Part 6 (2/2)

So, I opened two cans of stew, chopped in onion, added garlic, some of that good A&B hot sauce, and served it up with hot rolls.

”What is this stuff?” she had said when I shoved the tin plate across the galley table.

”What's it look like?”

”Nothing in particular.”

”Then that's what it is.”

”What about coffee?”

I nodded toward the dented gallon drip pot in its holder above the alcohol stove. ”Good idea. I'll need a bunch of it tonight. Coffee's in the locker beneath the sink. I like it strong.”

I took my dinner above to the full controls of the main cabin. While I ate, I switched on the red overhead chart light and checked our position with the 707 digital readout Loran C. The Stream was pus.h.i.+ng me a little farther north and east than I thought it would, so I disengaged the little Benmar autopilot, adjusted our course, then clicked the dial, letting the soft hydraulic whirr take control of Sniper. Then I had sniffed the wind: smelled the dark scent of diesel, of wet rope, fibergla.s.s, of bottom paint, and the good ozone smell of distant lightning blowing across open sea.

But no coffee.

So when I heard the woman finish brus.h.i.+ng her teeth and head toward the forward berth, I went below, lit the stove and set coffee to boiling myself. And when the odor filled the boat, sharp and full and strong as whiskey, I poured myself a mug, added honey, and allowed myself the after-dinner luxury of fresh chew of Red Man, spitting over the side.

Busy night in the Florida Strait.

Busiest night in history, probably.

A quarter mile away, I heard the choppa-choppa roar of helicopter above the sound of waves and engines, and I turned to watch as the pilot of the chopper swept the sea with its brilliant spotlight, searching for something.

The night sea was green beneath the helicopter, as if illuminated by a lance of meteor, and then I saw the little skiff, running without lights, pounding through the quartering sea and heavily overloaded with refugees.

The helicopter pilot tried to contact the captain of the little skiff on VHF 16, giving his own call letters- ”. . . Whiskey, Bravo, Alpha . . .”-but received no answer.

Obviously, the skiff had no radio.

”Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” I said to myself. ”The stupid, brave, b.a.s.t.a.r.d . . .”

No running lights. No radio. And a boat that was built for skiing on inland lakes-not the deadly Gulf Stream.

No wonder so many had died.

No wonder so many had disappeared without a trace.

I flicked on my Si-Tex radar system, hearing the rhythmic hum of the whirling antenna mounted above and forward. The twelve-inch screen, illuminated arm scanning, was filled with lime-green bleeps, one little explosion after another.

It looked like an armada of small boats in the chaos of retreat.

I kept a close eye on the radar screen as we plowed on through the night. Far, far in the distance, flas.h.i.+ng white on the horizon, was the Coast Guard cutter Dallas, using its giant strobe lights as a beacon. Before Sniper, a flying fish broke the surface dripping green phosph.o.r.escence. It crashed back into the sea like a falling star. Off to starboard, broad of the bow, I saw the weak glimmer and roll of more running lights. Quickly, I went below and poured myself another mug of coffee.

It was going to be one long night.

The sea changed from the strain of darkness with dawn and in graduations of fresh light. In the east, the blackness lifted in an airy white corona, and the breeze freshened. Water changed from black to rust, then powder blue as the sun drifted over the sea, and the hulls of boats in the distance looked leached and gray in comparison to white Venus, the morning star.

”Sleep okay?”

The woman climbed up the steps to the main cabin. She wore khaki pants, pulled tight at the waist but baggy, and a burnt-orange blouse that accented the color of her eyes. For the first time, her hair was down, long and raven-black, hanging over her left shoulder. There was no puffiness in her face, and the fresh light made her look more Indian than Cuban.

”I slept quite well, thank you.”

She hung over the railing of the fighting deck, looking landward.

”Is that Cuba?” As evenly as she said it, there was still just the slightest hint of excitement in her voice.

Before us, the bleak facades of pre-Castro high-rises and factories had disappeared into rolling hills and cliffs banking into the sea. On the hills was the green of bamboo and the deeper green of ficus and gumbo limbo trees.

”Yeah,” I said, ”that's Cuba.”

I could understand her excitement. It wasn't just the mission. I knew that. It was the impact of seeing her native land after such a long absence. I knew how I had felt upon seeing the United States after my first long hitch in Nam-and America was still mine; not the victim of some raving maniac for a dictator. It was even before ”our” demonstrators turned destructive.

But Cuba was no longer hers. It was a homeland of the past, like someone well loved and lost.

”Pretty country, isn't it?”

”Yes. It sure is, Androsa.”

It was the first time I had called her by her first name, and instinctively, she turned toward me when I said it. Her mahogany eyes were moist, br.i.m.m.i.n.g, close to tears. But her guard was down only momentarily, and she turned quickly away.

”There's nothing to be ashamed of, Androsa. It's only natural that you should feel-”

She cut me off. ”Mr. MacMorgan, how I feel is none of your concern.” She had her back to me, trying to get her emotions under control. ”And if our business relations.h.i.+p is to continue civilly, I would much prefer that you called me by my surname.”

”Santarun, right?”

”Well, Miss Santarun might be more appropriate.”

”Fine. In that case, I much prefer that you don't call me by my surname. Dusky will do. MacMorgan sounds too much like a hamburger chain.”

The emotion was still on the surface, and she couldn't help the smile. She hurried by me, back into the cabin, calling as she went, ”Do you want some more coffee?”

”Yeah. And put another pot on-that is, if you don't mind.”

She came up with a fresh mug and put it on the console in front of me. ”Mr., ah, Dusky . . . I'm sorry if I am brusque. But this is a business venture. It seems to me that it's all part of your job-”

”No one likes being treated like hired help, Miss Santarun.”

Her eyes flashed. ”But dammit, you are hired help. You're being paid and paid well-far too much, to my mind.”

I held my hands up. ”Hold it, hold it. We were starting to get along fairly well, there. Let's just treat each other like human beings, that's all I ask. Now let's change the subject.”

She took a deep breath, then sipped at her coffee. There was no mistaking the face she made. ”This coffee's terrible,” she said.

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