BITS
Part One: Prologue
Chapter One
May 2021
La Paz
Clayton knew it was a dream but that knowledge was fleeting and increasingly irrelevant. He was being sucked into the rising tide of the nightmare. In his dream state, he tried to hold on to reason; tried to stay tethered to some form of even dreamlike reality. His struggles only served to pull him down faster until he was completely submerged in the dark waters of his merciless subconscious.
He fought to regain his wits through the shock-induced haze. Coming slowly to his senses, he became aware that he was floating in the warm, salty water of some unnamed ocean not knowing why he was there or even who he was. A gentle breeze carried the acrid smell of recent combat. Repetitive swells of a dozing sea alternately pushed under him, lifted him toward star-speckled darkness, and then let him slide into their troughs as they rolled on. Water washed over his face as he glided to the bottom of each descent and when he licked his lips he could taste the salt and the metallic tang of…blood.
Now the thick clouds that hid one part of the sky parted enough to unveil a full moon and he closed his eyes against the unwelcome brightness. He rested that way for a moment trying to pull some fragment of recollection out of the stubborn blackness. In the distance he could hear someone crying out for help, calling his name. The voice was female and even in its urgent pitch, familiar.
Something touched his cheek. Startled, he opened his eyes to see a hand floating by his face. As he looked at the moonlit water around him he could make out other limbs, a leg, and another, and then another arm. He tried to raise his hand to brush the offending limb from his face but his body did not respond. His brain commanded his legs to propel him away but with no effect. Terror now became the current that carried him as he recognized the severed appendages as his own. The scream that began in the back of his throat was cut off as he slid into another trough. This time his descent was unchecked and as the black water pulled him down, his final thoughts were of all the questions that remained unanswered.
***
Clayton cautiously opened one eye to the dim light of the room and took a moment to convince himself that he was still alive. The scream of a distant siren fused his nightmare to reality. He was wet and his lips tasted of salt. The ceiling fan had delivered little relief from the warm, humid air in his low-budget, La Paz hotel room. Tourists had air conditioning but he wasn’t a tourist. Encouraged by the mundane discomforts of the still living, he pulled himself from the damp, clinging bedsheets and sought rebirth from the hotel’s tepid shower.
He couldn’t remember the first time this nightmare, or one like it, had left him sweaty and shaken but he knew the series of events that spawned the demon dreams of his troubled sleep. The evolving night-terror had grown to be a surreal and frightening mix of bits of experience, smatterings of regrets, and dollops of grief. Each time it grew in detail and intensity. Each time he felt it further erode the comforting boundary between dismissible fiction and disturbing recollection. Each time he stuffed it in his crowded mental attic with all his other demons.
He needed to find some coffee, but first, it was time for Clayton Rhodes to become Bill Crawford. Mr. Crawford had an important interview today.
Clayton looked at himself in the room’s cracked wall mirror. With some effort on his part, his careworn face took on a lighter more relaxed aspect and he looked younger, closer to his age. He hadn’t shaved, and his two-day bristle contributed to the appearance of a subpar employment status. He stepped back, loosened his typically erect posture, a legacy of his military background, and relaxed into a more suitable slouch. Finally, satisfied, he donned a bright Hawaiian-styled shirt, pulled his unwilling face into a roguish smile and Bill Crawford ambled out into the dull, red-hued, early morning light in search of coffee.
Calliope: Signing On
Three days before he was due to set sail, Hector Rojas, rumpled and sweaty, was sitting in the richly appointed salon on the Calliope, a 44-foot, motor sailboat. He was a barrel-chested man, in his late 50’s, tall for his Mexican heritage. He was born as brown as the teak around him now but almost four decades of sailing the Pacific coast had baked his face and powerful forearms to a dark mahogany. His physical size was well-matched with an outsized personality that, in any situation, left no doubt as to who was in charge.
Although usually clean-shaven while in port, his grizzled whiskers hadn’t been close to a razor in several days. He kept his gray-streaked hair at shoulder length as some protection from the fierce sun. Missing a parrot and perhaps a wooden leg, he still looked so like a pirate that upon meeting him one might expect “Arrr” to be his first utterance. Proud of his position, he wore a visored nautical captain’s hat whose original white color was almost indiscernible beneath the hard-earned patina of sweat, soil, and sun.
He had been hired to sail the Calliope back to San Diego, her home port, and had been working hard topside in the hot Baja California sun to make her ready for the trip. Now, he took his hat off and placed it on the table as a conspicuous reminder of his authority. He pulled a soiled rag from his back pocket, mopped his face and the back of his neck, and returned the damp scrap to its home. He was at once frustrated that he had to interrupt his efforts, appreciative of the break, and then irritated with himself for appreciating the break. This was his second trip north with the Calliope and had taken several other boats back to San Diego for the same company, Baja Paraiso Charters. He needed an extra hand to round out the crew for the eight-day sail from La Paz, Mexico north to San Diego. In good weather, the Calliope was an easy boat to sail but for most of the trip, he planned to sail all day and all night so he needed a crew of three to fill in the watch schedule. And so he found himself sitting across the table from a man he’d never met before cautiously hoping this man would fill the open berth.
“Papá…”, a young male voice cracking with adolescence called from topside.
“Estoy ocupado, Antonio. I’m busy.” Hector’s tone filtered any harshness from his reply.
This would be the first trip for Hector’s sixteen-year-old son, Antonio. Antonio had been pestering his father to let him make the trip for years and finally, Hector reluctantly relented. Carlos, the third man he had used on prior trips and counted on, had developed appendicitis and had recommended Bill Crawford as his replacement. Pressured by a tight schedule and unforgiving bosses, Hector reached out to his contacts and confirmed that Crawford’s background story checked out. From all reports, he was an experienced sailor from Seattle, not on any agency watch list, with a need to make good money fast, and a willingness to step over the line if that’s what it took.
Now, Bill Crawford sat on the plush, booth-like seat across the oiled teak table as Hector took in his appearance. The candidate’s dark hair had started to gray. Life had chiseled his face but his blue eyes still glowed with hints of unquenched fire. He was probably forty-something but trim and well-tanned, he could pass for younger. His brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, easy smile, and relaxed body language conveyed a casual self-confidence.
Hector slammed two empty glasses onto the table with a resounding thump. It was a conspicuously intimidating gesture meant to proclaim his authority. He poured a generous jigger of whiskey into each. Placing one in front of Clayton, he raised the other in salute and downed the brown, burning liquid with a slight twitch of his lips, followed by a brief smile of satisfaction.
“Drink.” What could have been a cordial invitation was buried by Hector’s commanding tone.
Clayton returned the salute and sipped at his glass showing respect without submission.
Hector leaned back for a thoughtful minute. He believed himself to be a good judge of people and his track record of evading entanglements with the law gave credence to the belief. Years in the wave-reflected sun had creased and leathered his brown face and molded his eyes into a perpetual squint. Now they took in Clayton’s every move as his mind parsed and analyzed.
Before speaking, Hector filled his glass once again but this time left it on the table rolling it between his massive, weathered hands. His eyes bore into Clayton searching for any clues that might help him weigh the value or risk the man might bring with him. Clayton met his gaze with disarming nonchalance. Hector’s deep voice was imbued with a rich Mexican accent that could either be welcoming or threatening. Now it balanced on the knife edge of the two alternatives.
“So, how do you know Carlos?” His tone was casual but the question was probing.
Clayton’s response was casual in return. “We were part of a charter crew round trip from Seattle down to the Channel Islands a couple of years back.” Clayton’s eyes met Hector’s challenging gaze as he spoke. “We both pick at the guitar and we would swap songs and jam during our off-duty hours. I like jazz and he plays blues, which worked pretty well together, at least the way we did it. We hit it off and stayed in touch.”
Hector stared up at the overhead seeming to revisit fond memories. “Sí, Carlos knows how to play. He can make that Gibson guitar of his sing.” Hector baited the hook.
Clayton’s relaxed response showed no sign that he knew he was being tested. “Ha, Well Carlos talked about it but he never put together enough scratch for the Gibson. He’s played a beat-up Epiphone for years.” Thrust and parry.
Hector let out what was a reasonable facsimile of a sincere laugh. “You know, Bill, my memory is just not as good as it used to be. Too many late nights con mi buen amigo, Jack Daniels.” Hector gestured at the bottle. “I know Carlos told me but what was the name of that boat that you and he crewed?” Smiling, Hector leaned forward slightly searching for any sign of discomfort.
“You mean the first time? That was the Calypso. She was a ketch-rigged Irwin 52.”
“Ah, sí. I remember now, the Calypso.” Hector leaned back a bit, satisfied with Clayton’s answers. Now, more comfortable with Clayton, he got down to business. “Carlos told you about our cargo?”
“Some, but I don’t much care,” Clayton danced around the sensitive topic. “I’ve got a wife and daughter in Seattle. I had a good run at a bachelor’s life but that was then. Now I put food on the table and my daughter needs braces. Why don’t you just tell me what you need me to know?”
“Sí, por la familia…” Hector trailed off, for just a moment distracted by his thoughts. “The deal is $15,000 US dollars, in cash, for you when we make port in San Diego. We’re delivering drugs, Bill. Carlos may have told you and you could probably guess that from the money you’re getting but I want you to know it because I’ll need your help offloading the cargo to a chase boat on the other end. Comprendes?”
Clayton suppressed every outward sign that his heart was beating faster. “Understood. The money’s good and it’s not like I haven’t done this stuff before. I’m still in.” He was looking at Hector but was also speaking to the team of agents on the receiving end of the wire he was wearing.
The fact that Clayton’s story checked out was less a verification of the truth and more a testament to the hard work and effective professionalism of the FBI. Bill Crawford was a fabrication, a mix of a real person, the flipped informant, Carlos, and the awe-inspiring ability of the FBI to make a fiction believable. After weeks of planning, Bill Crawford was born that morning when Special Agent Clayton Rhodes sauntered out of the seedy La Paz hotel room.
***
Clayton was born in Seattle and had grown up in a family that lived and loved the sea. As a boy, he had learned to sail under eagled skies among the tide-washed islands and resplendent estuaries of Puget Sound. He had swum cautiously with Orcas and played joyful tag with sea otters. He had become an accomplished sailor well before he left his ocean-anchored, island home near Seattle to attend the land-locked University of Texas in Austin. It was his saltwater roots that made him a particularly good fit for this assignment. That, and his outstanding ability to take on roles of lives other than his own. He was one of the FBI’s most valuable undercover agents.
While others had religion, Clayton’s covenant with the cosmos required a life spent in service to country, family, and all nameless fellow travelers in exchange for inner peace and fulfillment. That commitment to service flowed through the Rhodes family like blood flows through a body, an unnamed genetic marker shared by the family clan through the generations. His mother spent her adult life as a teacher, pouring care and knowledge into the minds of hundreds of her students. His father a Navy swift boat captain was badly wounded in Vietnam while saving the lives of ten marines in a firefight in the Mekong delta during the battle of Ben Tre.
***
There were footsteps on the stairs leading up to the pilothouse. “Perdón por interrumpir.” The handsome younger version of Hector stepped down into the salon using almost all of its generous overhead clearance. He smelled of sweat and chrome polish. More than just words, his voice carried his enthusiasm for his work. Nodding to Clayton, he politely continued in English. Although he knew enough Spanish to get by, Clayton was impressed with the boy’s manners. “Papá, do you have the charts?”
“Bill, this is my son Antonio. Antonio, this is Bill Crawford. It looks like you two will be mates.” There was warmth in Hector’s tone that was notable for its absence up to this point. Clayton took it as not only clear affection for his son but a growing comfort with Clayton’s participation. “I have the charts here, hijo. I’m still going over the sail plan.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve polished all the stanchions. They are all gleaming in the sun. I’m going to replace the frayed lifelines now.” Antonio enthusiastically reported his good work, eager to impress both his father and his guest.
“Bueno,” Hector nodded his approval.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Crawford. I look forward to sailing with you.” Antonio reached out.
Clayton reciprocated with a firm handshake. “Same here, Antonio. Call me Bill.”
“OK, Bill.” Antonio flashed a smile and called out “Hasta luego,” as he scrambled up the stairs to the pilothouse and then out to the upper steering cockpit.
“Si, Antonio”, Clayton called back as the boy disappeared topside.
“Bueno,” Hector repeated the word noting his approval of the exchange. “So Bill, have you had any experience on a Nauticat?” He gestured at their surroundings. His tone and body language now were more genuinely accepting if not completely welcoming.
“Nah, but I hear they’re fine boats. I would think that their high transom might make them a little tender in a following sea but that shouldn’t be a problem since this time of year we’ll most likely be beating against headwinds for most of the trip.” Clayton mentally cringed, Now you’re just showing off.
Hector ran his fingers thoughtfully over the worn visor of his hat and then returned it to his head, stood, and offered Clayton his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
A broad smile pushed through the stubble around Clayton’s lips as he got to his feet and took Hector’s hand. Hector held Clayton’s hand long and hard, once again asserting his authority and signaling that the welcome came with conditions.
Clayton breathed an internal sigh of relief. Acting the part of Bill Crawford for the duration of the trip would be demanding but at least he got through the audition. His enthusiasm was genuine. “Good to be aboard, Captain. I’m sure it’s going to be a great trip.” He picked up the almost untouched glass of whiskey, raised it in salute, then downed the dark liquid fighting back a grimace as the whiskey burned its way over his tongue and down his throat.
