planning to call her this very evening.”
“That won’t be at all necessary, Alex. I’ve already spoken to her. Just this morning, in fact. She’s expecting you on the fifteenth of December. Now, then. Who’d like some more of this perfectly cooked goose? Alex?”
C rose and moved to the sideboard to carve more meat. Hawke seized the opportunity to lean across the table and whisper to Congreve, “His bloody idea of humor. It’s my goose that’s cooked. And he’s signed up Miss Guinness to make sure I’m well done.”
“Don’t mind him, Alex. You forget, he’s not feeling well.”
“Yes, of course,” Hawke murmured, his eyes flashing. “The spy who came down with a cold.”
22
DRY TORTUGAS
S toke surfaced in the shadow of El Bandito’s hull. He looked around for a dark fin slicing through the water and was suddenly aware of a black shape looming above him. Sun was so bright, you couldn’t even make out the face, but it was Sharkey all right. So, Luis had already gotten himself aboard. Stoke’s ascent up the line must have taken longer than he thought. He rapped on his mask with his knuckles. How come everything seemed so blurry up here? Must have gotten saltwater inside his mask.
Either that or the whole damn world was on the fritz.
Luis was leaning out over the gunwale, offering Stoke a hand up the ladder. Stokely was mighty glad to see that brown hand. A minute or so ago, when he was coming up the anchor rode, he was thinking he wouldn’t have the strength left to get back on the boat without some help. He was wondering if he could even haul himself all the way to the surface. And wondering where that mako was hiding.
Luis shouted to him again. He had a battered bucket of fish guts in his hand and was in the process of flinging its contents over his shoulder, long loopy entrails and assorted other things. Most of the chum was going in the boat but some of it made it over the gunwales and into the water.
“C’mon, man! Get your ass out the water!”
Stoke looked up at him and smiled. “Where’s that damn shark?”
“I’m telling you, you’re just not hearing me. Why you think I got out of the water so fast? That mako is nosing around up here on the surface now. He just cruised over to the other side of the boat. I threw some chum over there. C’mon, bossman, grab my hand.”
“Chum? You threw chum?”
“Grab the hand, man. I’m telling you!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming as fast as I can,” Stokely said, reaching up to take the man’s hand.
Luis was wiry, but he didn’t look like the kind of man who could pull a midsize Buick out of the water single- handedly. Thank God he was stronger than he looked, because Stoke realized he was fading fast. With his last little ounce of reserve he got up the steps and over the toe-rail and staggered forward toward the pilothouse. He needed to get out of the sun and lay down for a while. He almost made it to the door, too. The faded green deck rushed up out of nowhere to greet him. As he went down, Luis grabbed his tank and kept him from hitting the deck.
“Take it easy, boss. Lay down a minute.”
“Chum?” Stoke said, sinking to his knees. “You got a hurt diver coming up and you throw chum in the water? Jesus, Luis!”
“I told you I threw it on the other side. Keep him occupied.”
“Yeah, but still—”
“Shit, Stokely, man, we got to get you to the hospital. You bleeding bad, man. It’s worse now.”
“I’ll be all right. Get this damn tank off me. And slice off a piece of that hose there and tie it off above my elbow. Tight. Tourniquet one-oh-one.”
“Like this?” Luis said, cinching it with his teeth.
“Yeah, you got it. That’s good but tighter.”
Stoke tried to get to his feet but it didn’t work. He was in serious danger of blacking out. He lowered himself to the deck, rolling over on to his back. The sky was blue above and he tried to focus on a single white cloud that hung just above their stern. It was blurry but maybe that was just the cloud. He saw Luis Sr. up on the flying bridge. Papa was just sitting up there with his back to the wheel, staring down into the cockpit with concern on his face. Nothing a skipper hates worse than human blood running in his scuppers.
What was everybody so damn worried about? It was just a scratch. Problem was, the tourniquet wasn’t working too good. When you had arms the size of piano legs, normal-sized things didn’t fit too well.
Luis sliced another two-foot section and wrapped it tight around Stoke’s arm, cinching it in tight above the first tourniquet and tying it off. The blood flow instantly slowed way down.
“There you go, bossman, that’s better.”
“You got the pictures?” he asked Luis.
“Every angle. I even got the cockpit and the pilot. I told you, man. I told you I had something down here. You see those damn missiles?”
“Yeah. You got something worthwhile all right. Remind me to give you and your daddy a bonus when I get home. Now listen up, Sharkey. I need you to get on the VHF and talk to the Coast Guard. First, get me a GPS location to give to them. Tell them to send a chopper or a cutter out here immediately and—what’s your problem?”
“You look inside that pilothouse? The old man doesn’t exactly have the latest technology aboard this boat. I tried to give him a handheld GPS for his birthday and he nearly killed me. You crazy? he says, I never been lost a day in my life.”
“You got a radio, right? He’s got to have a VHF radio.”
“Yeah, yeah, we have a radio.”
“Good. Go get the chart. Let’s figure out exactly where we are. But get the Coast Guard on the radio and tell them what’s going on. National security, got that? Let me just lay here a minute and I’ll come in there and talk to them.”
“I’ll check the chart, then call,” Luis said, getting to his feet. “You stay right where you are for a few minutes. You don’t look good. Hey, you want some rum? I keep a pint in the fish box.”
“I don’t drink. But I’ll make an exception. Yeah, give me a hit of that stuff. Might help if you poured some on my arm.”
Sharkey reached inside the box and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi. Luis was handing it to Stoke when he got shot.
Stoke had heard the muffled crack of a serious gun. At the same time he looked up and saw Luis spin around, blood spraying from his right shoulder. What the hell? Luis kept spinning around, arms spread out like some wounded paraplegic ballet dancer, trying to figure out where the damn bullet had come from.
“Get down before he shoots you both in the head!” he screamed at Luis Sr. on the flying bridge.
Two more rounds thudded into the thick wooden topsides. Harmless, but for sure attention getting.
“Shit, man, I’m hit! My good arm!” Luis said, dropping back down to the deck. “Damn! Where is he? Where’d that shot come from? I didn’t see anybody.”
He started to raise his head above the gunwale, but Stoke grabbed his belt and yanked him back down, looking at his shoulder. Just a scratch, a little red furrow in his skin.
“Stay down, damn it! And tell your father to do the same!”
“Look at him, man, he’s a sitting duck up there on the bridge! If he comes down that ladder, he’s dead.”
“Yeah, so tell him to stay put and stay down. Maybe the shooter can’t see him up there because of the angle. Tell that old man to sit tight up there and keep his head down.”
Luis shouted words to that effect in Spanish. His father nodded his understanding and then smiled down at Sharkey.
“Courage, my son,” the old man said in English. “God helps those who trust in him. He can save us if he will.
