فصل سی و نهم

Chapter 39: Fishin’ Impossible

Five minutes later Jaime stopped the van in front of a small, lantern-lit shack with a hand-painted sign: JORGE’S CHARTER FISHING TOURS.

In spite of the hour, an older man walked out of the building to greet us. He and Jaime spoke a bit in Spanish, then Jaime turned to us.

“Everything is ready. Follow me.”

All of us except Dodds walked past the shack and down a wood-planked dock to where an old fishing boat was moored. The boat was beige and turquoise. It had an upper platform enclosed in canvas and its fishing lines were still in place. There was a black raft tied to the port side of the boat.

“Isn’t that the wrong side for the raft?” Ostin asked Jaime. “The Ampere is south of us.” “Yes, but we will first go far out to sea, then turn back and come in from the other direction as if we are just returning from fishing, so we will pass the boat on the starboard side.” “Clever,” Ostin said.

We climbed on board and walked through the cabin to the open back of the boat. It smelled of saltwater and fish. On the floor were canvas bags with our initials marked in pen.

“Your uniforms,” Jaime said. “Get dressed.”

We all put on the sailor uniforms, which fit perfectly.

“They did a good job,” Taylor said. “We look like Elgen sailors.” Then she added, “Actually, I’ve never seen one.” Jaime said, “Put on the cloaks.”

I pulled the cloak from the bottom of the bag and slid my arms through it. The fabric was black and lightweight, like vinyl, though softer and more opaque. I looked up at everyone else. We looked like we were wearing Halloween witch costumes.

“Michael, check this out,” Ostin said, leaning over the back of the boat. I walked back to see what he was looking at. Painted on the boat’s stern was the name: Fishin’ Impossible.

“Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” I said.

Dodds walked up to the side of the boat carrying a large black vinyl backpack. “Jack,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

“Your explosives,” Dodds said, handing the pack over the side of the boat.

“How sensitive are they?” Jack asked.

“These are pretty stable,” he said. “But don’t push your luck.” Jack slid the pack over his shoulders just to get a sense of its weight. “About fifty pounds,” he said. “No problem.” He set the pack on the ground and unzipped the top flap, exposing the detonator. The digital screen glowed light green.

“What’s the code?” Dodds quizzed.

“Seventeen, seventeen,” Jack replied. He looked up. “That’s how old Wade would be today.” The boat’s engine started, and the air smelled of gasoline and exhaust as the propeller churned and gurgled beneath us.

“It is time to go,” Jaime said. He began untying the rope holding us to the dock.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked Dodds, who was still on the dock.

“No. We can’t put all our eggs in one basket, and I believe I am close to reestablishing radio contact with the resistance.” He pushed the boat away from the dock with his foot. “But I will see you all shortly.” For just a moment his words hung in the air like a promise. The fishing boat sputtered in its own veil of exhaust as it slowly pulled away from the dock. Then it rotated until we were facing the sea. The old man pushed down on the throttle and we lurched forward, headed out into the cold darkness.