Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(20)
At first, the man—his name was Ahmed—had brought him dive tanks with the right mixtures but the wrong concentrations. Then the guy forgot to include the high-performance buoyancy controller Banu needed, even though Banu had asked for it specifically. And to top it all off, poor clueless Ahmed had rented the wrong size boat. The original vessel had neither the horsepower nor the fuel capacity to get them where they needed to go, much less bring them back again.
But now, finally, Banu had his equipment and the right boat, even if it did come with the ridiculously sophomoric name of Breaking Wind—I mean, who does that? Some fat, pompous, ill-witted American, no doubt—and he was ready to set sail.
He slid on a pair of Oakley sunglasses and glanced around the various fishing rods at the four dark-skinned men Ahmed was bringing with them. Banu was pretty sure they didn’t speak a lick of English, though they were dressed like any other American tourist in T-shirts, ball caps, and cargo shorts. Of course, the Russian AK-47s they’d stowed beneath the bench seats on deck were about as far from the red, white, and blue as you could get.
“How long will it take us to get there?” he asked, his gaze skimming over the turquoise water beyond Miami’s Rickenbacker Marina. Dragging in a deep breath that brought with it the smell of fish and sun-warmed salt water, he found himself anticipating the rest of the day. A day that would end with him being hailed as a hero.
“It is approximately one-hundred-and-fifty nautical miles to the sunken trawler,” Ahmed answered. He made the word “approximately” sound one syllable too long. “At twenty knots, and depending on wind and current, we should be there in…six, maybe seven hours. Of course, it could take longer since we must pick up the others.” The others being Banu’s assets, who’d run out of fuel trying to maintain their position near the downed vessel. They were now floating aimlessly in the middle of the ocean.
“But the tide is pushing them toward us. So it should not take us too far out of our way.” Ahmed clapped a large, brown hand on Banu’s shoulder. And when he leaned close, the scent of chai tea lingered on his breath. “Then you will go down and retrieve the chemicals, and you will finish this thing you began all those years ago. It will be as Allah intended. You will strike a great blow for our cause. Until then, relax, enjoy the ride, and let your mind be at peace, brother.”
Peace?
His name was Banu az-Harb. Loosely translated, that meant “child of war.” Peace wasn’t part of his makeup, nor would he want it to be. Peaceful men didn’t end up in the history books…
*
12:14 p.m.…
“What do you think?” Madison “Maddy” Powers asked as she peered through the binoculars at the small boat…no, more like a rubber dinghy, really…bobbing haphazardly on the glistening waves. Had there not been bright-orange fabric on the sides of the little boat, Captain Harry, the skipper of the Black Gold, her father’s hundred-thirty-foot motor yacht, might have sailed right by without ever seeing the—she did a silent head count—seven men who were crammed onto the tiny vessel.
“Cuban refugees?” the captain suggested. “Trying to make their way to America?”
“I suspect you’re right,” Maddy agreed, swinging her binoculars to the boat’s single outboard engine. “They’re not under any power. I think they must’ve run out of fuel.”
“We should call in a Coast Guard cutter. Let them deal with these men.” He reached for the satellite phone sitting on a charger atop the bridge’s main console.
Maddy lowered the binoculars and turned to face the captain. His long, quintessentially English face was full of lament though his jaw was clenched resolutely. She placed a gentle hand on his sleeve, keeping him from pressing the button that would connect them to the authorities.
“Surely there’s another way,” she told him. “You know if we call in the Coast Guard they’ll repatriate those men to Cuba quicker ’n you can say ‘Hail to the Queen.’”
“It is their home, is it not?” Captain Harry insisted, his accent making the word “not” sound more like “nawt.” Between her thick Texas twang and his highfalutin inflections, it was a wonder they were able to communicate with one another. And, to be really honest, when she’d first hopped aboard the Black Gold in Bermuda, she’d had some trouble understanding him. But it hadn’t taken long for her ears to attune themselves to the particular diction and phraseology that he shared with his two English crewmates—Nigel, the deckhand, and Bruce, the engineer. And theirs to hers, she figured. Which was good. Since she had an earful of an answer to the captain’s last question.
“Their home?” She made a face. “I know the U.S. has made moves to lessen sanctions and reform diplomatic ties with the country, but have you been to Cuba lately? The people there still aren’t allowed to own property. They still can’t own their own businesses. Their sweat and toil brings them no hope of a brighter future. It simply allows them the means to scrape by day after day. There’s still no freedom of the press. Still no freedom of religion. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like my definition of a home I’d want to go back to. Besides, these men could be political dissenters tryin’ to escape communism and the Castro regime.”
“Or they could be convicts.”