Between Havana and The Deep Blue Sea By Darrel Bird Copyright ©2010 by Darrel Bird Smashwords Edition Smashwords License Statement This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Between Havana And The Deep Blue Sea Jim Grady walked hurriedly back and forth, hauling supplies from his old pickup to the dock on the Intracoastal Waterway, which snakes around St. Petersburg, Florida. He methodically loaded the supplies onto the deck of his 36-foot Morgan sailboat, Dancer. Most of it was water in gallon and liter jugs. When he made the last trip, he climbed on board the fiberglass boat and started stowing the supplies away. He had purchased enough supplies for a month. He had not had time to plan all that well, and he knew what he was preparing to do was about as insane as one can get; yet he knew he had to try. After stowing the supplies, he made himself some hot tea and sat at the dinette, which served as a chart table. There was a fold-down chart table by the radio equipment, but it was not big enough to be comfortable. Jim sat sipping his tea and thought about the events that led up to this. His older brother, Randy, was a missionary, and it looked to Jim like he would die a missionary. If Randy thought it was God leading him, he would walk into the gates of hell with a smile on his face. Jim was afraid he had done just that. Randy had “felt the call” to go to Cuba, when half of Cuba was trying to get to Florida anyway they could. They come in on inner tubes tied together, fer Pete’s sake, Jim thought, as he pondered his brother’s predicament. And in on boats that take two to sail and six to pump the bilge, fer cryin’ out loud! With women layin’ in the holds, pukin’ their guts out. And Randy just had to pick Cuba! He could have gone to the pigmies in darkest Africa and been safer than Fidel Castro’s Cuba, Jim grumbled into his tea. Randy had left his wife, Linda, at their home in Clearwater, and sailed on a freighter from Tampa to Havana. Jim was off on a diving trip when Randy left, or he would have tried to talk him out of going. The trouble was that Randy saw everybody as being innocent, and he had a heart for all people. Jim was different. His friends said he was hard as nails and mean as an alligator if he was riled. Jim had heard, through the Cuban grapevine in Tampa, that Randy had been stuck in a prison near the northwest coast of Cuba. So he went down to Little Havana and found someone who could explain just where Randy was, and what his chances were of getting out. According to the local Cubans, his chances were zilch. They said the Cubans imprisoned him for subverting the internal order of the nation and destroying its political, economic, and social law. Basically, that meant that they could throw you in prison for breathing. The prison was described as a hellhole. Randy didn’t weigh 150 soaking wet, and Jim knew his brother had little chance of surviving in those conditions. The Cuban refugees he spoke with corroborated that. The only human who might survive that prison, was a tough Cuban who has spent his life on the streets of Havana, eating rat meat and living off hookers. That was a dangerous game, and Jim knew that Randy was not that ruthless. Jim had to go after him, and that was all there was to it. His brother was a good man. He don’t even own a TV, and they pray three times a day fer Petes sake! thought Jim. He knew that many of those prayers were for him. If he went to Randy’s house to visit, he prayed when they prayed, but he got right down to what was on his mind. He figured if the Lord had anything to say to him, it wouldn’t take all day and half the night to “gitt’er said.” So no sooner did he pop down on his knees, than he was ready to pop back up again and get on with whatever he had planned for the day. Jim knew the Lord, but he did not have the capacity to be anything other than what he was. He had felt no call on his life like Randy had, and he knew he was rougher than a cob around the edges. He went to church when he felt like it. But his was the life of a vagabond, and always had been, ever since he had left home as a young man. He sailed where he wanted, when he wanted. His brother was different, but Randy never got on him or criticized him. After their parents died, the brothers grew closer. They had a younger brother, Jerrod, who grew a beard and moved to Oklahoma. He lived in a cabin so far out in the sticks; they had to pump sunshine back in to him. He had thought about calling Jerrod, but then thought better of it. He was dangerous and foolhardy, and Jim couldn’t risk the possibility of one of Jerrod’s outbursts blowing what little chance he had of getting Randy out. Jerrod was stubborn, and Jim knew if he took him it would be trouble; his every sense rebelled against it. He walked over, snaked the AR-15 assault rifle from under the forward berth, and started taking it apart. He cleaned it, oiled it, and put it back in the canvas bag. He also checked the four clips taped together back-to-back with black duct tape. He had 200 rounds of ammo for both the AR-15 and a Glock 9 mil automatic pistol he had brought as well. He knew that by the time he shot all that off, they would both likely be dead anyway, and he wouldn’t need any more. In fact, it probably wouldn’t take 50 rounds to get them both killed. He got out the plastic explosives, the detonators, and the little electronic sending unit he had stolen from the National Guard Armory. His conscience bothered him about having to break into the Armory, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. He had to have plastic explosive, not dynamite. You couldn’t shape a charge with dynamite without drilling, and he didn’t figure they would let him just waltz in there and drill a hole in their prison, without some powerful objections. Besides, he would have to steal the dynamite anyway, because you needed federal permission to buy the stuff. That night about nine, he threw his sleeping bag on the forward berth. He fell asleep with the boat gently rocking back and forth, as if she couldn’t wait to be loosed of the mooring lines. He slept, but awoke at every sound, no matter how slight. About one o’clock, he woke up and made a trip to the head to relieve his kidneys. He awoke again at dawn to the mournful sound of an outboard motor, and he knew that someone was heading out for a morning of fishing. He popped his head above the hatch just in time to see the boat’s stern light round the bend and disappear under the causeway. “Well, I might as well take a run up to the restaurant and get some breakfast, and then get this show on the road,” he muttered to the surrounding air. He hopped in his old Ford. She started with a groan, and he wheeled his way toward the nearest restaurant. He sat and drank coffee as he waited for his food. His mind was a mile away, on the job he had set out to do. Over a round of beers with the Cubans in Little Havana, he had learned that the prison lay on a group of islands just a little offshore, and that there was an inlet through it called Arch de Camaguey. The prison lay in a hole, with low hills to the west, and some jungle running out to sea to the north. There was a smaller lagoon where he planned to hide the boat. They had drawn him a detailed map of the island inlet, and of the terrain surrounding the prison. If the information was accurate, he had a good mental picture of the place. The prison was no more than three acres in all. It used to be a small military outpost, and then was turned into a prison. The place didn’t exist on any map, but it was there, all right. His plan was to hide the boat and sneak through the jungle to the prison, and scout it out before trying anything. The locals said he might be able to succeed, but then they looked at him somberly and made the sign of the cross. One said, “Mama mia!” And Jim said, “You got that right.” He had taken another swig of beer and sat looking at the Cuban refugees, and they at him. Then the toughest of them all crossed himself and raked his finger across his throat, saying something in Spanish. Jim knew every Cuban at that table was meaner than a junkyard dog, and the guy looked at Jim as if he was dead already. The waitress finally arrived with his food, and he wolfed it down. He took a last swig of coffee, and got up to leave. He knew he wouldn’t be drinking any more coffee the whole trip, just water; he needed to arrive there with his body clean and alert. He walked to the counter to pay, and the waitress who had waited on him came to take his money. She gave him a come-on smile from behind the register, but he just looked at her straight-faced. She turned away from him, looking a little miffed. He figured she was from one of the colleges in the greater Tampa-St. Pete area. To his mind, most of those women were in college just waiting to marry and have babies, and he wasn’t interested. Jim Grady had a handsome face, although there was a jagged scar above his left cheekbone, a souvenir from a bar brawl. Years of sun and salt-water had whitened his blonde hair and tanned his face a deep brown. Some of his friends said all he had in his veins was pure salt water. He weighed 185 pounds and had laugh lines around his eyes. Most women were attracted to him. The problem was that he lived on a sailboat and was never in one place for long; at least not enough to get into much of a relationship. He pulled up at the dock. Everyone at the docks knew his truck, so he planned to just leave it there until he got back, if he did get back. He stood looking at the Dancer. She sat low in the water, but he knew she would lighten up as he consumed the jugs of water that he had stowed on her. He climbed aboard, sat down at the dinette, and started ticking off his list one last time. He thought of the sails in the sail locker: one extra main and one extra jib, the storm jib, the spinnaker, and the drogue. The sails were all original to the boat, but they were still in good shape. The Dancer was Dan Morgan’s old boat, which Jim was fortunate enough to snag in a drug sale from the Feds. He bought her for a cool five thousand. She was a sloop-rigged boat with a tall mast to support a large Genoa, and she was fast. Morgan had beefed her up for his personal safety, and Jim felt that fortune had smiled on him the day he got her. He bid for her against a couple other yokels, but they hadn’t been serious buyers. The Dancer had three-quarter-inch thick glass port lights, and the hatches could be sealed airtight. She sported a full lead keel. She was fully self-righting, and if the sails hit the water, she would eventually pull them loose, providing the hatches and port lights were dogged down. She also had a self-steering system of Jim’s own making, so he figured he could single-hand her, and then use the little Perkins diesel to sneak her through the tight places. He went over his course again on the charts, then rolled them up and put them in the chart locker. He thought he had better pray, so he knelt down by the aft berth and as usual, got straight to the point. “Lord, I am fixing to get myself into a bad place. I can’t refuse to go, so if you don’t help me, I will probably be in an even bigger fix. If I don’t live through this one, please forgive me my faults and failures, my drinking, and my carousing and chasing women. Oh, and forgive me for that woman I knocked up and didn’t claim the kid; she was just too ugly. Amen.” As Jim climbed into the cockpit and started removing the sail covers, he heard a voice call to him. It was old Sam Hunter, the dock tender. Sam was about 80 years old, and he no longer took his boat out. He mostly sat around the docks in his strait-backed chair, and he would see you off or welcome you in, then pass the news along. At times he would putter on his boat, but the sides were turning green and the chain plates were leaking long rust streaks down her sides. Jim guessed that her sails had long since rotted. “Where you off to, Jim?” “Out for a couple weeks; maybe down to the Bahamas.” Jim didn’t dare tell old Sam where he was going; the news would get to Cuba before he did. Sam came down and loosened the lines from the dock’s bollards as Jim cranked the diesel from the pedestal. He turned the large stainless wheel hard over, and pulled astern as Sam threw the lines onto the boat. “Good luck, Jim.” Sam waved. “Good luck to you, Sam.” Jim returned the wave. He followed the same course as the fishing boat he had seen earlier. He turned the wheel hard over to starboard to get her into the narrow channel under the causeway, which would take him out to sea. As soon as he passed under the causeway, he set the helm and started unfurling the sails, turning the handles on the Lewmar winches with an expert smoothness that showed long familiarity. Jim thanked God that Dan Morgan had built this boat for extreme seaworthiness, with the extra lead in her keel, waterproof hatches, and extra thick port lights. The wind began to catch the sails, and the boat heeled over under a stiff onshore breeze. He set a southeast tack for the lower tip of Florida. His course would take him within five miles of Key West. It was only a 90-mile run to Cuba from Key West, but because of a series of reefs, he set a dogleg course, which would take a little longer. He wasn’t stopping in the Bahamas, because he didn’t want to risk a run-in with the Bahamian police over the weapons he had on board. He planned to miss Andros Island in the Bahamas by twenty miles, and then set a course west that would take him to the island chain where the prison was. The land was not classified as an island, but was instead a finger of land that ran north from Nuevitas, Cuba. There was a cut through it, and that was where he had to go. The lagoon lay inside that cut. The sun was bright, and there weren’t many clouds in the sky. After he got well out to sea, he reset the southerly tack. At about noon, he set the self-steering and went below to fix himself something to eat. He opened a can of beef stew and sliced off a chunk of the fresh bread he had bought at the bakery. He headed back up top. He ate the stew out of the can and washed the bread and stew down with sips of water. Tossing the can into the trash, he lay down on the cushions in the cockpit to take a nap. Jim awoke about 4:30 and checked the compass; it was off course a couple points, so he reset the self-steering. So far it had been easy sailing that first day out. Then, about sundown, a squall came marching across, and he had to reduce sail and take the helm. He snapped the lifeline onto the rail and worked his way forward to check everything out before dark, and found everything to his satisfaction. He held his course through the squall, and broke through two hours later, just as the sun dropped below the water. About 10 p.m., he ran his binoculars over the horizon, looking for ships’ lights, but saw none, so he set the self-steering and went below. He fixed himself a cup of hot tea and checked the radio for the weather. He was thankful there were no hurricanes out there, and if he were lucky, he would be back before any showed up. The next morning he saw a Coast Guard cutter about a mile away, and he wondered if they would want to board. It turned out they were more interested in the fast drug runners than they were in a lone sailboat. They passed to his port. He waved, and the lookout waved back. Except for the drug runners, people tended to be friendly at sea, because they knew they depended on each other. Even drug runners had been known to stop and give a hand, but not often. They usually would go around a boat in trouble. Of course, if the troubled craft had a radio, they would alert the Coast Guard, who, in turn, would obviously know why any boat would circle a vessel in distress. Idiots, Jim thought. He heard the VHF radio squawk to life as the Captain on the Coast Guard vessel hailed him, using the hailing frequency. He reached around the hatch and picked up the microphone. “This is the sailing vessel, Dancer,” he replied. “What is your heading, sir?” “Andros,” said Jim. “Seen anything out of the way?” “No, you are the first vessel I have met.” “Fine. Thank you, and good luck. Out.” “Thank you, sir, and good hunting. Out.” Jim reached in, hung up the microphone, and sat back down. The weather was still with him. He was thankful that he had worked out an accurate, yet simple self-steering for the boat. That meant he didn’t have to take long hours at the helm, except in bad weather. He also depended on his radar reflector. He didn’t use the standard tri-fold radar reflector sold in the ship’s chandlers. He had become friends with an old fisherman, who had told him, “Go down and buy two big round stainless steel salad bowls, like they use in commercial restaurants. Bolt them together back-to-back, and you will look to radar like a large ship.” So he did, and he did. Thank God for old fishermen, thought Jim, smiling as he glanced fondly up at his salad bowels tied to the mast. One sailor had moored next to him one day, and smirked. “Are those salad bowls ya got there?” “Yep, couldn’t afford a real radar reflector like yours, so I hung my salad bowls.” The sailor of the sleek-looking vessel just at looked at him in pity. What a jerk, thought Jim. They are proud of their money yachts, till they get run over by a freighter. About four o’clock, he had to take the helm again and work his way through another squall. These squalls came marching across the Devil’s Triangle, a harbinger of hurricanes that time of year. About six, he broke through the squall, looked at its backside, and saw a waterspout form. “Bad news that,” he mumbled. He set the self-steering and went below. The next day he was nearing his waypoint twenty miles off Andros Island, The Bahamas, so he began a southwesterly swing toward Cuba. He used the sextant to get his position, although he had a GPS. He knew he needed to keep his navigation skills sharp. “Thank you, Mr. Sun,” he muttered. He had gotten into the habit of talking to hear his own voice, since his was the only human voice out there. He figured his own company was better than most anyhow. A day and a half later, he looked at the chart and checked his position. He was only thirty miles off Cuba, so he pulled down the sail and threw out a sea anchor. It was about 3 p.m., and he set out to wait for dark. He scanned the horizon for Cuban patrol boats, but didn’t see any. He went below and took out the charts. He then plotted his course to the cut that separated the island. His present position had been his only unknown until now, so he could finally work the course in fine detail. He planned to make a run for the cut under full sail, and using the big Genoa for speed, arrive at the cut about 1 or two o’clock in the morning. He would feel his way into the lagoon, using the depth sounder, and at first light find the cutback that lay inside the lagoon. The Cubans in Florida thought he could get the full-keeled boat back into the cut and be at least partially covered by the overhanging jungle. He pulled out black pants, shirt, shoes, and boots, and laid them on the table. He took out his survival knife, which had a wicked ten-inch blade. He left the AR-15 and the Glock 9 in place under the forward berth. He was watchful as the sun sank below the waves. He kept glassing the horizon, but didn’t see anything except a trawler off in the distance, just above the horizon. The trawler made him nervous and he kept close watch of it, but it came no closer. Soon he could catch only its deck lights above the waves, and he knew it was heading the other way. As full dark fell, he pulled in the sea anchor, raised the jib and then the big Genoa, and raced for the cut. The wind caught the Genoa, and she heeled over until the water was swishing along the edge of the scuppers, and the Dancer leaped through the waves. He set the self-steering, went below, and quickly pulled on the long black pants and shirt. He applied camouflage to his face, neck and hands. He strapped the knife to the top of his leather boot and pulled out the AR-15 and Glock 9. He shoved in a clip, and he was ready. By that time, he was sweating profusely in the get-up. He looked around the cabin, then turned out the light and went topside. He released the self-steering and adjusted his course slightly. He swept the horizon with the powerful binoculars in one hand, while he kept his other hand on the wheel. He didn’t see any boats as he neared the coast of Cuba. He got closer to the finger of land, and he saw the cut in the moonlight. It was a little off to starboard, and he adjusted the course. He set the self-steering and quickly lowered all sail. He reached the entry of the cut. He cranked the little diesel and glanced at the depth sounder as he entered the cut, but there was still fifteen feet of water under the keel. The boat puttered along, hardly making a sound, and he spotted the opening of the lagoon to starboard. He felt his way into the opening slowly, then cut the engine and let her drift, trying his best to spot the cutback into the swamp. The Cuban refugees had drawn him a good diagram of the lagoon. He prayed earnestly that they had not set him up. Jim tasted salty sweat on his lips in the sullen heat. The boat barely moved in the still water, and he cranked up the diesel. The engine sounded unusually loud in the still night inside the lagoon, so he cut it. He finally saw what appeared to be a cutback into the trees. He could just barely make it out, so he cranked the little engine again. Alternating between forward and reverse, he worked the boat closer. His depth sounder read two feet under the keel. He kept easing her in until the stern was clear of the sides of the lagoon. He looked at the depth sounder: zero feet. He cut the engine. He was in. Sweat was pouring off him by now, and he took huge swallows of water and swallowed two salt tablets. There was no air stirring in the close, watery, jungle-covered cutback. He eased his way to the bow of the boat and tied a mooring line to a large overhanging limb, then walked back to the cockpit and sat down to wait for first light. As nearly as he could tell, it would be about an hour and a half before he could see well enough to cut camouflage for the boat. Then he would sleep the day away. He sat in the cockpit and listened for the slightest sound above the insect noise coming from the jungle. At first light, still hearing nothing unusual, he reached up and started pulling the lowest limbs down onto the stern and cockpit, tying them to the safety rails that circled the boat. He worked steadily for an hour and a half, sweating in the steaming heat, then put the final touches on it with smaller foliage hung over the stern. He then made himself a thatch of crossed foliage to cover the aft hatch. Descending the steps into the cabin, he pulled the foliage over the hatch and sat down at the table, sweat rolling off him in rivulets. He hooked the little 12-volt fan to the alternate battery, flipped the battery switch, and held the fan in front of his face. The air down below was close and fetid, and he swallowed two more salt tablets and lay down in the heat. He had been awake now 24 hours, and after 10 minutes or so, he dropped off into a fitful sleep. He slept off and on all day. By the time the sun was behind the tall trees surrounding the cutback, he was desperate to escape the confines of the cabin. He decided to explore his way back into the jungle of tangled trees, undergrowth, and vines. He slipped off the bow of the boat and made his way through the murky water into the jungle. Then he began hacking a trail through it toward the prison. He stopped and listened repeatedly as he made his way through the jungle. He got about a thousand yards in, and listened again. He heard a dog bark, so he turned and followed his trail back. When he got back to the boat, it was dark. He waded through the water, and, taking hold of the bowline, he pulled himself up over the bow and lay there, exhausted. He made his way back to the hatchway and down the steps into the cabin. Since it was dark, he left the thatch cover off, and was relieved to feel a tiny breeze waft its way down into the cabin. He drank more water, and slept until first light. When he awoke, he took out the AR-15 and holstered the Glock. He made his way back through the jungle, and finished hacking his way to the prison clearing. He lay behind a log just at the edge of the clearing. He reached over slowly, silently sliced off a large fern with the razor-sharp knife, and pulled it over himself for cover. He turned, and found himself at eye level with a snake. The snake flicked his tongue at him, decided Jim was bigger than a rat, and crawled slowly away. He looked across the front of the clearing at a large, three-story concrete affair. It had been built like a fort, with a large walled courtyard in front. There was a large barred gate in front, topped with concertina wire, and barred windows to the south. A guard perched on the edge of the guard tower, smoking a cigarette. Jim was situated at the front left corner of the prison. The front of the compound faced a small hill. A road ran out from the front, around the hill, and came to within twenty feet of where he lay. He needed to get a look through that gate, so he retreated back a way into the jungle. Finally he found a spot where he thought he might be able to cross the road and climb the hill. He came to the edge of the jungle. He slung the AR-15 across his back, and, crawling on his elbows, he slid into the ditch that ran alongside of the road. He glassed the guard tower, saw that the guard was looking into the prison, and then made a dash across the road and fell into the ditch on the other side. He crawled into some low brush. He slowly circled the hill and then made his way to the top. He could see right over the gate into the prison yard. There were no inner or outer fences. There was just the large outer gate with a single concrete wall. Now he saw what had the guard’s attention. The prisoners were being let out into the yard. The guards had their rifles trained on the yard. Jim figured they must keep the prisoners locked in their tiny cells most of the time. He studied the men in the yard through the powerful binoculars. The wall and the guard tower prevented him from seeing everyone, but he scanned the ones he could see. Most were standing around in small groups of two or three. He let the glass sweep over the dark-skinned ones. Finally, he spotted a light-skinned man in khaki pants and a dirty white shirt. He had come out the prison door and stood no more than fifteen feet away from the single prison entrance. Jim’s heart leapt in his chest as he recognized his brother. He quickly adjusted the glass until he could make out his features clearly. He looked closely at his brother’s drawn face. He had his arms crossed, and Jim could see he was shivering in the heat. Fever, Jim thought, as another shudder went through his brother’s shoulders. Bad fever. His brother’s eyes stared hollowly at nothing. As Jim watched, a guard came up and jabbed Randy with the butt of a rifle. Randy stumbled back and fell to the hard ground. The guard said something, and brandished his weapon at Randy and toward the door. A cold anger arose in Jim and gripped his heart with an icy hand as he brought the AR-15 forward. He caught himself. “No… not yet, you bastard,” he muttered. He felt helpless and he shook with rage as he saw his brother stagger back through the steel door of the prison. He swept his glass over the building, looking for a weak spot, but saw none. There was no way in but the front gate. A plan began to form in his mind, but he would need a diversion to make it work. Why not blow a hole in the back, and take the front guard out and take Randy out the front? He mulled. Getting him out any other way would be next to impossible. He had to get him out the front, around the side, into the jungle, and down to the boat. That has to be it, thought Jim, as he backed away from the top of the hill. He scrambled back the way he had come, widening the path through the jungle as he went. He made his way back across the road and into the jungle, then headed back to the boat. When he was back onboard, he sat at the little table, breathing hard, as he began to sketch the prison on a blank writing tablet. “Geez!” he muttered, “I got to do this in daylight! There must be twenty personnel in that place.” As he sketched the building, he knew he only had one of two choices. He could try to kill all the guards, go in, and get Randy. Or he could blow a hole in the back of the prison and try to take Randy out the front while the explosion distracted the guards. To do that, he would also have to blow the gate so he could get inside to get Randy. “This is insane.” There were too many factors that would have to go just right. The guards and other prison personnel would have to fall for the diversion. I will have to shoot the tower guard without the shot being heard by other prison personnel, plus I will have to blow the front gate, Jim plotted to himself. There is a chance the guards, if they rush back into the prison, will not hear a shot through the thick concrete walls, but they might hear an explosion. Geez! “But if I don’t do it, I don’t think Randy will last…he looks to be bad sick.” Jim stopped talking to himself, but his lips moved as he stared at the cabin ceiling. Finally, he made up his mind. He decided he probably didn’t have a fool’s chance either way, but the second plan seemed the likeliest to work. When they brought the prisoners out into the yard the next day, and he had no guarantee that they would, he would just have to wing it. Randy didn’t look to be in good enough shape to make it through that stretch of jungle to the boat, if by some miracle Jim got him out. “Well, we might as well go down together, because I’m not leaving here without him,” Jim muttered, and at that moment, he became calmer than he had ever been. He no longer had any doubt or misgivings. He looked at his hands and said, “Lord, I don’t know much about the Bible. I know my brother is all right with you, but I don’t know if I am all right with you or not, because of what I am about to do. I know I will have to kill one of those men tomorrow and perhaps more, but I got to do it. You do what you have to do with me; I ain’t gonna hold it against you. Well … I guess that’s all. I just wanted to talk to you early on to be on the up and up with you.” Jim swallowed two more salt pills and refilled the little waterproof pill case. He rummaged through the galley drawer and found a small plastic bottle of aspirin. He would try to shove some of the pills down his brother, provided that, by some miracle, they ever reached the jungle. He awoke at dawn, sat at the table, and kneaded the plastic explosive into pliable dough. He separated it into two pieces. He checked the little transmitter, and put everything in a bag. He would set the larger charge on the back of the building first. If luck was with him, that would draw the prison personnel back into the building. He would blow the front gate after the other charge went off. He figured he would have to shoot at least one guard, perhaps two. He would wait for his brother to come out into the yard, and then set the first charge off. He headed into the jungle, planning to arrive at the prison about 9:30. When he reached the compound, he carefully circled to the back and set the shaped charge on the concrete wall, and inserted the electronic detonator. He then worked his way back the way he had come to get across the road to the little hill. Working his way up to the top, he arrived at the position he had occupied the day before. Jim scanned the prison yard, but it was empty. He looked at his watch and waited. He had almost decided they weren’t going to allow the prisoners to come out that day, when the steel door to the building opened, and the prisoners started filing out, led by two guards. Two more guards followed in the rear. That made four total on the ground. There was one guard on duty in the tower, and when the prisoners started out, the guard aimed his rifle at the yard. Good. They’re depending on the tower guard to quell any trouble, Jim thought. He saw his brother standing in about the same spot as yesterday, and he still looked sick. Randy bent double with a coughing fit, then slowly straightened back up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes looked dull and glassy, and he was gasping for air after the coughing spell. The same cruel guard, who had hit him the day before, stood about twenty feet away. He looked at Randy and laughed. Jim’s anger started to rise again, and he forced it back down. He wiped the sweat off his face savagely with his glove. He was just about to blow the charge, when his ear caught the sound of a vehicle approaching the prison, and he waited. A plain pickup truck with a canvas-covered back came into view. Supplies? Could I get so lucky? Jim thought excitedly. He got ready to blow the rear charge as soon as the truck was through the gate. A guard came over and began to unlock the gate as the truck pulled up to it. He motioned the driver through. Just as the truck began pulling through, Jim hit the transmitter button. The charge on the back wall went off, and shook the building and the ground. The force of the blast sent a shockwave through the whole compound. The guards on the ground had all already started running back into the building. He aimed the AR-15 carefully, and shot the tower guard through the head. Jim headed for the gate as fast as he could run. The pickup had stopped with the back blocking the gate open. Jim couldn’t believe his good luck. The driver just sat there as Jim raced past him and headed toward Randy. He ran up to Randy, and Randy ducked. Jim grabbed him by the arm and yelled, “Let’s go — we gotta go!” and began pulling him toward the gate. Jim slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the Glock 9 in one swift motion, dragging his brother along at the same time. The driver started to get out of his pickup, and Jim aimed the pistol at his face. The driver hurriedly pulled his leg back into the truck and slammed the door. He looked as if he had just discovered there were ghosts. Jim thought about putting a round through the door then thought better of it. As Jim shuffled past him, pulling Randy, he looked into his scared eyes. The man looked harmless enough. In twenty seconds they were in the jungle. His brother staggered, sucking in great gulps of air through his wheezing chest. He looked at Jim with horror in his eyes. Jim gently slapped his brother’s face and said sternly, “Look at me! It’s Jim, Randy. I’ve come to take you home! Now get hold of yourself!” Understanding began to dawn in Randy’s eyes as he recognized the camouflage-smeared face that belonged to the man who had hold of him. Jim took out the aspirin bottle, yanked the top off, and pushed five aspirin into Randy’s mouth. He shoved a canteen to Randy’s lips and said, “Drink.” Randy coughed as the water poured into his mouth, and he had no choice but to swallow. He choked, but the aspirin went down. “Come on, we don’t have much time.” He began to half drag, half carry his brother through the jungle toward the boat. Jim had a good trail cut through the jungle by now, but his brother was in bad shape, and he was afraid he might kill Randy by dragging him. Finally, Jim backed up to Randy, took both his arms over his own shoulders, and leaned forward. He lifted Randy in a fireman’s carry, and shuffled toward the boat. He finally reached the edge of the water and sank down. His brother slid to the side. Jim gasped for air and thought he was going to pass out. His skin was slick with sweat, his clothes soaked. The salty sweat burned his eyes, and he tried to clear them. He reached down, got handfuls of salt-water, and bathed his own face and then his brother’s. He knew he didn’t have time to lose. How was he going to get Randy over the bow of the boat? “Randy, you are going to have to climb onto the boat when I lift your legs. If you don’t, we are dead men, do you hear me?” Randy nodded weakly. “Come on!” Jim said, as he pulled Randy to his feet and down into the water. It was waist-deep under the bow of the boat. “When I heave you up, you grab the rail and pull yourself over. Ready?” He lifted Randy. Randy grabbed the rail, and then with Jim pushing, he flopped over onto the bow of the boat. Jim struggled to grab the bowline, and he heaved himself up far enough to grab the rail and pull himself over. He grabbed Randy and dragged him back to the cockpit of the boat. He started slashing the ropes that held the limbs to the rail. Reaching up, he cut the big line he had fastened to the large overhead limb. He made his way back to the cockpit and jammed the starter switch with his thumb. The little engine’s starter groaned, and then caught. Shoving the boat into reverse, he started backing out of the cutback into the lagoon. As soon as the bow cleared the cutback, he swung her around, shoved it into forward gear, and opened the throttle wide. The boat slowly began to pick up speed. Within ten minutes, they were in the cut and headed out to sea. Jim walked forward, threw the rest of the debris from the camouflage overboard, and began to winch the sail. He got the main sail up, then the big Genoa, and walked back to the helm. He examined his brother, and thought he looked worse than when Jim had first found him. He grabbed the wheel, spun it over some, and the sails caught the wind. “Can you hang on to the wheel while I haul up the spinnaker?” he asked Randy. Randy looked at him, at first not comprehending. “Hold the wheel?” Randy asked, uncertainly. “Yes, the wheel, Randy. I need you to hold it where it is while I haul the spinnaker.” Randy shook his head and reached for the wheel. It only took Jim a few minutes, and he was back at the helm. “Ok, you can turn loose now,” he said gently. But Randy held on until he said, “Randy, move your hand.” He gently forced Randy’s hand from the wheel. The boat heeled over and began to leap through the water as the big spinnaker ballooned out and caught the wind with a booming sound. That’s another miracle, Jim thought. The wind is at my back. The big spinnaker could not be used effectively except downwind. He set the self-steering, got Randy below on a bunk, and gave him five more aspirin. Then he climbed back to the cockpit and grabbed the binoculars. He started scanning the horizon, but didn’t see anything at all. “Geez,” he said, “we may make it.” The boat sailed on without hindrance. Jim went below, stripped off the hot, filthy black clothing, and washed the camouflage from his face. He put on clean shorts and a t-shirt, and began heating some chicken broth for his brother. Randy looked as though he had passed out, and Jim bathed his face with the now tepid water from one of the jugs. As Jim looked at his brother’s pale face, he remembered a classmate who had been in a bad car accident while drinking. The kid had been sixteen at the time. He had been driving way too fast and had missed a curve, going 85. There was another kid with him, who had been killed. It was believed that the driver would end up paralyzed. The church had prayed for him to be healed, and he had been able to walk again. Jim thought this might be a good time to pray. There were no church people here to do it, so it was up to him. He knelt down beside the berth and prayed that God would heal his brother. He didn’t pray for very long, but he prayed fervently and the best he knew how. He stood and went back up top. He scanned the horizon again, but saw only a distant ship. He thought about hailing the ship on the VHF but thought better of it, because his brother had no papers, and the ship could be Cuban. His brother would be a wanted man in Cuba for the rest of his life. “No, I’ve got to get him to the states,” Jim muttered. “The Bahamas are even too risky.” He knew his brother had no insurance, and they might quarantine the both of them, and the boat. An hour later, he went below. His brother was sitting on the edge of the berth looking a little drunk. Randy looked up in surprise as Jim came down the steps into the cabin. Jim was even more surprised. He grinned at his brother. “How did I get here? This looks like a boat,” Randy said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “We are on my boat, and we are under full sail for home,” Jim replied. “Don’t you remember?” Randy sat and thought for a moment, and then said, “I remember being in the yard and someone running up to me and grabbing me and dragging me toward a truck. That was you?” “Yeah,” Jim replied. “I was a little short of time for niceties.” “You about scared me witless. I thought it was the devil making a run at me. I thought sure I was being drug off to hell,” Randy replied. Jim looked at him sharply, but he could see Randy was serious. “No wonder I had to drag you! You looked bad sick to me,” Jim said. “Can you eat some food? I can make you a can of chicken noodle soup.” “I think so,” Randy replied, and Jim got up to heat the soup. Randy ate the soup, along with a few sips of water, in silence, while Jim told him about the trip to the boat. “You have to drink all the water you can hold, because you have lost fluids. You get back on the berth and rest now. I have to get up top and sail the boat. Here, see if you can get these on,” Jim said, as he handed him a pair of Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and clean socks. “Get these on and get some rest.” He handed him five more aspirin. “Take these all. They’re hell on the stomach, but not near as bad as fever at sea. I got to go topside for awhile, but you just rest.” He went back up the steps to the cockpit and ran his binoculars over the horizon. There was nothing in sight. He saw that the sails were losing some power because the wind was dropping, and the air was the only thing moving the boat forward. The big spinnaker would pick up any breeze that remained. They sailed on four more hours, until the wind had dropped to the point the boat was barely moving. Randy came up the steps, looking a little better. He had changed into the clothes Jim had given him. He had cinched his belt tight to hold the Bermuda shorts up, and they looked huge on him. Randy had lost an awful lot of weight. Jim was amazed that Randy was up and around so quickly, and said so. Randy sat down on a cockpit seat cushion across from him and said, “I have told you many times how God answers our prayers, Jim.” “Yeah, but I’ve never seen something like that. You were in bad shape. I know it had to be God. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.” Jim went below, came back up with two more aspirin, two salt tablets, and a liter of water, and handed it to him. “Take these, and try to drink all the water. If you start getting sick at your stomach, try not to heave. You need to keep the liquids down. You better go below and rest now, Randy.” He followed Randy down the steps. After Randy lay down on the forward berth, Jim clipped the little 12-volt fan to its footboard and aimed the fan toward his brother’s face. He patted his brother’s arm and headed topside again. He hadn’t said it to his brother, but he had felt a change in the weather. He could always feel when the weather was about to change. It was like a sixth sense, and it was never wrong. He supposed his body picked up changes in barometric pressure; he just didn’t know how. He had no more than gotten topside and sat down to scan the horizon, when he heard a low rumbling sound to the west. He put his glass on what looked like a long, low cloudbank peeping up over the water. He looked at the telltales, which hung motionless in the still air. The air was oppressive, and sweat poured off him. He swallowed two more salt tablets and a big slug of water from a liter bottle. He heard another low rumble as the cloudbank slowly grew across the western horizon. Big storm. Just what we needed, he thought wryly. Jim was not superstitious, but just the same, he didn’t dare scratch the mast. He had seen people do it, but he felt it was somehow akin to daring God, and he didn’t want anything to do with that. You could end up with too much wind, and these waters had their share of that this time of year. He didn’t believe all the superstition about the Devil’s Triangle, but he had no answers for where the people disappeared to, either. He figured maybe storms like the one rising out of the west had a lot to do with it. He glanced up at the still-limp telltales again, and then looked at the clouds that appeared to be piling atop the others in great anvil shapes. They looked as if they were trying to reach the outer atmosphere. He heard a low rumble that rolled across the cloud front and ended in a cavalcade of low warning mutterings. He saw a big wad of Sargasso weed floating near the boat. A wave gently lifted the weed mass, and it passed on under the boat. He went below and shook Randy awake. “Storm brewing,” he said flatly, and began stowing away every loose item he saw. He tossed Randy a liter of water, got himself one, and squeezed passed him to go topside again. Randy followed him and looked at the cloudbank, which now covered the western sky. The thunder muttered as the storm gathered strength, advancing toward them. The thunder crashed, and then rolled off across the cloud front to end in a low guttural sound. Jim reached over and cut the diesel, which he had been running to keep the batteries charged. The air became even more stifling. The storm was brooding as if it was making up its mind what it wanted to do to them. “There’s a big blow coming, Randy. I’ll take down the main and the jib, and raise a storm-sail, and let out the drogue, and we’ll let her run before the wind. “Look Randy, it’s going to get rough. From where we are, it will probably blow us straight toward Key West,” he said. He worked his way around the cabin of the boat, dogging down the port lights and the top cabin hatch. He gave the last large wing nut a final twist and began to take down sail. His brother, who knew nothing about sailing, started toward him and Jim motioned him to sit back down. “I’ll get it,” Jim said. “You just stay put.” He took down the main and the jib, fed them into the sail locker, and dogged down the covers. Taking out the tiny storm-sail, he ran her up to mid-stays. He walked around the boat, checking the stays and the chain plates, and found everything right. He glanced at a telltale and saw it move. He felt a slight breeze on his sweaty skin and saw the waves begin to pick up as the wind pushed them ahead of the storm. He fed the drogue off the bow to help reduce the discomfort of riding out a storm in the boat’s cabin. Then he lashed the wheel amidships, sat down, and looked around. He clewed up the boom and gave the line a final tug, leaving the boom straight with the keel. He didn’t want that coming loose. “Ok, everything looks good. We’ll ride it out below. Try to keep calm or you’ll get sick for sure. It’ll toss you around some, but try not to worry. This boat is built to withstand a hurricane.” As he said that, a gust of wind hit the boat and made the stays shudder. “Let’s get below.” Jim followed Randy down the steps and loosed the thick re-enforced hatch, pulling it closed after them. He turned the wheel on it until he felt the hatch snug against the gasket. He turned on the overhead tube fan and it began pulling air down into the cabin. Randy said that he would like for them to have a word of prayer, so they prayed. Randy prayed for all the souls at sea. He prayed for their family, for his wife at home in Clearwater, and for the church in general. This time, the droning of Randy’s voice did not bother him. For the first time since they had made it back to the boat, he lifted his heart to God, thanking him for his brother’s safety, healing, and deliverance from that hellhole of a prison. For the first time in his life, Jim didn’t feel like he had all the answers. He was truly shaken by everything that had taken place. He thought about the truck pulling in just before he blew the back wall of the prison out, so that he didn’t have to blow the gate. He thought about the strength he had needed to carry his brother through that jungle and get him up onto the boat. He thought about Randy’s rapid recovery that he had witnessed. He thought about the location of the prison, because he knew that if Randy had been sent to an inland prison, it would have been impossible for him to affect a rescue. Jim saw clearly for the first time that there was a power that worked according to a pattern at times, and this was one of those times. As Randy prayed, Jim gave thanks to God that day, and he regretted his earlier casual approach to God. When they finished praying, the boat was beginning to move, and they could feel the vibration from the wind blowing through the mast stays. He felt the drogue begin to pull the bow of the boat into the wind. Within thirty minutes, the water began to crash on the top deck as the boat was tossed in the rollers. He looked through the port light above the dinette and could see the foam blowing off the tops of the waves. As the waves rose higher, the boat rose with them, and then dropped sickeningly as the waves receded. He estimated the waves to be around forty feet. Another wave would roll in and the boat would rise higher and higher, then drop into the trough. The wind began howling through the mast stays as the storm gathered strength. He looked at Randy, whose face was growing pale. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Don’t lose it on me, brother!” He had no more than spoken when Randy lowered his head into the plastic bag he was holding. About five minutes later, he vomited again, and it began to worry Jim. Randy’s face had taken on a bluish tint. He knew Randy was in no shape to withstand seasickness. Randy held onto the sides of the berth with white knuckles. The noise was growing deafening as the wind began to howl, moan, and then howl again, through the mast stays, mast, and boom. The boat lurched as it climbed a tall wave. The wind caught it, and it fell back down between the waves. Water crashed down on the top deck, trying to push her under, but she always rose back to the surface. Jim saw Randy’s lips moving, and he thought he must be praying. “You need to keep confidence in the boat!” Jim yelled to be heard above the roar. Randy lowered his head into the bag again and heaved. Jim shoved a liter of water at him and motioned him to drink. Randy looked sickly at the bottle and shook his head no. He was sweating profusely. A larger wave lifted the boat and slammed it back down. Jim saw the water cover the port lights behind Randy. The noise stopped as the boat labored to rise. She finally broke through, only to be hit with another blast of wind. If we hit a reef, we are a goner, Jim thought. Jim was afraid for Randy. He had lain down on the berth, and the only movement Jim saw was from the rolling of the boat. He began to pray earnestly for his brother. “Lord, don’t let my brother die. I know we are in your hands. I know now that we always have been. Forgive me for my petulant ways, and get us home. Linda needs him, and I need him.” He was answered by another wave, and a blast of wind shook the boat like a Terrier would shake a rat. He checked Randy’s pulse intermittently. The storm lasted another four hours, mainly because it was driving the boat before it as it went. Finally, the wind died down to a steady breeze. Jim turned the wheel on the hatch, raised it back, and dogged it to the steel rail that held it rigid. He welcomed the fresh air, washed clean by the rain. He could see the glow of the sun to the west as it set below the backside of the clouds. A narrow slit parted between the clouds and the water. The red rays from the sun shot through, causing the tops of the waves to glow. Jim surveyed the boat for damage, and fortunately found none. He went below to check on Randy. He rolled his brother toward him so he could feel for fever and check his pulse. When he felt Randy’s clammy forehead, Randy opened his eyes. What worried Jim was not seasickness, although prolonged seasickness could kill a person. A neighbor of his had asked to go with him and his buddy diving one time. They had left about 8 a.m. Thirty minutes out, the neighbor had gotten seasick and had lain down in the isle of the cabin. He’d wrapped himself in a stinking canvas tarp and would not move the whole trip. However, five minutes after they had docked the boat that night, he perked up and was fine. Randy’s case was different. The neighbor had been in otherwise good health; Randy was not. He bathed his brother’s face in water and turned the fan on him again. He needed to tend Randy, but he also needed to get under sail and get him to land as soon as possible. He reluctantly left him and went topside, and began to pull sail from the sail locker. It took him about forty-five minutes to raise the jib and the Genoa. He set the self-steering and went below. Randy was coming around and he helped him sit up. He said, “Randy, we have to get some liquid down you, and keep it down.” Randy nodded sickly. Jim looked around in the food locker, found a can of 7Up®, uncapped it, and handed it to him. Randy took it, raised it to his lips, and drank. He sputtered and coughed weakly. Jim rustled around the food locker again and came up with the last can of chicken broth. He mixed that with water and heated it on the alcohol stove. His brother had drunk about a quarter of the soda, so he took the can from Randy and handed him a cup of the hot broth. “Drink this with about two minutes between swallows. Here is my watch; can you see the hands?” His brother nodded. Jim slipped the watch on Randy’s wrist. “I need to get the spinnaker up. Be back in a few minutes.” Again, his brother nodded. Jim pulled out the spinnaker and winched the big sail up. The sail caught the wind. The boat leapt forward and began to slice through the water. Air rushed into the cabin. When Jim returned below, his brother had drunk the cup of soup. “Please, Lord, don’t let him throw up,” Jim pleaded. Randy was able to keep the stuff on his stomach; the air coming into the cabin helped. Jim was nearing exhaustion from the constant work and activity, but he knew he couldn’t rest yet. He searched through the medicine chest for something else that might help Randy. The only thing that was even a possibility was antihistamine. He decided to give him one and see what the effect might be. The pill made Randy drowsy, but that appeared to be all. Randy lay down in the birth and closed his eyes, and in a few minutes, Jim could tell he was asleep. He watched his chest, and his breathing was regular, though shallow. Jim didn’t like to spend too much time below with the big spinnaker flying, so he sailed the boat and checked on his brother periodically over the next two hours. After awhile, his brother awoke, and Jim persuaded him to eat some saltine crackers and wash them down with water. About five thirty that evening, Jim opened a can of pork and beans, and they shared that with slices of the bread, which was getting stale, though the center was still edible. Randy was weak, but able to talk. “Look, Randy, we should be sighting St. Pete about noon tomorrow, and we have to talk.” “Go ahead,” Randy said, when he sensed that his brother was bothered about something. “I think it is better to not talk about this to anyone. It’s better that we just let it lay. We don’t want the government involved in this, do you understand?” Randy nodded. “You can tell Linda some of it. Just keep the details to yourself. She will understand.” Jim didn’t tell him about shooting the guard, and he didn’t plan to, either. He figured it was better left unsaid. “Why did you take such risk to come after me?” “I just did what I had to do, that’s all. Let’s just leave it at that.” “I’m going to take down the spinnaker and set the self-steering, and then get some sleep. Are you able to go topside and keep an eye on the compass?” “I think I can.” “Good.” Jim took the spinnaker down, then came back down and crawled wearily into the berth. He closed his eyes, and immediately sleep overtook him. Randy sat and watched his brother sleep. He prayed, “Thank you, Father, for Jim.” His eyes welled with tears of love for his vagabond brother. Jim slept for six hours and awoke with a start, looking around the cabin for Randy. He was disoriented. For a moment he wondered if he had been dreaming, and the last several days had not happened at all. He dragged himself wearily out of his berth, and, drinking a slug of water, he went topside. There was Randy, sitting by the wheel. He was relieved it had not been a dream, and that his brother was safe. “It’s beautiful out here, and so peaceful,” Randy remarked, as a big moon was just beginning to set off in the west. Jim checked the course and the rigging, and made a small adjustment to the self-steering. At eleven o’clock that morning, Jim saw the outline of the shore of Tampa Bay begin to take shape. By three, he started taking down sail. When he was finished stowing the sails in the sail locker, he cranked the little diesel for the run under the causeway and back to the docks. Old Sam met them at the edge of the docks, and Jim threw him the lines. “Where you boys been?” Sam inquired. “We’ve been out for a sail,” Jim replied, his face showing no emotion. Old Sam was getting so absent-minded he didn’t remember that Jim had left the docks by himself. “How have you been, Sam?” “Oh, fair to middlin” Jim looked fondly at the old man, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long until one day old Sam would not be at the docks to take his lines and welcome him home. “Old Sam has been such a good friend; I’ll miss him when he’s gone.” “Yeah Jim, he has been around for a long time, and he’s a good man.” “Remember when we were kids and he whipped those two bullies who were trying to take our fish?” “Yeah, and the time he pulled me out of the water when I fell in.” Thirty minutes later, they were pulling in at Randy’s home in Clearwater. Randy’s wife spied Jim’s old truck pulling into the drive, and ran out into the yard. Randy and Jim got out of the truck, and Linda grabbed Randy and hugged and kissed him. Then she hugged Jim. She hugged and kissed Randy again, and then Jim again. When she finally settled down, Jim caught her eye over Randy’s shoulder, and motioned her into the house. She looked at him, nodded, and led her husband into the house, and sat him down in the living room. “Can I get you guys something?” “Get Randy some aspirin; he’s had some fever. Nothing for me.” She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two aspirin and a glass of iced tea for each of them. Then she sat down and looked inquiringly at Jim. He explained the trip and the prison break, skipping over the details. He impressed on her the need to keep mum about it. “Just live your lives as if this never took place, Linda. The fewer people know about this the better it is, you hear?” Jim asked. He looked at her sternly, but his eyes softened as he saw her tear-filled eyes. She came over and hugged him. “Thank you for my Randy,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “The thanks go to God. Without his help, this would not have happened. We had far too much going right to call it luck.” If he was willing to acknowledge the hand of God in all this, why not fully commit himself to the Lord? Jim turned to his brother. “Randy, would you baptize me?” Randy agreed, and the very next Sunday, big Jim Grady went down into the water. The End