Hawke

“It ain’t natural-lookin’, Red,” Bobby said, staring at it. “Something spooky about it. Like it’s from goddamn Mars or something.”

“Shitfire. Aliens in submarines,” Red said. “What’s next?”

“Yeah. You always wondering ’bout flying saucers. Well, maybe here’s your goddamn answer!”

Water broke over the huge sub’s bow in great white torrents, and, with the binocs, Red and Bobby could make out the silhouettes of three small figures appear atop the now fully exposed co

A powerful searchlight on the sub’s portside was switched on and swept the sea immediately around the sub. Just when the broad white beam was about to reach the opening to the little cove where Reel Thing was moored, it stopped and started back the other way. Deep in the cove, they would be pretty hard to see anyway.

“Look at the flag. It ain’t Russian, is it, Red?” Bobby asked. “I mean, it is one of ours, right?”

Red had the binocs trained on the co

“Naw, it ain’t Russian,” Red said, studying the flag. “Then again, it ain’t American either.”

“Well, what then? Mars?”

“I seen that flag around here before. I just don’t exactly remember which one it is. Jamaica?”

Bobby spewed beer all over the deck, he was laughing so hard. “Jamaica? Jamaica! They ain’t got any damn submarines in Jamaica, Red.”

“Well, you’re so smart, go down in the cabin and bring me up that atlas. We’ll look her up. Use a flashlight. And turn off that damn stereo, too. Maybe we’re not supposed to be seeing this.”

Bobby went below to get the book and Red stood staring at the sub, transfixed by it. He knew subs were down here in the Caribbean; hell, they were everywhere. But he’d never dreamed of eyeballing one up so close. Especially such an otherworldly machine.

The sub’s searchlight flashed three times, two short and then one long. Then it was extinguished. Some kind of signal? Had to be.

In the last long flash of the searchlight, he’d seen three people come out of the woods on one of the little islands, just to the west. They were dragging a big inflatable across the beach, with an outboard on the back. Red saw them put it in the water. Then he heard the engine sputter and start, and then the raft was moving at high speed toward the submarine.

Drug deal. Goddamn drug deal. Colombians, probably. Shit, he should get on the radio and call the Coast Guard. It was a good thing that searchlight hadn’t spotted them. But what if it was some kind of naval exercises thing? Top secret experimental shit. A joint U.S. war games thing with some allied country. Hell, where was Bobby with that atlas?

“It’s Cuban,” Bobby said, coming out of the dark cabin. He had the book in his hand. “I looked it up.”

“Cuban?” Red said. “Cubans ain’t got any goddamn submarines.”

“Yeah, well they do now. Look on page sixty-two,” Bobby said, handing Red the book and the flashlight. Before Red could make a move, Bobby started climbing like a drunken monkey up the ladder of the tuna tower.

“Bobby, goddamn you! What the hell you doin’? Come on back down here!”

Bobby, upon reaching the top of the tower and laughing like a madman, turned on the powerful spotlight and aimed it right at the submarine’s co

“Jesus Christ, Bobby! They’ll see us!”

“See the flag?” Bobby shouted down. “Now turn to page sixty-two and look at the flag. Then tell me it ain’t Cuban!”

Suddenly, the sub’s searchlight flashed on again. This time it didn’t stop short of the Reel Thing.

Red put his hand up to his eyes. The light was blinding. He didn’t know what the hell was going on but he did know one thing. He was getting his brand-new goddamn fifty-footer the hell out of there. Colombians and Cubans didn’t much care for Americans and vice versa. He had a twelve-gauge Remington above his bunk, but the rusty old pump action wouldn’t do much against a goddamn giant submarine.

He ran inside the darkened cabin and cranked up the twin five-hundred-horsepower Cummins diesels. Then he got on the radio to Bobby up on the tower.

“Bobby, now you listen to me. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but something tells me we ought to skedaddle on out of here on the double. You get your ass down on the bow and get that anchor aboard. Right now. You hear me?”

In five minutes, Bobby had hauled the anchor aboard. Red went back on the stern and looked for the sub, but they’d turned the searchlight out and all he could see was blackness. Shit. Were they just waiting for him to come out?

Back at the wheel, he flipped on the flashlight and looked at his chart. He’d keep all his ru

Reel Thing was capable of a top speed of thirty-five knots. Once safely outside the cove, Red leaned hard on the throttles and headed for the wide open spaces.

Man, what an adventure, he thought, popping a Bud. He turned on his radar, fishfinder, and GPS and was comforted by the green dials lighting up and showing his position and speed. He looked for a blip of the sub on the radar screen. Nothing.

He considered calling the Coast Guard on sixteen, then thought better of it. It was, after all, none of his damn business. He just wanted to get back to Lauderdale and sell a few more goddamn Explorers. Now that most folks had forgotten about that goddamn tire fiasco, he was selling cars again.

Reel Thing was up on a plane, throwing masses of white water to either side of her bow. After a few minutes of high speed and cold beer, Red started to calm down. He throttled back a little. The engines were brand-new and he knew he shouldn’t be ru

Then he had another thought, not as comforting. Hadn’t seen it on the radar because it had submerged.

“Whoo-ee,” Bobby said, lurching into the cabin, spilling beer on the carpet. “That was something.”

“Why the hell’d you turn that light on, Bobby? Goddamn. All we had to do was sit there and mind our own damn business.”

“I wanted to show you that Cuban flag, amigo. That’s all. What the hell’s wrong with you? Big old sub scare your ass?”

“Hell no.”

“Then what’d you run away for then?”

“Bobby. Do yourself a favor. Shut the fuck up.”

“Uh-oh. He’s mad. Well, guess what. I’m going back up top that tuna tower, put on some Waylon, and have a couple of cold beers. So I won’t be in your goddamn way, oh mighty Captain … Kangaroo.”

Bobby pulled a six-pack out of the fridge and slammed the cabin door shut behind him.

Red settled back in his captain’s chair, eased the throttles until they were at cruising speed, and picked up the sat phone. It was only around midnight. Maybe Kath would still be awake and they could have a little chat. He’d tell her he was all fished out and headed home. Tell her about the amazing encounter with the submarine.

He started to punch in his home number.

“Uh, Red?” he heard Bobby say over the speaker.

“What the hell you want now?” But he didn’t like the sound of Bobby’s voice as he finished dialing up his number on the sat phone.

Kath picked up on the first ring. Her voice was sleepy. He’d woken her up.

“Hey, Red, you might want to—”

“Hold on, Bobby, I’m talking to my damn wife! Hey, babe, sorry to wake you. How you doing?”

“You might want to come on up here, little buddy.” Bobby’s voice on the speaker.

“Sleepy,” Kath said. “It’s almost two in the morning, Red.”

“Red? You coming?”

“Sorry, hon, my watch must have stopped. Hold on. I won’t be a sec,” he said into the phone.