Robert Mason - Chickenhawk - Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

“What do you want? You want us to run aground?”

“If you just let your eyes get used to the dark, you can see,” I said. “I can see the damn banks without the thing.”

“I’m not taking any chances. We run aground now, Bob, we’re really fucked.”

John knows what he’s doing, I thought. We’re both listening to our guts. John knows what he’s doing. I’m just jumpy. He’s right, the trip’s almost over. We got past the Coast Guard, the shore team’s cleared the creek. We’re home free. I’ll see Patience tomorrow with thirty thousand in my pockets—a successful hunter home with a bountiful catch. It’ll be great. Happiness is warm money. Then why am I feeling so damn depressed? Maybe I’m just tired. Up thirty-six hours straight. Tired makes you stupid, jumpy over nothing. I used to make terrible landings, made dumb decisions in Vietnam when I got tired. Tired can kill you.

I stood next to John watching the floodlight scanning the banks. “How long before we get there?”

“Hour and a half,” John said.

“Okay. I’m going below to catch a nap.”

“A nap? Now? You can sleep now?”

“Yeah. I used to do it in Nam. You know, between flights. I want to be alert when we get there. There’s nothing for me to do now, right?”

John shook his head. “No. We’re just driving home, Bob.”

I stepped into the hatch. “Wake me when you need me.”

John nodded.

I crawled on top of the marijuana and wrapped myself in two blankets. I was tired, but that wasn’t why I was trying to sleep. I was trying to sleep to get away from the foreboding of doom I was feeling. I couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong with this move. I didn’t know what. It might just be I needed some rest. Needed rest.

Patience and I are standing on the balcony of our new house. She’s happy, beaming like she does, looking like the little drawing she puts on her notes. We can see the river from the deck that comes out from the bedroom. She has a table and two chairs on the balcony. I sit down and put my foot on the railing. Patience pours steaming coffee into two mugs. “I love you,” she says. “You built me a beautiful home, and you did it by writing. I’m so proud of you. I’m so glad you decided not to go on that stupid trip.” She smiles at me. “See? See, asshole, I was right. I knew they’d buy your book.”

“I knew it, too, Patience.”

“You knew they’d buy your book?”

“No, I knew you were right about the trip. I don’t think I could’ve gone through with it anyway. It’s just too damn chancy. They make it by luck and they think it’s because they’re clever. Someday, they’ll wake up.”

CHAPTER 19

“Ali! Wake up!” I heard Ireland, felt him shaking my arm. I figured it was time for my watch, then remembered we were probably ready to unload. My adrenaline shot up and I was wide awake. I could barely see Ireland, but I could see the look of panic on his face in the dim light.

“Call Dave!” he said.

“What?”

“Call Dave. Call Dave.” Ireland’s head jerked toward the hatch. I saw lights wavering across the cockpit. Shore team? Wasn’t Dave with the shore team?

“Call Dave. Tell him we’re busted! We’re busted!”

He turned and climbed up onto the deck.

I could barely breathe. This was no joke. He wasn’t screwing around with me. Ireland wasn’t that good an actor. I climbed down from the marijuana and grabbed the radio mike. I heard a strange voice outside say, “Customs. May we come aboard?” I heard John, trying to seem as calm and as matter-of-fact as possible, say, “Sure, why not?” A shadow moved in the lights above. I peeked up the hatch and saw a man—a man climbing aboard. My heart dropped into my stomach. I felt weak. I put the mike to my mouth and clicked the switch. “Dave. Dave. We’re busted. We’re busted.” I heard his reply overwhelmed with electronic noise. Must be pretty far away. I heard Dave saying, “Crackle. Say. Sssssssst… repeat … rreeeeep … what?”

I repeated the message and put the mike back on its hook. I had to fumble for the hook in the dark, but this was important. If I left the mike loose, it’d fall off the counter and maybe break the cord. As I climbed up the hatch ladder, I heard Dave’s garbled reply coming from the radio. I couldn’t make it out. Probably he still doesn’t know what the fuck was going on, probably never did.

Two men dressed in blue jackets stood by John. One of them held a flashlight pointed at John’s face. The other guy was sniffing. We couldn’t smell the pot anymore, but they probably couldn’t miss it. In the water next to the Namaste , I saw a small skiff with a man wearing a matching blue jacket operating the outboard motor, keeping up with us as the Namaste idled serenely down the creek, her engine chuffling softly. The Namaste only dealt with problems of the sea, but I felt a little let down that she ignored our plight—at least the engine could quit, couldn’t it? I stood in front of the hatch to block the Customs agent’s view. The man flashed his wallet. I saw the glint of a badge. “U.S. Customs,” said the man. “We’d like to see your identity papers.”

“We’re Americans,” John said.

The Customs agent nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. “But it looks to us like you’re coming from beyond the three-mile limit. We saw your light for miles. We have to check your IDs. Do you have driver’s licenses? Passports?”

John nodded and looked at me. All our stuff was down below in a nifty waterproof bag we’d bought at Brasington’s Trail Shop in Gainesville. “Yeah. We do. Stuff’s down below. I’ll go get it.” John turned and walked toward me. Nice try—he figured the agent might just stay where he was until John came back up with our identification. The agent followed him to the hatch. My heart stopped beating. My nuts dropped off. I stepped aside. The agent stood beside me and watched John climb down to the counter and lean across it to get the waterproof bag we’d stuffed in the rack where we kept some books. He flashed his light inside. “Need a light?” the agent said.

“No,” John snapped. “I can see fine.”

“No bother,” the agent said. His light flashed from the counter and illuminated a burlap bale. The agent turned to me and grinned. “Have a little extra? Something to declare?”

I didn’t answer. The agent said, “Roger. Come take a look.”

The other agent came over and saw the marijuana. “My, oh, my. What do we have here?”

The first agent called to the man in the boat. “Sam, call the state police, Coast Guard, local sheriff. Believe we have a little importation violation here.”

“They have pot?” the man called back.

“Oh, yes.” The agent laughed. “Lots of it.”

I heard the guy in the boat, Sam, his voice tinged with glee, as he called every cop within fifty miles. The first agent had gone down below and stood beside John, looking at our papers. The agent nodded, calm and businesslike, as John showed him our passports and the faked ship’s papers that said the Namaste was a leased sailboat.

“Ali,” Ireland called. He was standing in the cockpit, holding the tiller. “Would you steer? I’m not too good at it.”

I nodded and went back to the tiller.

I steered along the channel without lights. I could see the banks just fine. The agent in the boat tied his bowline to our safety line and climbed aboard. He ducked his head into the hatch, whistled, and said, “Everybody’s on the way, Chuck.”

Chuck. The head guy was Chuck. Then there was Rog and Sam. Three guys out working late. Or early. I checked my watch. Three-thirty. The Namaste’s engine chugged gently as we motored up the creek. I could see some buildings about two hundred yards ahead. Sam walked back to me. “Hi,” Sam said, smiling a really big smile. I nodded. He said, “See that wharf up ahead?”