Tony Mariano was a member of C Company, and he was goddamned angry at Ames and some of the others. He knew the farmers had started the shooting because the first shot had kicked up dust five feet away from Tony himself. And even before the soldiers had fired a single shot, one of the men in his squad had been hit as they were running forward to hide behind a big fallen tree trunk about thirty feet from the back of the henhouse. So if a few farmers had gotten killed, they had only themselves to blame. The captain’s going around trying to find out who had advanced without orders was a waste of time.
But though Tony thought his company’s actions had been justified, he still found the whole business as unpleasant as most of the others. Tony himself had been wounded in the left side, but was laughed at by the other soldiers when the corpsman who examined the wound and extracted the bullet announced that it was a pellet from a BB gun.
“Hey, Mariano,” his corporal had shouted at him. “Aren’t pellet guns outlawed by the Geneva Convention?” and the whole squad had laughed. Tony had seen the fifteen-year-old that had been killed: the young body and face chewed up by at least three slugs from someone’s automatic rifle. Tony hadn’t killed him—at least he didn’t think he had—but he had sure blasted the henhouse pretty good before Sergeant Viagio had yanked the gun out of his hand and shouted for him to stop.
By the time they had marched back to Morehead, it was almost seven o’clock and he, like the rest, was exhausted and starving and filthy from wrestling with hogs and chickens. In the mess hall they were served another meal of fish and eggs, but with two or three cans of beer apiece, thank God. Jim Stoor was there, and he told Jim about the battle, trying to explain that it was a serious and necessary business, but he could see that Jim was appalled. Goddamn it, there was a war on!
At eight, when a soldier told Jim that his father was outside, Tony went along to see what was up. Frank and Neil were standing in the dusk at the side of the former restaurant that now served as the mess hall for the garrison. Frank quickly explained to his son about their decision to try to take Vagabond back out to sea.
“I’m coming,” said Jim.
“What the fuck,” Tony burst out. “You’re deserting? And you, Neil, how come you’re not in uniform?”
“Wrong war,” said Neil, echoing Greg Bonnville’s words. “Do you want to join us?”
Tony looked at Neil uncertainly, his loyalty to his country battling with the fear aroused by the sight of others fleeing an approaching danger.
“I’m no deserter,” he finally said sullenly.
Neil turned away.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Hold it!” Tony shouted. “If you take Jim now, I’ll be an accessory or something.”
The other three stopped and turned to face him.
“If everyone acted as selfishly as you guys, our society would be doomed,” Tony continued aggressively. “It’s my duty to report you to my superiors.”
“Come with us,” Neil said gently.
“You won’t make it,” Tony countered. “The Coast Guard won’t let you put out to sea. Don’t go, Jim. They’re shooting deserters.”
“I was going to desert even if the fallout weren’t coming,” Jim said. “I’m going.”
“I’m not letting you guys—” Tony began, but then Neil’s fist slammed into the side of his face. He staggered backward into darkness.
The night was overcast, as Neil had hoped, although on the northern horizon a few stars could be seen, which indicated an approaching high pressure system. With the wind blowing out of the east at fifteen knots, the passage out the inlet would be rough.
By midnight they were putting the plan they’d developed into execution. Conrad Macklin had stolen a small abandoned fishing vessel named Moonchaser and enough fuel to get it to where Neil wanted it. They had tied and tacked Vagabond’s blue carpets along her white port sides and decking to reduce glare and the chances of being seen by the Coast Guard’s searchlight. They had even packed mud on the lower part of the masts to cut down reflection.
Neil and Jim were on board the fishing smack, which was towing Vagabond’s dinghy with its outboard motor tilted up. Frank was at the helm of the trimaran, with Olly, Macklin, Jeanne, and Lisa as crew. Skippy was asleep in the port berth, Katya was on call, and Tony was tied up in the forepeak.
Neil had taken Tony back to the docks because he’d feared that he would get the authorities to investigate Vagabond. He had planned to leave Tony behind at the last minute, but Macklin had argued vehemently that Tony might still raise the alarm and, besides, was the best sailor they had for a long voyage. When Frank agreed, Neil decided they could abandon Tony in the Bahamas if he wanted off or didn’t work out.
The escape plan was for Neil and Jim to scuttle Moonchaser on the eastern side of the inlet, at Shackleford Point, to draw the patrol launch over while Vagabond would motor along the western side of the inlet a quarter mile away, pick up Neil and Jim, who would cross the inlet in the dinghy to join them, and make a run for it.
As Neil steered the sluggish Moonchaser toward the inlet a light rain began to fall. Neil had decided that he and Jim should take the decoy vessel, because he had confidence they could do the job and because if Vagabond were seen and stopped, without them aboard the Coast Guard might let the ship proceed, simply removing the deserter Tony. Of course he hadn’t told Macklin or Tony this line of thought.
As he brought Moonchaser to within three-quarters of a mile of the patrol path of the cutter he realized that with the rain falling he could no longer depend on seeing the unlighted buoys and stakes that he’d planned to use to stay out of the main channel to avoid being spotted. Now he’d have to stay in the main channel, hoping the rain would cut visibility so much that he could get the old fishing smack scuttled before the Coast Guard came close enough to see them taking off in the dinghy.
Jim stood beside him in the little wheelhouse, his face wet with rain from peering around the salt-streaked window trying to pick up the channel buoys and look for signs of shoal water. He could barely make out the flashing red light of the next channel marker, but beyond that he could see neither the running lights nor the searchlight of the Coast Guard patrol. Neil was keeping Moonchaser to the left of the main channel, motoring slowly forward against the incoming tide. Then, at a little after one, he opened up the throttle and headed for Shackleford Point and the planned scuttling.
Jim still saw no clear sign of the Coast Guard except for brief flashes of white that Neil said were the searchlight. The wind had picked up and seemed to be blowing the rain and seaspray directly into his face. Although it was a warm rain, he was shivering. He had on a foul-weather jacket, but his legs were bare and cold beneath his swimsuit. Then he saw what Neil had said would be the last two lighted buoys before the point: “a flashing red and a flashing green.” He had to yell now over the noise of the engine.
“I’ll take us just to port of the red one,” Neil shouted back. “Get its number. And watch for the cutter.”
They seemed to approach the blinking red light on the red bell with aggravating slowness, but once they were there, Neil steered to within a few feet of the loud mournful gonging and Jim verified that it had “16” stenciled in white paint on its side. Almost the moment he looked forward again after they’d passed the bell, he saw the green starboard running light and sweeping searchlight of the cutter. It seemed to be a quarter mile off in the blackness and wet wind, almost dead ahead. It was moving west across the channel—away from Shackleford Bank.