Randy White - North of Havana

"Know what I think, Geis? I think they found those bodies back in Mariel and they're going to shoot no matter what."

"Then why's the fucking patrol boat already pulling off?"

I took a quick look behind us. It was true. The cruiser appeared to have slowed and changed course. It seemed to be turning out to sea. Would they give up so easily if they had found the four dead guardsmen? It seemed unlikely.

But the power boat was still on us, vectoring like a bullet. Less than a half mile behind and closing fast.

"And choppers-you don't think they'd dispatch a chopper after us if they knew? Hell yes, they would. Cuba's still got an air force and those boys love to shoot. They wouldn't miss a chance like this. A moving target? Shit." As if he'd have enjoyed the chance himself.

I turned my eyes toward the sky: high white mackerel clouds; sea birds kiting in the Gulf Stream breeze. No aircraft.

Maybe Geis was right…

But what if they had found the bodies? Or what if someone found them while the Guardia Frontera had us stopped? The patrol boat would undoubtedly have a radio.

It was possible that the Whaler had one, too. I wasn't going to risk it.

I looked past Geis; he was still scanning the surf line, looking for an opening. It appeared to be a solid line of coral, some of it exposed to the wind. Hit it at speed, the engine would be ripped off our boat and we'd be catapulted out, cut to pieces. I pictured us on foot, fighting the breakers, getting sliced apart with every step while the men in the Whaler took their time; sat off and opened fire.

"Listen, you dumbass Yankee"-Geis was reaching for the fuel tank-"if you won't stop us, I will." He got his hands on the fuel hose, was trying to rip it off, when I pivoted and hit him hard between the ear and the jaw. He sat back dumbly, trying to blink his vision clear. I watched him move his hands-for the automatic rifle still slung over his shoulder, I thought-but no; only to feel his jaw. "Goddamn," he said, "that really fucking hurt!"

My left hand was on the throttle; the. 45 Browning was on the wet deck, my right hand touching it. "You try something like that again, I'll throw you out of the boat. Or I'll shoot you."

Still wiggling his jaw, he studied my eyes-no doubt; I meant it. Said, "Either one, try to throw me out or shoot me, that's okay. But don't you ever hit me again. Not and expect to live, anyway." His eyes telling me, yeah, he meant it, too.

I moved my right hand from the deck to the safety lashing on the Avon's pontoon, holding tight. I was running parallel to the reef now, far enough off to avoid the breakers, but the surge and lift of every wave tilted us crazily to the left, our port side, causing the outboard's propeller to scream when it broke free of the water.

"They're going to stick their bow right up our ass, Ford. If you're going to outrun them, do it!" Geis was squatting now, looking behind us, both hands gripping the boat. A new objective, a new Geis-suddenly the cheerleader. "Three guys in uniform… yeah, they're Guardia. And one of them's bringing out a rifle… shit, no, it's one of those damn baby machine pistols."

I swung my head for just a moment-the Whaler was no more than sixty yards back; too much of a blur to confirm what Geis was seeing. I was concentrating on the reef: a wall of brown staghorn coral; flashes of reds and greens as the waves broke over it. There had to be some kind of tidal cut…

But there wasn't. None that I could see… not with my damn glasses coated with salt spray.

"He's bringing his weapon up, Ford. Trying to aim in this shit. The son-of-a-bitch, he's-well, fuck him, I can play that game, too." Now Geis was trying to unsling his MP5, bouncing around in the bow, his feet slipping, landing hard on his butt. "Stop this goddamn boat so I can shoot!"

"Hang on! I'm going to try and jump the reef."

"What?"

"I catch one of these waves just right, I think I can jump us over the lip. We make it, there's no way they can follow us."

I wasn't certain I believed it, but I was starting to panic. My muscles had gone rigid, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet at any moment.

"If you're going to do it, do it. Shit!"

I was watching the swells rolling in off to my right. Pretty big swells, six- to seven-footers, that seemed to absorb elevation and pitch as they glided onto the reef. I was also studying the reef, looking for the narrowest band of staghorn. It didn't seem to be much more than eight or nine feet wide here. I saw a large, glassy roller ahead and off to my right, way out, and I turned the boat toward it. Pounded full speed at what I hoped was a precise point of intersection, then I pulled the tiller hard toward me, turning sharply toward the coral… looked ahead and could see nothing but white spray… looked behind us and saw the wave gathering mass and height, and I twisted the throttle open, trying to match our speed to the speed of the wave. Heard Geis yell something loud and in Russian-an instinct probably keyed by fear-as the wave lifted us easily, carrying us crest-high, then surfed us onto the coral… then over and partway across it, where we banged down bottom-hard, engine tilted upward and kicking until I shifted to neutral.

We were frozen there a moment, hard aground, but then the next decaying surge lifted us… lifted us a little more… and then I powered into deeper water and back onto plane.

Geis yelled, "I'll give you this-you're a hell of a lot better in a boat than you are in a car."

My heart was pounding. We'd actually made it? I said, "I know."

The Whaler had stopped, was dolphining in the rollers, trying to hold its position off the reef: three men in uniform, just as Geis had said, one of them with a weapon aimed at us. I watched the man trying to balance himself as he leaned toward us; heard nothing because of the surf, but saw a line of angulated geysers streak the water ahead of us.

"Shit, now they're shooting at us." We were in flat water; Geis had no trouble shouldering his automatic rifle, but I reached and batted the barrel away.

"Stay down! If you return fire, they're going to follow us whether they know about Mariel or not. And probably call in help."

"They shoot us now, what the fuck difference does it make?" He gave me a look-don't interfere again-and raised the weapon. I ducked low, expecting him to shoot…but he didn't. Heard him yell, "They're moving. They're under way now." He was motioning to me, like get going.

I had been zigzagging toward the mainland, trying to vary my speed and heading to make a more difficult target. Now I swung west, running fifty yards or so offshore. That little bit of distance, the air had changed. The rain forest was on hillsides above us and I could smell wet earth and leaves; brackish odors that were incongruous with the sea fans and flower-bright coral heads that blurred beneath us through the veneer of water.

The Whaler was still on the Gulf Stream side, two miles off and ahead of us. It was working its way along the reef, trying to find a passage in. I watched the boat slow, retrace its own wake, then power bow-high toward the coral.

"He thinks he's got an opening," Geis said. "If he makes it, we're going to have to do something quick. Maybe beach this thing and hope they try to follow us up into the jungle." He was looking in his satchel; plenty of ammunition since he'd plundered the base at Mariel. He said, "You think they're that dumb?"

I was watching the boat snaking its way through the coral. It stopped a couple of times with the engine trimmed… but no, they were through. Saw the Whaler lift and flatten, gaining speed. They were coming at us.

I pulled out the map. "Take a look. Is that a river up ahead?" I could see a delta of white sand; a break in the shoreline.

Geis took the map and held it low out of the wind, calmly unfolding it as I yelled, "Where the hell you think we are? Maybe fifteen, twenty kilometers from La Esperanza?"