The torque wrench hit the guard in the throat and his gun dipped before he could pull the trigger. Bullets raked across the bridge, shattering glass, chewing through the control panel, and destroying more of the delicate electronics within. Four holes appeared in the electrician’s chest and his already lifeless body was launched through the bullet-weakened main windscreen.
George Patroni was already in motion, oblivious to the destruction around him. He barreled into JoAnn Riggs, shouldering her aside even as she swung at him. Her hand connected with the back of his head and would have stunned a normal man, but Patroni was a man possessed. Even as nine-millimeter rounds sprayed the bridge, Patroni was tearing at the guts below the launch detection panel, pulling at wires and circuit boards, overriding the manual system and launching all three boats simultaneously. Frigid air blasted into the bridge, whipping away the smell of the discharged shots. Patroni’s shoulder block had dropped Riggs to the deck in an untidy tangle, where she frantically clutched his legs.
Wolf’s H&K spat once, then again, the second round no more than an afterthought as Patroni pitched forward, arms outstretched as he fell against the helmsman’s station, ragged holes blooming on his drab overalls like summer flowers. The helmsman was already dead, a chunk of his skull having vanished during the first seconds of the melee.
Patroni had planned to launch Hauser without anyone noticing. He could have done it so surreptitiously that it would have gone undetected until the next day or possibly never at all. He’d discussed it with the electrician, convincing the frightened man that the risk was worth it. JoAnn Riggs and her followers, he’d said, would never have suspected anything.
How many more of his crew would die tonight in reprisal, Patroni thought as he died.
At the last possible second, even as the barrel of the Uzi was facing Hauser, George Patroni succeeded. Heedless of the terrorist standing at the entrance of the lifeboat, the mechanical davits swung outward, yanking him off his feet and fouling his aim. Machine gun fire ripped through the roof of the lifeboat as the dying terrorist hung in the hatchway, his feet dangling high above the tanker’s frothing wake.
Lyle Hauser was too stunned to react. The flare’s noxious smoke had created such a dense cloud that he couldn’t clearly see what was happening. The automatic launch sequence continued, dropping the lifeboat so quickly it felt as if gravity had found new strength.
At the full extension, there was only a two-foot gap between the lifeboat and the flat stern of the Southern Cross. When the winches released the boat, the terrorist was caught in this narrow chasm. His legs fouled against the ship’s railing while his upper body was still in the lifeboat. The drop sheared him neatly in two, his still-burning torso spilling into the lifeboat and his disembodied legs pinwheeling into the turgid North Pacific.
Hauser screamed maniacally as the larger section of the body fell into the boat with him, sizzling like a steak on a summer barbecue. The lifeboat hit the ocean with a bone-jarring crash, a cascade of water spilling in through the open hatch. An instant later an arc of electricity flashed through the lines securing the lifeboat to the Southern Cross, cutting the cables as easily as threads, and suddenly the boat was free, tossing on the tanker’s wake.
The two lifeboats stowed port and starboard hit the water at the same time as Hauser’s, but the supertanker’s forward momentum caused both to capsize and sink only moments after being released. Because it was located in the stern of the tanker, Hauser’s craft remained upright, though the ride was rough until it slipped from the ship’s wake.
Nearly overcome by the chemical smoke of the phosphorus flare, Hauser kicked at what was left of the terrorist, forcing the charred member out of the hatch and into the water. Despite his revulsion at the burned and blistered hunks of flesh that coated the bottom of the hatch, Hauser forced himself to close the aperture.
It was two minutes past midnight.
Not knowing what had transpired on the bridge to allow him to escape, Hauser wanted to make certain he made the best use of what providence had given him. With the radar still out, he knew that Riggs would never be able to find the lifeboat in the empty expanse of the North Pacific. But it was possible that she could triangulate his position if he made his distress call too early. The lifeboat’s radio was small, with only a limited range in the best of conditions. To make it work properly, and to protect himself, Hauser had to get far away from the ship and much closer to shore and hope that someone was listening this dark night. He was two hundred and thirty miles from the coast and, unknown to him, the nearest receiving post was an eleven-year-old boy charged with monitoring the radio aboard his father’s fishing trawler.
The boy was fast asleep.
Miami, Florida
Widowed for so many years that getting to work at ungodly hours was the norm, David Saulman moved through the maze-like warrens of his office like a lord, turning on lights and grabbing express mail envelopes from the desks of his associates as he made his way to his personal suite. A coffeemaker slaved to the light switch in the reception area had started making a potent brew as soon as he’d entered the offices that took up an entire floor of a Miami bank building.
By the time Saulman got to his desk, there was a full pot of coffee waiting. Filling a mug the size of an oil can, he ignored the first salmon hint of daylight peeking over the watery horizon. Twenty-seven floors below, the city slumbered, eking out its last moments of quiet before the day seized it in another scorching session of existence.
The first thing associates learned when they joined Berkowitz, Saulman & Little was that there was no Berkowitz or Little, never had been. The names were figments of Dave Saulman’s imagination, weighty names to give his firm a solid feel when he’d first started out three decades ago. The second thing they learned was that no matter how early they arrived at the law firm, their boss would be there before them — and he’d be going through their mail.
Dave Saulman was a benevolent dictator who was once quoted as saying, “If it’s delivered to my office, it’s mine.” During the mideighties, when bicycle messengers routinely delivered drugs to some of the younger lawyers, he came to possess almost as much cocaine as Metro Dade Police. He never chastised those lawyers who used it, knowing that normal people couldn’t put in the hundred-hour workweeks lawyering demanded. Saulman figured there were some very happy fish in Biscayne Harbor because of him.
Only a dozen red, white, and blue priority envelopes had been delivered last night, distributed through the offices by the firm’s utility service. He opened and read them all in just a few minutes, categorizing most as hyped-up client anxiety. It was amazing how a few million dollars, when it was hanging out in the open, could panic a client.
Saulman wore a dark suit, faint chalk lines accenting his spreading figure. His silk tie had not been fully knotted, its juncture hanging an inch below the unbuttoned top of his starched shirt. Because he had a meeting at eight-thirty, he wore a prosthetic limb to compensate for his missing arm. Given his choice, he kept his empty sleeve hanging limply, but the sight seemed to bother many of the clients. The straps holding the plastic arm in place were already chafing.