If this section stumps you, consider rereading Asynchronous Mud, etc. A little longer than the first section (3.1), you’ll have plenty of time for tea this time out. Need a little music to get you there? Have a go at Woman In Chains by Tears For Fears. So, let’s get this road on the show.

3.2

Beaufort, South Carolina

Spudz stood at Amaranth’s wheel, his eyes focused on the depth sounder and the forward scanning sonar, slowly, carefully threading his 120 foot Nordhavn through the shifting mud and sand-bottomed channel as they pulled away from the seawall. The sounder was showing just two feet under the keel, so Amaranth’s more than nine foot draft presented a number of challenges to the careful navigator, but the retired seaman seemed in his element now.

To make their departure more interesting, the first few hundred yards of the channel passed through a no wake zone, meaning his little ship had to proceed with the twin throttles almost at idle, and contrary to expectation the best route for his deep keel did not follow the center of the channel. Instead, he guided her to the starboard, or right side of the channel – which was fractionally deeper.

Sara stood by his side, watching his hands. 

She had noted his hands the first time they met. They had looked clean, almost delicate, yet visibly very dexterous, too, and she’d at first thought he must be a surgeon – but no longer. She saw two throttles under his right hand now, yet he manipulated them individually; a little left forward throttle here, a little right there, and every few seconds, as the sounder and sonar painted a vibrant picture of the way ahead, he’d slip the right throttle into neutral, and occasionally into reverse, in effect yawing the vessel around underwater objects as he approached each one. It was slow-going, almost excruciating to watch – because one slip here could drive the ship’s 850,000 pound displacement hull into thick, soft mud. It would cost, she imagined, thousands to affect a recovery – under even the most favorable conditions.

He was steering for a flashing red light, the channel marker, he said, and as they passed this mark he asked her if she could read the number painted on it.

“Two-forty, and the marker looks red, too.”

“Got it,” he sighed before his eyes left the sonar display. “Fourteen feet now,” he said absently as he began steering for the next marker, a flashing green light a few hundred yards ahead. “Oh, swell,” he snarled suddenly, and Sara looked ahead and noted that the air was condensing – which could only mean one thing: fog. Spudz opened another display and pulled up the outside air temp and relative humidity and grumbled something about dew point and that this wasn’t exactly the best time to run into dense fog, yet as they watched the air just above the water turned milky white…

…and then Jim Turner walked onto the bridge and over to MacKenzie. He assayed the situation, turned on the radar and assigned that readout to the screen in front of the admiral, overlaying the radar’s information on top of the marine chart and putting the sonar’s screen on an adjacent display.

“Everything stowed?” MacKenzie asked Turner.

“Aye, sir.”

MacKenzie grumbled and shook his head, knowing that Turner would never be able to address him as anything other than the four-star admiral he’d been, then he scanned the sonar display and corrected his course to clear a very large submerged tree limb. “This still a No Wake Zone?” he asked Turner, his attention focused on the submerged hazard.

“Yessir, all the way to the bridge.”

MacKenzie noted the depth ahead was almost in the twenty foot range, so he let himself relax a little, but then looked up and noted the fog had suddenly grown so thick he could barely see the waving ensign on Amaranth’s bow. Instinctively he throttled back – until the boat was just maintaining effective steering speed – as he used the chart plotter and sonar to keep in the deepest part of the channel.

“I can just make out a green light to our left,” Sara said, and Spudz smiled.

“You’re going to be a good navigator, you know?”

She smiled too. “How do you know where to go?” she asked.

He pointed at the large screen just in front of the wheel and looked at her: “See the green boat icon here?”

“Yes.”

“That’s us, our current position, and that is accurate to within a few feet. The red line here is the route we’re following, and we need to stay as close to that as we possibly can. Look here,” he said, pointing at their position. “We passed Red 240 right there, at the bend in the river, and you saw the green light when we passed Green 241. The next is another green, 241A, to our left, and the next one after that will be Red 242, beyond that one and on our right – but look further ahead, to that red one.”

“Two-four-four, right?”

“Yup,” he said as he zoomed in on that mark, “but look at the depth by that one.”

“Ten feet?”

“Uh-huh, but if you keep to the middle of the channel right there we’ll have 14 feet, so if you cut the corner too closely you can find quickly yourself aground in very shallow water.”

“Okay, I see that. So, you can’t rely on that chart all the time, can you?”

“That’s right. Tidal rivers are tricky because the bottom contours are shifting all the time, but the nice thing about these charts is that they’re updated all them time too, and I do mean all the time. Users that pass through here can report unexpected changes, and those reports show up as advisories on these charts, which are always up-to-date. That’s actually a really big change from the way things worked even just a few years ago, too.”

“What’s that line on the radar?”

“That’s the Highway 21 bridge to Port Royal.”

“Uh, Admiral,” Turner said, coughing under his breath, “I don’t mean to intrude, but you’ve been up for twenty hours. You really should hit the rack.”

MacKenzie looked at a GPS display and nodded when he saw the time. “Okay Chief, you’ve got the watch. Wake me at 0600 hours…uh, better make that 0530, and keep it under five knots in this fog.”

“0530. Aye, sir, and under five in the fog.”

MacKenzie’s cabin was just aft of the bridge – and on the same deck – so he hopped down from his helm seat and turned to Sara. “Shall we?” he asked as he walked to the short corridor that led to his cabin.

As she walked in she stopped and looked around. “This is really nice, Spudz. Elegant, I guess,” she said as she walked over to several framed pictures on a dresser. “You were a pilot?” she asked.

He walked over and stood beside her. “That was a long time ago, right after I got out of the Academy.”

“Annapolis?”

“Yup.”

“What kind of plane is that?”

“An EA-6B, an electronic warfare aircraft.”

“Were you ever in combat?”

He nodded. “Dessert Storm. I was the squadron CO by then, then the Wing’s CAG, and then I went to surface warfare school, was XO on a cruiser before taking over as skipper of an aircraft carrier.” 

“Turner? He worked with you?”

Spudz nodded. “He’s been with me since the Connie…uh, the carrier.”

“Connie?”

“Constellation. She was the last non-nuclear boat. That’s here, there,” he said, pointing to one of the pictures.

“And you flew planes onto that?”

He nodded. “Feels like all that happened in another lifetime.”

“How so?”

He shrugged again, almost like it was a habitual gesture, quick and restless. “You sure you want to bunk out with me up here?”

“Would you mind?”

He shrugged again. “No, but I really need a shower.”

“I think I’d like a bath. Don’t suppose there’s one of those onboard, huh?”

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, walking to the huge sliding glass doors along the aft most wall, and as soon as he was within a foot or so of the door it automatically slid open and lights in the ceiling above a circular hot tub came on. “Water’s set at 102 Fahrenheit. Will that do?”

She walked out and looked at the tub and sighed. “Is there anything you don’t have onboard this thing?”

“I didn’t want a house, and there were a bunch of people I really didn’t want to leave behind so this came to mind. I made a couple of good investments along the way, enough to live like this for a while, anyway, and when I talked to my friends they were all happy to sign on. There’s plenty of room and we’re planning on seeing the world we missed. Europe, mostly, then the Seychelles and Polynesia too. Then we’ll see.”

“Do you have anything I can wear?”

“Sweatpants, gym shorts, hoodies, you name it. Do you have a passport?”

She shook her head and looked away. “No.”

“Well, we’ll take care of that tomorrow. What about shoes?”

“What?”

“What size? I’ll ask the chief, see if we have your size onboard already.”

“Nine, narrow.”

“Got it,” he said as he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a couple of bath sheets. He handed them to her and smiled. “Hop in when you want. I’m going to shower now,” he said, ready to return to the warmth of his cabin – but as walked in she followed him, and she did so all the way to his bathroom. He finally saw her in one of the mirrors and stopped, then turned around and looked at her.

She reached out and unknotted his tie, then started to unbutton his shirt, and his lower lip started to tremble.

No one had expressly told him this might happen – yet he really didn’t understand why he hadn’t figured that out on his own, let alone what to do if it did – so he simply acquiesced. For a moment.

“Let me rinse off,” he sighed, “then I’ll meet you in the tub.”

She looked at him a little quizzically, then she saw the dilemma in his eyes, the conflict and uncertainty written across his face – and right then she knew that he knew. “Okay,” she whispered, but even she could register the defeat in her words.

He watched her walk back to the tub, and though she kicked off her shoes and slacks before she stepped up and then into the hot water – while still wearing her blouse and, he assumed, her underwear – before sitting down. He nodded then stepped into a cold shower and soaped off quickly, then slipped into a clean t-shirt and boxers before making his own quick dash out to the tub.

As he sat he just made out the highway bridge as Amaranth crept along through the dense fog, then he felt her come close and lay her head on his shoulder – again. He slipped his arm around her and pulled her close, and after that everything just sort of happened naturally.

Port Royal Sound

He woke with a start and looked at the clock on his bedside table and smiled when he saw 0525 on the pale blue digital display. Some things, he realized, never changed, and waking up minutes before the alarm sounded had always been a blessing – and a curse. Then he remembered Sara and rolled over, saw that she was already sitting up and watching him – quite intently.

“You were so sweet last night,” he finally said, though he still felt a little shy. “So easy to be with.”

She held his eyes in her own and smiled with a warmth she’d rarely known. “You were my first.”

His eyes popped wide open as he processed those words. “What?”

“I’ve never wanted to before.”

A knock on the teak door, then Jim Turner’s voice boomed: “Admiral?”

“I’ll be up in a moment, Chief.”

“Aye, sir.”

MacKenzie dressed in plain khakis and slipped on a pair of sneakers and a navy blue ball cap as she watched him dress, and she never took her eyes off him.

“If you want to shower and change,” he began, “just help yourself to the sweats. Second drawer,” he added, pointing. “I’ll be at the wheel until 0600, then we can head down and make breakfast.”

“Okay.”

MacKenzie went to the helm, noted they had already passed Saint Michaels Breakers and were coming up on Port Royal Channel Marker 7 and that their depth was ranging between 13 and 20 feet; the autopilot was engaged and Jenny Valdez was on watch. Valdez had been a Machinist’s Mate before pushing and shoving her way through SEAL training, and she’d been on Spudz’ security detail at the Pentagon. She was also Jim Turner’s main squeeze, and between the two of them there wasn’t anything onboard they couldn’t fix.

“Good morning, Admiral,” Valdez said, grinning. “Have a good night’s sleep?”

“I managed,” MacKenzie growled. “When do we clear the channel?”

“Six thousand feet to the Entrance Buoy, sir.”

“Maintain course until we’re a few miles offshore, then make zero-five-zero degrees at seven knots.”

“Two offshore, zero-five-zero at seven, aye.”

He stepped outside onto the bridge and found Orion down hard in the southwest sky; he took in the brisk salt laden air then made a swing around the foredeck before walking aft to the steps that led up to the flying bridge. Once up in the unfettered breeze he settled into a helm chair and turned on the main NAV display and scrolled to the weather page. Temp was warming, the dew point falling, so before long they’d be out of the fog, and that was always a good thing, he thought. Radar was clear, AIS too, then he heard Turner coming up the steps.

“Skipper? How do you want to handle this?”

“Let me go down with her and get breakfast going. When we’re finished go ahead and bring them out.”

“You want me to stand by there while this goes down?”

He thought a moment, then nodded. “Better keep a sidearm handy, Chief. Just in case.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Anything from the airdales?”

“A P-8 made a routine sweep an hour ago. There’s a Russian boomer off Savannah heading south, with at least one Virginia on his ass, and the Truman Battle Group is off Hatteras doing workups and car-quals.”

“So nothing from our friend in Seattle?” MacKenzie noted, meaning the old British spy on Puget Sound.

“Still docked at Shilshole, sir,” Valdez added.

“This doesn’t smell right, Chief. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“I know, sir. I feel it, too. All the missile boats have sortied, all the carriers, too. Docks in Norfolk are empty, Admiral. Even the dry-docks.”

“Hell, been a while since we’ve seen that, Chief.”

“Better safe than sorry, sir, but I guess you know that.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty smart…for an officer, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, Admiral.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You need anything right now, sir? Coffee? Fresh condoms? Penicillin, maybe?” he said, grinning.

Spudz smiled at Turner and shook his head. “No. Let’s head down and get this over with.” He turned off the display and stood, and he felt his little ship was beginning to roll a little in the open roadstead, and just then Valdez upped the throttle and corrected to port a few degrees before settling in on her new heading. 

Turner led the way down the steps and MacKenzie found Sara Caldwell on the bridge standing beside Valdez. “Sara?” he said to her. “Let’s head down and I’ll show you around the galley.”

“We’re being followed,” Caldwell said, her voice flat, emotionless.

Valdez looked at the admiral and shrugged. “Radar’s all clear, sir.”

“Who’s upstairs?” he asked, looking at Turner.

Turner went to a clipboard and flipped a page. “Should be Pelican 3-0-1 out of Jax.”

“Have him make a MAD run and drop a line of buoys between here to Wilmington.”

“Aye, sir.” Turner went over to a radio and began keying in a frequency.

Sara was looking at Spudz, just now beginning to wonder what was really going on. “What’s a MAD, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Magnetic Anomaly Detector. An aircraft will fly along our route looking for any unusual magnetic influences, then comparing anything that pops to nominal datums for this part of the coastline.”

“Magnetic?” Sara asked. “You mean…something like…a submarine?”

Spudz shrugged. “Let’s see what they turn up before we jump to any conclusions, okay? Now, let’s head down to the galley.”

MacKenzie disappeared down the stairway and Sara followed him, and then he showed her around the galley – which was immense and as well equipped as any she’d seen in her travels. Two Sub Zero refrigerators, a six burner induction cooktop, four ovens, two dishwashers and a trash compactor were in the galley proper; in an annex just forward was a huge freezer and two commercial grade ice-makers. “Why such a big galley?” she asked.

And he shrugged. “It’s the standard arrangement. Lots of space for frozen stuff on long passages, and besides, who wants to eat PBJs for weeks on end?”

“Would you like me to cook breakfast?”

“Could you?”

“Sure. Just you and me?”

“No. We’ve got an engineer in the engine room, then Jim and Jenny. And we have three guests onboard, and one more down below.”

“So, breakfast for nine?”

“Yup. Think you can handle that?”

She poked around the refrigerators, then found some English muffins in a cupboard and decided on Eggs Benedict and home fried potatoes. She found several bags of oranges and an electric juicer then got to work, leaving Spudz with little to do but sit and watch her.

Which was, in and of itself, amazing. She moved with an impressive economy of motion, almost like she was trying to conserve energy with every move she made, and then she started to chop some shallots and her hands moved so quickly he could barely follow her movements. She poached eggs and sliced the Canadian bacon, then set up a double boiler and fired off a Hollandaise while the muffins toasted. For good measure she sliced fresh honeydew melon and made her plates ‘just so.’

Turner came down and carried two plates up to the bridge, and someone mysteriously appeared and carried three plates forward, then the engineers arrived from below – with spotless hands – and carried their plates away, leaving her alone with Spudz…and once again she felt like everything had been pre-arranged; that everything was happening according to some plan. He carried their two plates to the dining room – for that’s exactly what it was, she saw – and after he put their plates on the table he waited for her behind her chair. And that, she thought, was a completely unexpected gesture.

He sat and immediately took a bite – then coughed a little to clear his throat. “Did you put cayenne in the Hollandaise?” he asked.

“Always,” she smirked. “Too hot for you?”

“No, not really. I just wasn’t expecting a hit like that at breakfast.” Then the little FRS radio on his belt chimed and he picked it up, toggled the mic. “Yes?”

“Admiral,” Valdez said, “first MAD run picked up a minor hit. Vermont notified and now en route, but sir, there’s not enough water in here for a sub?”

“Have the P-8 drop a larger grid ahead of us, then let’s start a zigzag course; maybe they can pick up something that way.”

“Aye, sir.”

“What’s Vermont?” Sara asked.

“A Virginia-class fast attack sub. She’s assigned to the carrier battle group training off Cape Hatteras. If someone’s following us, the sub can pin her in shallow water.”

“I’m curious, Spudz. Why would someone follow us? Is someone after you?”

MacKenzie shrugged. “What do you think of our little galley?”

She stared at him, wondered what his real game was, but he was focused on his eggs – too obviously ignoring her question. “All the comforts of home, I guess.”

He looked at her then, his eyes cold and hard again, almost inquisitorial. “How ‘bout your home, Sara? Growing up, I mean? What got you interested in cooking?”

“I wanted to be…useful.”

“Surgeons are useful. So are engineers. Why cooking?”

“I don’t know, Spudz. Are warriors useful?”

He leaned back and looked seaward – out the adjacent wall of windows – and he had to think about that one for a moment. “In an ideal world there’d be no need. Then again, we don’t live in an ideal world, do we?”

“I tried medicine once, but I found it unsatisfying.”

“What? You were, you are a physician?”

She smiled. “That troubles you?” 

“No, not really, but it was – well, it is – a little unexpected, I guess, but let me add that to the list,” he smiled.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

“Of course…but look, you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, okay?”

“I don’t believe you. Who are the other guests onboard?”

“Let’s clear the table, do the dishes first, okay?” he said. She stood abruptly and went to the galley while he ferried their dishes and utensils to the sink. “I’ll rinse and you load,” he added, taking a minute to wipe down the obsidian granite countertops after they finished with the cookware. Then he walked through the main saloon and out to the open aft cockpit, and she followed along without asking, finally stopping at the rail and looking at the churning water in their wake.

“Why am I here, Spudz?”

“Try not to be angry, okay?”

“Angry? Why would I be…?”

They turned when the pneumatic door hissed open again, and Sara turned around – only to find Ralph Richardson, Sumner Bacon…and another woman that looked exactly like she did.

Her betrayal now complete, she turned to MacKenzie at a complete loss for words. Not only did he know who she was, this Navy admiral had spent months, perhaps years setting up this moment, slowly seducing her to break cover and run again. But now she was trapped, unknown miles out to sea and in the hands of the two men she had run away from more than once.

© 2024 adrian leverkühn | abw | adrianleverkuhnwrites. com | this is fiction, plain and simple.

Last music today? Try Twelve-Eight Angel by The Dream Academy. Enjoy.