He stared at the encrypted satellite phone strapped to the console, realizing he was a bit overdue for his initial call, but at the moment Ibarra had more pressing issues, like the view beyond the thick windowpanes, ominous even to the veteran sailor. There was something unnatural about staring up at the white tops of waves as tall as the motorsailer’s masts.
You can do this, Javi.
Ibarra settled behind the controls as his father’s voice echoed in his mind. He had done everything by the book, shifting cargo to improve the boat’s balance and securing all hatches to make Erasmus impermeable.
Keeping the throttles at one-third power, he guided the vessel at a minimum speed into the jaws of the mounting waves, pounding headfirst against breakers as the storm gathered strength.
When the windblasts topped fifty-two miles per hour, and the torrential rainfall reduced visibility to zero, Ibarra briefly lost his sense of direction.
“Javi!” Mendoza shouted as the windscreen cleared for a moment — enough for Ibarra to see a towering rogue wave crashing over the bow. The impact rolled the heavy yacht over on its starboard side and tossed both men onto the deck.
He struck something hard as the mainmast went underwater for a few moments before the sturdy Cheoy Lee righted herself.
Get up, Javi.
Get up!
He did, scrambling back to the helm, the side of his face feeling warm, almost burning.
“You’re bleeding!” Mendoza shouted as he staggered toward him with a towel.
But Ibarra only cared about one thing: the engine gauges. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of both tachometers still showing the Cummins humming away at eleven hundred RPM.
Grabbing the wheel, he steered the bow directly into the next wave, adjusting the dual throttles and crashing through it.
Only then did he allow a quick glance at his feet and see the blood dripping down his legs and onto the teak floor. Mendoza tried to keep the towel pressed against his head, but the lurching of the ship made it near impossible.
His heart pounding like a drum, and his own watery blood running down the side of his face, Ibarra used the flashes of lightning to help him see through the squall.
The churning sea constantly changed direction as thunder clapped. He used just enough throttle to make headway, fighting panic as breakers crashed over the boat and the wheel fought his attempts to hold course.
All thoughts of money disappeared as he contemplated the real possibility of dying at sea, and the thought made him think of his father again, of the feelings that must have swept through him during his final moments.
But Erasmus was almost five times the size of that old fishing rig, and it had been designed specifically for transoceanic journeys. It had even been constructed to roll completely and straighten herself out.
So, he persisted, wave after explosive wave. Foam and surf engulfed them as he guided the motorsailer, its bow stabbing the waves again and again, confident in his training, in his watertight vessel, and in his experienced crew.
Slowly the yacht punched through to the other side of the front, as visibility steadily increased and the winds gradually declined, along with the size of the swells pounding his hull, leaving the storm behind and once again accelerating through calmer seas.
He decided to keep it simple and just stick to the diesels until they were completely away from the front, steering west.
Mendoza pulled out a first-aid kit beneath the console and started working on the side of his head.
“Nice one, cabrón,” the native from San Sebastian mumbled, applying first several Steri-Strips and then a dressing over the wound. “Definitely an improvement. The chicas back home will go crazy.”
Ibarra chuckled as the first sign of sunlight pierced through the clouds.
Leaving the helm in Mendoza’s capable hands, Ibarra headed two levels belowdecks to the engine room. He found Sammy Chen, his chief mechanic, crawling between the rumbling Cummins. The slim native of Taipei, dressed in oil-stained coveralls with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, looked up from his work. He pointed to the side of his forehead, exposing a heavily tattooed forearm.
“You should see the other guy!” Ibarra shouted over the engine noise, and Chen gave him a thumbs-up before vanishing behind the diesels.
Off to the side, working an electrical panel, stood Jorge Diaz, his back to Ibarra. A former lieutenant with the Armada Española, or Spanish Navy, Diaz knew the North Atlantic better than anyone, plus he also held a degree in electronics from some online university Ibarra couldn’t remember.
Leaving them to their duties, Ibarra headed one level up to the main salon, just below the bridge, and looked around quickly to make sure nothing had gotten loose before pulling on a handle hidden behind a sofa.
A three-by-four hatch swung open on the teak floor between the galley and the lounge, nearly invisible until now, exposing a set of steps dropping into the vessel’s secret cargo area custom built by Girón between the forward and stern cabins one level below. Turning on the light, he stepped down to the spacious compartment used by his old mentor to smuggle drugs around the globe before Ibarra had continued the tradition and added arms to his list of clandestine services. He inspected the assortment of rifles, submachine guns, pistols, and RPGs secured to the walls before his eyes converged on the metallic case still fastened to hard points on the floor with yellow heavy-duty ratchet straps. This was, by far, the most critical — and most lucrative — object he had ever smuggled.
Kneeling by it, Ibarra entered the code on the digital keypad given to him by Al Saud, and lifted the hinged lid.
The weapon appeared undamaged — at least as far as he could tell. Breathing a sigh of relief, the Basque sailor headed back up to the bridge, where he found Mendoza still at the helm.
Angry cumulous clouds had given way to an orange-stained sky that filled Ibarra with the renewed hope that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to fulfill this contract and live to enjoy the fortune sitting in his account in Costa Rica.
Satisfied that all was once again in order, Ibarra reached for the satellite phone. But as coincidence would have it, the gadget beeped twice.
Mendoza looked over from the helm. “That is strange, sí?”
“Indeed.”
He read the message twice, frowned, then turned to Mendoza and said, “Flank speed. We need to reach the entrance to Chesapeake Bay as soon as possible.”
The time had come to part ways with the oil tanker that had been their lifeline, providing them with a stealthy ride away from the carnage they’d caused in Singapore.
Yuri Sergeyev hated to leave its protective baffle, but the tanker had started a northwest turn, and Sergeyev’s rendezvous coordinates required him to steer east, toward the Philippines. But rather than breaking off and continuing on their preordained course at their current speed and depth, Sergeyev had an old Cold War trick up his sleeve. One he knew better than most.
The trick called for a brief period of silence to give the sonar operator a chance to listen for enemy contacts. Although the baffle from the tanker’s screws had kept them safe from enemy vessels, it also blinded their sonar arrays. For all Sergeyev knew, the entire US Pacific Fleet could be steaming right alongside his boat.
“Rudder amidships,” he said. “All stop. Hold bearing. Set depth six-zero-zero feet. Not a sound, Anatoli.”