our anchorage. As tiny cat's paws of wind rippled the surface of Hole-in-the-Wall bay, we slipped the mooring and headed into the Providence Channel with spray from the chop flying back over the long black bow of Miss Daisy. We put on diver's masks to keep the spray and coming rain out of our eyes. We loafed along at low speed and waited for Helen to catch us.

         The squall line looked like a flat black wall racing toward us over the sea. Then the storm wall suddenly hit us from astern. Fifty knot wind gusts blew the spume of spindrift off the top of waves at out backs. Rain whipped sideways at our rubber-coated bodies, physically beating at us while the wind seemed to tear the breath out of our lungs, making it hard to breathe.

          I couldn't even hear the engine over the howling wind, and I decided it was high time that Helen heard from Miss Daisy.I jammed the throttle levers forward, and the big engines roared with power. She responded like an eager race horse and plunged forward. Soon we were 'on the step,' planing across the water with a wide wake of phosphorescence trailing behind in the stormy sea.

         Miss Daisy leapt from wave to wave, going airborne and banging us around, even though we were strapped into our captain's chairs. Mando hung on to the rails of his chair beside me and gave a big smile through his divers mask and the spray coming over the plunging bow. There's nothing quite like the rush you get on a big powerboat running at speed through the sea only a few feet away.

         As I'd planned, I kept the boat just inside the leading edge of the storm, like a surfer on the curl of a wave. The high waves that built up within the storm were the problem, and we had to keep ahead of them. It was tricky work because of the fluky winds, but Miss Daisy was built to run faster than Helen's winds. But Heaven help us if we let the storm catch us from behind while crossing the fifty mile wide Gulf Stream. It's always hazardous in an open cigarette boat at sea, but even more so in high waves of a storm.

         Everything went well for the first hours. We'd almost completed the short voyage from to Florida, skimming the waves and hopefully staying below radar, when the starboard engine sputtered, coughed and quit.

         Miss Daisy shuddered like a dying animal, losing power and leaving the open cockpit in danger of being overrun by the waves in the following seas. One big wave over the back transom, and we were headed for Davy Jones's locker. I slammed the throttle forward on the port engine, and we picked up some speed, topping the cresting waves and sluggishly powering through the troughs.

         The problem was probably contaminated fuel. Running late, I hadn't checked the refueling in Hope Town like I usually do in third world countries. Hopefully, the remaining engine would get us to the drop zone to complete the mission. I knew crossing the Strait at night with one engine out was foolish--but that's what I get paid the big bucks to do.

          Safe for the moment, I remembered my old commander, Captain Baker saying, "Roger MacKinnon is a damn good skipper, but he's a fool, always living on the edge like a pirate. One day, it'll sink him--or put him in prison." I hoped this run wouldn't fulfill his prophecy.

         We had to limp along at half speed through the storm. I was using the boat as a sixty-foot surfboard, riding the waves instead of powering through them. I had to time the swells and quarter down their slope without somehow plunging straight down at the bottom of the trough. Then, at just the right moment, I had to apply full throttle to the remaining engine and streak up the back of the wave in front of us. It was draining work, both physically and mentally, with the awesome power of the thirty foot waves that often towered above us.

         But then we got lucky when we hit an inversion layer near the Florida coast. It began to push the eye of Helen to the north, and we no longer had to fight the strongest winds and biggest waves. As we approached the outer reaches of the storm, the wind died down, but the clouds and rain came down to the water level, creating a pea soup fog. I couldn't see ahead under the stuff, so I had to slow down.

         The good news was I had a Global Positioning System (GPS) to tell me exactly where I was off the coast. The bad news was that I was smack in the middle of the shipping lanes. The announcer on the Marine Weather Channel from Miami didn't sound worried. But then he didn't face the possibility of a tanker running over him in the dark. I couldn't use my own radar because it would be like signaling to the Coast Guard, "Yoo Hoo, here I am. Come get me."

         So I had to slowly creep through the rain and fog. Because we were south of the storm, and the wind had died down, the seas were big lazy swells. However, they were popping me up on every radar in every Coast Guard cutter and patrol plane in the southeastern U.S. Finally, the GPS read we were at the drop zone a few miles off the coast where I was to transfer the stuff to small boats that would scatter to private docks on the Intracoastal Canal.

         Don Porfirio's pickup boats were supposed to mark themselves with flashing lights, but the pouring rain made it impossible to see anything more than a few feet away. I tried the Marine radio, Channel 16.

         "Lucky B, this is Jolly Roger. Over."

         "Hisssssssssssss," the radio replied.

         Maybe Lucky B figured the weather was too bad and had gone home. In that case, I was in deep trouble, because the Feds kept an eye on guys who owned big off-shore speed boats and ran around on them at night.

         "Lucky B. Do you copy?" I was desperate. It took two years to get this first gig for Andrade. I couldn't afford to screw it up.

         "Hissssssssss." Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

         Unless Lucky B was practicing his snake imitations, we were in trouble. I quickly reviewed my options. With one engine, I couldn't return to Abaco. And I couldn't land at my condo's private dock on the canal with a boat load of coke. Landing at the dock in this weather would be possible, but it would also excite a lot of curiosity about what brought me out on a night like this. The authorities keep track of people who own fast off-shore boats and no visible means of support. I could hear it now:

         "So nice of you to drop in, Mr. MacKinnon. Do you have anything to declare in those charming containers with beacons and floats attached?"

         The port engine coughed once.

         Great. Another option heard from. I'd purposely ignored the possibility of simply conking out in the sea lanes and being sunk--or floating around like a sleek piece of you know what. Cigarette boats aren't very impressive sitting still.

         I exchanged bored looks with Mando, both of us pretending that floating around in the Gulf Stream in a fog wasn't life-threatening. Come to think of it, it wasn't nearly as life-threatening as losing Don Porfirio's thousand kilos of pure Peruvian flake to the Feds. Given a choice, I'd rather risk being sunk and becoming dinner for hungry sharks.

         "I'm gonna make another pass over the drop zone." I said, more to convince myself than Mando.

         "Whatever, man, but I don' think we gonna find them in this shit." He shrugged with stoic Inca fatalism. I spun the wheel right to reverse my course.

         And almost collided with a Coast Guard cutter, coming up on the starboard side in my blind spot. Totally surprised, I spun the wheel over again and dove back into the cover of the fog. I was gambling I could navigate by the seat of my pants and not run smack into them. Then a disembodied metallic voice rang eerily through the radio into the white mist that surrounded us.

         "Unidentified Magnum boat, this is the Coast Guard. Turn on your transponder and come to course 120. Proceed to Fort Lauderdale Coast Guard station for boarding and inspection."

         After a long pause, Mando said, "You gonna answer that? I think it's for you."

         "Quiet! I'm thinking."

         The new Coast Guard cutters are tricked out with special radar and infrared for tracking. I couldn't out-run them, and I couldn't lose them. Even so, I gave it a try and reversed course again.

         "Unidentified Magnum. I Repeat. Set course for Fort Lauderdale."

         "How much time we gonna get for all this cocaine?" Mando gestured to the stowage compartment.

         "Let's see. Two thousand pounds, give or take?" I smiled maniacally. "After we die in solitary, they put our oldest child in jail for life"

         "Whew!" he said. "The joke's on them. I ain't got no kids."

         "Idiot!" I was never quite sure if Mando teased me with weird Inca humor or was simply a moron. My mind raced back to my problem. Getting caught on my first run for Andrade pissed me off. I made up my mind the Feds wouldn't beat me.

         "Mando! Off your butt and open the hatch. We're going to Plan B. Stand by to jettison some stuff."

         Meanwhile, I reversed to course 120 like a good boy while giving Mando instructions. The cutter picked up my stratagem immediately.

         "Magnum. Radar shows you are jettisoning cargo. We have a fix on the position. We'll find it."

         "In this fog." I laughed into my radio mike. "You can try. I'll see you on the dock." I jammed the throttle to the console and hoped the engine had enough left to give us some running room. I wasn't through yet. What else could go wrong?

         The port engine coughed like it was choking back an evil laugh.

****

         We were almost to the Coast Guard station by the bridge over the canal when the engine sputtered again, but all I needed was another couple of minutes. My eyes were locked to the instruments and the autopilot. It was still too foggy to see, but I didn't have to steer. I'd learned to trust the GPS system when it was hooked up to the autopilot. It was unearthly how the thing automatically made turns at each of the waypoints I'd previously plugged in to take us home in the canal system.

         "Mando," I shouted. "We're almost at the bridge and the fog seems to be breaking up any second. How you doin'?"

         "Tidying up."

         "No more time. We're here. Smile for the cameras."

         The engine coughed and died.

         "Ah, Coast Guard," I said. This is the Magnum. I seem to have run into an engine problem. I'm dead in the water. Can you give me a tow?"

         "Roger, Magnum. We're behind you about 100 yards and will be pulling up on your starboard."

         The young sailors that boarded us were armed to the teeth, but very friendly when they saw I had my hands up and wouldn't give them any trouble. They hustled me over the side, then onto the cutter and down into the wardroom. A bunch of off duty sailors playing cards looked at me curiously, but left at a sign from the Bosun.

         The Bosun got me a cup of coffee, and I sat, warming it in my hands, planning what I'd say to the federal prosecutor, until someone sat down beside me. It was my old skipper, Captain Baker. He looked relaxed and satisfied.

         "Mando?" I asked.

         "He's OK. Asked for asylum as a Haitian refugee." He snorted.

         I smiled at the thought of that stone-faced Inca being a Haitian. He'd be deported, but without any evidence in the boat, he wouldn't be prosecuted. He'd tell Don Porfirio that we'd only dropped sheets of tinfoil over the original drop zone.

         I'd figured they'd quit monitoring us when we hit the Intracoastal canal. So while we were still in the fog, Mando dropped the cocaine floats at the first buoy about two miles out. If Andrade hurried, they could recover it while the feds scoured the Gulf Stream.

         Baker misinterpreted my smile.

         "As for you, MacKinnon, you're going to prison. We'll make something stick, even if it's just smuggling aliens into the country. Your new friends won't see you for awhile."

         "Prison! That wasn't part of the deal!"

         "No way we're wasting two years of work, getting you undercover, Roger. You'll be Andrade's fair-haired boy when you get out." He smiled like the proverbial cat--and I was his canary.

         I sat there thinking...hmmm...a vacation at Club Fed. And I knew Don Porfirio rewarded stand-up guys who didn't rat. I'd get monthly payments and a nice bonus paid to my Cayman account that Baker wouldn't know about. I smiled back.

         I might be a fool who likes living on the edge--but they don't call me Jolly Roger for nothing.