Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

When Anna got up to relieve me at the helm, I pulled a floor panel, unscrewed an access port on a below-floor water tank, stuck in a drinking straw, and repeatedly sucked up mouthfuls of fresh water to spit it into the kettle. Eventually I’d accumulate enough water — and spit — for a cup of coffee. Without electrical power, it was the only way to get at the last of our fresh water. Luckily the propane stove worked without electricity, or so I thought. Turns out propane is fed from the tanks through an electrical shutoff solenoid which, without power, is permanently off. Swearing and thrashing around for tools, I performed a quick and dirty bypass of the propane cut-off solenoid. Nothing gets between me and my coffee.

Electrical power or no, we urgently needed to make contact with Tom regarding landing in Gibraltar. The satellite modem ran off the boat’s now defunct electrical system. The solar panels didn’t gather enough diffuse sunlight through the fog to do anything for the huge battery banks. They were, however, generating enough electricity to power the satellite transceiver directly. I scrounged wire from an extension cord and hardwired the transceiver’s power input to the solar panels’ output. Its lights went green and it found a satellite. I hooked up the Dell to apprise Tom of our current state of disrepair and check on the arrangements he was making to enable us to land.

We’re now 50 hours from Gibraltar. Looking forward to meeting your friend, Reg, and stopping for repairs and rest.

This is our current state: *failed radar *failed autopilot *failed wind vane self steering *failed water maker *failed engine alternator *no on board electrics or engine starter — engine is running now *two functional sails *almost no fresh water *no charts for the Atlantic.

Tom sent along the details of the meeting he had set up with Reg, one of his many international friends in the right places, and made it clear that Anna would not be able to leave the vessel. Then he cryptically suggested I keep my unmentionables, like film, well hidden.

We should have seen the Rock of Gibraltar. According to hand scrawled GPS coordinates on a paper chart, we were right there in its backyard. An oily fog kept us from seeing anything: the Rock, the anchored freighters or the ships plowing toward us. Warnings on the chart, ponderously slow wakes out of nowhere, a nearly subsonic throbbing and a heavy smell of scorched bitumen were the indisputable proof, we were lurking blind in the midst of giants. No radar, no lights, no depth sounder; we weren’t about to move above a crawl in that murk. With nothing much to do but wait and try not to hit anything or get hit, Anna took the helm and I went below for some shut-eye between damp, stinking sheets.

Two hours later, after a sort-of sleep, I was standing in the companionway trying to make sense of a steel cliff rising through a thick haze. “Holy mother of god. What…”

“Some kind of ship. It’s huge, it’s anchored, it’s not moving and I can see it. Gives me a point of reference and we’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s going to run it down so we’re safe here until the fog lifts.” Anna had us idling in the shadow of an anchored liquid natural gas carrier.

“Well done!” I was impressed with her logic.

Anna smiled.

When the rising temperature started to consume the mist, we could make out the milky outlines of dozens of anchored freighters and finally The Rock of Gibraltar itself.

Gibraltar was more of an industrially scarred mountain than a rock. Visual reference to anything was a relief, though, and we followed the shore around to the marina. At the check-in the dock, I jumped off and tied the lines. Anna, as instructed by Tom and following carefully laid plans, stayed on board with the engine running.

I ascended a flight of steel grid stairs cantilevered off a floating building marked MARINA OFFICE — Check In Here. On the second floor a corpulent young man sat behind a counter gazing at a computer screen. He glanced up at my approach. “Right mate, how long for how long?”

“Actually, I’m looking for Reg.” I said.

“He got the sack.”

I stared, trying to think.

“Got the sack, mate. Don’t work here no more. So, how many nights? Nothing long term.” He tossed a photocopied rate sheet on the counter. “That your Beneteau? Nice work those Frenchies do.”

“It’s a Beneteau. As for how many nights, I need to speak to Reg.”

“So you says.” He waved a meaty arm at Shadow and hunched closer to the window. “Last port? You got EU clearance?”

“Turkey.” I ignored the part about clearance.

He peered through duct-taped binoculars at Shadow. Anna had climbed on deck to secure the lines. “Blimey, you’re those Ruskies!”

“I’m Canadian.” I backed toward the door, still clutching our documents.

“S-H-A-D-O-W,” he read out. “Yeah, that’s this whole ‘Reg’ thing. I gotta call this in.” He dropped the binoculars and scrambled for the phone.

I backed through the door onto the steel grid landing.

“Stop. You can’t leave.” Rushing me, still holding the receiver, the phone clattered across the floor.

Half way down the stairs I swung over the rail, taking the last two meters in free fall. “Untie now!” I shouted to Anna. “Throw the lines. Leave em!” I sprinted down the dock, leaped onto our drifting yacht and shoved the throttle forward.

Shadow belched bluish-black smoke and started to cough before roaring to life. Water washed onto the dock. On deck, Anna fell backwards. “What’s happening?”

“We’re screwed! Last I heard from Tom was, if anything went wrong our fail-safe was Spanish territory — over there.” I pointed toward Spanish waters on the other side of an airport’s runway. It sliced across the peninsula into the bay. “Said Spain probably won’t cooperate with Gibraltar. Let’s hope he’s right!”

“What went wrong? Where is the man you were supposed to meet?” Anna crab-crawled along the deck to the cockpit. Police sirens rose and fell over the roar of the engine.

“Tom messed up. We’ve been burned. They bloody knew we were coming!”

A steep slope of boulders marked the end of the runway. The western approach for planes was cordoned off by floating markers extending further out. I saw macaroni and cheese colored buildings and anchored yachts to the north, through the approach. Something big was lined up on final, flaps, slats and wheels down. I steered hard right, into the no-go approach zone. An unlikely collision with a jetliner was the least of my worries.

In Spanish water, Anna kept Shadow idling among the anchored boats. I watched for speedboat activity from Gibraltar and was ready to run Shadow onto the beach at full throttle and make a run for Spain if we had to. We’d take our best shot at outrunning the bastards before giving up. Mad as hell, I wired the solar panels to the satellite modem and sent Tom a spirited email.

His response was almost instantaneous.

Situation compromised. Don’t know how but easy guess with Gibraltar the last stop before the big pond. The way I see it there might be ‘company’ coming and you’re going nowhere in that boat, way it is. You still have fuel? Find a Spanish dock and let Anna off to make a refugee claim in Spain before it’s too late. You might lose the boat but it’s better than losing your lives.

I showed the message to Anna. “He wants me to make a refugee claim in Spain?”

“Yeah, it’s dangerous to cross the Atlantic in a small boat and with the state this one is in, it’s more than likely we won’t make it.”

“Make it?” Anna repeated.

“Alive, won’t make it alive . In other words, end up dead.” I took a breath and started to rattle off the litany of woes. “Shadow’s a mess. We have no real navigation equipment, no charts, no water, electricity, radar… no autopilot and don’t forget that the stupid wind vane crumbled and furthermore, I don’t know how much fuel we have. I’d think that’s why Tom suggests giving up this fight, making a refugee claim, and living to fight another day.” I waved toward the Strait of Gibraltar. “In Spain we’ll be at the mercy of officials — they probably won’t kill us. Out there we’re at the mercy of the ocean and it probably will.”