He had lost some of his skills but he kept the first rule of close-approach navigation in mind; there is no such thing as too slow.
Once out in the turning pool he started turning on electronics. There was no other traffic to worry about so he could handle the distraction. There was quite a bit of it. Don had upgraded the GPS and autopilot with a new, fully integrated system that put all the sensors, GPS, radar, three-D depthfinder, even satellite weather on a single display. The old one had been pretty good so Mike was looking forward to trying out this one.
Three-D depthfinder, trim tabs, oil and fuel pressure: Mike ran through the whole checklist. He had to stop to make the turns out of the cut and watch for other traffic. There were far too many assholes in the Keys with boats bigger than either their dicks or brains. He’d nearly been run down several times by cigs similar to his going like a bat out of hell down narrow cuts, barely making the turns and swinging wide as they did. Bigger boats than dicks or brains.
He was trying to figure out the new GPS, which was cool as shit but also complicated as a motherfucker, when he cleared the cut. He kept the speed down until he hit the edge of the no-wake zone, then cranked it up a tad, getting up on plane and swinging into the channel that led out past the reef.
“This is nice,” Britney yelled, shucking her windbreaker. The shout was more necessary for the engine noise than the wind; this version of Cigarette’s line had a large windscreen and a nice profile that spread that away from the front seats. In fact, it was a tad warm even with the slight chill; with no wind the area was heating up from the bright sun.
Mike pulled his off and opened up a dry box.
“In there,” Mike said. “We might need them later.”
Once they cleared the first reef Mike punched coordinates to the autonav and dug deeper into the GPS. The two systems were connected but as long as he didn’t give commands he was fine checking it out. Finally, he found some of Don’s waypoints and tracks. He picked out a better one for crossing the outer reef and then found some for the Bahamas. Don had been taking his little baby far. But, hell, the Bahamas were better fishing and less than an hour away in the Cig.
“Can this thing go all the way back to Nassau?” Britney asked.
“On one tank,” Mike said. “It’s got extended range tanks. We may tank along the way, just to be safe.” He thought about that and shook his head. “Big fast boats have more range than this one, but they’re gonna have to tank somewhere. I mean, if they’re running down from north of the Bahamas to here, dropping something, then… I doubt they’re going to run right back. Too obvious. They’ll swing around, maybe through the Cut. They’ve got to tank and they’ve got to drop off their waypoints. They’ve got to pick up their next track, probably, as well.”
“So… where?” Britney asked. “And should we be talking about this?”
“Well, the boat hasn’t been swept,” Mike said. “And my name is affiliated with it.” He paused. “Hell, there could be a bomb on board for all I know.”
“That’s a great thing to say right now!” Britney snapped.
“Unlikely,” Mike added. “Sol’s pretty good in case you hadn’t noticed. But, yeah, we should be able to talk fine. There’s no way to remote listen on one of these things short of a bug; too much secondaries. Not the engine and stuff; that can be screened out. But the wind going by? That makes it impossible. Anyway, they’ve got to tank.”
Mike pulled up the GPS map, which was on a screen the size of a medium laptop, and pulled up an overview of the Bahamas.
“You’ve got the north Bahamas up here,” Mike said, pointing. “Grand Island. That’s where Freeport is. Then you’ve got this big area of open water, the Providence Channel. But here’s the kicker.”
“Most of the stuff comes in through the Keys,” Britney said, nodding. “Which is south of Providence Channel.”
“Right,” Mike said, zooming in. “So, we’re making one hell of a lot of assumptions, but… They have to run south of Bimini. If they’re picking up north of the Grands and Abacos, they’re going to have to use the Cut. It’s the only way across the Banks. Really fucking narrow at the entrance, but easy enough for a speed boat. But…”
“Where do they tank?” Britney said. “I’ve been over this before.”
“DEA?” Mike asked.
“Yep,” Britney said. “They asked the same questions. Took a month, but they asked them. I figure some of the agents were going as fast as you, but the stuff only gets distributed once somebody high enough is willing to put it out. Otherwise, if it turns out to be stupid, they get egg on their face.”
“I can give a shit about egg,” Mike said, pointing to the Cut. “What’s their answer?”
“Different situation,” Britney said. “The boats are going the opposite direction. They’re coming up from the south, they’re not sure where they’re getting the drugs as I said, then swinging into Providence and tanking in Nassau or one of the harbors in the Andros area. Then south again. They get in the islands and disappear as a hard track. Then they appear again. DEA is sniffing around for their drop points. They figure that the drugs and the waypoints never cross paths, too.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “The tracks might, but not the waypoints.”
They crossed over the outer reef and the waves started to chop up, the big rollers from offshore peaking into near breakers as they crossed the reef. Mike gestured at Britney’s seatbelt pointedly.
“You’re going to want to put that on,” he said, reaching down and sliding the four-point restraint on. It was much like a military helicopter’s straps so Britney had no problems.
Then he kicked it.
The boat rose nose up for a moment, then settled back down, hit the first wave and went momentarily airborne, the engine screaming. Mike didn’t bother to throttle down, though, since when it hit it stayed mostly down, jumping from wave-crest to wave-crest in a continuous series, the props rarely leaving the water.
“Where were we?” he yelled over the engine noise.
“Tracks and waypoints,” Britney yelled back.
Mike keyed in the opening to the Bahamas Banks Cut and leaned back in his seat. The motion was much like the FAST boats he’d ridden in as a SEAL but the seats were much more comfortable. And he wasn’t wearing a hundred pounds of gear. The day was clear and the sun was warm. He’d made sure they both put on sunblock before they even boarded the helo so they were good. He checked the estimated time. Fifty-three minutes to the next waypoint. Not too shabby.
“They’re going to need another tank point,” Mike said, bringing up the measuring system. He created an imaginary track, running a notional boat through the Cut, then having them refuel at Crossing Rocks. He ran them back around the Grand Islands then down the Florida Straits and shook his head. “They have a bunch of range, but not that much.”
“So where?” Britney asked.
Mike fiddled with the system, checking ranges from various fuel points.
“Nothing,” Mike said. “Unless they’re tanking at Bimini just before their speed run.”
“No way in hell,” Britney said. “Bimini’s DEA central. One boat and crew, once, maybe. Over and over? It’s a small harbor. And they’d have the materials already onboard. All it takes is the most cursory customs check.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding. “That’s the kicker. Once they’ve picked up or are even near their pickup, they’re not going to hit land to tank. Unrep.”