that he survives, have a chat with him about where he got those Russian missiles.”
“Cuba.”
“Cuba. How do you know that? You find something you forgot to mention? I thought you said the plane was clean.”
“I don’t know. But it’s a good guess, right? So now what?”
“I’m still thinking.”
Stoke was still feeling woozy. The tourniquet helped a little. But, and it was a big one, could he really get up on his knees with the Mini-14, mark the guy’s location and shoot him before he passed out from blood loss or the bends or whatever his problem was making him so light-headed? Possible, but very low probability of a successful outcome. Normally, he’d slip over the side, swim underwater around the little island and come up behind the guy. But, in his present condition—
He looked at Luis and then he looked at the rifle and then back at Luis.
“Don’t look at me, man.”
“Who’s looking at you?”
“You.”
Damn. Luis was right. He just couldn’t see Sharkey doing this. In any way taking the guy on the island out. No possible way you could expect a one-armed man to try to pull this off. Recently wounded in his one remaining good arm, no less.
Stoke knew approximately where the shooter was, had a rough idea based on the muzzle flash and the angles these shots were coming from. The guy was crouching down in the mangroves on the left side of a little cove near a stand of stumpy cabbage palms. Another thing. He was convinced that the shooter was the copilot. Had to be. No other reasonable possibility. Down at the plane, Stoke had seen what looked like the last remains of blood smears on the right-hand windshield. Like somebody’s head had hit it real hard. So. Copilot bangs his head but survives the crash, cleans up the cockpit and his dead buddy, and swims ashore. Yeah, that had to be it.
The survivor had to be one hurting gaucho after thirty-some-odd hours out on that little spit of land all by his lonesome. It was hot out here. Lots of skeets to keep him company. Maybe hurt, maybe no food or water. Hungry. Thirsty. And seriously pissed off that the pretty blue fishing boat he’d seen steaming to his rescue had not come to his rescue after all. Hell, anybody would be upset.
Well, one thing was sure, Sharkey was in no condition now to take the guy out. He was curled up in the stern with his one bandaged arm wrapped around his knees. Sitting over in the corner by the bait box forward of the transom. Staring at Stoke and wondering what he was going to have to do next. But there was another way out of this. Stoke had an idea.
“Take the rifle,” he said to Luis.
“Me? I’m doing it? I told you! I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Listen, okay? Relax. I’m not asking you to stand up and shoot anybody, Sharkey. I got a much better idea. Just slide over here and take the damn gun. Now.”
“Aw, shit, man. This is so messed up.”
“Do it.”
He did it.
“Now,” Stoke said, in a very soothing way, “I want you to take this gun over to the bridge tower ladder.”
“Climb up?”
“No, not climb up. You think I’m crazy? No, what I want you to do is, scoot over there to the foot of the ladder. Okay? Stay down. Then you take the gun by the muzzle, reach it up high enough so your old man can reach down and grab it by the stock end.”
Luis lit up one of those lopsided grins that went on and off like a neon light. Relief flooded his face as he took the weapon. “Papa’s going to shoot him?”
“That’s right. He’s got the high ground and the best angle. But he can’t afford to miss, tell him, because he’s probably only going to get one shot off before the guy starts blasting him. Papa a good shot? Say yes.”
“Good? I’ve seen that old hombre put a mako’s eye out at one hundred yards. Fish was leaping twenty feet in the air at the time, right off our transom. Blam, he dropped him.”
“Well, see what I’m saying, this’ll be cake then. Easy-peasy-Japanesy.”
“You check is it loaded?”
“Damn! Didn’t you see me check it a few minutes ago? Yeah, it’s loaded. Now, listen up, this is important. Tell him to stay down. No heroics till I say so. He’s not to do anything right now except take the gun. He’s got to keep his head down until you’re back in the water.”
“I’m going back in the water?”
“Damn right. You’re going over the transom. Soon as you give Papa the gun. You’re going crawl astern, get your ass up and over that transom on the double, and then you’re going to start swimming like a one-armed bandit, get as far away from this boat as possible.”
“What about the mako?”
“Screw the mako.”
“You’re messing with me, man. Right?”
“How else you think we’re going to draw his ass out so Papa can shoot him?”
“I’m already hit once. How many times I got to get shot today?”
“That’s the whole idea, Sharkey. That’s how we’re going to draw him out. Get him to reveal his position. It’s the only way your old man has a chance of getting a shot off without getting his head blown off.”
“Aw, shit, Stokely, man, I dunno about this. Can’t you think of another plan?”
“We haven’t got a lot of time for tactical discussion here, Luis. You might have noticed I’m slowly bleeding to death. You wanted to get involved in this stuff, now you’re involved in it. Welcome to my world. You’re tuned into the Stokely channel now, brother. All shit, all day, all the time. This is not unusual. Shit just exactly like this goes down all the damn time. All the time.”
“Jesus, I don’t know, Stoke.”
“Luis! Pay attention. You can do this. Now snake your one-armed ass over to that ladder and hand your old man the damn rifle. Okay?”
“Yeah. Fuck. I’ll do it.”
“Gimme your hat first.”
“My Yankee cap? For what?”
“Another idea. I’m going to stick it on top of this rod and jiggle it up and down while you’re crawling. Help distract him.”
“This sucks, man,” Luis said, handing him the cap.
“You’re going to be good at this shit, Luis, I’m serious. You’ve got all the right components. Trust me. I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go.”
“Lots of turnover on your personal life channel? Is that right? Jesus.”
Luis muttered the whole way across the deck. He snaked along using the rifle in his good hand and his left arm fin for propulsion. It looked a little weird but it was effective.
Stoke looked up at the flying bridge. Luis Sr. was crouched up there, staring down at him, screwing the cap back on his bottle of Triple X. His eyes were bright and he had a huge smile on his face. He wasn’t drunk. He just knew damn well what was going on. And he had faith.
Stoke took heart.
The old man of the sea was into it.
Papa reached down for the butt of the rifle when his son managed to raise it high enough for him to grab hold. Once his father had the gun securely in his grasp, Shark dropped back to the deck and instantly started crawling aft. Sharkey was scared but Stoke could see he was going to do the thing, go over the stern and swim away from the boat even though it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.
Stoke had moved himself aft, crouched in the corner of the cockpit on the port side. He had Sharkey’s faded Yankee baseball cap on the end of the fishing rod and now, his eyes on Papa up on the bridge, he raised the navy blue cap above the gunwale, jigging it up and down a few times.
Shots rang out instantly and one of them put a neat hole in Sharkey’s Yankee cap. The cap spun but stayed on the rod. The guy could shoot. Stoke scrambled forward a few feet, bouncing the hat around and the rounds kept
