Sara and I turned around and I saw the stern of The Maine coming toward us through the swamp mist. The boat was about fifty feet away, and as it got closer I saw Jack kneeling on the rear bench, aiming a rifle—the AR-15—at the shore, but he was holding his fire, obviously unsure of what was happening. I could make out the silhouette of Felipe in the darkened cabin, and I imagined he was glancing over his shoulder as he steered sternway toward us, maybe with a little guidance and encouragement from Jack.
Felipe was making less than five knots, which would be normal for these water hazards but too slow for getting our asses out of here under fire. In fact, it was probably the gunfire that made Felipe display an abundance of caution. But, to be fair, he was still coming.
Sara was kneeling, pushing off with the pole, and I was dividing my attention between the shore and The Maine. We were in thicker mist now, which was good regarding the guys with the AK-47s, who’d stopped firing, but I wasn’t sure Jack had actually seen us. So I stood and waved silently. Jack spotted me and waved back, and as I dropped to one knee a loud burst of AK-47 fire streaked over my head. I spun around and dropped into a prone position and fired my last magazine at the shoreline, and when my AK clicked empty I could hear the sharp sound of Jack’s AR-15 returning fire. Glad he remembered the extra ammo. Hope he remembered to put his vest on.
I had two magazines of 9mm left and I slapped one into the Glock. We were about a hundred feet from the shore, well beyond the effective range of the Glock, but I emptied the magazine at the shoreline just to be involved. Jack meanwhile was pumping out rounds like he was surrounded by V.C.
I glanced at Sara and saw she was exhausted, barely hanging on to the pole, and I noticed that the incoming tide was carrying us back toward the shore. Shit.
The guys on the shore—maybe four or five of them—were apparently getting over the shock of the explosion and were starting to lay down effective fire. I saw tracer rounds streaking over The Maine, then it looked like a few rounds entered the cabin. I hoped that Felipe didn’t lose his nerve and hightail it out. Would he do that to Sara?
The Maine was less than twenty feet from us, and if we could stop drifting toward the shore we’d meet up in a minute or two, but Felipe was not appreciating the situation and wasn’t moving toward us as fast as the tide was moving us away from The Maine.
Sara suddenly called out, “Felipe! Faster! Faster!”
I don’t know if he’d ever heard that word before in another context, but it worked, and I heard the engine growl and The Maine got closer.
I scrambled over the raft, grabbed Sara, and pulled her behind the two steamer trunks. The AK rounds couldn’t penetrate the wads of paper, but they’d probably go through skulls—just as they had forty years ago in Villa Marista prison. I positioned myself between the trunks and Sara, then pushed her flat on the raft. I heard a round smack into one of the trunks but it didn’t exit, so the trunks gave us some cover, and the dark and the mist gave us some concealment. Theoretically we were not in the line of fire—until we had to get ourselves and the trunks onboard.
The Maine was less than ten feet away now and I could see Jack’s face as he took careful aim and kept up a steady volley of fire, and I could hear the crack of his rounds as they sailed over my head.
Then, for some reason, Jack suddenly stood, maybe to get a clearer shot of the shoreline, and I yelled, “Get down!”
But he kept standing, steadied his aim, and got off a few rounds before a green tracer knocked him off the bench and back onto the deck.
Sara saw what happened and let out a scream, then got herself under control and shouted, “Those bastards!”
Hey, they’re just kids doing their job. Been there. Jack, too. Come on, Jack. Get up. “Jack!”
But he didn’t answer.
The stern of The Maine was only a few feet from the raft now, and I heard Felipe shout, “Jump! Jump!”
I said to Sara, “Go ahead. Quick!”
“The trunks . . .”
“Go!”
“No!”
Shit.
Felipe shouted again, “Jump! I’m leaving! I’m going!”
Asshole. You’d think he’d never been shot at. The Maine was at idle, and the tide and current were starting to separate us again. I yelled out, “Reverse!” I grabbed Sara around the waist and started to lift her onto my shoulder. A few more rounds hit the trunks, and I saw a tracer hit the stern, putting a dot right above the “I” in Fishy Business. Holy shit.
Diesel doesn’t explode like gasoline but . . . we didn’t need any more incendiary rounds in the fuel tank.
Time to get aboard before we got shot or left behind. I said to Sara, calmly and slowly, “You have to get up and get on that boat.”
She got into a crouching position, glanced at the two trunks that were between her and the gunfire, then looked at the boat, which was now about five feet from the raft.
I don’t know what would have happened next—Sara jumping for the boat, or Felipe pushing forward on the throttle and leaving us there—but something hit me in the face, and it took a second for me to realize it was a line thrown from The Maine. I grabbed it and heard Jack’s voice. “Secure the line!”
I dropped to the deck, looped the line through the hemp rope that bound the logs together, and shouted, “Forward!”
The Maine began to move forward, and the floating dock was towed away from the shore and the gunfire, and deeper into the mist.
Jack appeared at the stern, kneeling on the bench, and he was staring at me. I called out over the sound of the engine, “You okay?”
“What’s it to you, asshole?”
He sounded fine. “You get hit?”
“Vest.”
Good purchase.
We were clearing the mangroves, and Felipe put on some speed, and within a few minutes we were in the Bay of Dogs, on a westerly heading.
Sara sat up and put her arm around my shoulders. She was breathing hard, but getting it together.
“You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
I glanced up at the cabin and saw that Felipe was checking us out.
It was time to come aboard and I called out, “Idle!”
Jack shouted to Felipe, “Idle!”
The engine got quieter and The Maine slowed.
Jack pulled the line, hand over hand, until the raft was against the boat’s stern.
Sara and I stood, and Jack reached his hand out to her, as he’d done when she first came aboard The Maine—but this time I put my hands on her butt and she kicked her legs out to the stern while I pushed and Jack pulled. She tumbled onto the stern bench, and Jack said, “Welcome aboard!”
She gave him a hug, hesitated, then glanced at me and went into the cabin.
So Jack and I, with two secured lines, pulled the trunks onboard, and he set them on the deck. I pitched the two backpacks to him, scrambled aboard The Maine, then cut the line. Felipe opened the throttle and we picked up speed across the bay, leaving the floating dock behind us.
Sara was still in the cabin, talking to her boyfriend, and I was left with Jack, who complained, “I think I got a cracked rib.”
“An AK-47 round will do that.”
“You owe me combat pay.”
“You owe me your life.”
“No, you owe me your life, asshole.”
“We’ll work it out.”
He asked, “What’s in the trunks?”
“Well . . . the heavy trunk has a billion dollars’ worth of property deeds, worth nothing.”
“Yeah? And the other trunk?”
“I’ll show you later.”
“Worth risking our lives for?”
“It is.”
“Better be.”