“Take the wheel. I need to piss.”
Disgusted, Jorge stepped up from the cabin and hung on to the railing as the boat pounded each swell. Once he got on deck, he flicked the half-smoked joint over the side and scanned northwest toward the bouncing bow.
“Just hold this heading. Haven’t seen anything since we left the damn barco.”
“Si. Si. Just go below and take your piss. And hurry the fuck up.”
Enrique grunted and got out of the chair as Jorge grabbed the wheel. Though the men had known each other for years and crewed these boats before, they were not friends. Their frayed nerves, due to lack of sleep, coupled with the constant pounding of the choppy sea, did nothing to improve their moods.
Eat shit, Enrique thought as he went below. He’d had enough of Jorge’s pissy attitude for today. His partner had been a complete ass to the mujer on the “trawler,” probably the ugliest woman Enrique had ever seen, but she had made them sandwiches as the boat was fueled. Cold sandwiches! Enrique thought. We are making millions of dollars, and we can’t afford at least a hot meal at sea on a decrepit fishing boat? His thoughts then returned to Pablo. He wished Pablo could at least assign one of his idiot whores to make the sandwiches so they didn’t have to look at the stomach-turning fish-wife on the trawler. Cold freakin’ sandwiches. Still, Jorge didn’t have to be mean to her. He then put the thought out of his mind,
Three more hours and he would have his wad of hundred dollar bills and a hot shower. Then a hot meal, Bistec Encebollado with vino and rum. Without Jorge, the prick. And a chica bonita for the night. Then sleep. As he swayed in the stuffy compartment to the boat’s heaving and rolling, he thought he might make sleep his first choice.
* * *
Lieutenant Mark scanned the horizon and picked up the wake. “Got it,” he murmured over the ICS, alerting the three other crewmen they had a visual on their quarry.
His co-pilot, Lieutenant Todd, studying the Forward Looking Infrared display, lifted his head. As the Helicopter Aircraft Commander of the MH-60S Seahawk, Todd wanted to work them into an optimum firing angle for the Hellfire missile hanging from the “wing” off his left shoulder. He saw a faint white smudge, about seven miles distant, that pulsed from left to right as the boat heaved up and down on the waves at high speed.
“Great, let’s fall off left and come up his starboard quarter. Take us down to fifty.”
“Roger,” Mark acknowledged and smoothly rolled the aircraft left. He allowed it to descend to 50 feet above the waves, a dangerous altitude that required his full attention to maintain.