“Worth a try.”
Jack transmitted again, sticking to the facts, but no one replied. I mean, we could have not mentioned the Cuban gunboats, but that’s not fair. If you ask someone for help, you need to lay out the dangers. If I’d heard this transmission . . . it would depend on whom I had aboard. Or I might wonder what the ship in trouble did to get chased by Cuban gunboats. Or I might think it was a hoax, or a trap to pirate my boat. Lots of stuff happens on the high seas that wouldn’t or couldn’t happen on land. It was a different planet out here; a watery grave, waiting to receive the dead and the soon-to-be-dead.
I said to Jack, “Okay, we’ll try again later.” Meanwhile, I’d listen for a response. I said to Jack, “I need a damage report.”
He replied, “It is what you see.”
“What do I not see?”
“You don’t see that a few rounds passed through the head, and I think the fresh-water tank sprung a leak.”
“How’s the beer?”
“Good. But I think we have a small leak in the fuel tank.”
I glanced at the fuel gauge and nodded. If we had daylight, I could see if we were leaving a diesel slick behind us. I wasn’t sure if we were leaking diesel or burning it in the rough sea. In either case, Key West was looking less possible. But Key Largo was still within reach if the fuel gauge stopped going south. Fuel, however, was the least of my problems. The Stenka was still the main problem, and he was gaining on us. I tightened the radar image. He was three nautical miles behind us.
Sara came into the cabin, and Jack, who looked like he was about to pass out, said he was going below to make some coffee. “You want some?”
“Sure.” I asked Sara, “How’re you doing?”
“All right.”
“How’s Felipe?”
“He’s in a stateroom.”
I let her know, “He did good back there.”
She nodded, and sat in the chair next to me, noticing that I’d turned on the GPS and chart plotter, which reminded both of us of our sunset cruise when we’d looked at Havana Harbor. If we knew then what we knew now, we’d probably both have said buenas noches and have a good life.
She said, “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
“Well, we’ve come about eighty miles since our encounter with the Zhuk, and we have maybe a hundred twenty to go before we get into U.S. territorial waters.”
She nodded. “Will they follow us?”
“They will break off five or ten miles before they reach that line.” I explained, “Closer than that is a provocation, which will likely lead to a radio warning, and may cause the Coast Guard to send a cutter out.”
“Okay . . . so we’re halfway home?”
“We are,” which was true in terms of navigation.
She looked at the radar screen. “They seem closer.”
“They are.”
She didn’t comment.
We sat at the control console, side by side, looking through the bullet-pocked glass at the clearing sky. The sea was calming down and it was turning out to be a nice night.
It was 2:46 A.M. now, and if I could maintain twenty or twenty-five knots, and if the fuel held out, and if the Stenka didn’t get in firing range, we’d be okay for a mid-morning arrival at Charter Boat Row.
I heard something coming out of the speakers, then Bobby Darin started crooning, “Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands . . .”
I would have preferred my Jay Z CD for morale boosting, but Jack wanted to use my CDs for skeet shooting.
So we cruised along, like this was a sunrise cruise, or a ship of fools singing in the dark.
I looked at my radar. The Stenka was closer, but I noticed that the Zhuk seemed a bit farther. Then, as I watched, the Zhuk changed course and took a southwesterly heading, toward the Cuban coast. I looked at the chart plotter. It seemed that if the Zhuk maintained his new heading, he’d sail into Matanzas Harbor. I assumed he had a fuel situation. Why else would anyone go to Matanzas? I mean, I’ve been there. The place sucks. But don’t miss the pharmacy museum.
Sara asked, “What’s happening?”
I explained, “The Zhuk has broken off the pursuit.” I added, “Must be low on fuel.”
“Good.” She added, in case I forgot, “God is looking out for us.”
“Ask him about the Stenka.”
Jack came into the cabin with my coffee and I advised him of the Zhuk’s change of course, and also asked him to play a CD that was recorded in this century.
He ignored that and said, “Maybe the Stenka is going to break off.”
I looked at the radar screen, but the Stenka held his course, and as I tightened the image, I estimated that he was about two miles behind us—and we were within range of his radar-controlled 30mm cannons.
I said to Jack, “Take the helm.”
I got up and retrieved the binoculars from a well on top of the console, then exited the cabin.
Sara called out, “Where are you going?”
“Be right back.”
I climbed the side rungs up the tuna tower and stood holding on to the padded bolster, which I felt had a hole through it. Jack was a lucky guy.
I focused the binocs on the horizon to the east. I couldn’t see the Stenka, but I saw his running lights, so he wasn’t running dark as we were, and there was no reason he should run dark; he was the meanest motherfucker on the water.
I kept looking at the lights on the horizon, then I saw the unmistakable flashes of rapidly firing guns. Holy shit! I called out, “Evasive action!”
I expected Jack to hesitate as he comprehended that order, but The Maine immediately cut hard to port, just as I heard the sound of large-caliber rounds streaking past the boat, then I saw them impacting into the sea and exploding where we would have been.
The Stenka captain wasn’t using tracer rounds, which he’d only use if he could see his target, and with the radar controlling his guns the only thing he wanted to see now was an explosion on the horizon. Meanwhile, I heard Bobby Darin belting out “Mack the Knife.”
The Maine cut to starboard, held course for a few seconds, then cut to port again. Jack was running a tight zigzag, which hopefully was too erratic for the radar-controlled guns to keep up with. But that didn’t stop the Stenka from trying, and I could see the guns on his forward deck lighting up, and now and then I saw the point of impact on the water where the multiple rounds hit and exploded, then I heard the faint sound of his guns, like rolling thunder on the horizon.
There was nothing more to see here, and I started to climb down the tower as The Maine kept changing course quickly at twenty-five knots, making the boat roll hard from side to side. I nearly lost my grip a few times, but I got down to the side rail and jumped onto the deck and shoulder-rolled to starboard with the deck, then rolled to port when The Maine quickly changed course.