Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Chapter 10
He who flees will fight again.
—Tertullian
Hetta, unaccustomed to following orders, did not readily respond to Jenks’s command to “get below.” Confounded, she stood ridged as she gaped into the semidarkness behind
HiJenks
. Only when Jenks muscled her, stiff-legged and protesting, did she move. He practically frogmarched her down two ladders, along the deck, and into the main cabin, just as angry jets of water peppered the sea behind their fishing lure and a salvo of pops buffeted the air.
“Down. Into the engine room,” Jenks told her, giving her a gentle push.
Not gentle enough for Hetta. Her natural resistance to being bulldozed returned, along with a blaze of crimson on her cheeks. “I’m going, I’m going, damnit,” she snapped, then scrambled backward down three carpeted steps into the forward cabin. Jenks followed with two footsure strides. His ease of movement, a result of years spent clambering up and down metal ladders on navy cruisers, was a constant source of envy to Hetta. But not now. Now she was just glad he was in charge and knew what to do.
“Step back a little, Sweetheart,” Jenks said, his voice calm and confident.
Hetta quickly moved out of the way while he raised a set of hinged stairs blocking the engine room entrance, then opened a door. As a wave of heat and noise blasted her skin and ears, Hetta hesitated, then dropped to all fours, ready to crawl into the compartment she named the Hell Room, and Jenks called the Holy Space.
Jenks stopped her with a traffic cop’s flat-handed signal, reached inside, flipped on a light switch and grabbed two sets of sharpshooter’s earmuffs from a hook attached to the engine room wall. Handing a set to Hetta he yelled, “Put these on and duck walk after me. Go slow and don’t touch anything. The machinery can burn you.”
Hetta looked at the spinning fan belts and thought,
Or chew off a body part
. She nodded to let him know she understood, slid on the heavily padded earmuffs, and her world went surrealistically silent. She was ready.
Jenks easily folded his lanky body in half, sat back on his haunches and started forward into the familiar space. Trying to follow his lead, Hetta squatted and toppled over backward onto her butt. Pushing herself to her knees, she grabbed Jenks’s foot and, when he looked back, shook her head. He understood, rummaged into a locker and handed her kneepads and gloves.
Crawling, hands in gloves two sizes too large, Hetta felt like a one-year-old in Daddy’s clothes. She vowed to spend more time in the engine room, and to do at least twenty squats a day in the future. If they had a future.
Between the twin Perkins, surrounded by machinery hell-bent on producing more heat, Jenks motioned for Hetta to make herself as comfortable as possible on a marine grade plywood platform. She pointed to the overhead still-glowing engine room lamps and threw her hands open in question. Jenks gave her an it’s okay sign, and with more hand signals let her know the engine room lights could not be seen from outside the boat. Hetta put her hands together in a thank God motion, settled into a cross-legged yoga pose, and hoped she wasn’t wallowing in something like battery acid.
Jenks patted Hetta’s shoulder, then lapsed into deep thought, carefully analyzing their options and trying to decide his next move. He knew they had a better chance of surviving this perplexing assault by taking a defensive stance. In truth, offense was out of the question. There were no weapons on board due to the Mexican ban on anyone having guns and the penalties were heavy if you were caught with one. Right now he knew Hetta, an avid gun nut, was wishing for her arsenal back home.
Shielded by a massive engine on each side, and four layers of decking above, they were safe. For the moment. He knew the chopper could not land and, unless it had a backup vessel in the area, all their assailants could do was shoot at them.
As if that isn’t enough. I just hope the jerks don’t get lucky and hit the propane tanks in the bridge locker.
If Hetta could read that “propane” thought whizzing through the cogs of Jenks’s brain, she'd pitch a Texas hissy fit. Her dread of fire was almost as strong as her fear of deep water. She wasn’t so much afraid of dying as she was of pain. If they had to die, she just hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. Or for too long.
Spotting a crate of plastic water jugs, Hetta tapped Jenks’s shoulder and mimicked taking a drink. He nodded and easily reached for one of the bottles of distilled water he used to top off his batteries. Although the lid was still sealed, it was half empty. As Hetta drank, more of the engine-heated water dribbled over her chin and chest through a hole in the side of the jug. Jenks finished off the bottle.
At least, Hetta thought, we won’t die thirsty.
Jenks had no intention of dying anytime soon and after fifteen minutes of sorting through their limited options, and nothing further was heard from the helicopter, he leaned over, lifted one of Hetta’s earmuffs and shouted, “I’m going up. You’d better stay here.”
Hetta shook her head violently and mouthed, “No. Not a chance.” As frightened as she was, there was still no way she'd stay below while Jenks went up to face heaven-knew-what.
Jenks shrugged. Arguing with Hetta was almost always a waste of time, and when she was upset, totally useless.
Crawling out into the cool forward cabin, they shut the engine room door, removed their ear protection, and listened.
“I don’t hear anything but our own engines and waves hitting the hull. You?”
Jenks shook his head. “Me neither. Stand back and I’ll take a look.” Lowering the steps, he stuck his head into the main saloon, but could see nothing outside the windows. “I’m going up. Sit on the bunk, out of the way in case I have to get back down here in a hurry.”
Hetta nodded, realized he couldn’t see her and said, “I will. Please be careful.”
Jenks reached out, found her hand and squeezed it, then let go and belly-crawled to the center of the cabin, sliding along the cool blue carpet on sweaty knees and elbows. Hetta’s eyes adjusted to the dark and she realized she could actually see him. She watched as he lay still, listened for a few minutes, then stood and peered out the back window. “Nothing but black out there. Come on up.”
Hetta climbed the steps on shaky legs and had just reached Jenks’s side when amber light suddenly flooded the cabin. She screamed, threw her arms over her head and pulled Jenks to the floor. The light went out.
“Hell, it was just the damned bilge pump warning light,” Jenks said, relief washing over him.
Hetta flopped onto her back, yelled, “Aaarrgg,” and grabbed her chest in a mock heart attack. Her antics threw them both into spasms of laughter.
“Oh, my stomach hurts,” Hetta croaked after a few minutes of cackling. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she knew she was verging on hysteria, but neither she nor Jenks could stop. “Okay, Jenks, that’s enough,” she gasped. “Please, no more. And don’t look at me.” Holding her stomach, she moaned and rolled onto her side with her back to him.
He turned, spooned her to him and held her while she gained control over her giggles. They lay quietly for a few minutes, then Jenks nuzzled her neck. She turned to kiss him and in seconds they were throwing off their sweaty clothes.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Hetta whispered against Jenks’s chest.
“Wanna do it again?”
“Uh, no offense, but I prefer to find out if those bastards are still out there before I re-enter the throes of passion.”
“Good thinking.” Jenks crawled towards the steering station, presenting her with a white glow of naked butt. Hetta stifled a giggle as he popped up, like a jack-in-the box, flipped on the console instrument lights and checked the engine gauges. Both were chugging along at 180 degrees Fahrenheit, and the oil pressure showed normal. A miracle.
He grasped the handle on the sliding door and pushed it open. A damp, cool waft of air filled the cabin, chilling their naked bodies. He stuck his head out the door and listened. No whopping blades. “I’m going out.”
“Then I’m going with you. But shouldn’t we, like, stick out a white hat on a stick or, uh,” Hetta looked pointedly at his crotch, “something?” she asked, then laughed, threw Jenks his shorts, and slipped on her damp tee shirt. “Okay,
compadre
, lead the way.”
Jenks stepped out the door and was enveloped in a blanket of fog so thick he could barely see the bow of the boat. Slipping back inside the door, he blocked Hetta’s progress. “Wait a second.”
“Why?”
“We have to stop the boat. As long as we’re in this fog bank, we’re safe. The last thing we want to do is cruise out of it.” He switched off the autopilot, grasped the throttle handles and drew them back slowly, reducing speed by two hundred rpm at a time until the digital tachometer read 650. Then he pulled the engine control levers into neutral gear and the engine noise was reduced to a low throb. Leaning out the door, he cocked his head. “Nada. They’re gone. I’m sure of it.”
Hetta was not so sure. Just starting to feel secure inside the boat, she really didn’t want to go out to see if the bogeyman waited. Especially half-naked. But when a determined Jenks grabbed a flashlight and left the cabin again, she followed close on his bare heels. Inching along the damp deck they made their way aft.
“Oh, my,” Hetta gasped when Jenks’s penlight beam picked up small pieces of
Jenkzy
scattered on the deck, and several holes riddling the dinghy’s bottom. The only other damage seemed to be some splinters notched from a teak rail. Then Jenks spotted one neat hole in their aft cabin hatch door.
“Where do you think the bullet ended up?” Hetta asked, fingering the hole and fighting off a wave of nausea. The door was right over their bed.
“I’ll check it out when we go back in...make sure it didn’t do any serious damage. You know, we must have run into this fog bank right after we went below,” Jenks said, putting his arm around Hetta. He whispered into her hair, “Another minute or two and they’d’a had us for sure.”
“Honey, I will never bitch about fog again. That’s a promise.”
“I won’t hold you to that,” Jenks said, pulling her closer. “You did real good, my little sea wench.”
“Oh, yeah, more like sea wimp. If it hadn’t been for you, Wonder Woman here would have just stood on the bridge peeing her pants while they turned her into Swiss cheese. Oh, Jenks, I was so scared.”
“Me, too.”
“You sure didn’t show it,” Hetta said. Then the events of the past hour overtook her and her teeth began to chatter.
Chapter 11
Oh pilot, ’t is a fearful night!
There’s danger on the deep.—Thomas Haynes Bayly
The Pilot
A hot shower, dry clothes, and a brandy later, Hetta and Jenks huddled in the main saloon. For lack of a better plan they cut the engines, closed all the drapes so as to use their red night lighting, and were drifting with the tide. After all the brouhaha they'd endured, the whispery quiet of the dense fog bank was welcome, but eery.
Jenks lit a cigarette inside the cabin, a court-martial offense on any other day, but Hetta ignored it. She carefully took a small sip of brandy, afraid her chatter would return and she'd break a tooth on the glass. “Poor
Jenkzy
. Her bottom’s full of holes.”
Jenks shrugged. “Easy fix.”
“Did you trace that bullet's path after it rudely put a hole in my bedroom hatch?”
“I couldn’t find it,” Jenks lied. “I guess it's buried in a firewall.” He went to top off their brandies in hopes of diverting her attention. While she was in the shower earlier he followed the damage trail. The bullet passed right through Hetta’s hanging locker, ricocheted off something in the engine room, holed the water bottle they drank from when they were down there, and finally lodged in a stringer. He knew Hetta would eventually figure it out, but she didn’t need anymore scary stuff tonight.
Hetta suspected there was more to the bullet story, but chose not to push it. “So, Captain Jenkins, what now?”
“How come I’m Captain Jenkins only when you don’t want to make the decisions?” he growled with uncharacteristic gruffness. He immediately regretted his words.
His combative tone caught Hetta by surprise. She started to respond in kind, then thought better of it. “Just asking.”
Jenks sighed and put his arm around her. “Sorry. Hell, I don’t know. I need to think.”
“I hate it when that happens,” Hetta said, trying to relieve the tension with their private joke. She waved smoke away from her face.
Jenks shrugged an apology. “I didn’t want to go outside. Too cold.”
“Oh, fooey on that. I think you’ve earned special privileges tonight. Besides, you do your best thinking with carcinogens coursing through your veins. And I suppose right now the last thing I should worry about is ending up a lung cancer widow.”
“I’d say it had a low priority. How about Puerto Escondido?”
“What about it?”
“Maybe that’s where we should go. Mingle with the rest of the cruising fleet anchored there. Must be at least fifty boats in the harbor and some of them are powerboats. It was pretty obvious we were headed for San Carlos when those ‘copter cowboys spotted us, so if they’re looking for
HiJenks
, that’s probably where they’ll start. They could be waiting for us on the other side of this fog bank.
Hetta shuddered and glanced out into the darkness. “I wonder who
they
is. Or are.”
“If we’re lucky, we’ll never find out.”
“Are you nuts? Do you think I’ll feel comfortable bopping around the Sea of Cortez, wondering when some jet jockey will swoop out of the sky and use us for target practice? No way. Not a chance.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Gimme one of those damned cigarettes.” Jenks grinned, handed Hetta a Mexican Marlboro and lit it with an elaborate flair like he had before she quit. Hetta smoked in silence, her head whirling after the second puff. She finished that cigarette and lit another from the first.
“I think you’re right, we should go to Puerto Escondido,” Hetta said, making a face, blowing smoke and grinding out the second cigarette she’d had in many years. She rinsed the rank tobacco taste from her mouth with brandy, remembering why she quit smoking. “Yuk. That’ll do me until the next time we’re attacked by a helicopter.
“And what you say makes sense, Jenks. If they’re looking for us, they’ll probably start around San Carlos. We should go into Puerto Escondido instead and try to blend in with the fleet.”
Jenks nodded, letting her talk herself into his plan.
“And,” Hetta added, warming to the idea, “with
Jenkzy
tipped up against the transom, those guys in the chopper didn't see the name of our boat. Also, I’m almost positive they didn’t get a good look at us, either. Let’s do it.”
Jenks hit a few buttons on their GPS unit and brought up a previously entered set of coordinates for the anchorage at Puerto Escondido. “If we haven’t blown something in the engine room, we can be there in...thirteen hours,
más o menos
.”
“Hopefully less than more,” Hetta said, then giggled and snapped her fingers. “Rats!”
“What?”
“All these years I’ve waited for my fifteen minutes of fame. Here was my big chance to holler ‘Mayday’ into the mic and I blew it.”
“Good thing. That helicopter might just have a marine radio on board. As it is, they don’t know who we are.”
“There is a God.”
Jenks went back into the engine room to check the oil and water levels. He didn’t say anything to Hetta, but he was worried the old Perkins workhorses might be headed for the pasture.
“Just a little more Splash Zone,
por favor
.”
“Splash Zone, aye.” Jenks scooped more goop onto a putty knife and handed it to Hetta, then held his penlight beam on the last unfilled bullet hole in their dinghy.
Using a two-part epoxy that no boater in his right mind would be without, Hetta smoothed over the last bullet hole and leaned back to inspect her work. “There.
Jenkzy
’ll live to float another day. How long until this stuff dries?”
“We could launch her now, but let’s give it until first light. Which I figure will be in about, uh...” Jenks pushed a button on his watch, “three hours.”
“And none too soon.” Hetta sighed, gave her handiwork one last glance and vowed to sand the rough spots later. Exhaustion burned her eyes and tension banded her head, but patching
Jenkzy
was the last major task needed before reaching Puerto Escondido. Since their lives depended on slipping into the anchorage with as little fanfare as possible, showing up with a dinghy shot full of bullet holes was a really bad idea.
After making the decision to head south, Hetta and Jenks let the autopilot do the driving and spent the night poring over a photo from their cruising album, and methodically working on
HiJenks
’s profile.
Taken from atop the lighthouse in the small port of Mulege, the photograph was a bird’s-eye—or helicopter’s—view of the boat. During what seemed an interminable night, they studied the photo under the soft glow of red night-cruising lights, and changed what they could to modify the boat as it looked from the air.
Repairs to the dinghy completed, they returned to the cabin and the photo.
“Okay, we’ve folded the bimini,” Jenks said, pinpointing the collapsible stainless steel and blue canvas shade on their top deck, “and snapped on its white cover. Since it was open and shielding the entire top deck from view during the attack, they couldn’t have gotten much of a look. At us
or
the bridge.”
Hetta nodded, concentrating on the snapshot. “That alone makes a big difference from the air, huh? I took down the Texas Navy flag, moved the Mexican one to a different location, and furled the American flag, since it's full of holes. I'll get out our spare before we get into port. It's small and newer. Little things, but they might add up.”
“Oh, I think so. For folks who don’t own one, most trawlers look the same. And
HiJenks
isn’t an unusual design, which works to our advantage. Overall, we look pretty much like every other 40-some-odd-foot pleasure boat in the Sea of Cortez.”
Tapping the photo, Hetta asked, “What do you think about lowering the aft deck boom and putting the sun shade over it? That’ll cover that whole deck.”
“Good idea. Also stash the table and chairs inside and put these blue coolers away.”
“You know, Jenks, by daylight, with
Jenkzy
trailing behind us, we might look like a whole ‘nother boat. Any more ideas?”
“Fresh out. Let’s put up the shade, then why don’t you take a short nap.”
“Surely you jest, sailor. No way. I still have enough ‘scared’ coursing through my veins to keep me up for hours. I couldn’t sleep now if you paid me. I’ll wait until we’re safe in port. But you grab a few winks, Honey. That way at least one of us won’t be brain dead when we arrive. I’ll wake you up at first hint of light and we’ll launch the dink.”
“You’re sure? Sometimes you just think you can’t sleep.”
“Trust me.”
Hetta sat in the darkened cabin, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the instrument lights and radar screen.
Log of
HiJenks
, November 10, somewhere off Isla Carmen
Time: 05:30 Hrs.
Sky: Clear (after we left the fog bank) Wind: Calm
Barometer: Steady
Lord, what a night we’ve had. It’s still pitch black out, and we are nowhere near San Carlos. In fact we’ve changed course for Puerto Escondido and will be there in a couple of hours. A little matter of witnessing a panga full of dope being blown to smithereens, then us being chased and shot at by a helicopter. No, these are not the dark of night delusions of a Clive Cussler fan. It really happened! And just where is Dirk when you need him? Actually, ole Jenks was pretty Dirkish. I’ll write details when I’m not so, you will pardon the pun, foggy. We are headed for Puerto Escondido and, I hope, safety in numbers. Then we have to decide what to do next. H.
Hetta glanced up from her laptop to check their position and radar screen. They were on track and didn’t have company. She put away the computer and looked outside. Still inky.
Darkest before the dawn and all that crap.
She mourned the loss of the fog bank’s protective blanket and, feeling exposed and vulnerable, she both anticipated and dreaded the impending dawn.
The sliding door beside the captain’s chair was open so she could poke her head out once in a while.
Not that I can see a damned thing
. She shivered in the cold damp air drifting through the opening, but Jenks was snoozing on the settee and she was reluctant to chance waking him by shutting the squeaky door. Instead she tiptoed to the master suite, closed the heavily lined curtains and turned on a small light.
Hetta and Jenks’s sleeping quarters, although only ten by fourteen feet, held a queen-sized bed, three large hanging lockers, built-in drawers and a “head” with a toilet, sink and bathtub/shower. The blue wool carpet cushioning the main saloon continued throughout the boat.
She opened her closet, pulled a sweatshirt from a hanger and slid it over her head, then grabbed a blanket for Jenks. As she reached into the bathroom for a bottle of hand lotion, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. There was a bullet hole in her sweatshirt.
“Son of a bitch,” she squealed, tearing off the shirt and flinging it across the room as if it were on fire. Still cursing softly, she grabbed another one, and the blanket, and returned to the main saloon on weak knees. Jenks half-smiled but continued to snore softly as Hetta tucked the blanket around him and giving him a fond pat as she did so.
But she hadn’t always thought so kindly of his snoozing. When they first started dating, Jenks’s ability, and inclination, to fall asleep any place, any time, annoyed her. She learned not to take it personally, and told people that Bob Jenkins could fall asleep with Sharon Stone next to him.
Hetta picked up the small flashlight and aerial photo for the umpteenth time, then sat at the steering console looking for more ways to disguise
HiJenks
’s outline. To heck with Dirk Pitt, where’s David Copperfield when I need him?
Hell, he made the Statue of Liberty disappear, a trawler would be no contesto
.
She glanced at the ship’s clock, but it had run down, and her watch ticked it’s last over five years before, that day in October when they sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge to begin their voyage to Mexico.
“Are you ready?” Hetta asked Jenks as they looked back at the receding San Francisco skyline that morning.
Jenks nodded. “You first, on three. One. Two. Three!”
With fierce determination Hetta began launching a collection of objects overboard: her wristwatch, followed by a daily appointment calendar, business cards, and alarm clock. She dramatically dusted her hands and waited while Jenks took a last puff of his cigarette and threw it, and the rest of a carton, over. They both then celebrated their freedom with champagne.
Hetta’s links to the workaday world were history, but Jenks’s resolve to give up demon tobacco only lasted until the next port. By then, Hetta’s knight in shining armor had metamorphosed into a very cranky dragon and Hetta decided she preferred living with a smoker than being stuck at sea with a fire-breathing reptile.