Jock was talking into his satellite phone, facing astern, nodding his head, writing on a piece of notepaper he'd pulled from his pocket.
He closed the phone and turned to me. "We need to meet a Coast Guard boat. They'll take Simmermon off our hands." He read the coordinates off his notes.
I dialed them into my GPS. "We're only about ten minutes from the rendezvous point," I said. "Did they give you a time to meet?"
"A forty-one footer is on its way now."
I flipped on my running lights and brought the boat up on plane, turning onto a course that would take us to the Coast Guard boat. Logan was squatting on the deck, still talking to Simmermon. I couldn't hear them over the roar of the engines. Jock stood on the deck holding the stock of the M60, still on its tripod.
As we approached the rendezvous point, I slowed the boat. My radio came alive.
"Recess, Recess, this is the United States Coast Guard. Request that you turn your running lights off and then on."
"This is Recess. Wilco," I mumbled into the mic as I flipped the lights off and then on.
A spotlight hit us, its beam piercing the dark and pinning us to the black water. "Recess, this is the Coast Guard. We have you in sight. I'll approach from your port. Don't shoot."
"Coast Guard, this is Recess. I copy. I have you in sight. We're standing down."
The white boat with the red striping and the Coast Guard emblem appeared out of the darkness. Its spotlight was trained on an area off my bow, not blinding us now.
The Coastie coxswain eased his boat alongside us. A woman in blue fatigues threw fenders over the side, and a young man in the same uniform threw me a line. Jock went to the bow to catch another line, and we secured the boats together.
One of the Coasties said, "Permission to come aboard?"
"Come ahead," I said. "We're glad to see you guys."
A uniformed man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, climbed aboard Recess. "I'm Petty Officer Bob Postel," he said. "I was told to meet you and take charge of a prisoner. Which one of you is Mr. Houston?"
Jock stepped down into the cockpit and said, "That would be me."
The Coastie threw a sloppy salute. "I was told to meet you, sir, and put myself and my boat under your command."
"That won't be necessary," said Jock. "I do need you to take charge of a prisoner and keep him incommunicado at your station until I get there."
"I understand, sir. I'll need to put a lifejacket on him. Can I untie his hands for that?"
"No problem."
"Sir, just so you'll know, we've thrown a cordon around Blood Island. I don't know what's up, but I was told to let you know that."
"Thank you, Petty Officer. Would you ask the commander on the scene to contact me on the VHF?"
The Coastie untied Simmermon's hands, put a life jacket on him, and then used handcuffs to restrain his arms behind him. He and another man helped the Rev onto the Coast Guard boat, and they were gone into the night, their stern light receding into the darkness.
"Mr. Houston?" I asked.
"One of many names," Jock said, and grinned.
"What now?"
"We're going to meet the Coast Guard commander. We may need to get back on the island, and then we need to talk to Simmermon and the people you've got stashed."
The radio beeped, and then a voice came over it. "Recess, Recess, this is the Coast Guard cutter Intrepid."
"This is Recess, Intrepid."
"I'm in command of the operation at Blood Island." He gave his coordinates, and said, "Can you come to me?"
I looked at Jock who nodded his head. "Roger that," I said. "We're on our way."
I dialed in the new coordinates and we headed west.
The Intrepid was a 210-foot Reliance-class cutter, carrying a crew of seventy-five and sporting a 25-millimeter chain gun and two 50-caliber machine guns. These guys were serious. The chain gun could fire two hundred rounds per minute and was accurate to a distance exceeding one mile. It would blow anything less than a warship out of the water.
The cutter was lit up like a downtown square. Deck lights bathed the white ship in a brightness that would let anyone within miles know she was there. She was hove to about a mile from Blood Island, staying to the deep water of Boca Grande Channel. I could see the running lights of other smaller Coast Guard vessels hovering on all sides of the island.
I radioed the cutter as we approached, identified myself, and was told to come alongside. Lines were thrown down from the deck along with a rope ladder.
Jock grabbed the ladder and told me he'd be right back. Logan and I let go the lines, and I backed Recess off several yards.
In a few minutes, a Coastie on the cutter's deck waved me back in. Jock came aboard, and I backed off again.
"We're going in,"Jock said.
"In where?" I asked.
"Back to Key West, to the Coast Guard station. A Delta Force team out of the Hurlburt Field in the panhandle is going to drop on Blood Island in about an hour. In the meantime, the Coasties have the place bottled up tight. Nobody's going to be leaving."
Logan said, "From what the Rev just told me, I think he's planning to hit some mosques. Called it divine retribution for what's going on in Israel."
"He could start a war," Jock said.
"I think that's his intention," Logan said.