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Mid Ocean
Mid Ocean
Mid Ocean
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Mid Ocean

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Special Agent Joel Kenyon, just out of the U.S. Customs Academy, has been assigned to the badlands of drug enforcement, the Florida Keys. In a short time he must adjust himself to lifestyle of sandals, Jimmy Buffett and the quest for the perfect frozen drink. Set in 1984, Mid Ocean will take you to the Caribbean wild west. A place tourists never see, where, for centuries, fortunes have been won and lost along the treacherous reefs; a haven divers and fishermen during the day; a conduit for smugglers at night. With the lure of easy money and the temptations available to those in authority, the lines of right and wrong are often blurred, testing even the strongest moral compass in an atmosphere where navigating a bad course can be deadly. In the end, Joel will question everyone, including himself in his quest for what is right and what is true. Mid Ocean was inspired by real-life events.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 21, 2011
ISBN9780615305738
Mid Ocean
Author

T. Rafael Cimino

Courtesy of WikipediaT. Rafael Cimino (born Todd Rafael Cimino, June 4th, 1963 Wayne, NJ, USA) is an American novelist and screenwriter. He grew up in Key Largo, Florida in the Florida Keys, attending the Island Christian School in Islamorada, Florida where he graduated from in 1981. He then attended the University of Florida and the Florida Atlantic University where he graduated with a Master’s degree in Naval Architecture. While in South Florida, Cimino was heavily involved in water sports, including offshore powerboat racing. In 1982, Cimino became the youngest competitor to win the coveted APBA (American Powerboat Association) Offshore U. S. National Championship. He later won numerous National and World Championships.Cimino is the son of Peter Cimino and the nephew of American film writer/ director Michael Cimino. He has one daughter, Stephanie Cimino, born in 1987. In April 2010 he married long time girlfriend, Bulgarian prima ballerina, Svetlina Kiryakova.Film CareerWith his experience in ocean powerboat racing, Cimino was hired as the Marine Director for the 1983 feature motion picture “Spring Break” which was filmed on location in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He went on to join television producer/ director John Nicolella and the production team as a marine director for the 1984 television series “Miami Vice” where he was given the opportunity to write as an adjunct contributor.Cimino’s career in film continued with his contributions to the feature projects, “Lost in Translation”, “A love Song for Bobby Long,” and “The Other Boleyn Girl” where he developed a script style and character arcs for “A list” actress Scarlett Johansson.In 2006 Cimino was given the opportunity to contribute to the television series “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip” which was created by Arron Sorkin. Cimino continued until the series was cancelled by NBC in May of 2007.In 2009 Cimino signed a five year agreement with Akula Films to produce his novel Table 21 as a feature motion picture. Cimino is also affiliated with Miramax Films, Nu Image/ Millennium Films and the Nu Boyana Film Studios in Sofia, Bulgaria.FilmographySpring Break (1983)Marine DirectorLost in Translation (2002)Contributing Writer/ ProducerA Love Song for Bobby Long (2005)Contributing Writer/ ProducerThe Other Boleyn Girl (2008)Contributing Writer/ Associate ProducerTable 21 (Pre production 2010)Writer/ ProducerMid Ocean (Pre production 2010)Writer/ ProducerTelevisionMiami Vice (1984 – 1989)Writer/ Marine DirectorStudio 60 on the Sunset Strip (2006-2007)Contributing WriterPublishingIn 2009 Cimino published Mid Ocean, his first novel, to critical acclaim. The New York Times described Mid Ocean as “Miami Vice meets Goodfellas” referencing Cimino’s earlier work and the iconic Martin Scorsese mob ensemble thriller. Cimino also penned the novels Table 21 and River Town. In 2011 he is scheduled to release Delta Echo Alpha as a sequel to Mid Ocean.Political ActivismIn 2004 Cimino joined the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) where he serves as an executive member. In 2008 he joined the Democratic campaign to elect Barack Obama President of the United States. It was here that he served as a member of the campaign’s subcommittee for healthcare policy development. In 2010 Cimino, along with a series of Hollywood “A listers,” founded the PendulumPost.com, a political debate and policy blog.

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    Mid Ocean - T. Rafael Cimino

    MID OCEAN

    by

    T. Rafael Cimino

    Smashwords Edition

    * * * * *

    Published on Smashwords by:

    Mid Ocean

    Copyright 1992-2011 by Akula Media Group, Inc.

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal use 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 person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

    * * * * *

    For Thomas Arnold and the other agents in the field who stood tall where others fell.

    * * * * *

    * * * * *

    Prologue

    A blanket of dry Virginia snow covered the south lawn of the Arlington National Cemetery while light flakes fell from the sky above. In the distance, rows of snow covered uniform headstones dotted the landscape where scores of America’s honored filled the ground.

    On November 11th, 1977 the ground opened up to accept its newest inhabitant, aided be a Cat diesel-powered backhoe that was conveniently stored far from the ceremony. A small mound of earth had been created and was covered with a forest green felt tarp. The material was sprinkled with snow and lay next to a rectangular hole that was trimmed with the severed roots of the manicured grass that separated the living from the dead.

    Arranging a funeral at the National Cemetery was not an easy task. To do it on a National holiday, Armistice Day, was nearly impossible, but this was no ordinary burial.

    Surrounding the hole were scores of mourners; over two hundred and fifty friends, family, co-workers, and the Vice President of the United States, all of whom admired the man and were truly sorry to see him depart the world. This was an incredible sum for a closed, private funeral, but like a birthday party for the most popular kid in school, most of the mourners cherished their personal invitations to attend. Some were dressed in various uniforms from the armed forces and a wide variety of law enforcement agencies from around the country; others were in suits with most of the women dressed in black. Many wore dark sunglasses that concealed their heart-felt tears.

    For the most part, the entire crowd made the effort to show a genuine level of respect because, after all, John Kenyon was a man of importance. He lived a life of government service as an attorney and a Federal Prosecutor. Kenyon devoted his life to the admirable fight against the rues of evil and the ravages of humanity who were staining the course of mankind, and, more specifically, the Seventh Federal District of the United States, based in Atlanta, Georgia. He had won most of his battles, conceding the rest for another day, knowing that criminals who succeeded at evading his reach would come back, slithering closer, until he had another, more viable, chance to make a claim on their freedom.

    Kenyon had developed an indelible reputation on Capital Hill, earning himself several citations from Presidents Nixon and Ford, thus galvanizing a positive watermark on his career. After a nomination as the next U. S. Attorney General, the confirmation process was all that stood in his way when a fainting spell landed him in the John Hopkins Medical Center Neurological Intensive Care Unit. He was diagnosed with a malignant tumor that was growing at the base of his medulla, a portion of the brain responsible for vital functions. It was this battle that he would not win. It took seven months to complete the task of reducing a great man to a mere shadow. In the end, he died a painfully complete death, ending a legacy that was uniform, deliberate and forceful.

    Kenyon left behind two dedicated children who grew up without the benefit of a mother. Eighteen years before she had abandoned them the night before her daughter’s eighth birthday; a time when her diaper-clad son was teething through a set of incisors and learning to navigate his first steps. Mrs. Kenyon, left a note. She made a plea for her children to forgive her selfish action and understand that she was living a life that she was not designed for. The letter continued by saying that one day they would be re-united and until then she would keep in touch and think of them daily. For all they knew neither promise was fulfilled.

    Eighteen years later, Joel, the youngest Kenyon, at nineteen, stood dressed in the tailored freshman uniform of the Citadel Academy. He had grown up in military preparatory schools, spending the last three years at the prestigious Lyman Ward Academy in Birmingham, Alabama. The school was an hour from the watchful eye of his father who supported him with daily phone calls and weekly letters from home. The boy’s sister, Jhenna, a woman of twenty-six, was a celebrated graduate of GW Law. Unlike the other women, her five-foot eight-inch frame wore a navy blue pantsuit. Throughout the years she had grown to become every bit her father’s daughter. She admired and emulated him as best she could, vowing to fill his shoes.

    A Navy Chaplin plowed through the formal proceedings like a judge who was dispensing a hasty death sentence. The eulogy that followed was filled with sorrow and regret. He recited a story of how he met the deceased, who, at the time, was a young cadet at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. The Chaplin told the story of how the two would have serious conversations about life and justice; conversations, the depth of which, were only matched by the oceans they were sworn to occupy.

    The surviving children listened intently, shuttering with the seven sets of synchronized gunfire that was aimed skyward by three immaculately dressed Marines. Despite their eminent and respective places at the ceremony, the surviving Kenyons stood, defeated, crushed and holding each other with the last bit of strength they possessed; the strength they had reserved for each other. The reality would take months to set in. They were now, truly alone.

    * * * * *

    Intersection

    Fall 1984

    A slate gray wind occupied the night as steep waves crashed through a jagged coral reef. In the distance a battered steel light tower shuttered with every shock inflicted by the twelve to fifteen foot waves. The massive structure rose toward the dark sky, rusty cold iron with barnacles and crustaceans clinging to its supports and cross members. Still, it managed to send out its signal, a crimson beam of light. It marked the living reef known as the Elbow.

    The Elbow ascended from the ocean floor like a mountain, its peak culminating just below the sea’s surface. At its sandy threshold lay the remains of centuries of boats and ships that were lost or disabled. The mighty craft of kings, admirals, and pirates, built of ancient timbers, milled wood, polished steel and shiny Fiberglas now lay twisted, splintered, and decaying on the ocean floor. Fortunes were won and lost running gold, guns, rum and other contraband through this fragile link in America’s border. This unforgiving path of the ocean was located right in the heart of the Gulf Stream, the waters occupying the territory between the Florida Keys and the western boundaries of the Bahamas.

    Amidst the turbulence, a lone 30-foot center console powerboat lay anchored securely to the bottom. The bullet-shaped craft was custom built for speed, dark blue and gray with a tubular, canvas-covered top mounted to its helm. Its name, Island Girl, written in script, covered both sides. Named for the captain’s wife and inspired by an Elton John song, it sported three high-powered outboards that laid firmly off her transom, the back of the boat, like sleeping dogs ready for the kill.

    Despite the different varieties of fish all hovering nearby, swimming around the Elbow like bees about a hive, twenty-four year old Bobby Alazar felt the solace of solitude as he sat alone on the craft. His skin was moist and salty from the cold spray coming off the boat’s bow. With every wave the immense vessel surged forward then aft. Its bow dropped below the frothing crests, scooping up the cold water, tossing it airborne.

    The tension on the anchor line must be too tight, not enough scope, Cuban-born Alazar thought to himself. It was a situation that could wait though. His uncle was due to rendezvous within the hour. Philippe Alazar, Gordo to his friends and family, was a seasoned captain, but then again this was not an exact business. There were many variables that could affect the night’s outcome. The most prevalent was the inclement weather that was starting to worsen.

    Bobby’s night work produced a compilation of emotions, mostly tedious hours of boredom interlaced with minutes of excitement. He passed the time pondering which restaurant he would visit once landfall was made. With recent family events -- a wedding, an anniversary and two birthdays -- he was tired of the standard Cuban dish of pork, black beans and rice. His favorite was fettuccini alfredo. Bobby had always maintained a delusion about being an Italian, sometimes telling friends that his family immigrated to Cuba from Sicily.

    Another contraction of his stomach muscle occurred giving him a crude reminder that his appetite had not been met. There was a little Italian place just north of Homestead. It would be open for lunch and he could stop on his way back to Hialeah. The Dulcé Capri was a local landmark and Bobby had eaten there since his early childhood. The parking lot was big enough for his truck and trailered boat. This would work, he thought to himself.

    Nearly two hours had passed. All Bobby Alazar could do was watch the horizon with anticipation, though all that was seen was the light-dotted coast of Key Largo. In the far distance a bolt of lightning illuminated the eastern sky. A clap of thunder soon followed.

    Uncle Gordo was coming from the Cay Sal Banks some one hundred and ten miles away. The four thousand pound cargo of Guatemalan grown marijuana would weigh down his 38-foot powerboat called the Black Duck. Normally capable of speeds in excess of seventy knots, the craft would be lucky to do forty. The storm would only impede his time. In the back of his mind he imagined his two hundred and seventy pound bearded uncle dumping their load mid ocean because they lost their race against the impending daylight. Bobby shook his head with wonder as he reached up into the boat’s overhead electronics cabinet, grabbing a microphone that was connected to a private circuit band ham radio.

    Crossbow, Crossbow, he radioed out, waiting for a response.

    Crossbow, come in over, he yelled as a stillness of white noise came from the speaker.

    The sky illuminated again followed by a clap of thunder and a gust of wind. As a light rain began to fall, Alazar tried to huddle below the boat’s T-top, a four-foot by six-foot tarp that was wrapped over the tubular frame and affixed to the center console. The fresh rain still managed to embrace his face. Within minutes, water had saturated through his clothes.

    Crossbow, this is Slingshot, he yelled again into the radio’s microphone before looking down at the blue-faced, gold and stainless Rolex strapped to his wrist. A brief flash of red light coming from the steel tower in the distance illuminated the dial long enough to see the time. 3:17 a.m. In another three hours the sun would be up and the reef he was anchored to would be swarming with eager, early-morning divers trying to take advantage of the crystal clear water found in the early morning chill.

    The wind shifted and the Island Girl swung on its anchor one hundred and eighty degrees. Bobby could now see the breaking waves just a short distance off the back of his boat as each wave broke down into a pool of white froth as it came in contact with the coral reef just a few feet below the surface. Despite its over-built, two-inch thick Fiberglas hull, the Island Girl would render no match against the razor sharp projectiles of the coral reef now just a few hundred feet away.

    As the rain continued to pour into the open boat, Bobby took a quick survey of the craft. Earlier in the day he had loaded his boat with rods, reels, hand-rigged bait, and a variety of lures and other gear. Unused, the equipment was now bunched up in a clustered pile off in the boat’s port corner, just under the gunwale, the vessel’s top edge. Fish blood was flowing out from the tightly wrapped, newspaper-covered bundles exposing the journalistic header El Miami Herald.

    As Alazar wiped the rain from his face, a brief gleam of red flashed against his forearm. A new tattoo written in script read: Monica-Mi Linda, The World Will Be Yours. The writing was surrounded by a colorful galleon tall ship being engulfed by whitecap-covered seas and was a tribute to his daughter who had just turned three the week before.

    Suddenly, the radio squawked as a familiar but distant voice broke the squelch.

    Slingshot, come in Slingshot!

    Bobby returned the message, squeezing the microphone, almost frantic with desperation.

    Crossbow…

    The squelch broke again.

    Slingshot inbounds to you Crossbow.

    Bobby Alazar recognized Gordo’s voice. La pinga, he mumbled to himself as he brought the rain-drenched microphone again to his mouth.

    Crossbow, look for the red light, he told him.

    Silence followed as a few minutes passed. Bobby’s concern peaked as he realized that Gordo should be able to see the red beam of the light tower. Their radio transmissions were fairly safe though. They were using a specially modified ham radio that operated on specific frequencies that were not easily monitored.

    Gordo was frustrated because he was supposed to be the skilled one. His less experienced nephew had planned this trip and already things were starting to appear disorganized. Gordo, in desperation, issued a last minute request.

    Slingshot, turn on your lights!

    The younger Alazar switched on the green and red navigation lights mounted into the bow of the Island Girl. Illuminations from the front of the boat created a green and red glow against the oncoming waves. A whitecap broke just short of the taut anchor rope sending a salty mist airborne covering the boat’s deck.

    Crossbow, come to me. Come to the red light!

    I don’t see you Slingshot. I don’t see a red one only a white one - a four second white one!

    Alazar felt like a sitting target exposing his position next to the forty-foot high tower. Without hesitation, he shut off his lights.

    No red, white, white tower Slingshot, Gordo repeated.

    Shit! Bobby yelled.

    He realized his uncle was at the wrong reef. Coming from the Cay Sal Banks, a course deviation of only a few degrees could put Gordo’s 38-foot Cigarette miles from his designated destination. There was only one solution. He quickly jumped up on the seat mounted behind the center console and searched through the cluttered electronics cabinet for an area chart. Sunglasses, tanning lotion, some old fishing hooks, more shit, all going over the side of the boat. After minutes of searching he found the chart. It was all wadded up crammed into the back of the small box. Bobby thumbed through the drenched map and then looked down-line from his position. With the course lying before him on paper, he could get a better perspective of Gordo’s location.

    The Island Girl was at the Elbow located directly off Key Largo. The next light to the south was Molasses Reef, named appropriately in the 1930s when a barge of molasses from Havana bound for Miami sank over her. To the north was the Cary’s Fort Reef light. Both were white and both flashed at a four second interval. He looked closer at the wrinkled chart, trying to read the fine print under the intermittent flash of red light created by the tower. Below the position on the map for the Cary’s Fort light, a note indicated the tower to be almost one hundred feet high; the Molasses tower, less than half its size.

    Gordo tried to keep his Cigarette on course while idling amidst large rolling swells. The frantic voice of Bobby Alazar could barely be heard over the boat’s throbbing five hundred horsepower engines.

    Crossbow, go to the light and tell me how high it is.

    What do you mean how high is it - I’m not out here for a joyride Slingshot!

    Just do it, I’ll explain later.

    Gordo was still over two miles out from the tower. He needed to use caution when approaching the unknown reef. In the driving rain he would have to be right on the tower before its height could be determined. Patrol boats often sat next to the reef towers with their radars spinning and their night vision goggles tuned on the incoming maritime traffic. With their massive diesel power plants, they could easily outrun and catch the loaded down smuggler. Gordo pointed his boat toward the distant white flash. As he gunned the throttles, hot exhaust poured from the transom’s stainless steel headers that cooled the pair of eight hundred horsepower motors. The engines roared with the immense sound echoing in the valleys between waves. As the tower came into sight, the heavy-set Cuban let go of the padded steering wheel, squeezed through the small teak doors to his left, and disappeared below the boat’s long sleek deck. Everything became quiet for the forty-seven-year-old overweight man as he entered the plush cabin of the Cigarette. What had been a monstrous sound was now a soft moan. The boat had been designed with extra creature comforts that were now obsolete to its new owner, with the exception of keeping up appearances during an impromptu boarding or Coast Guard safety check. While the boat rolled about, Gordo tried to keep his balance but fumbled below, being thrown about from side to side. He climbed over the burlap-skinned cubes before finding a black duffel lying against the plush carpet interior. Inside the bag was a set of binoculars, some hard candy, and an Escort radar detector. Gordo removed the Escort and exited the tight confines of the cabin. After plugging it in to the boat’s lighter, he wrapped it in a towel and placed it in front of an illuminated compass. Whether or not the crude device was effective in warning against sophisticated marine radar systems was irrelevant. The false sense of security calmed the paranoid Cuban. Gordo crouched behind the boat’s black Lexan windshield as he continued his assault on the tower while the rain drove itself down onto the long, sleek deck. The deluge was blinding. As he got closer to the reef, the white light bounced off the deck, illuminating the surrounding spray and rain, further obstructing his visibility. He continued further and within minutes saw the outline of the ghostly tower. A magnificent steel structure, it rose nearly fifty feet into the sky.

    How tall is it Crossbow? Bobby radioed again.

    Thirty, forty, maybe fifty feet.

    Gordo was never an exact person.

    Crossbow, you are one south, I repeat, one south. You need to come north.

    Gordo panned the water surrounding the tower. His heart was pounding through his chest. An ink pen lodged in his shirt pocket seemed to jump with every pulse. There was no one in sight. Alazar took a look at the chart and with a makeshift ruler, plotted a compass heading for his lost uncle.

    Head north to thirty-four degrees northeast, Crossbow.

    Gordo acknowledged and turned his boat to the heading. The mistake was all his. His nephew was right and the error could have cost them big. He gripped the boat’s throttles as he braced for the ensuing burst of power. Upon command, the long, sleek craft pointed its bow up and within seconds was on plane, surging through the waves, throwing spray from both sides of the speeding powerboat’s white Fiberglas hull. As it picked up speed it started to leap from wave to wave. Gordo adjusted the trim tabs controlling the boat’s elevation over the oncoming water. His eyes peered through his pudgy face as he squinted trying to avoid any contact with the raindrops, which at that speed, felt like cold, steel needles against his already weather-beaten exterior. The boat’s twin eight hundred horsepower engines turned at an incredible rate as the red light beam of the Elbow’s tower came into his view. He was ready to meet his nephew.

    Bobby Alazar gazed up into the sky and watched as a break in the clouds drifted overhead. Up in the deep blackness, surrounded by small flakes of glistening crystal, flew a white strobe light. Bobby watched as the flashing light seemed to float through the sky like some fictional spaceship bouncing between the stars. Commercial traffic, he thought, Customs would have turned their lights off. Then, without warning, he heard the distant murmur. He went to the bow and immediately retrieved the anchor. His clothes became saturated with salty seawater in the process. He then secured the anchor and rope in a locker located below the deck while trying to keep his balance as the boat rolled with each oncoming wave.

    The craft, adrift, blew about at the mercy of the moderate gusts of wind. Behind the helm and under the protective cover of the canvas top, the young, anxious Cuban secured himself into the tight-fitting bolster seat as he took his bearings and prepared to move the vessel. Grabbing the key switch marked engine one, he turned it. He expected the engine to turn over and come to life. Instead, he heard the high-pitched spinning sound of a starter starving for voltage. A quick look at the voltage indicator confirmed his fear. The gauge registered less than ten volts. Twelve volts were necessary to start the motor. A quick try of engines two and three gave similar results. Bobby realized that the bilge pumps, having to keep up with the torrential rains and spraying seawater, must have run down the three deep-cycle batteries. As he tried to conceive a way out of his predicament, the distant thunder of the Black Duck gained intensity. The Island Girl had three batteries on board, each connected to a separate fuse block. They were located under the center console. Trying to maintain control of himself, he thought for a minute. If I could connect the three circuits, a possibility existed that there would be enough juice to start one of the motors. The charging system could then take over and hopefully start the other two. Bobby quickly dropped to his knees, peering into the small crawl space under the console. The odor of cured Fiberglas was nothing less than intoxicating. Still, he managed to locate the fuse blocks despite the rainwater dripping from his saturated hair and face. They were bolted securely inside to a structural bulkhead. There was no marking though to indicate which block went to which engine. His salt-drenched fingers picked the closest one, trying to loosen the tight brass nuts that held the thick power cables together. The dormant power in the batteries was enough to give him a shock as he joined the cumbersome wires.

    After tightening the last bolt over the connecting wire, Alazar climbed to his feet, keeping his balance as another massive wave rocked the stagnant vessel. He took his position behind the console wedging himself back into the bolster seat. He turned the key for engine two. There was no response, not even a click. When he connected all the circuits to one engine, he must have disconnected the other two. He tried engine one, still no response. Finally, in desperation, his tense fingers turned the key for engine three. The dormant outboard turned slowly at first and then gained speed. Alazar held his breath. This was his last chance. Suddenly, with a burst of fury, the sleeping dog came to life, whining with revolutions, throwing oil-drenched smoke into the dark night air.

    With only one engine, the Island Girl responded sluggishly as it was maneuvered around the tower. The alternator started to charge the electrical system. The lights behind the gauges brightened as the boat’s voltage indicator registered eleven volts. When the voltage got to twelve, he would have to switch back the wires on the altered fuse blocks. The Rolex strapped to his wrist read 4:52 a.m.

    Gordo was within a thousand yards of the Elbow. He scanned the water ahead for his nephew. The Black Duck’s engines were throttled back to a harmonic clapping idle, spitting steamy water out the four highly polished stainless pipes protruding from the transom. Gordo grabbed the microphone.

    Slingshot, turn on your lights!

    Bobby responded by triggering a switch labeled NAV LTS giving a quick burst of light. Gordo saw the split red and green lights of the Island Girl off his port bow. It was just past the tower. With a relieved voice, the jubilant Gordo called out again.

    I see you Slingshot.

    Alazar disengaged the boat’s one running engine, putting it back into neutral. The voltage indicator registered 12.4 volts. He dropped back to his knees, ducked under the console and rearranged the fuse blocks. If he were to make it to the coast of Key Largo three miles away before dawn, he would need all three engines running. He could not screw this up.

    Gordo, concerned about the time, increased the throttles to half stick; just enough power to motivate the overloaded boat without getting it on plane. He headed toward his nephew in a bow-up position. His view was obstructed by the boat’s foredeck. Bobby heard Gordo approach. The engines were revving louder than before. His fingers tingled with an increased shock of electricity as he attached the final wire to the fuse block. Sparks of blue and orange energy bounced off the two ends of wire.

    Still on his knees, he removed his head from under the confining center console. The vibration from Gordo’s high-powered engines engulfed Bobby’s cockpit sending vibrations through his wet knees and up his spine. Climbing to his feet, he turned just in time to see the tower’s red light beam bouncing off the gleaming white hull of the Black Duck. Gordo had miscalculated his distance from the Island Girl.

    Bobby Alazar watched in horror as the massive boat came over the stern of the smaller. The impact was dramatic as the Black Duck’s Fiberglas bottom sliced over the top of the running outboards. It continued on its course, powering over the gunwale and into the cockpit, pinning the younger Alazar against the console before the boat came to a rest. Bobby could not move. The pressure against his chest restricted his breathing. Water started to come over the stern as he felt it lap against his legs. Then, without warning, a breaking mountain of water broke over the stern of the Black Duck pushing it further into Bobby’s space. He felt his ribs splinter beneath his chest as blood replaced his warm breath. As Gordo tried in vain to reverse the massive powerboat, his nephew drifted into a state of darkness.

    Sitting one atop the other, the larger vessel came to rest pushing the Island Girl below the waves, into the dark, cold world below. In a pool of turbulence and floating debris rose the lifeless, distorted body of Bobby Alazar. A flash of red light illuminated the tattoo of tribute embossed on his forearm. In a path of script written amidst a gallant tall ship braving the seas, it read: Monica-Mi Linda, The World Will Be Yours.

    * * * * *

    Acrophobia

    U. S. Attorney Pat Stephens sat nervously in the left front seat of the Bell 206 Jet Ranger as he watched the pilot proceed through his lengthy preflight check. Stephens panned the glowing Atlanta horizon of scattered lights as they sat perched high atop the thirty-two-story United States Federal Building. It was 5:15 in the morning. The drive to his office, located eleven stories below, was quiet and uneventful. His daily commute usually lasted more than thirty minutes. The purchase of his home in Buckhead meant having to cope with such inconveniences. This morning the quiet jaunt lasted less than ten. His Mercedes 300D tooled along the barren highways as he consumed a bagel doused with cream cheese, while listening to an early morning debate airing over a local NPR station.

    Stephens was driven past mere obsession. After completing his undergraduate studies at Princeton, he applied and was accepted to Harvard Law, the first to do so with just a bachelor’s degree in broadcast journalism. After graduation Stephens began a career in public service. He immediately positioned himself in the limelight, putting his undergraduate experience to work for him. The public loved him, as did a few select northeastern congressmen and one senator from Atlanta. It was they who really gave the aspiring Irishman the boost he yearned for. While working as the assistant U. S. Attorney in the New York field office, Stephens aided Senior Prosecutor, John Kenyon, toward a successful grounding of the Gambino and Genovese crime families, which had plagued the New England area for decades. After Kenyon’s death in 1977, Stephens found himself poised for advancement. It came a short time later in the form of a position any twenty-year veteran would have killed for. At thirty-seven, Assistant United States Attorney Pat Stephens was named Special District Prosecutor for the southeastern region of the United States. Based out of Atlanta, his office was responsible for spearheading all of the top federal cases in the fifteen state area. No more bullshit EPA cases. No more tax evasion plea-bargains. If Pat Stephens’s office was on the case, one was going to either read about it in USA Today or watch the repercussions on CNN’s Headline News.

    Stephens lived in the press. His hero, next to his deceased boss Kenyon, was the fictional character Elliot Ness. Let’s do some good, he would say in a corny kind of way as he entered his office of thirteen staff attorneys, eight paralegals, seventeen clerks and twenty secretarial and ancillary staff members. Stephens had the will to succeed and overcome not just minor obstacles, but everything and everyone that got in his way. Still, despite this driving ambition, his raw talent, and a near genius intellect, Stephens had one undeniable flaw: he possessed a dramatic fear of flying.

    As the pilot checked the range of his controls, turning the throttle and pulling up on the collective, Stephens frantically brushed at a stain of cream cheese on his paisley tie. Giving up, he sat nervously in the ergonomically formed seat, clutching the metal buckles of the four-point harness with his sweaty palms. Although he could not see over the side of the building, the intermittent flash of the red anti-collision lights mounted at the four corners of the roof reminded him of how the complex towered into the dark sky. As the pilot stowed the preflight checklist under the right seat, he gave Stephens the thumbs up sign. Stephens reluctantly returned the gesture without letting go of the pair of restraining straps that ran down both sides of his chest. With a few adjustments and the depressing of the right switches, the powerful jet turbine helicopter came to life. First, an intermittent beep, then a high pitched whine followed by the loud clicking of ignition circuits firing across chambers of volatile jet fuel. With the blade overhead beginning to spin slowly, a second burst came from the rear of the craft sounding a lot like a large commercial vacuum cleaner. From there the blades rotated faster until they were almost invisible. Another set of switches were activated and the bright strobe light mounted in the belly of the chopper rang out splinters of double-pulsed light, illuminating the light gray rooftop with white brilliance. Faster yet, the blades spun until the surrounding patches of snow and ice blew away, exposing the painted circle which encompassed a capital letter H affixed to the roof. The pilot watched carefully as he increased the pitch of the blades and maintained the turbine’s revolutions. Gradually, Stephens felt the weightlessness of the craft battling with the forces of gravity as it lifted from the rooftop pad.

    Here we go, the pilot said into the intercom mic that was suspended in front of his lips, connected to a set of headphones. A nonverbal nod of his head was all that Stephens could muster.

    As the chopper cleared the edge of the building, Stephens looked down toward the street. It only took a second; Stephens jerked his head back up, trying to reorient himself with the horizon.

    Relax! the pilot said with a smooth, rumbling voice.

    I’m okay. I just don’t like flying at night, Stephens replied, knowing his fear of flying had no prejudice for daylight hours or the lack thereof. The pilot chuckled.

    I’d like to think I fly a safe ship; you’re gonna give me a complex.

    Oh it’s not you really, you’re doing great, Stephens said.

    Well, now I feel better. Look, by the way, if we do crash, and by some miracle we’re not killed on impact, blown to smithereens by the hundred gallons of jet fuel behind that seat back there, don’t exit the aircraft until I give the word. I’d hate for you to survive such a feat and then have you decapitated by these blades, the pilot warned, pointing up to the spinning main rotor. Stephens grabbed the four-point harness that hugged his chest and looked back at the pilot who continued to talk.

    Yeah, we very rarely lose one of these but when we do, it’s a real mess. Why just last month...

    Look, I know you’re trying to help, but shouldn’t you be radioing the tower or something like that?

    Already done, counselor. You’ll find I’m usually ahead of the game. That’s why I get all the choice assignments. Just look at you. They wouldn’t trust the District U.S. Attorney to just anyone now would they?

    I guess not, how lucky for me, Stephens answered sarcastically.

    The pilot was not just any chopper jock. Chester Marks was a veteran pilot with over eighty-five hundred hours behind the stick, most of which were in the Bell 206 Jet Ranger. Unlike most of the pilots he worked with, the thirty-three-year-old had never spent a day in Vietnam. His lack of a military background precluded him from even flying the godfather of all jet helicopters, the Huey. Still, after listening to all the war stories of the trenches in Vietnam, he surmised that L.A. was just as bad as any war zone. Marks developed most of his experience flying air support for the Los Angeles Police Department. To him, the city was one big war zone. His only regret was that the trigger on the face of the stick was connected to the aircraft’s radio system and not to a pair of nose-mounted, fifty-caliber guns. In six years with the LAPD, Marks had seven and a half documented bullet strikes including four .38s, a 9mm, two .45s, and one razor sharp ninja star which imbedded itself into the belly of a Cessna 206 in low-level flight. Marks always wanted to fire back.

    A near fatal crash ended his career with the LAPD and forced him to seek advancement with the Feds. Marks had a tough exterior. Years of being a beach bum on L.A.’s South Shore had taken its toll tanning his facial features over which a noticeable scar grazed his left cheek. It was the result of an injury he had received as a boy; a dog bite, a blemish which imbedded its image into his mind as much as his face.

    Fifteen hundred feet below, the rolling tree-covered hills of middle Georgia slept in silence. The forest came to life with small animals as the chopper passed overhead. Deer, squirrels, and other small wildlife peered upward through the trees at the beating sensation above and the brilliant white flashes that accompanied it.

    Ninety minutes into the flight, Marks descended to an elevation of less than one hundred feet. Despite the fact that this type of flying was more dangerous, Stephens somehow felt relieved with the reduction in altitude. What was before a plush forest of evergreens and abundant wildlife was now wet with clumps of saw grass - a virtual swamp. The Okefenokee. The white strobe glaring from the chopper’s belly radiated from the glossy water below. To Stephens, the scene merely reminded him of a made for TV movie he had seen recently where a DC-10 jetliner had crashed into the swampy Everglades in South Florida. What a way to go. To survive a crash as catastrophic as that and then to be eaten by alligator, Stephens thought as his palms flooded with sweat again.

    Relax, we’re almost there, Marks said, pointing at the swamp below.

    The final approach was a straight shot. From the air, their destination looked like any inland military installation. The Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, also known as FLETC, was located next to a municipal airport. Once a naval training center, the converted installation housed hundreds of recruits, all preparing to enter careers within the different law enforcement agencies of the federal government. Simple square block buildings, parameter lights, and rows of barracks covered the two hundred acre complex.

    The whine of the turbine-powered helicopter broke the early morning silence of the frost-covered ground. As the sleek aircraft hovered into an open lot, a cloud of mist formed from the surrounding grass. In the distance a sign sat perched on the lawn. With molded concrete and stamped letters, it read: United States Treasury Department, Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, Glynnco, GA.

    After landing, Stephens entered one of the adjacent buildings. In the distance behind him, the chopper’s scalding turbine cooled as its rotors spun down, rotating slower with every revolution. A sight of complex coordination, the smaller tail rotor turned seven times for every revolution of the larger main rotor above. Stephens’s hundred and fifty pound, five-four frame pounded his hard soled shoes against the building’s highly polished terrazzo floor, making him sound a lot larger than he really was. The sound of his footsteps echoed from the veneer-covered walls as he made his way through the dimly lit halls. Along the way he passed pictures of graduated classes all lined in sequential, chronological order. Eleven by fourteen inch frames filled with smiling faces, happy to have graduated from the rigors of academy life. Stephens flowed through the hall like a burst of water through an empty pipe, winding through the building. He had been there before and knew his way well.

    Stephens stopped in front of a group of glass doors. They were covered with steam. He stood upright, tightened his tie and proceeded inside. A gust of warm, steamy air hit his face.

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