A shriek pierced the dissonance of shoreside activity.Hogue searched for the source as he guided his tugboat along a narrow

channel between rusty freighters hugging the concrete quays on both sides of the Miami River. Dust billowing above the quayside pealed with the high-pitch machinery conveying cargo from ships to dock and from dock to ships.

Only minutes before, he’d let go all lines from the freighter he’d towed to a nearby berth, after which he noted the task in his log on the page dated August 5, 1992.

There! Close off his starboard side he spotted the dangling man, clutching the bottom rung of the railing of the upper deck of a small tramp freighter. Crewmen and stevedores scrambled to gather below him, but only shuffled about and gaped helplessly at the screeching man.

The man plummeted, splatting amid the litter of cables, nets, and other cargo-handling paraphernalia, scattering the spectators.

Hogue snatched the transmitter of his radiotelephone and punched in the emergency numbers. When answered, he reported in excited voice what occurred and gave the location as aboard a rusty vessel with Ophelia painted on its stern. Then he eased his tugboat between two rust buckets of foreign registry and yelled to his deckhands to secure his vessel. He leapt to the quay and hurried to the target tramp.

The cordon that formed around the stricken man prevented him from getting close. But, taller than most, he peered over the circle of roughnecks at the few close enough to attend to the prone form. They shuffled helplessly as they looked to each other for directions as to what to do.

Chapter 1

2 Tropic Squall

“No is dead!” someone in that cluster yelled.“Is the mate,” another of them called out.“That one drinks too much to be kill,” a third voice shouted, invoking

a chorus of forced hilarity.Hogue blinked acceptance of the ribaldry, typical among those who

wrestled cargo on and off the rust buckets moored along the river. He had no doubt that some of those ruffians crewed the ship—a diverse lot of whites, blacks, and mixed-breeds, each as vulgar as the other.

The ambulance arrived with siren screaming and lights blinking. Two uniformed attendants bustled onto the ship. After examining the unconscious man, they loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him away. Crewmen and stevedores shuffled back to workstations, raucously chiding each other, some in English, others in Spanish, with a few Haitians bantering in Creole.

Hogue watched the deck return to its normal chaos, a hectic workplace with only residual concern for the injured man taken away. Winches cranked and cables screeled as the cargo-handling resumed. Acrid smoke from burning grease lubricating overworked machinery permeated the dust that sparkled in the midsummer sun.

As he was about to turn away, he noticed that one man remained at the scene—incongruous in that sweaty environment, wearing crisp white Levis and a short-sleeve white shirt. The visor of a navy-blue cap emblazoned with a gilded anchor shaded his craggy face.

Hogue crossed the littered deck to approach the man. “I’m guessing you’re the skipper.”

“Ja, I am Captain Benke.” “He one of your crew . . . the one that fell?” Hogue asked, aware the

man’s icy blue eyes questioned the intrusion.“The deck officer,” the captain replied curtly, in a gutteral accent. “That

trunken dummkopf leaves me shorthanded—with schedule to sail early tomorrow.”

“Hell, hire yourself another mate. Sure ain’t no shortage of unemployed seafarers.” He brushed his shag of black hair back from his face.

Snorting contempt, the captain glanced across the river, at the industry of other tramps loading and discharging cargo. “There is difficulty finding one qualified and dependable in such limited time. Is it not enough to

3Ben Cherot

brave the elements and contend with the perils of the sea, but are we also condemned to deal with derelicts desperate for a place to flop?”

“I hear you, cap’n. Have been to sea.”“Then you are familiar with those lumpen—those bums. After a few

ports of call the schweinehunde fail to report, snoring off their drunken stupor with some frowsy whore, unconcerned that their ship sails shorthanded, deprived of proper manning.”

“Sure ain’t no easy life. Still, I’ve a hankering to return.”“To return?”Hogue noted the captain icily assessing him, taking in his taller-than-

average stature, his shag of black hair, and the deep suntan that suggested long years in the tropics.

“What work do you now perform?”“I’m skipper of that tug there. I called for the emergency medical team.”“Danken. But you are American. Would you abandon employment on

that tug to go to sea on a tramp like this?”“Got a pressing need to hie my dumb ass out of Miami.”“Ach, of course.” He sneered at der riesenhaft—the giant.“No, no. No crime or nothing—just a real pressing personal problem.”“A woman then. What other reason? You are applying for the berth?”“Thinking real hard on it. Name’s Hogue—have sailed deep sea as

chief mate.”“You have papers . . . proof of qualifications?”“Hell yeah. They’re on the tug.” Hogue shuffled in place as he

considered and reconsidered making an impulsive commitment. He’d entertained shipping out as one way to escape his predicament. Problem was, there weren’t that many available berths for officers on American vessels, especially with his eligibility in question.

God a’mighty, here he happened on an opportunity out of the blue and found himself pressed to make a decision. True, it was a foreign ship with conditions below those of American vessels, but it served his need to get his ass out of Miami. How long did he dare postpone doing that . . . and how else to avoid a confrontation he dreaded?

He blinked repeatedly while clenching his jaw in determination, aware of the captain staring at him. Nodding, he said: “I’ll get those papers.” He swiveled around and hurried back to the tug, his head swirling with

4 Tropic Squall

indecision. That tramp wasn’t the vessel he’d intended to return to sea on, but it did solve his problem.

Climbing topside, he rummaged in his locker for a zipped-up leather case, all the while gritting his teeth to close his mind to negativism. Yes, his only consideration had to be getting his rusty-dusty out of Miami.

Nodding to that, he hustled back to the Ophelia and handed the documents to the captain, then shuffled in place as that man perused them. Now and then, the captain glanced up, apparently to verify the identification. When he nodded acceptance, Hogue assumed he’d accepted the applicant as being forty-six years old.

Frowning, the captain questioned: “You served as chief mate aboard a Turner Line freighter? Why then do you not return to that prestigious shipping company instead of seeking a berth on a Panamanian tramp?”

“This tramp is American owned, flying a flag of convenience.” “You will find here none of the amenities of your American vessels.”“Accepted. But I need to clear out of town and don’t know how long

before a berth on an American vessel opens. Been around and hung around this town too long.”

The captain grimaced, apparently oblivious to the playful lilt in the voice that almost captured the melody. “Is necessary that I check with Turner Lines to learn why you left their vessels to work tugboats.”

“Okay, truth be told: I worked tugs this past year while getting a handle on my alcohol problem.”

“Gott im Himmel, ein ander trunkenbold!”“Hope you’re not referring to me as an alky, cap’n. Joined me an

encounter group and got me control of the yearning for booze. Been on the wagon—bone dry for eight full months now. It’s past time for me to return to blue water.”

“You fear an American ship will learn of your alcohol abuse, deny you a berth—as an officer at any rate.” The captain shoved the papers back at the applicant.

Hogue’s hair tumbled over his face as he grasped his packet of documents. Gnashing his teeth, he said: “You need a mate. I’m a damned good one. Yeah, I made a mistake with my life, but rectified it, dried my dumb ass out—and stayed dry.”

“Have I not anxiety enough without being beseeched for compassion by

5Ben Cherot

a reformed alcoholic? Besides, rarely can Americans endure the conditions on these foreign tramps.”

“I’m willing to take my chances, sir.”“I am not . . . do not want aboard another drunkard like that dummkopf

who fell from the boat deck. Schnapps is the curse that caused him to fall. Ja, and probably that which fueled that fight between those two deckhands the last night at sea—resulting in one killing the other with a fire axe, leaving me short that man.”

Hogue gawked at the weathered German, wondering which upset him most: a man murdered or the ship left shorthanded.

“These small Panamanian tramps,” Benke grumbled, “do not carry a complement of people like your American ships. There is only myself and the mate, standing six on and six off, with two seamen for each watch. I cannot have an unreliable person aboard, especially the only deck officer.”

“Six on and six off? Those are long watches.”“This ship is, as you say, under a flag of convenience—allowing it to sail

severely undermanned. Our only other personnel consists of an engineer and a cook.”

“That’s it—to man this ship at sea, during heavy blows, in hurricane season?”

“That is why I daresent have an unreliable mate aboard. I made the mistake of letting the owners impose on me that dummkopf who fell . . . will not make it again.”

Hogue ran his hand through his unruly hair as he glanced fore and aft. Smallest damn tub he’d ever thought to go to sea on—considerably less than two hundred feet, while most oceangoing freighters exceeded two hundred-fifty feet, many as large as four hundred. Despite its size—or lack thereof—operating this tub with a total of eight men struck him as slicing it skinny.

He accepted as a practical design the housing that encompassed the command center and the living quarters being positioned at the rear of the ship, in the way of tankers and container ships. Only drawback, for his money, involved the resistance when buffeted by heavy winds, affecting headway as well as steerage. How much battering could she withstand in a heavy blow? Okay, so these dwarf vessels rarely sailed all that far from port and could take refuge when storms threatened.

6 Tropic Squall

Glancing forward, he noted the stumpy mast that rose between two cargo holds. Barebacked men operated a winch on each side to swing the booms over the quay to load and discharge cargo.

“I must return to my work,” the captain said.Hogue winced, stung by the rejection and irked by the man’s impersonal

dismissal. He swept his hair back from his face as he made one last stab. “Considering how you’re operating lean and all, just maybe my experience is what you need to make up for the shortfall in personnel.”

“Verdammt, I am determined to never again accept trunkenbolde, especially as the deck officer, despite the owners employing that person.”

“Believe that I’ve come full circle—am no longer an alky—am right dependable.”

“Drunks are never dependable.” The captain swung away, attracted by the growl of the trailer truck rumbling alongside on the cargo-strewn quay. Hogue followed the captain’s glance to the two road-weary tractor-trailers chained on each of the two flatbeds being towed. “Those I must carry as deck cargo to Haiti,” the captain grumbled, “the reason I must have dependable subordinates.”

“Then hire me, for Christ’s sake. Let me prove to you I’m the best damn mate you’ll ever have.”

When the captain didn’t respond, Hogue said: “If you’re not satisfied, dump my ass on the beach when we get to Haiti. That’s a trial of only a few days.”

The captain’s icy blue eyes narrowed as they studied the applicant. “I give in . . . for practicality, because of departure early tomorrow. My choice is accept you or apply valuable time interviewing others. God knows they might be worse. At least you have credentials, have been trusted to captain that tugboat, and claim to be making an effort to reform.”

“I am reformed, cap’n. Believe that!”“I believe nothing. It is for you to prove. Verdammt, screw up, and big

as you are, I throw you to the sharks.”“Yes, sir. You won’t regret this.”“I accept your need to finalize arrangements with the tugboat firm.

Report the first thing in the morning to complete the loading, that we may depart as scheduled. Be certain you are sober, or I leave you on that quay with the other bums.”

7Ben Cherot

“Yes, sir. Depend on it, sir.” Bobbing his head in wonderment for having overcome the captain’s resistance, Hogue loped away, his mind whirring with all he needed to do to be ready by morning. Damned if shipping out didn’t solve his problem.

He’d been reluctant to apply to an American shipping company, uncertain he’d be approved for reinstatement by the US Maritime Board to sail as an officer. By signing on a ship under foreign registry, he skirted that procedure. Hopefully a discharge certificate from a ship of any registry certifying he’d remained sober and performed professionally for a period of months would redeem him as an officer on American vessels.

That aside, he had yet to confront the circumstances motivating his impetuosity.