Farallon by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

“Sam, we’re going to have to pass on Half Moon Bay [California] for now,” a nervous, fidgeting, bright-blonde-haired, former cocaine-running, mid-forty-something, now-pot-bellied, already-thrice-divorced Caucasian male said while seated at the helm. “It’s just too precarious at the moment. We saw the running lights of a vessel behind us that seemed to be following us. It may be the [United States] Coast Guard. We can’t risk them searching this Skater 36. [an extremely fast, twin-hull speedboat] We’re going to head northwest and get at least a dozen miles [19.3 km] offshore.” Why does he want to get out of territorial waters? I just knew that Pete would flake out on us. Never should have picked him and Ernie for such a high-stakes gambit. A massive mistake. / Bet I got him all worried.

“Are you sure that you’re not just paranoid, Pete?” the slender, thirty-nine-year-old Chinese American asked with an opening sigh from his white 2016 Mercedes c300 sedan in the Pillar Point Harbor parking lot at twilight – a very serene-appearing 7:17 PM – on Saturday, September 23^rd, 2017.

“No, I’m not paranoid. I just don’t want to make an avoidable, ten-to-fifteen-years-in-a-federal-pen blunder, Sam. We’ll try to come back in to port in a couple of hours.” Just fucking great! What am I going to do for 120-plus minutes? Juanita [Sam’s thirty-five-year-old Colombian American girlfriend] is at work until ten. Don’t want to drive back to Mountain View and then back here again. I guess that I could hang out in that brew pub across the street. [Capistrano Road] Yeah, just nurse a pint of porter. Hell, I’ll just walk over there and leave the car here.

“But, everything went ok at the Santa Cruz Wharf, right?” Sam then enquired after a four-second pause. Wonder if the land courier was trailed.

“Yeah, Sam, we didn’t seem to attract any attention. We were casual but quick. We were out of there three minutes after it was on the boat.”

“Ok, I’ll be on standby. Over and out.” Sure hope no one gets that multi-million-dollar rectangle of niobium. Ah, the allure of the AI [artificial intelligence] lure. The ultra-lure.

“Later.” Why are they heading northwest instead of due west? Ah, the Farallon Islands. I smell a rat. If Pete doesn’t call in by nine o’clock, I’ll have to shift to plan B. And pronto.

Sam walked past Barbara’s Fishtrap, a small seafood restaurant on the bay, and then alongside a small beach that was vacant, save for some wafting fog wisps. After a few more paces, he crossed the street to arrive at Half Moon Brewing Company. Good, it doesn’t look super-crowded yet.

Once stool-perched at the inside bar that offered a view of the mooring harbor, Sam checked the San Jose area news on his brand-new iPhone 8 Plus while waiting for someone to take his drink order. He was shocked by what he saw. Wow! Roadblocks have already been set up on Route 1, west and east of Santa Cruz; on Routes 9 and 17 to the north; and on the surrounding mountain roads. Maybe the Coast Guard or a police boat is really after them. Need to tell Pete. Now.

“Hello Sam. We’re already approaching Southeast Farallon Island. I can see the lighthouse beacon up on the foggy ridge; though – thankfully – I can no longer see any lights behind us. I think we’re in the clear.” Sure hope so.

“That’s great to hear, Pete. However, some words of caution: evidently our world-class con-artist-slash-magician’s sleight-of-hand ploy at the convention tripped an alarm. That Meta-Q-biquitous^® quantum chip must have a tracking hitchhiker.” Yeah, I bet it does. Maybe the North Farallon Islands are out of range. Need to head up there. Plus, there are some scientists on the lighthouse island. Not good. The northern islands are uninhabited. Need to keep going. Yeah, let’s get out of here. Wonder what Farallón means. [sea pillar/cliff in Spanish] Need to look it up later. Later, when I can relax my mind.

“Ok, well, we’ve got the little ornament in a tin mints box, buried under some life jackets. I’ll have Ernie stack some metal items over it.” Excellent.

“Smart move, Pete. Oh, get this: roadblocks were set up over an hour ago all around Santa Cruz. The demented IT [information technology] dazzler knows that it has been stolen. Your paranoia may indeed be warranted. Therefore, stay alert out there on the high seas. And, I wouldn’t bother coming back here tonight. It’s way too risky.” Oh, boy. Things just got real … interesting.

“So, what do you want us to do tonight?” Pete asked, fearing Sam’s answer. Please don’t say ‘stay in a holding pattern until dawn’. No, not that. I’m kind of hungry already. And thirsty.

“How about heading to Sausalito? I could meet you there at our favorite harbor dock at nine-thirty.”

“Ok, that will work, Sam. We have enough fuel. Oh, by the way, why did they place the chip in that Christmas-tree-like ornament? It doesn’t look like a container for the world’s ultimate quantum chip.”

“Exactly.” Did he expect them to store it in a see-through necklace case?

“Got ya. Out and about.” Pete looked at the baleful islands ahead. Where are those shoals located? Need to be careful. Slow ’er down.

“Trouble, boss?” dark-haired, olive-skinned, mustachioed, thirty-seven-year-old Ernie asked, who was seated to the left of Pete. This aint going as planned. Something is not right.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Pete curtly replied as he scanned the increasingly fog-laden, darkening horizon. “We might have an attached or integrated bug.” He then glanced over his right shoulder. “Oh, fuck! Not again!”

Ernie snapped his head around. “Who is that, boss?”

“Not sure,” Pete replied. “But, I think it’s the same boat.” He then opened up the throttle. “Hold on. We’re getting the hell out of here, mate. See ya later, suckers!”

Soon the catamaran-style powerboat was skimming across the oil sea at 82 MPH (132 km/h). They opened up a sizeable gap. In seven minutes they had reached a granitic pair of exposed peaks of underwater mountains. Already here. Blew those fucks away.

Pete slowed the craft down and used his headlight to scan the all-rock shoreline of the western mini-isle. He looked to the rear again. There were no lights. But just 17 seconds later, the lights were back in view. Oh, shit! What rotten luck! Who the fuck screwed up?

“Ernie, I think it’s the Coast Guard; they’re tailing us. Fleeing is futile. I’m sure that they have alerted the nearby ports. How about I let you off and you hide the chip under a rock. I just know that they will rip this boat apart searching for that damn bauble. And if/when they find it, we lose. Bigtime.”

“Ok, sure, boss,” Ernie answered with some trepidation.

Pete inched the bobbing boat up as close as possible. Ernie, now on the bow with the colorfully disguised quantum chip in his jacket pocket, prepared to leap to a water-surface-level, almost-horizontal ledge. Hope I can land in the trough between waves.

“Just a little bit closer, boss. Ok, right there. Stop!” Ernie gave Pete a thumbs-up and promptly jumped from the starboard side of the bow. His left shoe splashed and immediately immersed four inches (10 cm) into the chilly seawater. This water is freezing!

“Hurry!” Pete barked as he shifted into reverse. Easy for you to say, boss.

Ernie scrambled up the craggy slope. Thirty feet (nine meters) up he placed the chip-lure under a loose mini-slab. “Ok, all done. I’m coming back down, boss.”

<BANG> <BANG>

The mysterious boat that had been shadowing them was now shooting at them. And this 59-foot (18 meters), massive-yet-sleek motor yacht was now only 125 feet (38 meters) behind Pete’s Ferrari on water. Holy fuck! What the hell is going on?! / Would the Coast Guard be shooting at us? Sincerely doubt it. That boat is trouble. Serious trouble.

Pete ducked down. Well, that’s obviously not the Coast Guard. Dazzler has sent his private navy after us. Going to have to leave Ernie for now, or we’ll both be killed. Maybe they didn’t see him. ‘Just lie low, pal. And, good luck. Sorry, but it’s time for me to push this lever all the way forward before I become bloody Swiss cheese.’

<Vrooooom>

The Skater 36 rapidly scooted away like a skimming rocket. However, the fog was now quite dense. At a speed of 56 MPH (90 km/h), the gray wall of tiny dihydrogen monoxide droplets suddenly – and quite shockingly – yielded to the northernmost, black-as-no-tomorrow rocky islet, which local day-trippers sometimes called The Crescent or Cat and Canary (an adjacent-to-the-feline’s-mouth tiny outcrop).

<BOOM> Holy cow! What the hell was that?!

The Salinian Block cat’s tail completely destroyed the personal performance watercraft. Pete was dead upon the bomb-like impact, or mere nanoseconds thereafter. Thousands of carbon-fiber splinters and S-glass shards littered the lightly undulating swells 1,542 feet (470 meters) from Ernie. Holy shit! Did an engine blow? A bilge explosion? No, it sounded more like a collision. He hit something – something hard and unmoving, like a just-above-the-waterline or semi-submerged flank. Bet poor old Pete is dead. Yeah, I’m sure of it. No way that boss survived that. What do I do now? Need to stay hidden until that diabolical yacht is gone. Or, I’ll be the next death out here. Wonder if they saw me climbing. Sure as hell hope not. Nowhere to go if they did.

After a cursory search of the shoreline, the large motor yacht zipped past Ernie and proceeded to the wreck site. They then shined several searchlights on the water, which illuminated the red-and-white flotsam. But, there was no sign of Pete. His remains had already sunk. An opportunistic great white shark devoured the mangled corpse in four chomps.

Ernie could just faintly see, and only every once in a while, the searchlights through the draping fog. What happens now? Do they come back and carefully search the rock I’m on? And then shoot and kill me? I’m stuck here. Or, am I? That island over there would be a good place to hide for a while. Need to see how far away it is. Maybe I could swim to it. Doubt they would search it. I’d be safer over there. Yeah, need to check it out. Staying on this island is much riskier.

Since the north face of the extant island was nearly vertical, Ernie decided to just keep climbing, as moving laterally was very dangerous, if not impassable in places. In eight foothold-finding-and-hand-scrabbling minutes, he had reached the pockmarked summit, 154 feet (47 meters) above the foreboding Pacific Ocean. He gazed eastward at the sister island. Looks to be about 80 feet [24.4 meters] across at the narrowest passage. Could I make it that far in that cold-as-ice seawater without locking up and drowning? Don’t think so. And even if I were to survive the swim across, I’m then soaking wet and freezing with no towel or change of clothes. Hypothermia would surely set in. I’d slowly teeth-chatter my way to death. What a pitiful, wimpy ending to my life. No, I need to stay on this chunk of rock. Really have no choice. Wonder how far I am from San Francisco. Wonder what the cell service is like here. Is there any reception at all?

Ernie extracted his silver smartphone. He was happily surprised to see that he had two bars (out of four). Google Maps was soon lighting up his face. Ah, so I’m on the Island of St. James. The other one doesn’t seem to have a name. Oh, it’s ‘the’ North Farallon Island. Sure didn’t think that I’d be here tonight when I woke up this morning. I’ve got myself in a really bad fix – a life-and/or-death dilemma. Oh, there’s where Pete’s boat crashed. Kind of looks like a comma. But for Pete it was a period. The end of his life sentence. His nautical game-over moment. Well, he sure went out with a blast. Such a risk-taker he was. At least his maritime death was instantaneous. No years of drooling, silent, loss-of-mentality agony in a nursing home. Wait. Could he still be alive? Has that yacht found his body floating on the water? Are they torturing him right now because they can’t find the quantum chip? No, he’s a goner. Has to be. Wonder when they will come back by here. And look for me? Shit!

Just then Ernie heard the low-frequency drone of the motor yacht’s inboard diesel engine. Then he saw the cabin window lights. He crouched down and remained motionless in a small, damp, cold, dark crevasse. The once-menacing, life-threatening vessel passed without incident, and soon disappeared into the fog-strewn southeastern darkness. Whew! Glad those gun-firing assholes are gone. One big problem self-eliminated. But, I’m still stuck on this frigid-water-surrounded rock. For how long? For at least the night. Or longer? How much longer? I’ll at least need some water by morning. Or, I’ll start to dehydrate. I really could quite literally die from dehydration on this overgrown sea stack. It’s probably the most likely scenario. No, let’s not think negatively. Don’t want to start a downward spiral of grim thoughts. Hope it doesn’t rain. But, I would then have some freshwater to drink. I could cup my hands and harvest the raindrops. Harvest the raindrops? Must use that phrase in my next novella. Never told Pete that I was a writer. I know that he would have laughed about it. ‘A writer? Well, aint you special? Ernie, a bestselling author. Ha-ha-ha.’ I think Pete was afraid of written words. He didn’t trust them; he didn’t trust his mind in quiet, idle, introspective moments. It was all about hard-charging at the target straight ahead for the maximum adrenaline rush. Screw the periphery. That was his life. All his women eventually grew tired of it. No wonder he had three divorces. No, rain would be totally miserable. It would make my body cold – very cold – dangerously cold. Hypothermia could easily set in if I got soaking wet out here. There’s no place to get out of the rain. No shelter anywhere. Not even a single tree to get under. Ah, let’s check that radar website. Yes! No precipitation tonight. Thank God! Though it sure would be nice to have a sleeping bag or blanket. Well, at least I have my jacket. Let’s see … what to do right now? I could call Cindy, [a 33-year-old Lebanese lady that he was on the verge of asking out] I suppose. But, what could she do? She doesn’t have a boat. And, no one that she or I know does. She certainly can’t call the police; they would just arrest me. I’ve got the prized chip. Yeah, I’ve got the grand prize alright, but I’m in the grand trap. Wonder what happens when that Sam guy doesn’t see us in Sausalito tonight. Glad he doesn’t have my number. Or, does he? Maybe Pete gave it to him as a backup. Maybe he demanded it as a safeguard. Well, we’ll soon find out. Wish I had his number right now. I could explain what happened, and he could send a boat out to pluck me – and the coveted chip – from this fog-frigerated [sic] stone in the drink. Well, I’ve got plenty of time to kill. Let’s research this place some more.

It was now 8:18 PM. Wikipedia was now on Ernie’s three-inch (7.62 cm) square screen. So, I’m approximately 30 miles [48.3 km] west of the Golden Gate Bridge and 20 miles [32.2 km] south of Point Reyes. Sure can’t see the lighthouse tonight. Woah! Was that it for a millisecond? Pea soup to the northeast now. The Farallon Islands, also known by sailors as The Devil’s Teeth. Well, Pete sure ran into a fatal fang tonight. The Egg War of 1863. All over uncommonly desired common murre eggs. People will kill over anything. Nuclear waste dumped off the Southeast Farallon Islands from 1946 to 1970. What in the world were they thinking? What a flawed species we iz. [sic]

He heard a seagull and looked west-southwestward. Between a momentary parting in the fogbank, he saw the waning gibbous moon. It was setting, and almost down to the horizon. Is this the last time I see the moon? Sure hope not. I want to see one of my stories get published before I die. I want to win Cindy over. She’s the one. I think she likes me. But, I need to play my cards right. Write. Yeah, write. I guess I could do some writing tonight. Nothing else to do.

Sam was halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge at 9:19 PM. He turned his head to the left. Some dense-ass fog tonight. Hope Pete didn’t bang into a buoy. Or plow into a rock. I guess they should already be in Richardson Bay. Maybe they’re already at the dock. Let’s see … 4 miles [6.4 km] and 7½ minutes to go. Perfect.

After passing through the 999-foot-long (305 meters) Robin Williams Tunnel, Sam merged to the right and took Exit 444 for Rodeo Avenue. The Mercedes snaked down the eucalyptus-canopied, two-lane, double-yellow-lined, damp, asphalt road. As he decelerated to the STOP sign at Nevada Street, he could see the harbor lights straight down below. I sure hope that they are there. Or, soon will be. On time. Don’t want to wait around. $300K is nothing to sneeze at. It should carry me for a while.

The road became a curvy residential lane. The speed limit reduced to 15 MPH (24 km/h). Sam noticed a hillside chalet on his left as he turned the steering wheel hard to the right. Wonder if anyone has run into that guy’s garage. I’m sure some drunk has. Think I’d install bollards. Maybe that is against the town ordinance. So many regulations now.

After passing an ivy-covered knoll on the right and a blind driveway, Sam slowly merged into Woodward Avenue. The narrow street continued winding down towards the central business district. The sporadically lighted windows in the expensive houses had no silhouettes. Not until the one catty-corner from the Spring Street STOP sign. Why is that lady standing in the window? Is she nude? An exhibitionist artist? A prostitute? What a ridiculous thought. Is she looking at me? Why did I think that? Must be getting paranoid. Need to calm my mind. It will all be ok. Just relax, relax, relax.

There was no traffic. Sam finally turned left. As he passed the woman in the window, he smiled and shook his head. Wonder if she saw me. Not through that curtain, she didn’t. Though, it is rather thin. Ah, the strangeness of this life. Wonder what her story is. Who knows? Maybe she just chopped up her boyfriend. Why in the world did I think that? Too many horror movies. / Have never seen that car before. Such a long pause at the STOP sign. Eleven seconds. Something is going down here tonight. I can sense it. A drug deal? Maybe. Maybe something else. Maybe something highly sought after. Is that a fishing lure? The cursed blessing of being psychic.

After a STOP sign for an all-oysters-dead-quiet Pearl Street, Sam made a right on red onto four-lane, main-drag-of-the-ville Bridgeway. Just one block later he turned left, and sharply curved left down Marinship Way. He then veered right onto Liberty Ship Way. He was now in the marina district, and could see some docked boats and the near-black, tranquil, barely rippling water. Just about there. Please be there, Pete. Please.

Sam turned the engine off in the gravel parking lot that he had used two years prior for another rendezvous, one that involved an ecstasy (MDMA) drop. He could see their designated dock space. It was vacant. Ok, it’s 9:29. You guys had better be pulling in soon. Very soon. Oh, let’s just pass some time checking scores on the phone. Darn! Utah State killed us [San Jose State] 61-10. A complete rout at CEFCU. [Stadium] Just freaking awful. Well, so much for this season. Ah, the [San Francisco] Giants beat the [Los Angeles] Dodgers 2-1 at Chavez Ravine to close the gap to ‘only’ 37 games behind. A whopping 37 freaking games out of first going into the final week of the season! Just freaking awful. My God, what happened to that team? Well, the golden ‘even run’ is certainly over now. [The San Francisco Giants won the World Series in the even-numbered years of 2010, 2012, and 2014.] Constant cellar dwellers now. Just freaking awful. Hmmm … Where the hell are they? Did something happen to them? Has a serious mishap occurred out at sea? Or, have they bolted, and taken off with that life-changing chip? Don’t those idiots know that I can track it, too? No, they probably don’t. I never told either of them. And, I know that Leonard [a 34-year-old Filipino American who actually stole the quantum chip] didn’t. Leonard has never even met Pete or Ernie. Or, has he? The tracking software doesn’t run very well on this phone. But, it’s worth a try. Knew that I should have brought the damn laptop. Darn it! Oh, just try to contact them first.

It was 9:37 now, and Sam had become very antsy. He sent a terse text to Pete’s phone.

Ok, I’m here in the lot next to the dock. Where are you guys? Nearby?

After three minutes with no response, he called Pete. No answer. It quickly went to voicemail.

“Hey Pete, what’s up, buddy? I’m here in Sausalito looking at our dock. Please call me.”

Another four minutes went by with no reply. Sam got the tracking app going on his phone. It was glitchy, but it finally registered a ping for a split-second on the northwestern section of the Farallon Islands – more specifically on The Island of St. James. Ah-ha! So, there it is. But, why is the chip on that island? Something has happened. Something fishy is afoot. Do I have Ernie’s phone number? No, it’s back in Mountain View on the laptop. Darn it! Well, what to do? What good is sitting here? I’m just wasting time. Need to drive back to South Bay. No way around it. If Pete calls or texts, I’ll just turn around and come back here. Yeah, just sitting here is a waste of valuable time. And, my staying inside a parked car for a long time will look suspicious. The police are no good for me. It’s time to hit the road and get the hell out of here. Hope there are no wrecks or collisions on [Interstate] 280 tonight. Wait. Maybe just send them one more text – a motivating threat.

Hey, I know where you guys are. Call or text me right now! Don’t make me get the big guy – and his goons – involved.

Sam waited three minutes. There was no reply. He then retraced his path back to US 101. As he angrily sped up a now-wet-from-the-evening-fog Rodeo Avenue, his tires lost traction in a right curve and hydroplaned. Sam’s Mercedes slammed into a curbside, mature, torpid California black oak. The driver’s door made first contact with the tree trunk. Sam was knocked out. An ambulance would arrive five minutes later. He was pronounced dead while in transit to the hospital. Blunt-force trauma would be listed as the cause of death on the medical report.

At a fog-enshrouded, 55º Fahrenheit (13º Celsius), calm-to-light-winds 10:41 PM, Ernie shifted positions again in his preferred, curvilinear craterette [sic] on the southeast side of the rocky island, not far down from the apex. He had actually almost dozed off. He considered his current situation. So very lucky that it’s not raining or very windy. And the temperature isn’t that bad, either. It could feel so much colder out here. I sure am thirsty though. Maybe drink a little bit of the rainwater that I saw in those natural bowls. Guess I’ll have to drink it like a dog. Would bacteria be in that water, though? Maybe delay that for now. Still feel ok. Still thinking ok. Well, I think I’m thinking ok. If I think that I’m thinking ok, what should I really think? Ok, let’s not go bonkers. Just stay still and don’t fall off this rock into the sea. Just make it through the night, and all will be forever-fantastic. Just wait until tomorrow morning before attempting anything. Will be better able to see if that water is clear and fit for drinking in the morning light. It’s just a night to stay put. Do I have to take a crap? No, I’m not growing a tail yet. That’s another task that should wait until morning. Eight hours to no-go. Stuck here. No need to try anything foolish. Maybe Cindy does indeed know someone who could fetch me. But if I call her, she will think I’m nuts, and will never want to date or marry me. Ever. ‘So, you’re stranded on one of the uninhabited Farallon Islands where people are strictly prohibited. Ok, how in the world did that happen? How did you get out there? WHY were you out there? Were you fishing with a friend? But, I thought that you hated fishing. Well, where did your friend’s boat go? Did he just ditch you and leave you there to slowly die? Did you guys get into some kind of silly male argument about who had a bigger fish?’ Jeez, it’s going to be a very long night.

Just then Ernie saw a vessel’s running lights approaching the island through the whisperingly wispy fog. It was a motor yacht. And strangely, it was headed straight for him. Oh, no! They’re back! But, why are they headed right for me? I can’t be seen in this rock-walled pit. Oh, it’s the chip, stupid! It must have a tracking bug on it. Remember, that’s why they chased us out here. I bet the head honcho sent them back out to find it. Must think fast. Got to get the bug off the chip.

Ernie pulled the cartoonesque bauble from his pocket. He noticed that the top seemed heavier. Bet the tracking bug is there in the tip. Wonder if I can break it in two with my bare hands. Just bend it a little. Easy …