Randy White: Hunter's moon

The possibility that an American president might die believing I’d betrayed him was repugnant. But how could I stop four guys with automatic weapons?

I had no idea. Maybe catch them in the swamp. Slip up from behind, and… then what?

Not a clue.

I’d have to manufacture opportunities. Not unfamiliar. Before restarting life in Florida, I’d spent years in small, vulnerable countries gathering data, ingratiating myself to locals, dealing with dangerous men, impossible situations, making up the moves as I went.

I’d think of something.

Right.

I went through my list of makeshift weapons: emergency gear, mosquito spray, pocketknife, flashlights, a shaving kit, fire starter, lighter, flares, and a half-empty fifth of vodka-a prop to convince Secret Service I was drunk. There were also two wooden paddles, and a third made of aluminum and plastic.

I pictured myself swinging a paddle like a broadsword. Attach a burning flare and I had… nothing. They’d shoot me the moment I was in range.

I had flashlights that might be useful. Not the Maglite junk commonly carried. Some guys buy expensive golf clubs. I buy serious flashlights, and the best lab equipment I can afford. It’s a reaction to dealing with hurricanes and small wars.

I had three, palm-sized LEDs. One, a high-tech marvel made by Blackhawk, was powerful enough to cause retina damage. It also had a strobe that caused blinding dizziness, according to the literature. Useful, if true.

I thought about how to work it: Come up from behind with a paddle, then with my unusual flashlight, and then…? Well… hope my survival instincts kicked in.

There was that word again.

I paddled through pockets of sulfur-warm air, then bubbles of cooler air, the density of mist varying with each advection exchange. For a few minutes, it seemed as if the fog might be lifting. Then, abruptly, three strong strokes sent the canoe gliding into a cloud so thick that I couldn’t see beyond my knees.

Disorienting. I drifted, expecting visibility to improve. It didn’t.

There was no visual reference. I took a couple of experimental strokes and it felt as if the canoe veered wildly to the left. I used the paddle as a brake, applying back pressure, but it only magnified the sensation. I tried to touch bottom, couldn’t.

I sat motionless for a moment, yet it still felt as if the canoe was rotating at the same cauldroning speed as the fog. With a couple of sweep strokes, I attempted to compensate but made it worse. I became more confused.

I couldn’t see the island; didn’t know its direction. If I’d been flying an airplane, I would have panicked. Instead, I was just peeved at my incompetence. The only choice was to sit patiently until visibility improved.

I placed the paddle across my knees and reached into the pack for another look at the GPS. That’s when I heard it: the springratchet clatter of someone trying to start a motor. A pull starter with a rope. I heard it again… then again.

A lawn mower makes a similar sound when it’s out of fuel: spark plugs firing into dry cylinders. But this was no lawn mower. It was an outboard… probably the outboard motor on the assault team’s rubber boat.

I couldn’t see the inflatable, but it was no more than a few dozen yards away. The starter cord was being pulled with enough force to create small waves that reached me seconds after the ratcheting sound. I fought the urge to escape blindly into the fog. Instead, I sat immobile. I touched one hand to a paddle… then began to search inside my bag with the other, feeling for a flashlight. I found one, put it in my jacket pocket. Found another, then found the lighter, too.

As I drifted, water molecules moved inside my inner ear, bursting as if carbonated. The silence amplified a nearby exchange: men whispering, strident, frustrated. The language was unfamiliar. Complicated syllabics, vowels harsh, rhythmic. There was a momentary silence… then, much closer, I heard the outboard’s starter gear clatter four times in quick succession.

The motor wouldn’t start.

I felt a balmy gust of wind. Fog stirred. My canoe pivoted as if under sail. I drifted in silence for several seconds, removed my glasses and cleaned them as I waited. I thought I was staring in the direction of the inflatable when, from behind, I felt something bump the canoe… something elastic, springy, no sensation of weight.

I turned, expecting to discover I’d drifted into mangrove limbs. No. I’d collided with the rubber boat.

The moon was high, silver as an arctic sun. Enough light to cast shadows but not enough to reveal detail. I couldn’t see facial expressions but the men in the inflatable had to be stunned. We stared at each other dumbly as our vessels revolved, then bumped again.

That roused them. They lunged for their weapons; I threw my hands out as if to fend them off. It’s a reflexive, defensive posture, and why most people shot in the face at close range are also missing fingers. That’s what came into my mind as they stabbed rifles at me-I’d be missing fingers when my body was found. An odd, final vanity for a man who was about to die.

I lowered my hands to hide them… or perhaps because, even as a victim, I remained a determined disciple of the clean kill. I released my breath, curious, at some remote level, how my brain would signal the intrusion of a bullet. Darkness or a shattering light? If these men were pros, they wouldn’t hesitate… but they did hesitate.

Why?

I realized that my eyes were closed. I opened them. I gulped for air and voiced the first finesse that came to mind. “Don’t shoot. You need me. I can start your engine.” My voice was improbably calm.

The men replied with threatening gestures that I interpreted as commands. I raised my hands again, still expecting the killers to fire. They didn’t. I became more confident when a voice asked, “Who are you?”

The man was whispering for a reason. He didn’t want to give away their position.

From the distance came the rumble of engines: a patrol boat, Coast Guard probably. The hunters were now being hunted and here they were with a motor that wouldn’t start.

My confidence grew.

A red beam drilled a smoky conduit through the mist. The flashlight panned across my face, the canoe’s deck, my backpack, my clothes duffel. “You are Secret Service?”

I laughed, careful not to force it. “Me? I’m a… mechanic.”

The man’s English was spotty. I had to repeat the word twice.

“Why you then following us?”

He kept his voice low. I raised mine as if we were a hundred yards apart.

“Following you? In this fog? I couldn’t follow you if we were in the same boat and your ass was on fire.”

They didn’t laugh. But they didn’t shoot, either. That was the way to play it, I decided. Stay aggressive.

“Not so loud. Not necessary to be shouting.”

“I’ll speak any damn way I want. I paddled over trying to be a nice guy, help you start that engine. And this is the thanks I get?”

There was a pause of reconsideration. They were desperate, I realized. Escape mode.

The man doing the talking was next to the throttle-their leader. I watched him focus for a moment on the patrol boat. It sounded closer.

He began to hurry… turned and pulled the outboard’s starter cord. Nothing. He adjusted the choke, then pulled again, three times fast-it wouldn’t start. He made a blowing sound.

“If you are mechanic, why this boat for rowing?”

“Because I don’t want to go to jail for drunk driving. That’s why.”

I reached toward my feet, found the vodka bottle, and held it up. At the same time, I palmed a flare from my open bag and slid it into my pocket. “I figured you were cops. But that can’t be. So why you got those guns in my face?”