A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(86)
“You’d be surprised how much water you encounter in the Army.”
“It’s a straight shot west of here, pretty much from where I’m sitting. Two hundred and seventy-one degrees on your compass. Three miles. About fifteen to twenty minutes with the typical sea conditions we have here. Don’t normally hit heavy water until farther out.”
“Since you know the compass setting so exactly, then there is an island out there?” said Archer.
“Never said there wasn’t, young feller.”
“But you’ve never been there?”
The man bit down on his pipe and said nothing.
“So the military still owns it? Will I get in trouble if I go out there?”
“Maybe. But it might not be the military you have the trouble with.”
“Who then?”
“Can’t really say, young man, ’cause I don’t know. And I don’t want to know.”
Archer kept his gaze on the fellow, but the man’s mouth had closed up like a fish that had swallowed a hook.
He eyed the darkening skies. “Can I get a boat out early in the morning? Around first light?”
“Sure. Feller down near the port operations rents ’em out. You go that way there you’ll see his sign. He’s honest, or as close to it as you’re going to get. He opens at six. Five dollars is the fee for the day. Eight hours or eight minutes, it’s all the same. And that includes fuel.”
“Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.”
Archer walked away and then glanced back to see the man now standing and staring after him.
You might have just made a big mistake.
But there might be a way around that.
Archer picked up his pace.
THE MAN RENTING BOATS WAS JUST ABOUT TO CLOSE when Archer reached him. At first, he didn’t want to provide Archer a boat so late in the day, but when Archer waved a sawbuck in front of his face and said he was only going about three miles out, the man took the bill and said, “Okay, mister, just dock it nice and tight in the same slip when you come back, ’cause I ain’t hanging around.”
Archer filled out the necessary paperwork, and the man led him to the boat with a set of keys and a navigation map of the area. Along the way he grilled Archer on his seamanship and came away satisfied.
“Even three miles out weather can turn fast, so stay alert. And use your running lights. Shipping lanes out there. It’s marked on the map. You don’t want to get swamped by a tanker.”
“Right, thanks.”
“And what’s so special about three miles out anyway?” said the man. “Nothing but water. Anacapa’s a lot farther than that.”
“Just checking out a tip I got on a fishing spot.”
The man eyed him with skepticism. “Yeah, right. You ain’t no smuggler, are you?”
Archer tapped his pockets. “Well, if I am, whatever I’m smuggling is really small.”
The varnish was so freshly applied and smelled so strongly that Archer felt like he’d been lacquered as soon as he stepped foot on board the trim nineteen-foot Chris-Craft Barrelback with an American flag flapping from a post set on the stern. He stowed his hat, powered up the motor, flicked the switch for the running lights, and steered the boat due west. As he sped up the wind increased and the ocean followed this nudge, with the result that foot-high seas confronted him about a half mile out.
Archer pushed the throttle forward a bit more, and the heavy wooden boat handled the chop with ease. He kept his eye on his compass and then took a minute to look over the laminated map the fellow had provided, using a flashlight that had been clipped to a holder set on the dashboard. The island he was heading to was not marked on this map.
After confirming his route he put the map away and kept his eye on the compass, holding his heading steady at 271 degrees. He was cruising along at twenty-four knots and figured he would be at the island in less than ten more minutes. He let his gaze run from left to right and then behind him, just in case. The seas became heavier at around the two-and-a-half-mile mark, and he throttled down a bit to compensate, working the bow at a forty-five-degree angle into the oncoming waves to cleave their power in half. The moon was up and visibility was good. Everything was going his way so far. He knocked on the wooden dash for luck.
He had learned to pilot powerboats in these very same waters during his training back in 1942. The Army had worked with the Navy, and amphibious landings were going to be in his future, Archer learned. Thus, he had been given the skill set necessary for this, never realizing it would come in handy so many years later, and in American waters. He had been in far worse seas than he was currently in, but, like the boat rental man had cautioned, things could change quickly if the weather turned.
He slowed the boat as he approached a dark mass rising up out of the Pacific. He swung the light mounted on the side of the boat, much like a prowler’s beam, so that it strafed the contours of the island he was heading toward. He turned north and navigated down the island’s length, doing a rough calculation of its size and dimensions. Once he had returned to his starting point, he throttled down even more and pointed his bow at an enormous dock that his searchlight had revealed previously. There was another, smaller dock, about a half mile down on that side. He snagged two fenders and placed them on hooks on the gunwale on the port side to cushion the boat from the current pushing it against the wooden dock.