Mark Greaney: On target

"Understood. Thanks, Don."

"Thank me later. You have a navy to outrun." Court hung up the phone and ran back to the cockpit to speed up the engines.

Court found the handheld FM distress radio in the cockpit, slid it into his hip bag, and then made his way back to the helm. Here he pushed the throttles all the way forward. There was less than an hour left until daylight, and Gentry had his bow pointed right where the burnt orange sun would appear. He only hoped he'd be around to see it shine.

Suddenly the cockpit was awash in bright light. Court ducked instinctively, turned in all directions looking for the source of the blinding beam. He found it astern on the starboard side, a spotlight no more than one hundred yards away.

The twin 12.7-mm machine gun of the coastal patrol boat opened up one second later, tearing into the cockpit and ripping through mahogany and bronze and glass.

Gentry dove to the deck next to the helm, used the deeply waxed teak flooring to slide like a snake towards the stairs to the lower decks. He slid down the stairs face-first, his shoulder killing him but his fear of supersonic metal taking precedence in his priorities.

On the main deck Court waited for a short respite from the near constant fire and grabbed both rifles dropped by the dead men on the companionway. The weapons were old and poorly maintained. Court knew firing on the gunboat would be extraordinarily reckless, but not firing on it would allow it to come as close as it wanted, shine its spot on the hapless yacht, and rake its machine guns back and forth to its heart's content until the engines stopped and the yacht sank in the black water.

Court wasn't going to make it that easy for them.

He crawled to the bow, staying out of sight. The braying 12.7-mm guns seemed to be concentrating on the helm, the waterline, and the stern of the ship, most likely to destroy the controls and the propellers and stop the boat's retreat to international waters, as well as to kill anyone hiding out belowdecks. But the bow was still mostly shrouded in the dark shadows of the upper saloon and cockpit, and Gentry used this to mask his movement. He flipped the selector switch on the weapon to fully automatic, lined the 81's iron sights up on the spotlight beam, and slipped his finger into the trigger guard. In the brief pause he took to concentrate his senses before he fired, he noticed the deck below him was not moving forward in a straight line. No, he felt a very noticeable and very strong pull to the right of the eighty-foot craft. He had no idea why, guessed only that the machine guns had already damaged the rudder.

He pushed this out of his mind and pressed the trigger. The light exploded in a flash of sparks. Suddenly the Fatima was enshrouded in darkness, and the gunboat across the water was the bright spot, as its windows and electric lighting exposed all the men on the deck.

Court fired the remainder of the first AK's magazine in full automatic mode at the men, killing two and sending the rest diving to the deck of the hundred-foot craft. When his weapon ran dry, Court dropped it and ran to the port side of the yacht. He knew the bright flash of the gun would have attracted attention, and he needed to get as far away from the bow as possible. He made it back to the stairs to the lower decks just as the machine guns on the yacht again began belching hot steel. On the stairs he saw his boat was sinking now, leaning to the port side, although its forward propulsion still pulled to starboard.

Court returned to the lower saloon and dropped to his hands and knees. It was below the waterline and therefore mostly safe from direct gunfire. He found Zack lying in the same place. His bare chest was covered in the ersatz bandages and a thick sheen of sweat. His eyes were open and blinking.

"Fucking navy," Zack said as Court crawled up next to him. A passing sweep from the machine gun sent splinters and glass and seawater throughout the saloon just above their heads. Seconds later the engines stopped, and the Fatima began to drift.

But the gunfire continued. Court had to scream to be heard. "We're going up on deck!"

"Don't forget the sunscreen."

"We're sinking. We're going to have to go over the port side. Maybe we can wait a while, transmit the distress on the VHF when they leave."

"Not gonna work. We're nowhere near international waters. The Sudanese will hear the distress, come back, and finish the job."

"I'm not going to sink that navy boat. I don't have any other alternative."

Zack laid his head back flat. "Do what you gotta do, bro. I'm staying right here."

The machine gun fire stopped abruptly. Court looked around. He noticed the water bottle he'd left on the floor earlier had rolled to the port side. Within seconds other items in the room began to slide on the mirrorlike finish of the deck.

"We're dead in the water," Court said. "The engine room must be filling up. But why aren't they shooting?"

Zack said nothing.

"I'll be right back." Court climbed the stairs on his hands and knees. The yacht was sinking incredibly quickly. Already it leaned to port at a ten-degree angle. On the deck he laid flat, so he was concealed to the starboard side by the list to port. He crawled to the railing and peered over carefully, looking for the gunboat. The navy vessel was moving out of the area, away from the yacht, and Court could not imagine why. Quickly he looked into the sky, worried about a fighter plane with a bomb or some other attack that would necessitate the patrol craft hauling ass. But the starry skies were clear.

He was about to turn to slide back to the companionway when he noticed it, above the waterline, just below his position at the railing. In the darkness it glistened and hung there like a big, wet tumor on the hull of the Fatima.

It was attached to the hull with cables and suction cups, and had been below the waterline before the yacht began listing hard to the opposite side.

Cigar-shaped, black as onyx, and twenty feet long, an enclosed prop and rudder at the rear, and a clear plastic canopy on the top.

A mini submarine.

Court shook his head in disbelief and mumbled with a little smile, "Zack, you rat bastard."

Court realized now why the boat had pulled so hard to starboard at speed.

Hightower had neglected to mention it because his primary mission was to kill the Gray Man. His secondary mission would be to save his own life.

Court had an incredible respect for Sierra One's mission focus, even if it did piss him off.

Court looked back to the Sudanese patrol boat and realized they must have seen it, too. But apparently they had taken it for a large torpedo and decided to back off lest one of their machine gun rounds set it off.

The Gray Man turned away, slid down the sharply angled deck to the companionway, and returned to the saloon. Zack was still on his back.

"Would it have killed you to tell me about the sub?"

"I was hoping it would kill you if I didn't."

"You going to tell me how to drive it?"

"You've never piloted a mini sub?"

"Who the fuck has piloted a mini sub?"

Zack smiled and said nothing.

"Don't suppose there is an instruction manual lying around anywhere."

No response.

"I feel like ripping that tube out right now, Zack."

No response.

"God, when I'm done saving you, I swear I'm going to kill you." Court knelt and lifted Zack onto his wounded shoulder. He screamed in pain.

Zack screamed as well from the agony of being hefted by his bandaged right arm, but Gentry did nothing to make his patient feel better.

Court pulled the small canopy shut. From the difficult action of the closing mechanism, and the absence of a good handhold on the inside of the Plexiglas, he got the impression there was some sort of a button or knob that would cause an automatic shut and seal, but Court couldn't even see the dials and gauges in front of him in the dark, so yanking it tight with his fingertips would just have to do.