Jake grabbed his duffle letting the water drain from the bag. He dug around and pulled out six Snickers bars. “Here. Start eating.”
Kaplan grabbed the packs. “You really did have Snickers in there.”
“Boy Scout motto. Be prepared. Eat it all, you’re going to need all the energy you can muster.”
The next five minutes were spent in total silence. The only sound was the waves slapping the sides of the sinking fishing boat. The two sat, ate, and rocked with the boat. Jake could see the apprehension in Kaplan’s face as the boat sank lower and lower into the water.
“How good a swimmer are you?” Jake asked.
“At this point, what does it matter?” Kaplan stuffed his garbage in a side pocket of the console on the boat. “You’re in charge, I’ll just follow you.”
“It’s all about pacing.” Jake wasn’t good at giving words of encouragement, but he felt Kaplan needed to hear something positive. Jake was a strong swimmer, very strong, and as a child competed in swim tournaments with the school swim teams. “We’ll take it slow and steady.”
“Slow and steady. Roger that.” Kaplan sat on the rail and unlaced his boots.
“What are you doing? Leave your boots on.”
“But I can kick better without them.”
“Trust me on this.”
Kaplan laced up his boots. Jake grabbed two life jackets and tossed Kaplan one. Next he grabbed two flotation-approved seat cushions. He rummaged through the boat’s compartments, found a flare gun and stuffed it, the weapons, and ammo into a wet bag then sealed it tight.
“Put the life vest on, get a good grip on the cushion, and let’s go. Remember, keep the cushion underneath you for extra buoyancy. We’ll need all the help we can get.” Jake sat on the edge of the railing. “The water will be cold.”
Kaplan sat next to Jake on the railing. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Jake smiled. “You see, you did keep your sense of humor.”
CHAPTER 62
Darkness still dominated the night sky except for the twinkling of stars and galaxies millions of light years away. He studied the sky, doing his best to recognize some of the constellations he’d learned as he prepared for the final phase of his mission.
The engines droned on, rpms out of sync. Still no sign of dawn. The closer Khan got to shore, the rougher the seas, but the cruiser handled them without yielding. He’d feared the damage from the hailstorm of bullets might have compromised the vessel.
The cruiser’s GPS guided him right to the mouth of the Ria del Orio where he had to negotiate a ninety degree left turn into the river’s channel behind the rock mounds of the jetties. Walls of water crashed into the jetties as the relentless incoming tide pounded against the rocks. Once in the channel, however, the waters became tranquil. Smooth as glass. A welcome relief from the nonstop tossing of the waves over the last few hours.
He eased the damaged cruiser through the channel and behind the breakwater walls of the marina. Using only one engine to reduce the noise, he nosed the cruiser straight into the reserved slip, a prior arrangement he was glad he’d made. Thank Allah.
The marina’s slips were on multi-fingered floating docks. By request, his slip was located at the end closest to the mouth of the breakwater, which unfortunately meant he had to walk past dozens of boats to exit the marina. Sound carried in marinas, he knew, and at 4:00 a.m. it would be easy to attract unwanted attention unless he was very quiet. The last thing he needed was a nosy boater to come up on deck to see who had just motored in so early in the morning. He must avoid detection.
Tying off the bow and stern with lines required him to jump off the boat on the floating finger piers. He gingerly stepped out, tied off the port stern then the port bowlines followed by the starboard side in reverse order, securing the lines taut to keep the cruiser secured in the middle of the slip. He didn’t have the luxury of time. He needed to make a pass through the cabin and deck, removing all items that might tie him to the missing women, grab his personal articles, and leave. He anticipated he had two, maybe three hours at best, before his bullet-riddled hull attracted attention at the marina and law enforcement officials would be summoned to the scene. They would scour the cruiser from bow to stern looking for clues to indicate what had happened…and to whom.
Barefoot, Khan tiptoed down the floating dock carrying every identifying article he could find. He’d kept his room at the Hotel Maria Christina clean. Whenever he left, he carried everything he needed with him in a backpack just in case he had to make an unanticipated getaway. He could never be too careful. Khan followed the winding sidewalk and up the pedestrian ramp leading to the marina parking lot where his leased car and new identity waited underneath the autopista del Cantabrico bridge.
The carefully selected parking space was seldom used since it was located at the far end of the lot next to a metal garbage drum. He rifled through the articles disposing of everything that connected him to the past week. He opened the trunk and pulled out another backpack with all new credentials. He cleaned and bandaged his shoulder. It was a flesh wound and hadn’t bled much. He threw everything old in the garbage drum, doused it with lighter fluid he’d stored in the trunk, and set the contents of the drum ablaze.
Arlo Delgado ceased to exist. He was now Esteban Menendez, astronomer at Planetario de Pamplona — the Pamplona Planetarium — on his way to Madrid to catch a flight to the United States to attend an astronomy conference in Manhattan.
A backup plan…always have a backup plan.
Exhausting was underestimating the intensity of the nine-mile swim to shore. It was grueling, backbreaking punishment. Fortunately, the incoming tide, large swells, and strong winds pushed them toward shore at a much faster pace than Jake expected. Kaplan had fallen behind a few times but Jake knew Kaplan’s Special Forces mindset wouldn’t allow him to quit. The water was cold and each time Kaplan lagged behind, he complained of the shivers. Jake mimicked a drill sergeant and Kaplan would snap out of it and start swimming at a faster pace.
Twice he thought he saw fishing boats heading out for a day of fishing, neither close enough to get a visual on the two men in the water. He’d tried using the remaining flares to grab their attention but they were duds. He’d been able to launch one flare before he and Kaplan jumped in the water but that was hours ago. Because of the roughness of the water, Jake imagined only the crustiest old salts would brave the brutal Cantabrian Sea.
It was daylight now and the sky was bright although a high overcast layer obscured the sun. The wind and tide were taking them well east of San Sebastian. At first he’d resisted but he knew the two of them couldn’t overcome the current and wind so he allowed it to take them where it wanted. And where it wanted, he found out, was nearly thirty kilometers east of San Sebastian on the French shores of Saint-Jean-de-Luz.
Jake guessed they were about one kilometer from shore when he noticed the breakwaters protecting the small town. Waves slammed against the stone walls sending plumes of water skyward, at times nearly ten meters high, jetting up and over the walls. Fortunately, he thought, the current would place them west of the breakwaters at the foot of a stone building that resembled an ancient fort.
They were close, maybe forty meters from shore when Kaplan let go of his flotation cushion and swam ahead. “Jake. We made it.”
At the same time, Jake felt his feet hit a rocky bottom. “Gregg, wait.” He yelled.
A ten-foot wave swelled behind Jake, allowing him to ride the wave on his cushion like a body board shooting him past Kaplan by ten meters.