Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [39]
“They’re mostly lyin’ around on the deck, Breeze. I think the storm made ’em wish they were dead.”
The radio swamped Albury’s response.
“Darlin’ Betty, this is Coast Guard Islamorada. The cutter Dauntless is thirteen miles north northeast of your position and will assist.”
Dauntless. A good ship. Probably looking for me, Albury thought ruefully. And now she’ll find me.
Then, with mournful precision, the Coast Guard operator began that universal sailors’ litany of hope and despair.
“Calling all ships. The fishing vessel Darlin’ Betty reports she is sinking off French Reef in two hundred feet of water. Coast Guard has lost radio contact. All ships in the area please respond to a sector two miles east of French Reef, over.”
Albury cursed himself for forgetting to say how many people were aboard Trumbull’s boat. He listened without expression while better men accepted the challenge of the sea.
Out in the Florida Straits, the Norwegian captain of a giant bulk carrier, Maracaibo to Boston, rang for more speed and to hell with the company computers that would later demand an accounting for unprogrammed fuel expenditure. Bending over his ship-to-shore, the Chinese deck officer of a rusty freighter bound for Charleston from Shanghai decided to risk criticism and altered course. Marine radios were suddenly alive with promising voices intent on a single purpose. In their midst, the Diamond Cutter sailed alone, in shame and silence.
As the ship captains exchanged positions, Augie listened somberly, his jaw set. “Too far away, all of them, Breeze,” he said.
“Yeah. Looks like we’re up.”
“It’ll work out,” Jimmy offered. “It’s a rescue, Breeze, what are they gonna do? Give us a medal, then throw us in jail for smuggling?”
“The law is the law,” Albury replied.
“This is the Keys, man,” Jimmy said.
“We’d better get on the radio and tell ’em we’re in the area,” Augie urged. “We’re so close now they might mistake us for the Darlin’ Betty.”
“Yeah.”
They were good boys, both of them, Albury reflected. Maybe he could tell Customs that they hadn’t known about the illegals, or that he had forced them to come along, threatened them. Maybe that would get them off the hook. And thank God he had not let Ricky talk him into coming, too.
Albury’s palms were moist, but his hands were steady when he lifted the VHF microphone from its holder.
“Let’s go out in style,” he murmured, then cleared his throat.
“Coast Guard Islamorada, this is the fishing vessel Diamond Cutter, Captain William Albury. I’m in the area of French Reef and I will assist the Mayday, over. My posi—”
“… in the storm.”
The foggy voice leaped from the Diamond Cutter’s tinny radio speaker. It was a Latin voice, speaking slow and deliberate English.
“Por Dios, he must be right on top of us. Who is he?” Augie grabbed a pair of binoculars and bounded from the wheelhouse.
“Your transmission is broken up,” the Coast Guard operator said patiently. “Vessel calling, please repeat.”
Albury took a deep breath, the microphone dangling loosely from his right hand. Talk! he wanted to scream. Talk back and save me.
“This is the motor vessel Rio Limay,” the Latin voice answered at last. “Buenos Aires to New York, general cargo. My antenna was damaged in a storm, but I have heard the Mayday. I believe I am now in the location of the vessel in distress. Coast Guard, do you read?”
“This is the Coast Guard Islamorada calling the motor vessel Rio Limay. You’re breaking up on the VHF; can you call on ship-to-shore, over?”
“Breeze!” Augie shouted from the deck. “Dead ahead, about half a mile.”
Albury saw the squat form of the freighter, black in the predawn grayness, almost dead in the water. It lay straight off the Diamond Cutter’s bow.
A white flare suddenly burst farther inshore, spitting pink sparks into the mist. Albury eased the helm, dropped the throttle a couple notches, and killed his running lights. In a dense stillness, the crawfish boat wallowed parallel to the freighter.
“Coast Guard calling