Ten
I heard machetes chopping as I returned. Neither Noah, Tara Sawyer nor Fleming were in sight. I assumed they were in a huddle somewhere, putting pressure on the doctor to accept U.S. aid since that was the possible way he could keep Russian missiles away from Grand LaClare Island. I wished them luck, just like Mitzy had wished me.
It was a while before Noah’s men came through the gate, bringing two long, straight, heavy tree trunks. All twelve were needed to carry the logs, one at a time. They lugged them up the ladder, slid them through the slots and let them drop to the sea. Then they brought coils of rope from a storehouse. I took the machine gun and ammo belts and led the crew down the steps.
The logs stood on end, only a foot showing above the surface of the water, leaning against the cliff. Swimmers dived off the bottom step, pulled a line around the closest one, and came back. I led them all across the breakwater, careful where I walked. If the gun got a soaking, it might as well be thrown away.
The men kept losing their footing, hauling on the line falling off the breakwater. The log had butted deep into the sand and it was a big job dragging it free. When it came loose, the whole crew took a bath. The log sank. They towed it, following my steps, maneuvering on the underwater stone. Any moment now Russian bombers could wing in overhead but I didn’t mention that fact. There was nothing to gain.
The closest vessel, a yacht, lay hull over, stern in the water, the power plant dry. I had hope for it until I saw that the fiberglass bottom was gone. The men detoured the log around it, swimming, bouncing it along the sand. I climbed over the boat and went to the next one. That was bashed in worse than the first. Two tugs were left, built of metal so they should be whole.
Several brown bodies floated nearby drifting out to sea, small spots against the blue water. I left Noah’s men working to get around the yachts and went to investigate the nearer tug. I slung the machine gun and belts aboard with the Luger and crouched to feel around. By the time the log came, I had found what I wanted and sent the men back for the second beam. While they were gone, I climbed into the cabin and tried the little diesel. It coughed and caught. I put it in reverse to test how solid the boat was hung up. The engine whined, the water churned, but the hull didn’t budge.
When the crew came back, I showed them where we could get leverage, lined them up along the breakwater, and we set to work on either side of the hull. Six of them went up on each trunk. The prow lifted some. The men bounced the logs in a slow rhythm. The boat rocked. I started the engine and tried reverse again. The hull shuddered. Metal screamed against rock. Then one pry snapped. The boat rolled against the stub and hung there. The men were all dropped into the water.
It had been close. Another couple of minutes and power would have floated the craft. I shut down the engine to conserve fuel. Whatever was in the tanks was all we had for the run to another island. I doubted if Noah could come up with hose to siphon off fuel from the other tug.
The men clustered around the broken log, pulling loose the short stub. There was enough length left to use, but they hit a snag. It was too thick to wedge under the hull. I sent one man back for a machete and we waited. I watched the sky and the harbor mouth, listening for the drone of planes or gunboats.
When we had the knife, they whittled the log down to fit it in the crack between boat and stone. Then the crew was moving again and I started the engine.
The hull rocked, metal screamed once more, kept on screaming, and with a lurch the boat was free. I killed the engine. The timbers had twisted away and the crew was grinning in victory. I stood for a moment cheering them, then a bubbling sound turned me around. Down in the engine pit a fountain was gurgling, drowning the machinery. The water was rising fast, sinking the boat.
I jumped for the machine gun, and Luger belts, waved them at a man, indicating with sign language that the stuff shouldn’t get wet. He lunged for the boat, took weapons and bullets, and passed them back. They were held high overhead until they reached the men on the breakwater.
We were down to the last boat. This time, before we put any work on it, I investigated the interior and went underneath feeling for damage. There didn’t seem to be any. But where this vessel hung, the wall had a sharp, jagged edge that would tear a gash when the hull skidded backward. We needed some kind of shield.
Before we did anything, I had to check the power plant. This tug had a converted four-cylinder Dodge motor. I climbed into the pit to crank it, threw it past compression six times, then quit. A gasoline engine that won’t turn over in that time probably won’t if you crank all day. I could think of four reasons why it wouldn’t work. It was out of gas; it wasn’t getting a spark; it had bad connections; it was just plain cursed with the perversity of inanimate objects. This one had gas, the tanks were nearly full, and the connections were tight. But when I fished a wrench from the tool box and pulled the plugs, I wondered how the skipper had got it started the last time. They were filthy, crusted with carbon. I used the stiletto to ream them out. The points on one were burned, the spread too wide. There was no gauge in the box so I had to guess about their usability. I bent them in with a screwdriver and hoped for the best. I screwed the plug back, waved the men out of the way, and gave the crank another whirl. It fired but did not catch. The same on the second yank. If the third didn’t take hold, we were probably stranded.
The thought of losing Fleming burned me most. He was a selfless man with a life dedicated to bringing his people out of generations of exploitation. I could fault his bullheadedness, but not his vision. I talked to the engine in several languages. Funny superstition, that. Somebody answered. The next crank generated life. The beast took off in a rattle and clatter, coughed blue smoke, and settled into a steady roar. I let it bum out the gas that choked it, then shut it down.
It was time to consider protection for the hull. There was the jeep I’d left on the shore road. I swam for that, kicked around through the brush and vines, and came up with two flat chunks of hood I thought would fit. I took them back by way of the breakwater.
What I had in mind could get at least two of us killed. I didn’t like asking the men to risk it, but there wasn’t any choice. One of them spoke a few words of English. I explained then showed him what we had to do. I took him and one of the hoods under the boat with me to show that if the boat was rocked sideways on its keel, the metal piece could be laid over the ragged rock edge; the same could be done on the other side. But the hoods would have to be held there by hand until the weight of the boat slid over the metal. My man would have to hang in the water, under the wall, with one arm on top to be mangled if the hull tipped. He could be trapped there, his body crushed, if the prow dropped.
I gave it to him without frills when we surfaced. He thought it over, looked up at the fortress, swallowed, and volunteered.
We got ready. Noah’s man and I dropped off the breakwater with the plates. The men on top rocked the boat to one side, then the other; we set the metal pieces and surfaced to signal that all was ready. Then we dropped under again. With one hand on the plate to hold it from twisting off and the other on the hull, I felt the boat shudder as the crew climbed the logs. The vessel tilted, then quickly righted before it hit my arm. The men bounced up and down. The craft moved grudgingly, then in a swift glide it came down on us.
I got my hand away and dived to the side. The stubby prow raked my foot, then I was clear. The boat was floating on the water. I went under to see about the man on the far side. His brown legs were kicking upward at an angle. When I broke the water, he was perched on the wall with a grin, holding up two whole hands.