Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

The chart frame he's searching for finally fills the screen. Gus taps the center with his finger.

“We're in luck, boys. Just need to backtrack a little on a bearing south-by-southwest. Lay in a course, Danny.”

I guess I should say “Aye, Captain,” like Scotty on Star Trek, but I don't. I just twist and tug the wheel, work the throttles, check the compass, and line us up for a quick run down to Hell.

We're plowing through breakers. The Lady Fran is doing the Coast Guard one better. She's clipping along at thirty-six knots, plowing up ridges of water in her wake. I wonder what kind of suped-up engines Gus has rigged up under the decking. Somewhere, I suspect, there's a Maserati missing a motor.

“That's gotta be him,” Gus says. He's staring at the sweeping circle on the long-range radar screen. A blinking blip is sitting smack dab in the middle of the superimposed chart displaying the Hell Hole. “Radar signature appears to be the right size. We should have visual contact in another five or ten minutes. Hang on. I'll be right back.”

Gus scampers over to the ladder and scurries down. The man is spry. He works the railings and rungs like a scrappy rhesus monkey.

Ceepak moves around the control console, hanging on to the rails that pen us in as we slice through the crests tossed up by the tide. He wants to be up front so he can be the first to see Mullen's boat.

Fran is really rocking now. We keep smacking across rollers, the next best thing to a hydroplane.

“Ceepak!”

It's Gus, scaling back up the ladder, lugging a chunky pair of binoculars. Ceepak braces the handrails and works his way back.

“What've you got?”

“Night-vision capability.” Gus tosses the binoculars to Ceepak. “Couple years back I helped some DEA boys bust up this drug-smuggling ring coming up the coast from Florida. The guys gave me these as a thank you. I use them to watch birds. At night. Their body heat makes the infrared lenses go crazy.”

Ceepak nods. Presses the binoculars to his eyes. Scans the horizon.

“See anything?” I ask.

“Negative.”

Gus leans in to check the arcing circle on the long-range radar. “He's still too far out for visual. But we're gaining on him, boys. He's definitely dropped anchor. Set up shop for the night. Hasn't moved since we first pinged him.”

Ceepak lowers the field glasses, drapes their strap around his neck to free up his hands. He retrieves his little notebook from his front shirt pocket. Flips through a few pages. Reads something.

“Gus,” he asks, “do you have a fire extinguisher on board?”

“Yeah. A couple. Down in the cabin.”

“We might need them.”

“What's up?” I ask.

“I've been contemplating something else Mullen said. About his mission. How he never completely fulfilled the Lord's Commandments.”

“What?” I say. “Chopping off their ears and noses wasn't enough?”

“Not if he was attempting to follow a strict and literal interpretation of the Scripture's edict.” Ceepak reads from his notebook: “Ezekiel. Chapter twenty-three. Verse twenty-five. ‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword: they shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire.’”

Gus groans. “Jesus. You think he's gonna go after her son, too? T. J.?”

“Doubtful,” says Ceepak. “His narcissistic fantasy is completely focused on females. I suspect, however, he intends to follow through on the final command. To do what he never did before because it would have denied him his trophies, his skulls and fleshy souvenirs.”

“He's going to burn her body?” I say.

Ceepak nods. “We should assume that is his plan.”

“Jesus. A fire? He'll sink his own freaking boat!” says Gus.

“I believe this man in all his delusions would consider such a lethal conflagration to be a glorious conclusion to what he perceives as his lifelong mission.”

“Freaking nut job,” Gus mutters. “Freaking, fucking nut.”

A flash of green on the radar screen catches the corner of my eye.

“Guys?” I say. “We're here.”

He's showing up on the short-range,” I say. “We just pinged him. Bearing seventy-five relative to current course. Range two-point-two nautical miles.”

Like a gunner in a tank turret, Ceepak swivels with his field glasses to look where I just told him to look.

Something stings his eyes. He momentarily lowers the binoculars. Blinks to clear his vision.

“Infrared flare,” he says.

“Disco birds?” Gus asks. That's what fishermen call the annoying gulls that swoop into the halogen lights off the back of any night-fishing boat while you're cleaning your catch.

“Negative,” says Ceepak. He puts the glasses back to his eyes, braced this time for the hot spots. “A burning cross. Two.”

Gus peers off toward the horizon. “Like the goddamn Ku Klux Klan?”

Ceepak nods. “Mullen has affixed flaming crossbeams to both outrigger poles-port and starboard. They must be wrapped with a kerosene-soaked fabric of some sort….”

Great. Cap'n Pete has decorated his ship with holy tiki torches. Next he's going to turn his boat into a luau pit.

“Can you see anything else?” asks Gus. “Do you see Pete? Rita?”

“Negative. No. Wait. Yes. I am reading thermal images of two bodies in the stern cockpit. One stationary and seated. The other mobile.” He lowers the glasses. “Danny? Cut back on the engines.”

I do.

Ceepak goes back to the night-vision goggles.

“The stationary body is moving. Slightly. Wriggling against apparent restraints.”

Good. Rita is still alive.

“Body appears to be tied down in a fighting chair aft of the main cabin,” Ceepak continues.

Most fishing boats have these padded chairs you strap yourself into. Makes it easier to tangle with a tuna if your seat belt is securely fastened and you're bolted down to the deck.

“The other body is moving back and forth to the cabin,” he continues. “Keeps bringing out heavy objects. Stacking them. Judging from the thermal silhouette, the cold object being carried appears to be round. Doughnut shaped.”

I take a wild guess. “Tires?”

“Roger that. S.O.P. Standard Operating Procedure for insurgents. Tires and diesel fuel. Stack 'em up, soak 'em down. Creates an excellent improvised incendiary device. Generates intense heat.”

“Freaking psycho,” says Gus. “Burning up his own damn boat. Rig for silent running, Danny.”

“You want me to kill the motors?”

“Make 'em as quiet as you can. Line up our bow with his foredeck, aim for a spot just off his port. We'll sneak up on him from his blind spot, use his bulkhead for cover.”

I turn the wheel, pull down on the throttles.

Ceepak, I notice, is checking his pistol.

“Danny? Lock and load.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You boys bring along a spare pop-gun?” asks Gus.

“Negative,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps you should man the helm from this point on.”

“Sure. Make me the freaking chauffeur.”

I step aside. Gus takes the wheel, concentrates on maneuvering us into position for our sneak attack. He makes a final twist of the wheel and pulls back on the throttles.

The engines stop whining. Move into a purr. Down into a chug.

“Danny?” Ceepak whispers.

“Sir?”

“I suggest you assume a prone position here on the bridge. It will help steady your aim.”

“Yes, sir.” I lie down on the deck. Brace my gun against the front-most railing. Line up a shot across our bow.