"Roger."

"Going in."

Charley watched the plane with collegial interest. Setting down on a fifteen-degree-inclined sand beach was nice work. Most of these pilots were American boys, vets and crop dusters, Charley thought with a somewhat conflicted admixture of sorrow and patriotism. Look at him, he's got dry tanks, he's got to set her down on sand in a ten-knot crosswind with the possibility of the beach turning into a hot LZ if the Bahamian Defense Force decided Barazo's monthly retainer wasn't enough and leave himself enough room to touch-and-go if bullets start zipping through his windows; then there's the problem of where do you go, with maybe five minutes' fuel? He was going in. Charley found himself saying, "Tad more starboard rudder, windward wheel down first. Good. Real nice."

'Course, at these prices you were always going to find a pilot willing to take the risks. According to Barazo, Sanchez paid his pilots $2,000 per kilo. Five hundred kilos per load-a million dollars, for seven hours' flying. Fancy, Charley thought, switching places again with Felix, steering an erratic course toward the beach, a million dollars for seven hours' work. What did it work out to? Figure round trio, since the pilot had to haul Barazo's payment for the cocaine back to Sanchez on Isola Verde. Fourteen into a million… Lord in heaven, $71,428 an hour. About what Mike Milken was making.

"How you doing, Bird Dog? Bird Dog?"

Bird Dog panted. "He put down too far north. He's two clicks north of our position. Repeat-"

"I heard you. Get on the hump, son."

Felix said, "There's three of them in the boat." The Black Max had nosed up onto the beach right beside the Piper. They were refueling.

"Try to keep out of sight," said Charley. "They aren't going to fuss with an old man. But you look like a cop." Felix was pouring a beer over his shirt. Authenticity. You have to inhabit the role. They were a few hundred yards off the sand beach now, the water turning from turquoise to white. Stunning beach; it deserved better than this. Charley revved his engines into the red and throttled back, smoke and water churning. He went aground just a few feet offshore. The Hatteras lurched, Charley fell off his chair with a loud "Damn!"

He stumbled to his feet all wobbly. They were pointing their weapons at him, Ingrams and Uzis. Must have an aggregate rate of fire of 3,600 rounds. The pilot was Anglo, the others Latino.

Charley staggered and fell down and got up and gave them all a great big grin. "Howdy!" He let out a loud, beery belch. Charley had given thought to his wardrobe: black knee socks, Bermuda shorts, a beer-drenched T-shirt-stunk, in this sun-that announced, from neck to belly:

MY WIFE SAYS I HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM.

I AGREE.

MY PROBLEM IS

I DON'T DRINK ENOUGH.

"This here island Biminimi? BimiNiñom-" Belch.

The pilot said, "Bimini's that way, about a hundred miles."

Charley looked in the indicated direction and sighed. "Damnit, Felix, I told you it wunt Binimi. Felix? My friend," he said to the men on the beach, "has imbibed himself, and he was the navigator." Belch. Charley peered. "Is that an airplane?"

One of the Latinos waded toward them, weapon first. He peered over the side into the well. Felix was lying on his stomach on a deck cushion, mouth open, arm across his face, snoring.

"Worthless." Charley shook his head. "No offense. Him being Hispanic and all."

"Fuck you, man."

"Well, whud I say?"

The pilot took a few steps. "What's the problem, man?"

"I don't know," said Charley. "Musta said something. Habla oosted español? You hablo español mooey-"

"Hey, shut the fuck up, man."

"And they says manners are dead," Charley grumbled. "You boys care for a cold beer?"

"Get this fucking boat out of here."

The pilot spoke to one of the other Latinos, who called to the one by the boat, "Spera, Chavo. Spera."

The pilot walked toward Charley's boat. He was in his late thirties, dirty-blond hair, and might've been handsome but for the ugliest scar stitched across his forehead, a real scar, the kind that says: "Scar." It looked like someone had sewn the top of his head back on with twelve-pound-test fishing line. He spoke to Charley in a jus'-'tween-us-white-boys. He had a Southern accent.

"Mister," he said, "you need to back your boat out of here now. Start your engines. Come on now."

But Charley was looking at the plane, entranced by the plane. "You landed that? Here?"

"I ran out of gas. These guys here were passing by and were kind enough to loan me some high octane. Best you move along now, mister."

"That's some flying, son," said Charley. "Frank Borman would be proud of you."

"Look, mister-"

"I'm going, I'm going. Rush rush rush. Everyone's in a rush. And they say it's better in the Bahamas."

"Papa Dog."

"What was that?"

He'd forgotten to turn off the radio. Once again, the human element fails us.

"Whut was whut?"

"Papa Dog, we are still one click from your position. Do you copy?"

The pilot pulled his gun out now. The Latino in the water was wading toward the transom and pulling himself aboard.

Charley was standing in the tuna tower, as exposed as a referee at a tennis match, and surrounded by McEnroes with machine pistols.

"Fuck is going on, mister?" said the pilot.

The other man came over the transom and pulled himself into the boat. Felix stirred, looked up, blinked. "Who are you?" he said, sounding drunk. The man hit him across the face hard with his MAC 10.

"Hey!" Charley shouted. The man aimed his weapon at the tower and fired. There were eight shots to the short burst; only one of them hit Charley, in and out the shin.

"Hold it," the pilot commanded. He waded aboard. Felix groaned. Charley dealt with the pain in his leg. The pilot was pointing his gun at him.

Charley said, "What the hell you boys so damn worked up about?"

"Get down off there." The pilot drew back the hammer on his.38. Charley came down the ladder, one excruciating step at a time. He fell down the last two rungs and landed on the deck by the ice cooler. The man with the MAC had Felix by the shirt and was about to smash him in the face again. Charley said, "Don't do that, please."

The man hit Felix again with his gun.

Charley's eyes flashed. "You tell your friend to stop that. Tell him now."

"He wouldn't take orders from Jesus Christ himself. Who was that on the radio?"

"How the hell should I know? Just tell him to stop. If it's money you're after, I got a coupla hundred in my wallet down below and some traveler's checks."

"Hey, man," said the Latino, "I ain't no fucking thief."

"No," said Charley, "'course not."

"I'm gonna shoot these fuckers now, man."

The pilot said, "Hold on, Chavo, okay? Just hold on."

One of the other men by the cigarette boat shouted, "Fuck is happening, man? Let's get out of here."

"I'm gonna shoot 'em now, man."

"Look, mister," said the pilot, "you wandered into a situation here."

Charley said, "If you're going to kill us, at least don't let me die with a dry mouth."

The pilot seemed unsure, then a flicker of compassion crossed his face. "Okay. Go ahead."

Charley reached for the cooler. "You want one?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Charley flipped back the cooler lid. "What kind you want?"

"It don't matter."

"I got different kinds."

"It really don't matter, mister. Anything."

"Bud?"

"Bud's fine."

"Miller?"

"Fine."

"I got Colt.45."

"That's nigger beer."

Charley said, "Maybe I'll have the Colt then." He shot the Latino in the arm. Felix ripped the shotgun from its Velcro sling and blew a hole in the man's back the size of a cantaloupe. The pilot turned toward Charley and found himself staring into the barrel of his Army-issue Model 1911. "Drop it," said Charley, "or I'll drop you like a dog."