Mid Ocean Read online

  MID OCEAN

  by

  T. Rafael Cimino

  Smashwords Edition

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  Published on Smashwords by:

  Mid Ocean

  Copyright 1992-2011 by Akula Media Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  For Thomas Arnold and the other agents in the field who stood tall where others fell.

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  Prologue

  A blanket of dry Virginia snow covered the south lawn of the Arlington National Cemetery while light flakes fell from the sky above. In the distance, rows of snow covered uniform headstones dotted the landscape where scores of America’s honored filled the ground.

  On November 11th, 1977 the ground opened up to accept its newest inhabitant, aided be a Cat diesel-powered backhoe that was conveniently stored far from the ceremony. A small mound of earth had been created and was covered with a forest green felt tarp. The material was sprinkled with snow and lay next to a rectangular hole that was trimmed with the severed roots of the manicured grass that separated the living from the dead.

  Arranging a funeral at the National Cemetery was not an easy task. To do it on a National holiday, Armistice Day, was nearly impossible, but this was no ordinary burial.

  Surrounding the hole were scores of mourners; over two hundred and fifty friends, family, co-workers, and the Vice President of the United States, all of whom admired the man and were truly sorry to see him depart the world. This was an incredible sum for a closed, private funeral, but like a birthday party for the most popular kid in school, most of the mourners cherished their personal invitations to attend. Some were dressed in various uniforms from the armed forces and a wide variety of law enforcement agencies from around the country; others were in suits with most of the women dressed in black. Many wore dark sunglasses that concealed their heart-felt tears.

  For the most part, the entire crowd made the effort to show a genuine level of respect because, after all, John Kenyon was a man of importance. He lived a life of government service as an attorney and a Federal Prosecutor. Kenyon devoted his life to the admirable fight against the rues of evil and the ravages of humanity who were staining the course of mankind, and, more specifically, the Seventh Federal District of the United States, based in Atlanta, Georgia. He had won most of his battles, conceding the rest for another day, knowing that criminals who succeeded at evading his reach would come back, slithering closer, until he had another, more viable, chance to make a claim on their freedom.

  Kenyon had developed an indelible reputation on Capital Hill, earning himself several citations from Presidents Nixon and Ford, thus galvanizing a positive watermark on his career. After a nomination as the next U. S. Attorney General, the confirmation process was all that stood in his way when a fainting spell landed him in the John Hopkins Medical Center Neurological Intensive Care Unit. He was diagnosed with a malignant tumor that was growing at the base of his medulla, a portion of the brain responsible for vital functions. It was this battle that he would not win. It took seven months to complete the task of reducing a great man to a mere shadow. In the end, he died a painfully complete death, ending a legacy that was uniform, deliberate and forceful.

  Kenyon left behind two dedicated children who grew up without the benefit of a mother. Eighteen years before she had abandoned them the night before her daughter’s eighth birthday; a time when her diaper-clad son was teething through a set of incisors and learning to navigate his first steps. Mrs. Kenyon, left a note. She made a plea for her children to forgive her selfish action and understand that she was living a life that she was not designed for. The letter continued by saying that one day they would be re-united and until then she would keep in touch and think of them daily. For all they knew neither promise was fulfilled.

  Eighteen years later, Joel, the youngest Kenyon, at nineteen, stood dressed in the tailored freshman uniform of the Citadel Academy. He had grown up in military preparatory schools, spending the last three years at the prestigious Lyman Ward Academy in Birmingham, Alabama. The school was an hour from the watchful eye of his father who supported him with daily phone calls and weekly letters from home. The boy’s sister, Jhenna, a woman of twenty-six, was a celebrated graduate of GW Law. Unlike the other women, her five-foot eight-inch frame wore a navy blue pantsuit. Throughout the years she had grown to become every bit her father’s daughter. She admired and emulated him as best she could, vowing to fill his shoes.

  A Navy Chaplin plowed through the formal proceedings like a judge who was dispensing a hasty death sentence. The eulogy that followed was filled with sorrow and regret. He recited a story of how he met the deceased, who, at the time, was a young cadet at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. The Chaplin told the story of how the two would have serious conversations about life and justice; conversations, the depth of which, were only matched by the oceans they were sworn to occupy.

  The surviving children listened intently, shuttering with the seven sets of synchronized gunfire that was aimed skyward by three immaculately dressed Marines. Despite their eminent and respective places at the ceremony, the surviving Kenyons stood, defeated, crushed and holding each other with the last bit of strength they possessed; the strength they had reserved for each other. The reality would take months to set in. They were now, truly alone.

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  Intersection

  Fall 1984

  A slate gray wind occupied the night as steep waves crashed through a jagged coral reef. In the distance a battered steel light tower shuttered with every shock inflicted by the twelve to fifteen foot waves. The massive structure rose toward the dark sky, rusty cold iron with barnacles and crustaceans clinging to its supports and cross members. Still, it managed to send out its signal, a crimson beam of light. It marked the living reef known as the Elbow.

  The Elbow ascended from the ocean floor like a mountain, its peak culminating just below the sea’s surface. At its sandy threshold lay the remains of centuries of boats and ships that were lost or disabled. The mighty craft of kings, admirals, and pirates, built of ancient timbers, milled wood, polished steel and shiny Fiberglas now lay twisted, splintered, and decaying on the ocean floor. Fortunes were won and lost running gold, guns, rum and other contraband through this fragile link in America’s border. This unforgiving path of the ocean was located right in the heart of the Gulf Stream, the waters occupying the territory between the Florida Keys and the western boundaries of the Bahamas.

  Amidst the turbul
ence, a lone 30-foot center console powerboat lay anchored securely to the bottom. The bullet-shaped craft was custom built for speed, dark blue and gray with a tubular, canvas-covered top mounted to its helm. Its name, Island Girl, written in script, covered both sides. Named for the captain’s wife and inspired by an Elton John song, it sported three high-powered outboards that laid firmly off her transom, the back of the boat, like sleeping dogs ready for the kill.

  Despite the different varieties of fish all hovering nearby, swimming around the Elbow like bees about a hive, twenty-four year old Bobby Alazar felt the solace of solitude as he sat alone on the craft. His skin was moist and salty from the cold spray coming off the boat’s bow. With every wave the immense vessel surged forward then aft. Its bow dropped below the frothing crests, scooping up the cold water, tossing it airborne.

  The tension on the anchor line must be too tight, not enough scope, Cuban-born Alazar thought to himself. It was a situation that could wait though. His uncle was due to rendezvous within the hour. Philippe Alazar, Gordo to his friends and family, was a seasoned captain, but then again this was not an exact business. There were many variables that could affect the night’s outcome. The most prevalent was the inclement weather that was starting to worsen.

  Bobby’s night work produced a compilation of emotions, mostly tedious hours of boredom interlaced with minutes of excitement. He passed the time pondering which restaurant he would visit once landfall was made. With recent family events -- a wedding, an anniversary and two birthdays -- he was tired of the standard Cuban dish of pork, black beans and rice. His favorite was fettuccini alfredo. Bobby had always maintained a delusion about being an Italian, sometimes telling friends that his family immigrated to Cuba from Sicily.

  Another contraction of his stomach muscle occurred giving him a crude reminder that his appetite had not been met. There was a little Italian place just north of Homestead. It would be open for lunch and he could stop on his way back to Hialeah. The Dulcé Capri was a local landmark and Bobby had eaten there since his early childhood. The parking lot was big enough for his truck and trailered boat. This would work, he thought to himself.

  Nearly two hours had passed. All Bobby Alazar could do was watch the horizon with anticipation, though all that was seen was the light-dotted coast of Key Largo. In the far distance a bolt of lightning illuminated the eastern sky. A clap of thunder soon followed.

  Uncle Gordo was coming from the Cay Sal Banks some one hundred and ten miles away. The four thousand pound cargo of Guatemalan grown marijuana would weigh down his 38-foot powerboat called the Black Duck. Normally capable of speeds in excess of seventy knots, the craft would be lucky to do forty. The storm would only impede his time. In the back of his mind he imagined his two hundred and seventy pound bearded uncle dumping their load mid ocean because they lost their race against the impending daylight. Bobby shook his head with wonder as he reached up into the boat’s overhead electronics cabinet, grabbing a microphone that was connected to a private circuit band ham radio.

  “Crossbow, Crossbow,” he radioed out, waiting for a response.

  “Crossbow, come in over,” he yelled as a stillness of white noise came from the speaker.

  The sky illuminated again followed by a clap of thunder and a gust of wind. As a light rain began to fall, Alazar tried to huddle below the boat’s T-top, a four-foot by six-foot tarp that was wrapped over the tubular frame and affixed to the center console. The fresh rain still managed to embrace his face. Within minutes, water had saturated through his clothes.

  “Crossbow, this is Slingshot,” he yelled again into the radio’s microphone before looking down at the blue-faced, gold and stainless Rolex strapped to his wrist. A brief flash of red light coming from the steel tower in the distance illuminated the dial long enough to see the time. 3:17 a.m. In another three hours the sun would be up and the reef he was anchored to would be swarming with eager, early-morning divers trying to take advantage of the crystal clear water found in the early morning chill.

  The wind shifted and the Island Girl swung on its anchor one hundred and eighty degrees. Bobby could now see the breaking waves just a short distance off the back of his boat as each wave broke down into a pool of white froth as it came in contact with the coral reef just a few feet below the surface. Despite its over-built, two-inch thick Fiberglas hull, the Island Girl would render no match against the razor sharp projectiles of the coral reef now just a few hundred feet away.

  As the rain continued to pour into the open boat, Bobby took a quick survey of the craft. Earlier in the day he had loaded his boat with rods, reels, hand-rigged bait, and a variety of lures and other gear. Unused, the equipment was now bunched up in a clustered pile off in the boat’s port corner, just under the gunwale, the vessel’s top edge. Fish blood was flowing out from the tightly wrapped, newspaper-covered bundles exposing the journalistic header El Miami Herald.

  As Alazar wiped the rain from his face, a brief gleam of red flashed against his forearm. A new tattoo written in script read: Monica-Mi Linda, The World Will Be Yours. The writing was surrounded by a colorful galleon tall ship being engulfed by whitecap-covered seas and was a tribute to his daughter who had just turned three the week before.

  Suddenly, the radio squawked as a familiar but distant voice broke the squelch.

  “Slingshot, come in Slingshot!”

  Bobby returned the message, squeezing the microphone, almost frantic with desperation.

  “Crossbow…”

  The squelch broke again.

  “Slingshot inbounds to you Crossbow.”

  Bobby Alazar recognized Gordo’s voice. La pinga, he mumbled to himself as he brought the rain-drenched microphone again to his mouth.

  “Crossbow, look for the red light,” he told him.

  Silence followed as a few minutes passed. Bobby’s concern peaked as he realized that Gordo should be able to see the red beam of the light tower. Their radio transmissions were fairly safe though. They were using a specially modified ham radio that operated on specific frequencies that were not easily monitored.

  Gordo was frustrated because he was supposed to be the skilled one. His less experienced nephew had planned this trip and already things were starting to appear disorganized. Gordo, in desperation, issued a last minute request.

  “Slingshot, turn on your lights!”

  The younger Alazar switched on the green and red navigation lights mounted into the bow of the Island Girl. Illuminations from the front of the boat created a green and red glow against the oncoming waves. A whitecap broke just short of the taut anchor rope sending a salty mist airborne covering the boat’s deck.

  “Crossbow, come to me. Come to the red light!”

  “I don’t see you Slingshot. I don’t see a red one only a white one - a four second white one!”

  Alazar felt like a sitting target exposing his position next to the forty-foot high tower. Without hesitation, he shut off his lights.

  “No red, white, white tower Slingshot,” Gordo repeated.

  “Shit!” Bobby yelled.

  He realized his uncle was at the wrong reef. Coming from the Cay Sal Banks, a course deviation of only a few degrees could put Gordo’s 38-foot Cigarette miles from his designated destination. There was only one solution. He quickly jumped up on the seat mounted behind the center console and searched through the cluttered electronics cabinet for an area chart. Sunglasses, tanning lotion, some old fishing hooks, more shit, all going over the side of the boat. After minutes of searching he found the chart. It was all wadded up crammed into the back of the small box. Bobby thumbed through the drenched map and then looked down-line from his position. With the course lying before him on paper, he could get a better perspective of Gordo’s location.

  The Island Girl was at the Elbow located directly off Key Largo. The next light to the south was Molasses Reef, named appropriately in the 1930s when a barge of molasses from Havana bound for Miami sank over her. To the north was the Cary’s Fort
Reef light. Both were white and both flashed at a four second interval. He looked closer at the wrinkled chart, trying to read the fine print under the intermittent flash of red light created by the tower. Below the position on the map for the Cary’s Fort light, a note indicated the tower to be almost one hundred feet high; the Molasses tower, less than half its size.

  Gordo tried to keep his Cigarette on course while idling amidst large rolling swells. The frantic voice of Bobby Alazar could barely be heard over the boat’s throbbing five hundred horsepower engines.

  “Crossbow, go to the light and tell me how high it is.”

  “What do you mean how high is it - I’m not out here for a joyride Slingshot!”

  “Just do it, I’ll explain later.”

  Gordo was still over two miles out from the tower. He needed to use caution when approaching the unknown reef. In the driving rain he would have to be right on the tower before its height could be determined. Patrol boats often sat next to the reef towers with their radars spinning and their night vision goggles tuned on the incoming maritime traffic. With their massive diesel power plants, they could easily outrun and catch the loaded down smuggler. Gordo pointed his boat toward the distant white flash. As he gunned the throttles, hot exhaust poured from the transom’s stainless steel headers that cooled the pair of eight hundred horsepower motors. The engines roared with the immense sound echoing in the valleys between waves. As the tower came into sight, the heavy-set Cuban let go of the padded steering wheel, squeezed through the small teak doors to his left, and disappeared below the boat’s long sleek deck. Everything became quiet for the forty-seven-year-old overweight man as he entered the plush cabin of the Cigarette. What had been a monstrous sound was now a soft moan. The boat had been designed with extra creature comforts that were now obsolete to its new owner, with the exception of keeping up appearances during an impromptu boarding or Coast Guard safety check. While the boat rolled about, Gordo tried to keep his balance but fumbled below, being thrown about from side to side. He climbed over the burlap-skinned cubes before finding a black duffel lying against the plush carpet interior. Inside the bag was a set of binoculars, some hard candy, and an Escort radar detector. Gordo removed the Escort and exited the tight confines of the cabin. After plugging it in to the boat’s lighter, he wrapped it in a towel and placed it in front of an illuminated compass. Whether or not the crude device was effective in warning against sophisticated marine radar systems was irrelevant. The false sense of security calmed the paranoid Cuban. Gordo crouched behind the boat’s black Lexan windshield as he continued his assault on the tower while the rain drove itself down onto the long, sleek deck. The deluge was blinding. As he got closer to the reef, the white light bounced off the deck, illuminating the surrounding spray and rain, further obstructing his visibility. He continued further and within minutes saw the outline of the ghostly tower. A magnificent steel structure, it rose nearly fifty feet into the sky.