Ken Goddard - Chimera

“Might as well have.” Lanyard was at the helm of the Avatar, monitoring gauges and fighting against controls that were no longer responding properly. He glanced back at Gavin and saw the blood covering the right side of his long-time-partner’s face. “You okay?”

“Bloody splitting headache,” Gavin growled as he fumbled around in a wall-mounted first aid kit for a compress bandage that he pressed against his cheek. “You get Kai?”

“Shredded him into fish food with the one-oh-nine,” Lanyard responded. “What happened to you? Somebody get off a lucky one?”

“Lucky, my arse. Some bloke in the water who was trying to keep his mate afloat double-tapped my vest plate with a couple of nine-mils, and then nearly did the same thing with my noggin.”

“You get him?”

“No, lost my carbine overboard when I got hit. He’s still out there somewhere by that drifting outboard. Better keep any eye out if he gets that boat going; that lad’s a bloody good shot.”

Lanyard glanced back where Gavin was pointing and smiled.

“No worries, your bloke won’t be going anywhere in that boat unless he brought along a spare engine. Here, take the helm and try to maintain this heading. The rudder’s not responding, so you’re going to have to work the throttles to make any course changes,” Lanyard explained, and then proceeded to use the contents of the first-aid kit to clean, sterilize and bandage the relatively superficial but freely bleeding wound as the Avatar surged back and forth on her erratic course away from the islands.

“Thanks, mate,” Gavin said when Lanyard was done, gratefully giving up what little control he had over the struggling yacht. “How bad are we shot up?”

“Both engines are still running, and there’s no compartment fuel leaks as far as I can tell, which is pretty bloody amazing given the number of fifty-cal rounds Kai punched through her guts. But we’re losing fuel steadily from one of the main tanks, and the starboard shaft starts vibrating at anything over half-speed. Which wouldn’t be too bad, all things considered, but our controls are shot to bloody hell and we’re taking on water faster than the pumps can spit it out,” Lanyard added. “How’s the dinghy?”

“Hull and rail tubes are still intact. Took a couple of rounds in the transom and engine cowling, but I don’t think anything vital got hit. Why?”

“We may need it. Wallis is heading our way with a seaplane, but I told him we’d try to get clear of these islands and into Malaysian air space first.”

“What are we talking about, in terms of distance?” Gavin asked, trying to ignore the growing distress in his stomach.

“Maybe fifteen nautical miles, give or take, assuming the rescue crews don’t spot us — which they shouldn’t in all this fog — and we can hold a steady course.”

Gavin looked around at the choppy water that was now causing the Avatar to surge up and down as well as back and forth back as Lanyard tried to keep her on course. “Fifteen miles? In a bloody twelve-foot dinghy? Are you mad? We’ll be lucky if we make a half-mile before we’re swamped.”

“May not have to find out how lucky we are if we can baby the engines on this gal and keep her afloat for another — ”

A red light began flashing on the control panel.

“Oh bloody hell, we just lost another pump. Only the two back-ups operating now, and they sound like they’re on their last legs,” Lanyard muttered as he watched the gauges for a few more seconds, and then sighed. “Well, Jack me lad, it looks like it’s going to be the dinghy or a long swim. No way in creation we’re going to get this gal into Malaysian waters before the water starts washing over her bow. And I don’t really fancy the idea of swimming alongside a bloke who’s leaving a chum trail for the sharks to follow.”

Holding onto a rail for balance, Gavin looked back at the rescue patrol boat lights — now only glowing pinpoints in the fog that hovered over the dark choppy water — and the erratic wake being produced by the struggling yacht.

“Okay, the dinghy it is, as long as we bring along a couple of buckets for bailing,” Gavin agreed reluctantly. “I don’t fancy being in that water at night either, bleeding or not; and I’ll be damned if we’re going to be the reason Wallis has to fly into Thai air space. Piss him off right proper, we would, if we got him shot down by the bloody Thai Air Force.”

“Yeah, he’s got enough to be pissed about already,” Lanyard agreed.

“You mean the Avatar?” Gavin looked around the shattered bridge. “Come on, mate, she’s a good old broad, but no great loss. He was going to leave her to Kai anyway.”

“No, I mean that,” Lanyard said, pointing to a dark-stained burlap bag lying on the deck in the far stern corner of the bridge that looked like it might contain the better part of a freshly-killed chicken.

“And that is?”

“You do remember the Clouded Leopard carcass we stashed in the fish freezer, where we figured it was going to be safe?

“I do. What about it?” Gavin stared at the stained and lumpy bag with a growing sense of foreboding.

“Thanks to that bastard Kai, and his bloody big fifty, that’s all we’ve got left — of the big bits, anyway.”

Off Tanga Island Cove

It had taken the better part of Bulatt’s remaining strength to tow Colonel Kulawnit over to the low-lying outboard, pull the two lifeless and shattered bodies of Kai’s men into the water, and then shove the unconscious colonel up and into the boat.

He was in the process of pulling himself in, holding onto the splintered railing and trying not to swamp the low-riding boat, when he felt the pressure wave of something big coming fast beneath the boat.

“Shit!” Bulatt cursed reflexively even as his survival instincts found new reserves of energy to help him twist, yank and propel himself up and into the boat just as a huge tiger shark struck at the nearest of the floating bodies a few inches from his flailing feet. The impact of the thick dorsal fin — and then the massive thrashing tail — against the boat’s keel jarred it sideways, forcing Bulatt to grab desperately at the opposite railing to keep himself and Kulawnit from being tossed back into the water.

For a few seconds, the water around the boat churned madly as a second and third shark fought over the carcasses. Then, finally, the water surface grew relatively still, allowing Bulatt to release his grip on the railing and Kulawnit, catch his breath, re-adjust his night-vision goggles, and then examine the colonel’s wounds.

Finally convinced that he’d gotten most of the bleeding stopped with the bandage from Kulawnit’s vest pouch, Bulatt rose up on his knees, trying not to rock the shallow-beamed boat any more than necessary, then waved and yelled — to no avail — at the patrol rescue boat that was some hundred yards and barely visible in the growing fog as the crew continued to search for Rangers from the crashed Blackhawk.

Got to get over there before they decide to take off and leave us here, Bulatt thought grimly as he looked around for something he could use as a paddle. To his dismay, the only thing he could find was a torn and jagged piece of the outboard engine cowling that was roughly nine inches square.

After staring out at the deceptively calm dark water for a few moments, Bulatt crawled over to Kulawnit, pulled the 9mm pistol out of his vest holster again, loaded a fresh magazine, aimed it upward, started to pull the trigger, and then hesitated.

No, better not, he told himself. They see gunfire coming from one of these outboards, they’ll probably fire back with everything they’ve got, including the deck gun, and then come over to scoop up the pieces.