Unlawful Chase, C.J. Schnier [best book clubs TXT] 📗

was no smoke bellowing from the back of the boat, only a steady white rooster-tail of spray and the twin diverging lines of a clean wake. Even in the strange yellow light of morning, I could see a reddish orange pontoon that ran all the way around the small boat. This was no Cuban Patrol boat.

"It's the Coast Guard," I told Jaye, my voice betraying the shock that I felt.

"Like the US Coast Guard?" She asked, equally surprised.

"Yeah. Thank god."

"I hate to burst your bubble there, Chase, but I don't think that is much better. We just left Cuba. Illegally."

I considered this as I watched the boat approach. The truth of our trip to Cuba was not an option. We would have to lie, and we would have to lie well.

"You're right. But there is no way that they know for sure that we were in Cuba. If they ask, we're just out for a sail. We left Marathon about a week and a half ago and are circumnavigating Cuba."

Jaye nodded her understanding and then asked about the one big hole in my plan. "What about the mess and how we look? I mean, it looks like we got robbed and I'm literally wearing a Cuban officer's pants."

"The storm that rolled through last night tossed us about and beat us up. Sailing can be rough, and if I know much about the Coasties, it's that few of them know much at all about sailing. As for your pants? We'll just have to get lucky."

"I hope you're right," she replied, obviously unsure.

"Trust me. Just follow my lead and let me do the talking," I said.

"Fine, but do a better job talking than you did last time, huh?"

"That wasn't my fault," I protested.

"Sure it wasn't."

"Fine, whatever," I said capitulating. "Please tell me you have a passport. That will probably be the first thing they ask for."

"Yeah, I always hide one when I fly into foreign countries on business," she replied matter-of-factly.

"One?" I asked. "How many do you have? And more importantly, will it pass if they check it?"

"It's my real one. I stashed it in the plane when I landed. I always use a fake when in country. It'll pass."

"Great. Where is it?" I asked.

"Should be in the red folder on the left couch. And by the way, hide that folder."

"Right," I said, disappearing down the companionway. Once again I waded through all of my belongings scattered throughout the cabin, but I found the folder Jaye had mentioned right where she said it would be. Inside was a worn U.S. Passport with her picture in it. I stuffed it in my back pocket and retrieved my passport and my captain's license from their hiding place in the v-berth.

The Coast Guard response boat was close enough now that I could hear the low hum of its dual outboard engines. A distorted electronic voice rang out like a siren, easily drowning the sounds of the boat's quiet four-stroke engines.

"Sailing vessel, maintain speed and course. This is the United States Coast Guard. We are coming alongside."

I complied, keeping Paramour steady on her course, just as I had thought to do when Bardales had tracked us down and boarded us the day before. But this time I was much less apprehensive about the experience.

Instead of men wearing cadet hats, they wore the thick helmets of modern warriors. And, instead of green fatigues, each of the four wore the bright safety-orange of a life vest that stood out in stark contrast against their dark navy blue uniforms. The biggest difference was that the flags on their shoulders were the Stars and Stripes of the United States, and we were now several miles outside of Cuban waters.

The response vessel came alongside us expertly, matching our speed and countering the waves with ease.

I raised my arm in a friendly wave and shouted over to them, "Morning, fellas." And then, after scanning their faces, added "And lady."

"Do you have some lines? We're coming aboard," the coxswain behind the wheel said.

"Uh, sure. No problem," I replied, gathering up a line and tying it to the stern cleat. "Jaye, do you mind tossing them a bow line?"

"Of course," she said in a polite, but nervous voice.

Good, keep that up, I thought to myself. Nobody enjoys dealing with law enforcement, but being polite was always good in these situations, and being nervous was to be expected.

We passed the lines to the men on the other boat and within a few seconds they were alongside. Two of them, a man and the woman, stepped across the gap between the two vessels onto Paramour.

"Is there anyone else aboard?" The man asked, fondling his weapon and looking about the boat.

"No sir, it's just us. Uh..." I trailed off, looking at his name tag and the rank insignia. "Petty Officer Adams."

"Good," he said, making no acknowledgment of me calling him by his name and rank. "Can I see your passports, please?"

"Yes, of course." I answered, pulling them from my back pocket. "I have them right here."

Adams took the passports from me, and after a quick check, wrote some notes in a small yellow-covered notebook. He wandered off towards the bow, talking into the radio mounted in his helmet and reading the names and numbers from the passports. The woman who had boarded with him, petty officer Jenkins according to her name tag, stepped into the cockpit to take his place. She watched us warily, keeping her weapon, an M4 carbine by the looks of it, up and ready. Her finger rested alongside the trigger guard, ready for use at a moment's notice.

Several moments passed before Adams returned, handing me the two passports and my license. "You look a little beat up," he said, breaking the silence.

"A little?" I scoffed, "I bet we look like hammered dog shit. That storm last night caught us completely off guard and whooped the hell out of us."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he continued. "What brings you two out here?"

"Just sailing. We