The Bailadora del Viento Affair - part 1
Summary:
Vacations can be very dangerous for U.N.C.L.E. agents.
Notes:
This story was originally posted at LJ to celebrate the 2nd anniversary of weekly picfic challenges.
It has been about 45 years since I sailed with my father (the photograph is of him at that time) on a boat much like the one described in the story. I hope I remembered my nautical terms correctly.
Within minutes of hearing sirens heading for the beach, a crowd could be seen at the point of land overlooking the shoreline and out into the ocean. The Coast Guard patrol boat could be seen running a search pattern for about a quarter mile out into the deep water near the rocks, back to the shore, and out again. Men on paddle boards glided through the storm beaten surf near the jetty searching intently for anything unusual under the surface of the water.
Below the point, further down the beach first response teams from multiple rescue services met to set up a command center and coordinate personnel in the search. A helicopter swooped beyond the area patrolled by the boats.
Fifty yards away from the command center two ambulances were parked in the sand above the high tide mark away from the hub of activity. A corpse covered in a yellow blanket lay on a stretcher. A man and woman stood next to the stretcher. She knelt down and pulled the blanket back, crying. The dark haired man reached down and pulled her up, wrapping his arm around the woman and pulled her close. Soon the stretcher was loaded into one of the vehicles and the woman climbed in after it. The vehicle pulled away taking its passengers to the hospital and morgue.
An ambulance attendant was assessing the condition of the remaining man who was shivering violently. The patient had suffered a dislocated shoulder and a gash to his head. The attendant was able to put the shoulder back into place and put the man's arm in a sling. The head wound had been cleaned and taped with butterfly bandages. He wrapped a blanket around his patient. A Styrofoam cup of coffee was pressed into the man's hand.
"Here, sir. Drink this, it will help to warm you."
There was no response other than a quick nod. "Sir, I'll be back in a minute. I need to talk with my supervisor and find some dry clothes for you. You stay here, I want to recheck your vitals in a few minutes." Again the man merely nodded, never taking his eyes away from the expanse of water or the rescue crafts conducting the search.
Napoleon Solo absentmindedly tried to sip the coffee. He didn't even remember the cup being handed to him. His hand was shaking so badly the hot liquid spilled. He didn't even feel it. All he could feel was the fear and dread that enveloped him as he watched the search and rescue workers continue looking for his partner, Illya Kuryakin.
The two U.N.C.L.E. agents had been on an arduous mission in the Caribbean Sea for the past couple of weeks. THRUSH had been setting up a radar scanning facility on an unnamed atoll with the intent of becoming modern day pirates. Their scheme was to intercept ships with specialized cargo that would enhance their own technological infrastructure, plus they engaged in a modern day version of "rum running". Instead of rum, however, the satrapy was smuggling high quality cocaine, heroine, and a new deadly drug only known as Pink World.
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin found the satrapy and were able to infiltrate it. Kuryakin was able to plant explosives to destroy the radar equipment as well as the underwater cave where a large cache of the drugs had been stored in waterproof containers. Solo was able to grab the documents that described the manufacturing process of Pink World as well as the documents that revealed the drug suppliers in South America. Both made it back to their rendezvous point with nary a scratch and were five miles out to sea when explosions ripped through the atoll obliterating all signs of THRUSH's facility. Mr. Waverly, pleased with the results, told his agents they didn't have to report for duty until a week from the following Monday. That gave the two men twelve days to enjoy a little vacation time in the Cayman Islands.
Napoleon and Illya chartered a Florida based forty-seven foot, two masted yawl to explore the various inlets and caves along the shores of Little Cayman and Cayman Brac. The blue wood hulled boat, La Bailadora del Viento (Wind Dancer) was captained by Mitch Hansford, who had spent the last thirty years running a charter business in the area. His wife, Hetty, ran the galley and provided gourmet quality meals using only a two burner alcohol stove and icebox for cold storage.
Napoleon was thrilled when Mitch asked if he would like to man the helm for a while and help with the winches and sheets when tacking. The Pursang, his own sloop, was a smaller, one masted boat and it felt great to feel the power of the larger vessel as the wind filled her sails.
When the boat was anchored in the various secluded inlets, Illya spent his time snorkeling along the coral reef sometimes accompanied by either Mitch or Hetty. Curious manatees and dolphins would approach the divers and investigate the humans before swimming off again.
The sixth evening out, at 1700 hours, the two agents and Hetty were eating dinner topside in the cockpit. A slight breeze was stirring and small choppy waves had begun to slap against the hull.
"Well, Partner, in another week we'll be back in New York." Napoleon looked over at Illya who was busily munching on Hetty's delicious fried chicken.
"Yes, Napoleon. It is a shame we could not stay here longer. I could get used to this. I have not even been seasick this time. Besides, my friend, I am not looking forward to getting back and writing the reports."
"Now, Illya, you lost the bet fair and square. The reports are all yours to do," Napoleon gloated.
Mitch was down below making an entry in the captain's log and perusing the charts. It was time to head back to Florida. He would sail around the west end of Cuba before heading East to the Florida Keys. As he was plotting his course, Mitch did a final weather check on his ship to shore radio. He keyed the button on the mic…"This is the Bailadora del Viento calling Grand Cayman Island weather outpost…over." The radio crackled with static. "Grand Cayman weather outpost, this is "La Bailadora del Viento…over."
"This is the Grand Cayman weather outpost, is that you, Mitch? Over."
Mitch grinned, "It sure is,Tom! Hey, I need an updated long range weather report, we're on our way back to Florida…over."
As Mitch listened, he began to make some mental calculations. Shit! When Tom had finished with the update, Mitch signed off with "All right, Tom, thanks for the report. Looks like I'll have to change my plans. Thanks a million. This is La Bailadora del Viento signing off, over… and out."
Napoleon, Illya, and Hetty were laughing and discussing the fun they had over the last week when Mitch appeared in the hatchway. Illya looked over and noticed the serious look the usually laid-back captain's face.
"Is there something wrong, Mitch?" the Russian asked.
"Could be," was the reply. "According to the weather report a strong tropical depression is building to the southeast about 100 miles away and is rapidly moving this way. It is predicted to reach tropical storm status in the next couple of hours and hit the Cayman Islands in twelve hours or so. It would be foolish to set sail for Florida."
Napoleon asked, "What are your plans, Mitch?"
"Originally, we were going to stay here overnight and get started in the morning. Instead, I think we need to leave right now and sail the eighty five miles to Grand Cayman. There you boys can catch a flight out before the weather gets too bad. I had considered sailing to the leeward side of the nearest island, but there just isn't any good place to ride out the storm, especially if there is a strong storm surge."
"What can we do to help, Mitch?"
"Hetty, would you please prepare some simple meals…sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, anything that can be fixed now. Make enough for three days, just in case. Later on, it may be too rough to fix anything.
"Illya, would you help Hetty by stowing any loose gear. Also, I have a spare radio that needs to be readied in case the main one goes out."
"Of course, Mitch."
"Napoleon, I could use your experience with the sails. While it is still fairly calm I want to put as much sail up as possible so we can cover distance more quickly, but when the wind picks up we need to be ready to reef the mainsail, drop the genoa and put up the storm jib. Are you able to do that?"
"Absolutely, Mitch."
"Okay, from this moment on everyone is to wear a lifejacket and when topside, a safety line. It's a bit over kill for the moment, but it's better to learn how to move around with that gear attached when it's calm. The height of a storm is not the time to learn."
"Mitch," Illya asked, "it sounds like you do not intend to use the motor. Would not that be faster?"
Mitch shook his head. "The motor is great for getting us moving when we're becalmed, but we can travel faster under sail. Besides, I want to save the motor and diesel for later in case of an emergency."
Napoleon and Illya moved to make the preparations. Hetty reached for Mitch's hand with a worried look. "Is it going to be that bad, Mitch? I've never seen you take such precautions before."
Mitch hugged her and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "I'd rather be over prepared, dear. This will probably amount to nothing, but according to Tom and the weather outpost this storm is practically developing over our heads.
"Sweetheart, do me a favor and make sure Illya takes the Dramamine immediately. Actually, give some to everyone, we're going to need to be on our toes and don't have time to deal with seasickness." He gave Hetty a quick kiss before she disappeared in the hatchway.
Napoleon came up topside and handed a set of foul weather gear and a life jacket to Mitch. Both donned harnesses with lifelines attached. The other end of the lines were attached to stanchions.
"How long do you think it'll take us to get to Grand Cayman, Mitch?"
"I'm not sure, Napoleon. If we can continue to run before the wind and the current is with us we'll make good time and maybe we'll be there in twelve to fifteen hours. If the wind shifts and we have to tack back and forth it could take as much as twenty-four hours. If we can just keep ahead of the storm we'll be in good shape."
By 1745 hours, La Bailadora del Viento was underway. The mainsail, mizzensail, and large foresail were all raised and set to catch the wind blowing directly off the stern. The forty-seven footer made quick time topping 9 knots, however, as the winds became more organized and swept towards them, the ocean swells grew causing the boat to skid down the leeward side of the waves and climb the steep windward sides.
By 0600, La Bailadora del Viento had covered nearly fifty nautical miles, but the weather took a turn for the worse. Illya was down below with Hetty and stood by the ship to shore radio reporting their position and passing messages from the nearest weather outpost up to Mitch. Shouting to make himself heard over the wind he yelled, "Mitch, they are reporting that we are now dealing with a tropical storm! Expected wind gusts to reach 60 knots. I checked the anemometer and it is registering 35 knots with gusts up to 45 knots." As he finished, a large wave washed over the cockpit and spilled down the hatchway hitting Illya full force. "Choryt!"
Mitch yelled down, "All hands on deck! We need to reef the sails. Illya, Hetty, tend to the mainsail. Hetty will show you how. Napoleon, tend to the genoa. Don't worry about bagging it, just shove it down the forward hatch."
All four jumped into action and before long the boat was sailing with a vastly reduced sail area. They all stayed topside in the cockpit ready to tend to the sails, trimming them or letting them out when needed.
Tensions were high among the four as they wrestled with the high winds and coaxed the forty-seven foot yawl through the giant swells. By this time, Illya was not the only one dealing with seasickness. Each person had had a turn with leaning over the sides to empty their stomachs, although the Russian was having a decidedly harder time. He was at the point of severe dehydration and could not hold any fluids down. Mitch had him lie down on the sail locker closest to midships.
"No, I am okay, besides you need as many hands as possible to help."
"Illya, the way you're feeling, you are too weak. Save your strength for later when we will really need you."
After several more hours of riding an oceanic roller coaster, the storm began to subside leaving long rolling swells. At least the high winds and rain had stopped. Streaks of blue sky could be seen on the western and northern horizons. Hetty kept a watch for signs of land. According to the charts and their position, they would be approaching Rum Point soon. Once they rounded the point they would sail into the North Sound. The water would be somewhat calmer since the sound is protected on three sides by the island's land mass.
"Mitch! I see the point about 50 degrees off the starboard bow! I'm guessing it's about two miles away."
Everyone raised up from the cockpit seats to take a look and the relief they felt at seeing land was almost palpable.
"Great! Okay, folks, stay alert. It's time to start the engine and bring in the sails. We can't afford to get slop…"
Mitch didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. As their attention was drawn to the point of land off the starboard bow, none of them saw the rogue wave approaching from the stern off the port side. Just before a huge wall of water slammed into the boat, Mitch looked up to see it towering over them. He had just enough time to yell, "Knockdown!" Everyone grabbed a handhold. One hand on their lifeline another holding onto the boat. Mitch and Napoleon jumped towards the winches to release any tension on the mainsail and storm jib. Hetty reached for the mizzensail's sheet. Illya, who was closest to the hatchway grabbed Napoleon's harness to keep his friend from falling into the water as he wrestled with the main's sheet (rope).