The Eye of Heaven

19

The inflatable bounced along at a good clip, the swells two-footers, the breeze barely stirring their crests. Sam kept an eye peeled on Havana Harbor for any fast-moving lights, but none appeared, and in a few more minutes the dark hull of an oceangoing speedboat appeared on the horizon.

“That’s it,” Sam announced as he pointed the bow in the direction of the waiting vessel. Soon they were on board the fifty-foot Cigarette Marauder, its three Mercury 1075 engines rumbling as they settled in. The captain, a tall silver-haired man with twinkling blue eyes, patted the dashboard as the three of them watched the dinghy sink out of sight, its life now over. He zipped his light windbreaker over a blue Hawaiian shirt and ran a large hand through his hair as he peered at the Cuban mainland in the distance.

“How long will it take us to get to Cay Sal?” Sam asked.

The captain glanced at his watch’s orange face and smiled. “If nature favors us, couple of hours max. My tanks are topped off, and I’ve got another boat waiting there to refuel me for the trip home. Of course, if we have to evade one of the Navy boats, we could be there in a little over an hour at full throttle. Either way, we’ll be out of Cuban territorial water within ten minutes, maybe less. Run this baby up to eighty knots and it’ll make short work of that.”

“Eighty knots? That’s flying.”

“You aren’t kidding. Might want to strap in because at that speed we might lift off.”

“Good idea,” Remi said. “Let’s get going. No point in waiting for the bad guys to get their act together.”

“Aye, aye, little lady. Hang on tight.”

The captain engaged the transmissions and pushed the throttles forward. The big engines roared, the boat leapt into motion, and thirty seconds later they were tearing over the waves at almost eighty knots. They rocketed across the sea, the low windshield barely breaking the rush of air as they hurtled northwest.

The captain placed a finger on the radar screen and tapped a blip on the outer reaches. “That’s probably a Navy ship!” he shouted over the scream of the engines. “Looks to be twenty-two miles west. Let’s see if he picks up his pace or not. He may not even have us on radar. It’s pretty hard to track this baby, especially at night on moderate seas.”

They watched the pulsing glow of the dot he’d pointed out as they pulled north of it like it was standing still. The captain squinted and shook his head.

“It’s moving fairly fast. Looks like around thirty-five knots, which is really hauling for a ship that size. Of course, we’re doing more than double that, so by the time he reaches the limits of his territorial waters we’ll be halfway to Cay Sal.”

The swell size picked up when they were fifteen miles from Cuba, the island’s lights a glimmer on the horizon. The captain throttled back to fifty-five knots, which, while racing, felt almost stationary after the open-water run at close to double that. The bench seat slammed their lower spines, coming off each wave, and by the time the captain eased back to forty-five knots Sam and Remi felt like someone had been beating their kidneys with a board. Their host appeared unfazed; if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the nocturnal run, the wind whipping around him as he leaned forward into each wave.

They’d now been aboard for two hours and were approaching the leeward side of Cay Sal. The captain made a hushed call on his radio before piloting nearer the shoals. A flashlight winked in the darkness, and he deftly pulled the big boat alongside a waiting Cessna T206H Stationair and eased to a halt in the calm water next to it.

“Ahoy, Cap’n! Watch your step, you two. Come on, take my hand,” the pilot called out over the drone of the plane’s idling engine as he tossed a line to Sam so he could pull the boat closer. Remi went first, leaping across the chasm with ease. Sam turned to the boat captain.

“Much obliged, sir,” Sam said.

“Safe travels to you and your lovely lady. May you make it wherever you’re headed with smooth air and an easy landing.”

Sam nodded and turned his attention to the plane. “Here I come,” he warned.

Remi watched through one of the windows as he jumped onto the pontoon. Sam caught hold of the door and climbed into the aircraft. The boat’s engines revved and it pulled away, ready for its rendezvous before making its way back to whatever port the boat called home. Sam peered at the transom as it faded from view.

“Mistress of the C. Odd name for a boat, don’t you think?” Remi commented.

“After that ride, I’d say he can call it whatever he wants as long as it’s available again if we’re ever in a similar scrape.”

The pilot, a spry man whose dark brown goatee was sprinkled with silver, hoisted himself in and pulled the door closed. “Welcome aboard,” he said, offering a grin. “Buckle up for takeoff.”

They were pushed back in their seats as the plane accelerated, bouncing across the small waves until it lifted into the sky for the four-hour trip to Cancún, where their G650 awaited.