Hunting the Dragon by Peter Dixon Read Free Book Online

you in? Vietnam? CIA in Afghanistan?”
    Arnold ignored him, poured another splash of vodka into his glass, and turned his back on Billy.
    Billy awoke to the rumbling of the engine and felt vibrations that trembled the steel frame of his narrow bunk. It was pitch black in the cabin, and Billy cautiously eased out of the top bunk to drop silently on the deck. As he groped for the light, he heard a metallic click sound from behind. He found the switch and the dim bulb glowed. Billy turned and saw Arnold propped up on an elbow clutching a .45 Colt automatic. The barrel was pointed at his guts. The pilot’s eyes were wide with dread, and the hand that held the gun trembled.
    “Hey, Arnold, it’s me, Billy,” he said soothingly.
    He casually uncocked the automatic and slid it under his pillow. “Sorry, kid. I forgot you were here.”
    “What’s going on with you?”
    “I dream too much. Not to worry. I’ve never shot anyone yet. And you’d better report to the mess hall for inspection. If you’re late, Santos will kick your butt.”
    Billy hurried on deck and paused for a moment to look at the first pink tint of sunrise on the eastern horizon. He breathed in the sea air, liking the iodine scent and salty moisture. Then he became conscious that the clipper was moving swiftly. He looked forward and saw its bow cutting a clean furrow through the glassy swells. He felt excitement rising and remembered the one bit of good advice his father had given him, “Never say no to adventure.”
    He began to think about his dad and the bad times that had split his family apart. It was his father’s drinking. After he came back from Iraq he began drinking more and more. The man couldn’t stop. He drank vodka like Arnold. Maybe I shouldn’t fly with him. Dad wasn’t violent or anything. He just wouldn’t admit he was an alcoholic and going wacko.
    He was home when the California Highway Patrol called his mother. She listened quietly, hung up, and told him simply, “He was drunk and ran into a tree. He’s dead.” He was ten years old when the police called.
    The Veterans Administration paid for his dad’s funeral. Six months later—six months of feeling like a lost unwanted kid—his mother married one of his father’s army buddies. After his third tour in Iraq, Billy’s new dad was assigned to Fort Hood, Texas. Mom and his stepfather moved to his new assignment. He didn’t want a kid around. …and she left me with her sister and her husband. Aunt Betty and Uncle Al were the best. They really took me in hand. He remembered their house built over the office of the small boatyard the couple managed and all the lively boaters that came in and out of their lives.
    A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder. Billy snapped out of his memories and looked up at Santos.
    “Get your ass into the mess, niño , or you’re going to be late,” the mate warned, and Billy hurried after him.
    As Billy followed Santos inside, he saw that most of the crew not on duty sat around long wooden tables eating breakfast. Fishermen looked up at him, showing more interest this time. In the serving line, Billy helped himself to coffee, stewed fruit, and eggs scrambled with some sort of dark sausage. At the end of the line stood a tray of bottled condiments with labels that Billy guessed were written in Portuguese. Ahead of him, an old fisherman warned, “Watch out for that hot sauce. It’ll burn your guts out.”
    “Hey, thanks. I appreciate that.”
    Billy spotted the skiff operator and sat down opposite him. Rocha looked up, and then back at his plate. “Eat your eggs before the speeches, or they’ll get cold.”
    When the captain entered nobody saluted or stood at attention. Instead, conversation ended abruptly, coffee mugs held in midair went back on the mess table, backs straightened and faces became attentive. Billy watched Gandara eye the men and noticed that most of the crew seemed eager for what the captain might say.
    The first mate