Nope, no way, not me. We never accept that eventuality. Not really. It goes against all our superb coding. I would do the impossible. I’d keep dodging bullets. I’d think of something. I always had, hadn’t I? Unyielding expectation is our only buffer from the existential.
The big Scarab was to my right, bow pointed out, engines still rumbling. As I pushed toward it, someone began to shoot randomly down through the dock’s heavy planking. I submerged, came up yards away, nose to face with a man’s head and upper torso. He was leaning down from above, ski mask in place, semiautomatic in hand. My unexpected surfacing surprised him as much as he surprised me. I knocked the pistol away, locked his neck against my chest, turned abruptly, and submerged again.
I was surprised that his spine did not snap. Instead, he fought back in a frenzy. He scrabbled and clawed at my face until I couldn’t hold him anymore. I kicked him away, paused on the bottom, still underwater. Then I swam with long, slow strokes in the direction of the boat. I found the bottom of the Scarab with my right hand, touching the bladelike chine of the starboard side. I paused, then crossed underneath the hull of the boat and came up, eyes wide, on the other side.
The man who’d been at the wheel was now holding a submachine gun that looked to be an Uzi.
He had his back to me, still expecting me to surface near the dock. I could hear him shouting to the man I’d dragged into the water. His voice had interrogative inflections. Where the hell was I?
The Scarab had a partial dive platform mounted port-side, off the stern. Not a lot of room back there with the twin outdrives. I got my right foot on the port corner of the platform, found a cleat with my left hand, and vaulted up into the boat. I heard the man scream out a warning, lifting his weapon to fire as I lunged across the deck to the controls and jammed the single gearshift and both throttles full forward.
Scarabs are built for speed, and this one must have been loaded with some heavy-duty experimental racing engines. Two massive Mercury inboards were back there beneath the cowling. When I buried the throttles, there was a momentary hesitation, as if the engines didn’t know what to do with the sudden infusion of fuel. It was in that mini-instant that a weapon fired and, simultaneously, I felt as if I’d been slapped beneath my left arm with a baseball bat.
In the aftershock of any serious injury, the brain scans immediately for answers: How bad is it? Has the vehicle been crippled for life? Will the vehicle survive so that the brain can survive?
I had no time for even a moment’s reflection, however. The roar of the Scarab’s engines was more like an explosion, and the boat seemed to rocket skyward. The bow lunged so abruptly into the air that it was as if I was on a rearing horse, or a plane about to take flight. I fell and grabbed the base of the helm seat with my one good arm, holding tight against the sudden rush of g-force, some part of me aware that the boat’s stern line must still be tied to the dock. That’s why the boat was tilting nose-high.
Not for long, though.
There was a terrible rending sound as part of the dock ripped away. Or a cleat. Or maybe the thick line they’d used to tie the boat. Then we were free, gaining speed like a dragster, the hull flattening itself over the water, bow-slapping like a dolphin.
I looked toward the back of the boat where the man with the Uzi had been thrown. He was crawling around on his knees, trying to fight his way back to his feet. He’d lost his bandana. I looked into dark, Indio eyes set in a Castilian face, a man in his mid-to-late thirties. He had a mustache and a pointed goatee. The blue coveralls he wore added a military inflection.
The Uzi was now sliding around on the deck, closer to him than to me. I watched his eyes focus on the weapon, then swivel toward me, gauging who would get to the submachine gun first.
I wanted no part of that kind of race. As he crabbed across the deck toward the Uzi, I got up shakily, my left arm feeling weirdly electrical, nearly numb, and pulled myself into the helm seat.
The Scarab’s control console looked like something out of a science-fiction film, or the command station of a spacecraft. It seemed to have everything but what I was looking for—a built-in VHF radio. There were rows of high-performance gauges with matching bezels, and lines of toggle switches aside a steering wheel fitted with built-in trim-control buttons. Both throttles and the gearshift were low and to the right, everything within easy reach, the entire station done in ivory white.
When it comes right down to it, though, nearly all power vessels operate basically the same. And I have spent much of my life driving boats.
I glanced behind me to see that the man with the goatee was looking at me as he reached for the Uzi.
I scrunched down in the pilot’s chair, backed the throttles slightly, then turned the wheel full to the left as I accelerated. The boat turned so fast and hard when the port chine bit that it nearly threw me out of the seat.
I glanced over my shoulder again to see that he’d been catapulted into the starboard coaming. The trouble was, the gun had been catapulted right along with him.
I backed the starboard throttle, banking us into a wide right turn, then shoved both throttles full ahead and watched the speedometer climb to a hundred and ten miles per hour. I was ducked down behind the scimitar windshield, but Goatee was not. He was getting the full force of the wind shear, his cheeks and lips fluttering. Even so, he was still struggling to get his balance; he wanted to get his hands on the weapon again.
We were headed north, now, into Charlotte Harbor. Continue on that course and at that speed, and we’d be off Sarasota in less than half an hour. Not that I had any intention of going to Sarasota, nor would I be able to. Off to the west, I could see the second yellow Scarab moving on a fast line to intercept us. Maybe one of the kidnappers back on shore had contacted them. Or maybe the erratic course of our boat had alerted them that their plans had gone terribly wrong.
Either way, they knew. I had the blurry image of two men standing at the helm of that smaller boat, coming hard at us on a collision course, their hands at an odd angle, holding something.
Weapons, of course. They’d be armed. Once they realized the wrong guy was at the helm, would they start firing? Maybe. No . . . probably. What was to stop them?
I made a sputtering noise of frustration, feeling a dizzy wave of unreality sweep over me. Had I really been dropped into the middle of this mess, or was it some kind of nightmare?
I looked at my left arm, blood dropping. Nope, it was all too real. And if I didn’t find a way to put some distance between myself and them very, very soon, it was going to get much worse.
One thing I knew was that the men pursuing me wanted to get away as badly as I did. If not, they weren’t very smart. Like fleeing an assassination, escape from a kidnapping must be effected quickly and without interruption to be successful. Screw up for a minute, and the entire operation is compromised. Screw up for several minutes, and the operation not only fails, there are jail cells waiting. I was cutting deeply into their hopes of escape, and they had to realize that.
They didn’t get the girls. Now they had nothing to lose and everything to gain by eliminating me quickly.
Time was the only weapon I had.
My left arm was getting some feeling back. There was a black smear of meat and blood in the fleshy area beneath my tricep. It was bleeding freely, but not spurting, and my left hand had enough strength in it to control the steering wheel. All very reassuring.
I glanced over my shoulder again. Saw that Goatee was up on his hands and feet, scrambling across the deck like a bear toward the Uzi. I cut the wheel hard to the right, and back to the left, then I accelerated to full throttle as I spun the wheel to port, once again, sling-shooting us back and forth through the water. The g-forces were terrible, like being in a centrifuge.
At the peak of the last turn, I heard a shriek and looked back to see that Goatee had managed to stay aboard, but just barely. His head was over the side, but his fingers were locked into the starboard coaming. I watched him gain his balance before I had a chance to make another turn. Anticipating the turn, he collapsed flat on his belly, and began to crawl toward me.
I wanted to shake him, needed to shake him. I wanted to make the guys on the other boat stop and have to waste time fishing their accomplice out of the water. I needed to give them a good reason to abandon their pursuit of me.
I made three more sharp, accelerated turns in quick succession but couldn’t lift him off the deck. It was like he had suction cups on his fingers. He was up on his feet now, a very wide stance, seemed determined to get his hands on me.
The other Scarab was still bearing down on us. I had to make a decision whether to fight or run. Would they risk firing randomly into our boat?
The Plexiglas windshield shattered before me, then shards of fiberglass began to explode in a firecracker series, from the transom to the cockpit. I ducked, then ducked again.
They were shooting already. Full automatic.
Suddenly, the decision was very easy. I’d have to fight. The question was:
How?
Maybe stop the boat, wrestle Goatee for the Uzi, then shoot it out with the other Scarab?
I didn’t like the odds. I wasn’t at full strength, plus the guy with the submachine gun didn’t seem very fussy about who he hit. If Goatee put up any kind of struggle, we’d both be exposed and easy targets.
I’d have to try something else. I remembered an old instructor of mine, years ago on an island far away, forcing us to repeat by rote what turned out to be a pretty fair dictum for the way to live a successful life: When surrounded by overwhelming opposition and defeat is inevitable, there remains only one practical option—
attack.
Because I had no other options, that’s exactly what I did.
With the approaching Scarab less than a hundred meters away, I brought our boat to a stop so sudden that Goatee came tripping toward me. I timed it right and, with my good elbow, caught him once just under the chin. It knocked his feet from under him and he landed hard on the deck. He was groggy but still conscious.
Ahead of me, the Scarab immediately slowed, apparently interpreting my decision to stop as a gesture of surrender.
I waited, watching them idle toward me: at least two men aboard, both showing automatic weapons. The man at the steering wheel had a huge pumpkin-sized head with hair dyed punkish blue—the Latin rapster look.
I ducked low, not wanting to tempt them into shooting again, got down on my knees briefly, dripping blood all across the deck, reached and retrieved the Uzi. It had the standard thirty-round magazine and a collapsible stock. I looked to see that the bolt was closed, ready to fire, the selector switch on full auto. When Goatee tried to grab me, I swung the barrel toward his chest and said in Spanish, “Jump.”
He shook his head, pretending not to understand.
I shifted the selector switch from auto to select as if in preparation to fire. I said, “So I’ll try it in English.
Jump.
” Then I motioned toward the back of the boat, which was out of sight of the approaching Scarab.
Goatee didn’t hesitate. Keeping his eyes on me, he rolled off the transom, into the water.
I ducked back to the helm, where I checked the boat’s trim tab controls. They were on the steering wheel. Lower the tabs, and the stern of the boat would ride higher, forcing the front of the boat down. It’s a handy option, a good way to compensate for an unbalanced load.
I checked the buttons to make certain the tabs were raised completely. Then I found the outdrive toggles, and raised the propeller arms about halfway. I wanted the front of my boat to, once again, rear high at full throttle, and that combination of raised trim tabs and outdrives would, hopefully, cause it to do just that. Then I held the Uzi in the air, waving it until I was sure the two men saw me. When I was certain I had their attention, I threw the little sub gun high over the bow into the water.
A final gesture of complete submission.
Which is just what I wanted them to think.
I watched the men lower their weapons. Saw Blue Hair speak into what was a walkie-talkie or cell phone. Waited until he finished talking and began the slow turn to come alongside my Scarab, where and when there was a good chance they’d shoot me, no questions asked.
I cupped my hand over the twin throttles, thumb tapping at the gearshift, breathing easily, hunched down and standing motionless until their boat was directly in front of me. I watched them continue to turn and waited... waited until the smaller Scarab was exactly broadside to me only about forty meters away. I waited another beat or two until the nose of my boat was pointed a few feet aft of their cockpit.
That’s when I attacked. I jammed both throttles forward, steering directly at them on a collision course they couldn’t avoid. Engines screamed and my boat lunged crazily forward, the sudden acceleration driving me back, pinning my head against the helm seat so that all I could see was the control panel and the orange sunset sky.
I saw both tachometers redline with cavitation and watched the speedometer jump from zero to fifty. I was still gaining speed when I felt the jarring impact of fiberglass on fiberglass. Something else they’d taught us at the combat driving course in the hills of West Virginia: When two objects collide, the object that maintains its velocity receives far less shock than the object not in motion. So I held the throttles forward as my boat careened wildly skyward, airborne, riding up and over the smaller boat, using it like a ski ramp.
I felt a second jarring impact as my boat’s outdrives banged free. Then I seemed to hang suspended in air for an incredibly long time before smashing down back into the water, shipping a wave over the bow, soaking the entire boat and myself.