Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [38]
The distress call echoed again over the VHF.
“Breeze,” Jimmy urged, “we got to change course.” He reached for the microphone. “I’ll tell them we’re comin’.”
Albury brushed the hand away. “Think, goddamnit. Think.”
Jimmy withdrew his hand as though it had been scalded. He looked like a baffled puppy: Albury never yelled at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“What the fuck do you think is wrong? Have you forgotten about our cargo? Hawk Trumbull might understand why I’m carrying twenty dirtbags named José, but the boys at the Coast Guard station won’t—”
“But their boat is sinking….”
“I know, Augie. I’m praying that somebody else is nearby. I can’t get caught with these assholes on board, son. They’ll lock the three of us up and seize the Diamond Cutter. I can’t afford that. Now, turn up the radio and let’s listen.”
The next ten minutes were the longest Albury would endure. Hands wrapped protectively around the wheel, he stared straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. The silence was wracking; Albury could taste the resentment and bewilderment that flowed from Jimmy and Augie. Jimmy did not really understand. Augie did, and, understanding, he would have run hell-for-leather to the sinking boat anyway. From the corner of his eye, Albury watched Augie. If he were five years older, he would cold-cock me and take the helm, Albury thought. That is what I would have done. Once.
The squall was losing its fury, and the Diamond Cutter rode easier. Albury willed the radio to life. The Coast Guard, a tanker, a long-liner, surely somebody had heard the Darlin’ Betty’s distress call. They were near the shipping lanes now, but tonight, perversely, there were no ships at sea. Or they were all deaf. No one had heard the dying call a Conch fisherman had launched into the thunder-heads. There was no one but Breeze Albury to lift the microphone and say he was on his way.
He had to go, but he could not. Twice his hands began to spin the wheel for a more precise course toward the stricken craft, but twice he drew back. To go would be to lose everything: his boat, his freedom, his ticket off the Keys, even his son. Not to go was to lose his manhood. Feverish with self-disgust, Albury could devise no alternative. He looked straight ahead.
Then the radio whined to life a final time.
“Mayday, Mayday, somebody …” It was the excited voice of a boy. “Grandpa is hurt and we are leaving the boat. Good-bye.”
“Dear God in heaven!” This time Albury made no attempt to hide the tears. Jimmy bit his lip and turned away.
“Mayday, please,” came the last faint transmission.
Albury flicked the wheel a few points to port and opened the throttle to its last stop. He snatched the microphone, but he did not say what he wanted to say. The squall was abating to a mist. There was one chance for Hawk Trumbull now, one that would save Albury as well.
“Mayday! Mayday!” Albury barked through a dry throat. “This is the fishing vessel Darlin’ Betty, Whiskey Kilo Alpha Three Six Six. We are sinking two miles east of French Reef, six miles southwest of the Elbow. Abandoning ship. Can you copy, Mayday!”
The response was instantaneous.
“Darlin’ Betty, this is Coast Guard Islamorada. Could you repeat your position?”
Thank God, Albury thought. Thank God the Diamond Cutter had a decent radio. He repeated Trumbull’s position, nine miles southwest of his own, then broke off in mid-sentence to make it sound as though he had lost power.
“Stand by,” the Coast Guard operator said. “Stand by.”
Albury could imagine figures hunched tensely around a plotting table, a duty officer rubbing sleep from his eyes, a klaxon sounding to awaken a crew. It was too dark for a helicopter. It would have to be a patrol boat.
Even flat out from the Coast Guard station at Plantation Key, an able patrol boat would need thirty minutes. The Diamond Cutter would be there first.
“What are the Colombians doing, Jimmy?” Albury asked, as though it mattered. They could do anything