Caribbean's Keeper (2 page)

The next hour crept by. Cole checked the radar every few minutes for shipping traffic and cross-referenced it with the paper chart, but spent the majority of his time pressed against the railing on the bridge wing, alone with his thoughts under the dark pre-dawn sky. The bridge wing jutted out almost four feet from the side of the ship and hung precariously over the water, some 40 feet below. Cole could look straight down and it almost gave the sense of flying. Occasionally, dolphins swam full speed alongside
Delaney
and illuminated the phosphorescence like a torpedo toward its target. Mostly the bridge wing was quiet and peaceful, two things that made it Cole’s favorite spot. He enjoyed the solitude of the early morning and took great pleasure in watching the sun come up over the eastern horizon.

Another hour passed. The sun was now up, the orange sky faded to a soft blue, and the deep water was dark, clear, and gently rolling. The southerly breeze barely made a ripple and had it not been for the groundswell pushing in from the west, the Florida Straits may have just as well been a lake.
Delaney’s
bow pushed a tumbling white wave in front of her. She pitched up and over a swell before falling back down, her bow cutting deep into the trough left behind as the cycle repeated time and again with near-perfect rhythm.

Another hour passed. On the back end of his watch, Cole made one last round through the bridge, crosschecking the position and dead reckoning his advance to make damn sure he’d be at the sea buoy on time. Cdr. Walters became hysterical if her cutter was even one minute late—or early for that matter. Her leadership was that of an 18
^th
century naval captain, minus the tenacity for warfare or requisite seamanship. She screamed and cursed at the most minor infraction, often becoming so incapacitated by sheer rage that she simply walked off the bridge in a fit. As amusing as it was at times, Cole tried to avoid it. Satisfied that his course and speed over the past few hours had compensated for the drift, he called out one last command. “Helmsman, all ahead five.”

The helmsman repeated his standard replies and
Delaney
settled just a bit as her speed came down to around seven knots.

Cole walked back out to the bridge wing, leaned against the railing, and waited.

g

He had aspired to do great things in the Coast Guard. Cole had raced sailboats all through New England and the Atlantic Ocean as a cadet and reported to
Delaney
convinced that a life at sea was his destiny, but the life of a cutterman had proven more daunting than he imagined. Cole’s penchant for seamanship had taken a backseat to his disdain for the command. Onboard
Delaney,
Cole knew he had come up short of their expectations for procedural discipline. It bothered him, but he never could quite figure out how to get in their good graces. Cole had a wild streak in him and he knew it.

He knew how the ship handled and could conn it well, but his sometimes-cavalier attitude had cost him dearly. Several times Walters had threatened to take away Cole’s qualifications. Most often, it was because he conned the cutter too close to a suspect vessel or took his boarding team too far in the small boat chasing smugglers. Those antics usually cost him no more than an ass-chewing in front of the other junior officers, but Cole knew that with each of his little adventures he was digging himself a deeper grave. His last two Officer Evaluation Reports had not recommended him for promotion, which meant that his career was a dead end. After two years at sea, he had begun to wonder if he was cut out for the life he was living.

Lieutenant Commander Potts, the executive officer, had made his frustration with Cole quite clear. While Walters was a lunatic, Potts was the one who gave the ship some semblance of order. He was also relentless. Standing well over six feet tall with once-blond hair now going grey, his hands had a tendency to shake when speaking in front of people. Cole never could tell if it was out of anger or simply nerves. Nevertheless, Potts came unglued at the slightest hiccup. To compensate and keep his temper in check, he ruled with an iron fist, and many times that fist was directed at Cole. Cole sensed that Potts still believed in the mission of the Coast Guard, and for that he held a good deal of respect for the man. In any other environment, Cole probably could have gotten along with Potts well enough, but the confines of a 270-foot ship at sea for months at a time was too much for two opposed personalities.

g

As they neared Key West, Cole was again in hot water with Potts. Several weeks earlier, Cole had led a pursuit off the Caribbean coast of Colombia. They’d been tasked with tracking a drug-running boat for the better part of a day, and as sunset approached,
Delaney
was perfectly positioned to make an intercept just outside of Colombia’s territorial seas. Cole was the lead boarding officer and after he’d geared up, Potts had stopped him on the fantail and grabbed Cole by his shoulder, saying, “Don’t let this one get away, Cole.”

As the boatswain’s mates hurried to lower the smallboat over the side, Cole had looked at Potts and nodded, understanding that the entire crew was hungry for a win.

“I got it, Sir. We’ll get them.”

With that, Cole had mustered his team to the starboard side of the fantail and Cole looked around at the five guys that he would take with him. They were a tough looking bunch, each wearing dark blue overalls with black load-bearing vests over their chests. Each man had a Beretta M9 holstered on their thigh and the two of his most junior members had M4 carbines slung across their chests. Cole’s assistant boarding officer, one of the new officers named Jake, stood off to the side as he fidgeted with a radio strapped to his chest and checked in with the bridge before giving Cole a thumbs up. The lead boatswain’s mate, a second-class petty officer who Cole affectionately called “Boats,” carried a short-barreled 12-gauge shotgun and smiled just a bit when Cole’s eyes met his. After they all strapped their helmets on, adjusted their night vision goggles, and flipped them up, Cole briefed them on what he knew.

“All right, guys, it’s a Go-Fast and we’ve got a C-130 overhead that’s had eyes on it for the past six hours. Our plan is to stand off by a mile and stalk once the sun goes down. The Herc will vector us in and we’ll stand by for use-of-force clearance. Everyone understand?”

Cole looked around as each man softly nodded.

Cole continued, talking directly to his second class petty officer. “Boats, I want you on the rail ready with the shotgun if they engage when we close in. You know the drill: clear to shoot for personal defense.”

His boatswain’s mate nodded and smiled a bigger grin. Cole couldn’t help but laugh. The rest of the team smiled as well, and Cole asked if there were any questions. Having none, Cole and his team stepped over to the port side, and one by one they cautiously climbed down the Jacob’s ladder and hopped down onto the pitching smallboat.

Already onboard was the engineer seated aft and the coxswain forward at the wheel. As Cole and his crew settled into their seats and strapped in, Cole smacked Jake on the back and grinned, saying, “Now the fun starts.”

The smallboat sped away from
Delaney
as the sun disappeared behind some low clouds on the western horizon. Jake was seated next to Cole and established comms with the C-130 overhead as the coxswain steadied on an intercept course. Cole kept comms with
Delaney
and checked in to report their position. For the next half hour, things went smooth as the smallboat took a position one mile aft and to the starboard side of the suspect Go-Fast. Through his goggles, Cole could make out the Go-Fast’s wake. The Caribbean was calm and the fading twilight revealed nothing but a few light rain showers in the area.

At some point, the Go-Fast had caught wind of something amiss and made a rapid turn back to the south. It was an all-too-often occurrence. The smugglers likely had night-vision goggles and had seen the silhouette of either the C-130 or
Delaney
in the distance. The aircraft overhead relayed their turn to Jake, who instructed the coxswain to energize the blue lights and give chase. Cole nodded and tried to think ahead to the next move. The coxswain jammed the throttles, and Cole felt the smallboat surge up and onto its V hull as it sliced towards its target. It was now an old-fashioned chase, and Cole grinned and then gritted his teeth as he was jolted from side to side. One of Cole’s junior team members howled like a mad dog, and they all smiled as the boat reached top speed.

Cole relayed it all to
Delaney
, but had a hard time over the screaming engines of the smallboat to clearly hear anything back from the cutter. With continued vectors from the aircraft overhead, the coxswain made a slow turn to the left and came within 25 yards of the Go-Fast’s stern before paralleling its course due south.

As they drove into a light rain, Cole took a moment to look around and admire his crew. The coxswain showed a steel resolve on his face as he expertly worked the throttle and wheel to keep a tight formation with the Go-Fast. All around him, Cole’s team readied for the attack as the smallboat surged up and over swells. On the port side of the smallboat, Cole’s leading petty officer with the shotgun repositioned himself to hold his sights on the Go-Fast, now no more than ten yards ahead in the dark.

Jake grabbed Cole’s shoulder and yelled, “I’ve lost comms with the Herc.”

Cole thought for a second, then looked forward at the Go-Fast and remembered Potts’ words. Cole then looked back at his boatswain’s mate who grinned at Cole through the rain, silently encouraging him to continue the chase.

“Fuck it,” said Cole and he motioned with his left hand to continue the chase. It was pitch black now, and all Cole could see ahead was the white wake of the Go-Fast as it ran south for Colombia. He flipped his goggles down and still could only make out the green blurred wake of the Go-Fast. Cole tried again with no success to get comms with
Delaney
. It wasn’t until after they emerged out of the rain squall several minutes later that Cole heard
Delaney
calling for him.

“Bravo, Conn, Bravo, Conn, acknowledge.”

Cole yelled back into the radio, “Conn, Bravo, Go ahead.”

Cole heard the concern in the voice on the other end when it said, “Bravo, Conn, RTB, I say again, RTB.”

Just as Cole acknowledged the call, Jake yelled to him, “I got comms again. We’re ten miles from Colombia. The C-130 says we’re inside their TTWs. We gotta turn around!”

Cole looked ahead once more at the Go-Fast’s wake through his NVGs and realized he’d lost this one. Moreover, he’d busted a sovereign nation’s territorial seas. He tapped the coxswain on the shoulder and motioned to turn around. The coxswain shook his head to say no, but Cole signaled him again to turn around. With disappointment and frustration on the faces of his entire crew, Cole flipped his goggles up and sat back for the long ride back to
Delaney
.

He wasn’t back onboard more than five minutes before Cole found himself once again being dressed down by Potts.

“Damn it, Cole. Do you even realize what a mess you’ve created?”

Cole, knowing better, still argued, “Sir, you told me not to let them get away.”

Potts grew even more upset and yelled, “There are rules, Cole, and you don’t seem to ever take that into account. I’m telling you right now, this isn’t the end of this one for you. Now get the fuck out of my face.”

g

And so, weeks after that night, Cole stood on the bridge wing and thought back to that chase. His watch nearly over, Cole compared that chase to that previous afternoon and reflected quietly on the blurred lines between right and wrong. He knew it was wrong to keep the chase up, but a drug bust had been a mere 30 yards from him, and the entire crew of
Delaney
was hungry for it. Had he been successful, he thought, perhaps Potts would have had a different reaction. But luck was rarely on Cole’s side these days.

He thought too of the old man now sleeping on the couch in the wardroom down below.
Had I been wrong to push the issue with Commander Walters and OPS about the sailboat?
In all likelihood, Potts and Walters didn’t like him anymore because of it, but the sailor who was alive because of Cole would probably argue the opposite. There were no easy answers to any of Cole’s questions.

After a few minutes, Cole’s mind steadied once he heard Wheeler moving about on the bridge. Cole’s roommate and a classmate from the academy, Wheeler was a golden child. He was tall, an accomplished athlete, and well-liked by the crew for his ability to filter the crap from above and spare the crew from Walters’ wrath. In short, Wheeler had the system licked and the sky was the limit for him.

Wheeler did everything Potts asked of him and never questioned why, putting him on the fast track to success and standing in stark contrast to Cole. This morning he had come up to relieve Cole for the transit into Key West. Cole watched from the bridge wing as Wheeler made his round of the bridge, quickly devoured an apple, then tossed it in the trash as he stopped at the radar console. Cole watched with irritation as Wheeler chewed the rest of the apple and stared at the radar for a minute or two. Cole knew damn well the radar picture was clear and no traffic stood between
Delaney
and the sea buoy, now just a few miles to the north. From the bridge wing, Cole looked north ahead of the cutter and there was nothing but water. Reluctantly, he walked into the bridge to see what nonsense Wheeler had come up with.

“What’s this guy here doing?” Wheeler asked without looking up at Cole.

“Come on man, that’s not a contact.” Cole gritted his teeth already knowing where this conversation would end.

“It looks like something.” Wheeler’s eyes remained focused on the black screen as the radar scanned around and around and a faint green blip popped up every third or fourth sweep.

“Wheeler, why are you such a bitch?” Cole said. He was having a bit a fun now.

Wheeler ignored the provocation and calmly replied, “Did you run a plot on this guy?”

Fuck
, Cole thought, knowing that Wheeler would not relieve him of the deck until he plotted out a maneuvering solution for the phantom blip. Perhaps Wheeler actually convinced himself it was a contact, or perhaps Wheeler was screwing with Cole—either way, Cole had to plot it out. He took a blank maneuvering board from the chart table and started laying out the solution on paper. It was difficult to do since the suspect blip disappeared for half a minute at a time before reappearing, but Cole dutifully went through the steps before showing Wheeler that whatever it was, it wasn’t moving anywhere and posed no threat to
Delaney
.