Chapter 14 – HITRON

OVER THE NEXT two weeks, Cole took Isabella all over the island when she wasn’t working. At one point, he asked her to quit working altogether, but she refused. Disappointed, he still admired her work ethic, and her even more because of it. And so, on the days she was free, they drove across the island to the east side and spent evenings at quiet bars tucked up against forgotten beaches. Cole had taken a liking to the rum punch and enjoyed the different variations of it at the bars along the way. They spent one afternoon roaming through Saint-Pierre on the northwest coast, picking their way through the remains of a city where nearly 30,000 people had died in the early 20^th century when a volcano had erupted. The beaches were still a dark and almost black sand, evidence even after more than a century of the destruction that had roared downhill from Mount Pelee, on the peak that towered over the town.

By the time he finally turned the car back in, both he and Isabella were exhausted. They spent the next two weeks eating at restaurants around the marina and evenings passed by as the two of them sat on the veranda and watched stars come out. Most nights, Isabella asked for a bottle of wine, and while Cole never could enjoy the taste nearly as much as rum, he obliged and the two of them worked through a bottle almost every evening.

Each day, Cole picked up bits and pieces of French and Isabella practiced her English. Conversations went on for hours and Cole relished the tranquility. He couldn’t help but be happy when she would say something to him in French for him to repeat. When he did, she giggled and shook her head, hardly ever telling Cole what he’d actually said. Some nights ended before midnight, but many others went into the early hours of the morning. With a moon crossing the sky above them and the ever-present easterly breeze, Cole was content each night to sit until the morning and take in all he could. Most nights, though, Isabella gave him some hint when she wanted to call it a night.

Sometimes it was obvious. She’d get up from her seat and sit on Cole’s lap, kissing him and pulling at his shirt. Other nights it was more subtle. She’d be quiet for a bit longer than usual and by the time it caught Cole’s attention, she was looking directly into his eyes and he knew she wanted his affection. He never knew what it was that turned the tide. Perhaps it was the things he said in French or perhaps it was nothing, but most often Isabella led him back into the room, turned the lights out, and crawled on top of him.

Well into his second month in Martinique, he awoke one morning to find Isabella already dressing herself for work.

“You know you should just quit, right?” Cole’s eyes were blinking as he shook the last bits of sleep away.

Isabella, pulling on her shoes, replied, “I promised them I would work the summer. It would not be fair. Besides, what would I do with all that time?”

“Stay in bed with me for starters.” Cole grinned.

“I’ll be back in your bed soon either way.” Isabella flashed him a smile and adjusted her shirt before turning to walk out the door.

“Oh, Cole, your phone is blinking. There is probably a message for you. Call the front desk. I will see you tonight, mon amour.” With that she walked out and the door closed behind her.

Cole rolled over to see the phone and indeed there was a small blinking red light. It took some time to figure out how to play the message, but eventually he found the right button. His heart skipped a beat when he heard it. It was David. In so many words, he wanted Cole to get in touch with him. Cole sat for some time thinking about it. In every way, he was happy to have put Panama behind him and did not want to return, especially now.

He went for breakfast to think it over. With a few cups of coffee, he mulled over his options. There really weren’t any. Cole knew David would track him down wherever he ran, no matter how remote of a corner in the Caribbean. Perhaps David had a compromise in the works, but Cole had no idea. What he knew was that he’d have to get in touch with David to find out. Moreover, while Cole hated to admit it, the past two months had eaten up the majority of what severance he had left from the Coast Guard.

Returning to his room, he sat on the bed and reluctantly dialed.

David picked up and said, “Hello?”

“David, it’s Cole, returning your call.”

David sounded genuinely happy to hear from him. “I think the weeks have been good to you, Cole. How have you been?”

“Good, yeah. Thanks for the advice. Martinique is something else.”

David switched to business. “Like I said, Cole, we just needed some time to let things quiet down. I’ve got some work for you if you’re interested. It’s in your neighborhood, too. I assume you want to stick around there for a while.”

Cole thought for a second before replying, “Yeah, the island vibe is a bit easier on me than Panama City. What’s the job?”

David laughed. “Driving a boat my friend, what else?”

Cole felt butterflies forming in his stomach. “Where to?”

David laid out the plan. “You’ll get a ride out to one of our boats around sunset. It’ll be an hour or so offshore. Once the sun goes down, you run it up to Saint Croix and call it a day. And Cole, this is a fast one. You’ll make forty knots easy.”

Cole paused and asked, “When and where do you need me?”

“Great. Glad to hear it, my friend.” David was enthusiastic. “Tomorrow afternoon around five at the marina. Look for a red hull and center console. They’ll get you out to where you need to be. We’ll get you back to Martinique in two days.”

Cole said goodbye and hung up the phone. It didn’t sound all that bad. Two days on the water and on the other side of the Caribbean. If it got him back in the good graces of David, that was a plus as well. If things had calmed down after Panama, Cole welcomed it.

He went through his usual routine of swimming out into the anchorage and back before taking a nap that afternoon under a palm tree. By the time Isabella tracked him down around sunset, he’d worked up an appetite. They ate at the same restaurant as their first night. After eating, Cole told Isabella he’d be gone for two days. She didn’t seem too concerned at first, but she sensed something with the way Cole explained it to her.

“If you are worried Cole, then I am scared.”

He shook his head, “No, no, don’t be scared. It’s a piece of cake.”

She persisted, “I can tell you are uneasy and that scares me.”

“I’ll be fine.” He smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

They walked around the marina and to the jetty on the far side of the inlet. They joked with each other and laughed when Cole tried to say things back to her in French. When there was a break in the conversation, Isabella draped her arms over Cole’s shoulders and held just a bit tighter than she normally did. Cole knew she was doing all she could to hide her fears and he loved her for it. She was as strong as she was beautiful.

They turned in for the night early that evening. Isabella curled up against Cole as he lay on his back and ran his fingers through her curly hair, playing with each strand before tucking it behind her ear. He felt the rhythm of her breathing and realized soon that she’d fallen fast asleep, her right arm draped over his chest.

They were both up the following morning, and Isabella kissed him before heading out the door. She promised to see him at the marina before he left. With that, Cole was alone with his thoughts. After breakfast, he took a long walk out to the abandoned garrison and sat for some time by the rusting gun emplacements. In town, he bought a sandwich and tucked a second away for the trip that evening. He slept for a few hours that afternoon and woke just a bit after three. Eating again at the bar where he’d first seen Isabella, Cole drank iced water with lemons in it until he was about to burst.

Thanking the bartender, he picked up his backpack with a few necessities from his room and headed down to the marina. He was 15 minutes early, but sure enough there was a red hull with a center console tied off to the concrete bulkhead. Two men, one about Cole’s age and the other a bit older were sitting on the bow. They exchanged nods with Cole and he tossed them his bag. Just before hopping down, he heard Isabella coming up behind him.

True to her word, she’d slipped out to come say goodbye. They hugged each other and kissed for a moment.

She held onto him by his waist. “Come back soon, OK?”

There was concern in her voice and she couldn’t hide it. Cole assured her he’d be back in two days. They kissed one more time and he pulled her tight against him. Cole felt regret and he hadn’t even left the dock yet, but he told himself it would be a quick trip.

He held Isabella’s hand for one more moment, then hopped down to the boat. The two men untied her as the engine kicked and snorted to life. The driver reversed then pushed the throttle ahead and motored for the channel. Cole looked back again at Isabella. The breeze was blowing her hair to one side and he could see the outline of her body through the thin cotton shirt pressed against it. She waved and then wiped at her eye with her finger.

She cried a bit. There was no denying it. It tore at Cole’s heart, but he was already on his way. All at once he wanted to turn around and call the whole thing off, but at the same time this run was already set in motion and there would be hell to pay if Cole backed out now. He ran both his hands through his hair, looking back at Isabella. She waved one more time and Cole did the same. After that, he was through the channel and she was gone.

The driver pushed the throttles halfway as they passed the last of the buoys marking the channel. Abeam the old garrison, he turned west and pushed them up all the way. Cole felt the clean air against his face and chest. As the boat turned with the wind, it backed off and they raced westward. Running downswell, it was a rough ride and Cole steadied his feet as Martinique trailed off behind them. The driver handled the boat well, turning and reading the backs of each wave as he carved a crisscrossing path until they were well clear of land.

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For the next two hours, they ran hard at close to 30 knots. Cole had pushed thoughts of Isabella crying from his mind and focused on his return in two days. He was on the open water once again and the late afternoon sky filled with vibrant shades of yellow and orange against the dark blue water. As the sun started its descent below the western horizon, the driver slowed to idle. He was working off of a handheld GPS, much like Cole had done so many times. They waited for a bit, cutting circles out of the rolling water surrounding them.

When the sun was finally down, the driver pushed ahead for another 20 minutes and then slowed. Both the driver and the other passenger were looking ahead. The one on the bow pointed just left of the bow, and the driver turned to follow. Cole saw a blue tarp on the water draped over something. They driver yelled something in Spanish and someone from under the tarp began pulling it back and yelling back at the driver.

Cole was amazed at the boat that had been concealed. It was a monster, easily 40 feet long with three outboard engines. The entire boat was painted dark blue to include the engines, and she had one large center console about a third of the way forward. There were three guys on it when the driver of the red hull pulled up alongside. They looked like hell. Cole had heard of this tactic before where a boat would drive all night then pull a tarp over the top of it during the day to hide from aircraft and ships. By the next nightfall, it would pull the tarp and make the rest of the trip.

The three men on board looked like they were barely holding on. They’d been under a tarp for more than 12 hours with no breeze or fresh air. The Caribbean sun had practically cooked them. As they climbed over to the red hull, Cole and the older guy from the bow hopped over onto the Go-Fast. The driver stayed on the red hull. Cole looked his crewman over and realized quickly that the guy was stoned. Whatever, he thought. Cole looked back a bit unsure since he’d always run with Diego and Hector, but the driver waved and pushed himself away from Cole’s new boat.

Cole turned the keys in the ignition and the engines came to life with the usual shudder. The fuel tanks were full along with two more drums behind him. Cole’s stoned crew member went about checking the lines for a minute or two before giving Cole a thumbs up and taking a seat up forward among the bales. Cole figured they must have refueled that morning before pulling over the tarp. With a deep breath, Cole worked the wheel back and forth and gave it a once over. The GPS mounted on the console had a decent display screen, far better than the handheld ones he’d used in the past. It had a course to steer and bearing already in place and, with a charge from the boat’s battery, would last as long as necessary. Between the gunwale and one of the fuel drums, Cole spied a rifle tucked away. He didn’t bother to take it out and function check it, but it looked to be some variant of an AK-47.

It seemed like the big leagues. Here he had a boat most certainly purpose-built for running drugs and a Kalashnikov rifle tucked in the corner. Behind him were the fuel drums and in front of him were close to two dozen bales, of which he was certain were full of cocaine. Cole thought for a moment that he probably could have carried even more than was onboard, but it didn’t matter either way. The driver of the red hull waved them off and with a red sky to the west, Cole spun the boat around and pointed northwest, towards Saint Croix, some 300 miles away.

Within minutes, Cole was back in his routine. The sun was gone and blackness blanketed the sky. Cole jammed the throttles up, and the boat surged up over the five-foot chop and powered through it like no other boat he’d driven. When he ran migrants, the boats were shaky at best in any sea state and rode horribly at max power. The pangas were more graceful, but still had to find a niche in any sea state to ride well, oftentimes at less power. But with this behemoth, waves didn’t matter, nor did the wind. She plowed through waves and held her course. When she surged up and over a wave, she settled back down evenly and felt solid as she dropped her deep V hull back into the water. Cole glanced down at his GPS and he was covering 40 knots over the ground. He laughed a bit as the wind blew some sea spray against his face. He knew in a few hours he’d be tired of it, but at the moment he enjoyed the ride.

Two hours went by. Already a third of the way there, he heard what sounded like a faint whining from behind him and thought something was wrong with one of the engines. Yelling at his crewman to get his attention, Cole pointed back at the engines. Reluctantly, the stoned guy made his way aft, past the console and stood there for a moment or two, bracing himself against the console and the hull.

“Well, what is it?” Cole yelled but got no reply.

Damn pothead, Cole thought.

He yelled again, “Hey, what is it?”

Still no reply. Cole looked back at the engines then up over his shoulder. His heart sank. It was an MH-65 Dolphin helicopter, off his stern and no more than 100 feet above him. It caught up to Cole then offset to his port side and matched speed. It was HITRON, the armed Coast Guard Helicopter Interdiction Squadron that made a name for themselves employing precision marksmen from the cabin of the helicopter. The crews were trained to shoot out engines of Go-Fasts. Cole had seen them come and go from Delaney and they prided themselves on a nearly 100-percent success rate. Operating alone at night and in the middle of the Caribbean, they were no-nonsense pilots and crews that had, over the years, made a significant dent in the amount of narcotics traveling north.

The whining sound was the fenestron, a somewhat unique tail rotor that made a high-pitched whine. Cole was an idiot for not recognizing it when he first heard it. The stoner just stood there next to Cole looking up at the helicopter in disbelief. There was no way of knowing from where the helo had come from, how much gas he had left, or where the ship was off of which he was operating.

Cole looked around for clouds, but there were none. All that was above him were stars and the moon. He clenched his teeth and told himself to think, but he had no options. Popping open the locker under the console, Cole rummaged around as best he could, looking for a flag of any country that he could wave to delay the Coast Guard’s approval to stop him, but there were none that he could find.

He looked back up at the helicopter. With the moon more than half illuminated, he could see the gunner in the open cabin and the barrel of his rifle sticking out. He didn’t know what it was, either a 240 Golf or M-14, but either way the precision marksman was trained on Cole. Keeping the throttles jammed, Cole zigzagged a bit, but the pilots kept ahead of his evasive turns. There was no use and Cole knew it. He had nowhere to go.

Forcing himself to stay calm, Cole played scenarios out in his head. Maybe there will be a problem with their approval process and I’d luck out? Maybe they’ll run out of gas? Just as the thought crossed his mind, the gunner opened up with a deafening volley of automatic fire across the bow. Cole saw the spray come up where the rounds impacted the water. Moments later a second volley crossed his bow. Cole knew it was protocol and in another minute or two, the gunner would switch to his .50-caliber rifle and take aim at the engines.

The stoner was sitting down, expressionless and staring ahead. Cole shook his head just as a single shot rang out, and Cole felt the blast against his eardrums. Following the shot, the boat swerved a bit and Cole looked back to see his port engine destroyed. The bullet had impacted the engine and shattered the cowling. It had broken the mount as well, and the remains of the engine were canted to one side. Cole’s ears were ringing when the second shot took out the center outboard with similar results.

Fuck. Cole was down to one engine and the boat had slowed to 12 knots.

He had a hard time controlling her and thought about just shutting the last engine down to spare his ears from a third shot. Before he could finish the thought, a third and final shot rang out and the last outboard sputtered and died. Cole’s Go-Fast quickly came to a full stop and he was left dead in the water. His ears were painful and he thought perhaps he’d burst an eardrum, but that was the least of his problems. The MH-65 climbed up and into an orbit around him for some time before flying off to the west.

Cole was left alone. Without the engines, the only sound was the waves lapping up against the hull. It was peaceful and eerily quiet. Cole scanned the horizon for a C-130 or P-3, but saw nothing. How had they tracked me down so early into this run? On top of that, he was far to the east of the major drug corridors. It didn’t make any sense, but then again it didn’t matter. Cole sat on the railing of the boat for some time and mulled over his options. Someone was coming for him and he had to act quickly to save himself. If he tossed the bales overboard and they didn’t sink, he was screwed. Even if he ditched the drugs, the boarding team would run an Ionscan test and it would surely come up positive.

The only option was to burn it. He had enough gas left in the tanks. He just needed a match. He dug around a bit but found none. Opening up the battery compartment, he pulled the battery out and set it down on the deck then found a knife in the console storage bin. He stripped wire off of some cables coming out of the console and wrapped them in a loose coil. He then gathered a few rags and waited, scanning the horizon for a hull. It was another hour or so before he saw it, on the horizon to the west. It looked like a cutter, maybe even the Coast Guard.

Twenty minutes later, he could see the wake of the small boat coming towards him at less than a mile. Cole went to work. He stabbed the fuel barrels near the bottom and fuel started to spill out. The stoner, unbeknownst to Cole, had been snorting coke from one of the bales for some time and was now a shit hot mess sitting on the deck. Cole motioned for him to jump overboard, but the guy didn’t process it.

“Jump, you dumbass. JUMP!” Cole motioned again and the stoner started to stand up.

Cole soaked a few of the rags in gas then set them down next to the battery. With two of the rags that were still dry, he held the wire and touched it against the connectors. It sparked a bit then went out. The boat rolled and the battery slid away from him.

“Fuck. Come on,” Cole said as he looked up to see the small boat closing in on him.

He pulled the battery back in close. The smell of gasoline came and went with the breeze and Cole knew he was sitting on a time bomb, but he was committed at this point. He touched the wires again and they sparked. With his other hand covered by a dry cloth, he picked up one of the gas-soaked rags and touched it to the wire. It erupted and nearly singed his entire face when it did. With the rag completely engulfed in flames, Cole dropped it on the deck, grabbed a dry rag, and adjusted it better protect his hand.

Standing up on the bow, Cole threw the burning rag aft and watched it catch a pool of gas by the console. Satisfied that the boat would explode any second, Cole jumped over the side. When he hit the water, he went completely under and took a few strokes away from the boat. He emerged and looked back to see flames rising up from the aft portion of the boat, but it still hadn’t spread forward to the drugs. Cole rolled and swam hard away from the boat and as he did, the fuel tanks exploded, sending a wave of heat against the back of his head. Thick smoke bellowed into the night sky and obscured the boat when he looked back.

Satisfied that he was far enough away, Cole treaded in place and watched it burn. Before long, the hull was gone and only bits and pieces still floated in the debris field with flames all around them. Cole wiped at his face and cupped saltwater with his hands, pouring it over his head to wash away any traces of the drugs. The evidence was gone and for that he was relieved. Still, he was now treading water in the middle of the Caribbean at night. The sound of burning and smoldering debris crackled like a wood fire as Cole spun around a few times, looking for the small boat.

When he finally saw it circling the debris, he yelled and waved. The boarding team spotted him and turned in his direction. As they approached, Cole waited patiently until it was nearly beside him. One of the boarding team members pointed a shotgun at Cole as he floated in the water.

Cole lifted both his hands out of the water. “You got me,” he said with a grin.

“Cole? Is that you?” It was Wheeler.

He reached down and offered a hand to Cole and pulled him up and over the side. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, Cole,” Wheeler said, partly pissed and in complete disbelief.

“Nice to see you, Wheeler.”

Cole wiped the water away from his face as he sat on the side of the small boat. One of the boarding team members kept his M9 pistol pointed at Cole.

“What the fuck are you doing down here?” asked Wheeler.

Cole smiled. “Fishing trip. I guess it went bad.”

Wheeler shook his head in disbelief. He radioed back to Delaney, “One onboard, we’re RTB.”

Cole spoke up, “No, there are two of us. There’s another guy.”

Wheeler looked at Cole. “It’s just you man. We didn’t see anyone else.”

“No, there’s another guy, he jumped before I did.”

“We’re taking you back first. Then we’ll look some more.”

As the small boat sped back to Delaney, Cole looked over his shoulder at the debris. There were only few pieces still burning, but almost nothing was left. What had the stoner thought when I told him to jump? Maybe the son of a bitch didn’t know how to swim, or maybe he was paralyzed by fear and the coke running through his veins. Either way, if Wheeler hadn’t found him by now, he was probably gone. Once again, death was Cole’s companion and the gravity of it all began to sink in.

Cole wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked ahead and saw the dark hull of Delaney. It had been almost a year, but now he was going back on Delaney and this time he’d be in handcuffs.

Fucking Karma, he thought. The MH-65 was shut down now on the flight deck and Cole could see a group on the fantail waiting for his arrival. He knew the drill.

When the small boat pulled up, Cole climbed the ladder and was quickly cuffed, then led up to the flightdeck. Wheeler was ahead of him and disappeared through the same hatch from which Cole had walked through when he left the ship the previous summer. The boarding team members led Cole to the starboard side of the hangar and took the handcuff from his left wrist off then attached it to a pipe. They set a blanket down and Cole took a seat on it, his back against the hangar.

The aircrew was doing a post-flight cleanup of their helicopter before they pushed it into the hangar and closed the hangar door behind them. Cole watched in silence as they cleaned up the last bits and pieces. One of the boarding team members sat on a chair a few feet from Cole, keeping an eye on him. The gunner from the MH-65 was stowing a few things inside the cabin and caught Cole looking at him.

Cole asked, “Was that you shooting?” The gunner nodded that it was. “Nice shot, man.”

The gunner stopped what he was doing and looked at Cole with a half a grin on his face. He asked, “Is it true what they said, that you were in the Coast Guard?”

Cole laughed and replied, “Yeah, I was. I was on this fucking boat.”

The gunner went back to storing his equipment and thought about it for a few seconds. “Ain’t that some shit,” he said, without looking back at Cole.

Cole nodded, “Yeah. Life’s a bitch sometimes.” He pressed the back of his head against the bulkhead. His brain was flooded with bad memories of his two years on Delaney.

When the gunner was through and the flight crew had put their helicopter to bed, he nodded at Cole before disappearing into the ship. Cole was left with his one guard watching over him and settled, trying to find a comfortable position. The dim red lights were the same as Cole had remembered them. He found them still incredibly depressing.

As he adjusted his legs, a deep sadness came over him. For the first time in hours, he thought of Isabella. She was in Martinique waiting for him. There was no way he’d be back in two days now. He felt it in his stomach when he thought of how much she would worry about him. He had no way to communicate with her. She didn’t know it yet, but Cole had managed to hurt her, just as he’d feared.

Cole was angry with himself and playing options in his head when the forward door swung open. Cole looked over to see Potts coming towards him, followed closely by Wheeler. As usual, Potts was agitated. Wheeler was trying to calm him down, but Potts was moving towards Cole like a freight train. As he came to within a foot of Cole, Potts stopped and Cole could see him breathing deeply and exhaling forcibly through his nostrils.

“You little piece of shit.” Potts didn’t know where to go with it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Cole?”

Even with the red lights, Cole could see that Potts was turning red.

Cole wasn’t going to back down. Fuck Potts, he thought. You tried to fuck me, well two can play that game.

“I was fishing. Something went wrong, but I truly appreciate the Coast Guard’s assistance. You guys are real heroes.” Cole winked at him.

Potts reared back with his right hand and punched Cole in the face. Ducking away in time to deflect the blow to the side of his face, it still shook Cole pretty good. He was dazed for a moment, and when he steadied himself, Wheeler and the boarding team member were pulling Potts away. They got him back towards the door and Potts threw his hands up to cast them off of him and disappeared back into the ship.

Wheeler came back over to Cole. “Fucking A, Cole. You all right?”

Cole nodded. It stung. Cole could feel his left eye swelling shut a bit.

Wheeler looked at Cole’s face. “I’ll get some ice for you.”

Cole shook his head. “Fuck it, Wheeler. I’m fine. Just keep him away from me—for his sake and mine.”

Wheeler nodded. “All right, Cole. Get some rest if you can. We’re flying you to Guantanamo Bay tomorrow.”

Wheeler turned and disappeared back into the ship. Cole knew that beyond that bulkhead were air conditioning and dry beds. Not 20 feet from where he sat was the same damn rack he’d slept in for nearly two years. He preferred to sleep in the hangar rather than see that stateroom again.

His head hurt. His ears were still ringing from the shots and the left side of his head was swelling. He was thirsty and hungry and the salt water had begun to dry against his skin, making him itch. On top of that, the non-skid under the blanket poked through and made it impossible to sit for any amount of time without discomfort. Even with all of that, he thought solely of Isabella and the sadness that ensued left him feeling a low Cole had never known before.