Operation Fireball

before I realized I was looking at the Calypso. Its hull was dark blue and the superstructure was dark grey. The boat blended with the water while the other hulls stood out. I didn’t know Chico Wilson’s usual business, but if it was what I had a hunch it was, the sea-blending nonvisibility of his cruiser made a lot of sense.

We walked out on the stringpiece nearest the cruiser. “She doesn’t look fast,” Hazel observed. Hazel was in white minishorts and a bright-colored blouse. I was wearing wash slacks and a loud sport shirt she’d bought for me. Beneath the loose-fitting sport shirt I had on my shoulder holster.

The Calypso looked squat and heavy as it lay low in the water. “This test run is to make sure of its speed,” I said. “Although Erikson said the cruiser came well recommended.”

Chico Wilson popped his head out the pilothouse door and waved to us. “Jump aboard,” he called, eyeing Hazel’s shorts greedily. I could see Erikson in the pilot house with him.

I leaped down onto the weather-beaten fantail, then helped Hazel down. We walked over worn wooden planking to the forward cabin door. Wilson and Erikson met us there. “Chico’s going to give us a quick tour,” Erikson said.

I could see Hazel eyeing grease on the planking and chips out of the paint as she followed Wilson into the cabin. I had already noticed peeling deck paint and green, oxidized brasswork. Inside, the carpeting was threadbare and there were damp curls of dust in the corners. There was the musty odor of moldy cushions, and oil and gasoline fumes were thick enough to almost form a haze.

Erikson’s mouth was screwed up in distaste as he glanced around. Wilson saw it, too. “Don’t worry,” he said grinning. “She’s clean where it counts, the hull an’ the engine compartment.”

“Let’s see the engine,” Erikson said shortly. Wilson led the way amidships and pried up a double door in the flooring. Buried in the Calypso’s midsection were two brutish-looking in-line engines. “What horsepower?” Erikson asked.

“Three twenty each,” Wilson replied. “Jammed into the same space I pulled a single two-hundred-fifty- horsepower engine off its bed. Hell of a job, but it was worth it. When I cut these babies loose, the Coast Guard don’t know which way the old girl went.”

“What’s your cruising range?”

Wilson showed his white teeth again. “Well, it’s not Europe. Tank capacity’s four hundred eighty gallons, but when these two engines get to suckin’ juice at forty knots, this sweet bitch uses gasoline faster’n you can throw it overboard in five-gallon cans.”

“Forty knots,” Erikson repeated. He looked slightly mollified. “All right, take her outside and wring her out.”

I saw the back of Wilson’s hand trail across Hazel’s bare thigh as he passed her. She didn’t change expression. Up on the flying bridge I picked out a slightly less dirty seat cushion and sat down. Above my head I could see the corroded metal of the aluminum tuna tower.

Wilson started up the engines, which rumbled dutifully in a double-basso duet. He ran fore and aft like a monkey, casting off lines while Erikson fended us off the stringpiece with a boathook. Wilson sprinted back to the wheel and backed the Calypso away from the slip in a graceful arc, then threaded his way through the turns in the wharfage until he reached the channel leading to open water.

“How many in your crew?” Erikson raised his voice above the sound of the engines.

“Two reg’lar. My mate, Donnie Redmond, who can handle her as good as I can, an’ a kid to handle the bait for fishin’ parties.”

Outside the bight there was a pronounced swell. Wilson increased the speed, and the chest tones in the Calypso’s mechanical voice deepened. The boat seemed to climb a bit higher in the water as it surged smoothly through the waves rather than over them. Erikson stood at arm’s length from Wilson near the wheel; his body relaxed with the swaying motion in the manner of a man who has experienced several thousand hours in like circumstances.

Hazel remained on her feet, too, a half-dozen paces to the rear of the pair at the wheel. I noticed that her eyes were fixed on the huge maritime compass swung overhead so that it confronted the wheelsman without the necessity for his turning his head. I remembered again that Hazel had handled powerboats during her years on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

Erikson said something to Wilson that I couldn’t hear in the freshening breeze. Our speed increased, then increased again sharply. Sheets of water surged past the bridge at eye level, thrown off from the bow wave as the Calypso bored through the swell. The engines roared like monsters in travail as the swaying motion quickened to a plunging motion. The new gyrations of the Calypso reminded me forcefully that I was a land animal.

My sensations must have showed in my expression. Wilson glanced over at me, and a corner of his mouth curled. His gaze passed on to Hazel, who was balancing easily against the boat’s motion, her red hair flying. Wilson’s white teeth gleamed in the provocative grin I was coming to dislike. He patted the steering wheel invitingly, in dumb show inviting Hazel to take over.

She looked at Erikson, waiting for a veto. When he provided none, she stepped up and took the wheel. The wind flattened her blouse to her body, delineating her large breasts. Wilson watched her hands on the wheel for a moment, then stepped aside to give her room. He saw her glance up at the compass, and his grin widened. “Nor’ by nor’west!” he bawled.

I could see Hazel’s lips move, but I couldn’t hear her voice in the whistling windstream. She must have repeated the direction, because the Calypso changed course gradually, then settled down to throwing water again. “By God, she can set a course!” Wilson roared in delight. “We’ve got us a sailor aboard!”

In a few moments Erikson tapped Hazel on the shoulder and motioned for her to give way at the wheel. He took over himself and began conning the boat in a series of sweeping turns, testing its maneuverability. Hazel came over and sat down beside me. Before she left the wheel, Hazel stooped and picked up something which she showed me as she sat down. It was a length of a lead pipe with a wooden handle.

Wilson sat down beside us, closer to Hazel than he needed to be. “That’s to repel boarders,” he informed us when he saw what Hazel held in her hand. “Lots of pirates in these waters.” He slipped an arm around Hazel’s waist. In seconds his hand had circumnavigated her body and the fingers at the end of the hand were cupping her breast.

Hazel twisted on the seat cushion, raised the lead pipe, and smashed it down upon the railing within inches of Wilson’s encircling arm. The pipe made a noticeable dent in the hard wood of the railing.

Wilson didn’t flinch. His fingers were no longer at Hazel’s breast, but he didn’t remove his arm. “You want to be a little bit careful with that thing,” he said.

“I was careful,” Hazel informed him sweetly. “That time.”

“I like it when they have a little spirit,” Wilson said to no one and everyone.

At the wheel Erikson raised his arm. Wilson started to get to his feet, but the blond man waved him off. He beckoned, and Hazel went to him and took the wheel. I couldn’t tell if Erikson had seen the byplay with the lead pipe or not. He sat down between Wilson and me.

“I want this cruiser cleaned,” he said to Wilson without preliminary. “And I mean cleaned thoroughly. If we had the time, I’d want it painted, inside and out. I want the bilge kept bone-dry, and I want extra vent holes bored and extra cutouts made along the floor near the gratings to permit air to reach all parts of the hull and bilge. Right this minute this boat is nothing but a floating gasoline tank.”

“You’re the doctor.” Wilson shrugged. “When we takin’ off for real?”

“Just as soon as I can get all the necessary gear together. I’d say no later than two weeks from today. If we string it out beyond that, we risk running into the early hurricane season. When we get back to The Castaways, I’ll give you another list of supplies I want brought aboard.”

“We goin’ in now?”

“Yes.”

Wilson returned to the wheel to relieve Hazel. “Why did you let Slater so far out of your sight on his way down here?” I asked Erikson. “After the problem you mentioned?”

“I think he’s settled down,” Erikson said absently. “He had a lot of accumulated steam to blow off.” The big man’s pale blue eyes were fixed upon a big patch of corrosion on a stanchion. I knew the unkempt condition of the