“It’s a lie because what he’s saying isn’t true.”
“Strong complains that nobody elected Taylor president. Is that a lie?”
“No, but—”
“He says that the way the Constitution looks at succession is outdated. You have to agree with that, Bernie.”
“Out of date, but not something to step on and grind into the ground. That’s what Strong is propagating.”
“No, he’s just coming at it from a different political perspective than you.”
“Don’t give me that!” Bernstein complained. “He’s dangerously close to calling for the overthrow of the American government.”
“Bernie, do you actually listen to Elliott?” He sounded patronizing now. “He’s not trying to overthrow Taylor, he’s asking people to exercise their right. He’s giving listeners a platform to talk about change. It was okay when Kerry got airtime during the Vietnam War when he wanted Nixon out, but it’s not okay for everyday listeners to get a few minutes on the air? Bernie, it’s talk radio. It’s just a show.”
Bernstein was completely annoyed. He returned to the essence of his call without any hint of friendship. “So you won’t do anything?”
“Do anything?” Huddle laughed. “We are doing something, Bernie. We’re practicing the First Amendment, and making millions of dollars doing it.”
Chapter 31
The scuba diver surfaced again with a quick kick of his flippers. There she is. The woman’s boat was coming around. This time, he solemnly said to himself. This time. It’ll be over in under a minute. The instant he stopped kicking, his body slipped under. In another few moments he’d bob back up, grab her at the point she was most off-balance. Then —
Katie could have sworn she heard her name called. Scott? Her head was into the wind. She smiled and wrote it off. This is what it’s like when you’re really in love. Now there were only the natural sounds — her Laser skipping across the Charles and the sail billowing in the breeze like a puffy cloud. Katie angled out of the arc on what she decided would be her last turn. She ducked under the boom, swapped hands for control of the rudder, and leaned sharply over the edge of the starboard side to balance her craft. Her legs were stretched out across the width of the hull. The boat was stable, even if she was not.
Now! He kicked and shot straight up. He actually admired her skills as a sailor. She picked her spot to turn and hit it every time. It made his job easier.
Three feet. Two feet. One more hard kick. He needed more than his head above water this time. There she is. He saw the woman gliding across the river right in front of him. He reached out. The top half of her body was extended well out over her craft. So easy. With that thought, he grabbed the back of her shell with one hand and yanked her hair with the other.
It happened too quickly for Katie to process. First she felt herself falling backward. There was no time for corrective action, only an automatic cry. Luckily, as she went over, Katie had the good sense to suck in a breath of air. When she hit the water, she realized that she hadn’t just fallen overboard. She was being weighted down. Katie kicked and grabbed at the water, trying to resurface. But she was unable to right herself. She continued to sink.
Katie squirmed and tried to twist her head around. She felt a sharp yank on her hair. It was so powerful that it did what she couldn’t do herself. It turned her around. Below her, pulling her, was a man in a wetsuit, goggles, and scuba tank. She flailed her hands, but she was no match for the man.
Still, she fought against his power. But each time she struggled she used up more air. The man pulled again. Katie looked up. The light from above dimmed as he dragged her farther down. Her body ached. She desperately held onto her last breath and suddenly was overcome by a final realization: She was going to die. Here and now…without sharing her life with Scott.
Scott. She imagined Roarke swimming toward her, reaching out, taking her into his arms. The thought brought a sense of calmness to Katie. She reached out to the image of the man she loved, wishing he were really there.
Less than twenty seconds after Katie went under, the boys steered to where she’d been pulled over. Roarke had clearly seen it. He knew what he had to do.
He dove in and kicked hard. Bubbles from the diver’s tank showed him the way. Air! It’s what the diver had, and exactly what he and Katie needed. His mind raced. How? He couldn’t fire his Sig.
Despite what’s depicted in the movies, discharging a bullet underwater can be as dangerous for the shooter as it is the intended target. It doesn’t do much good for the weapon, either.
The effects had been drilled into Roarke. Shock/pressure waves could severely damage the shooter’s eardrums as the blast is amplified underwater by a factor of four. The chamber can explode sending shrapnel backward as well as outward. The pistol might blow up in the shooter’s hand. The bullet may not follow the intended course. Or, in this case, it could strike Katie.
Roarke’s gun was out of the question.
The killer’s flippers could have taken him beyond Roarke’s reach, but he swam slowly, not knowing he was being pursued. After all, time was on his side. He just continued to drag Katie lower. The more he did, the less she resisted.
The midday sun shot beams of light through the Charles. Roarke swam away from Katie’s outstretched arms. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. To save her, he had to ignore her. Roarke needed to come around the diver’s blind side.
Roarke kicked harder. He was glad the kids told him to lose his shoes. Faster! he willed himself.
He swam under Katie. Deeper. With hardly any air left and all the power he could muster, Roarke rammed his head into the diver’s kidneys. The regulator instantly popped out.
Roarke figured that he couldn’t survive a fight more than a few seconds. That’s when the odds tipped against him. The man pulled a five-inch blade from a sheath on his leg; somehow he still held onto Katie’s hair. Roarke instinctively drifted away. The hesitation gave the diver the opportunity to reinsert the regulator and take in more air.
Enraged, the diver swam forward, his arm outstretched, the knife blade catching the light from above. But he moved slower than he wanted because he had Katie in tow.
As if in a slow-motion aqua pas de deux, Roarke faked to the left and leaned right, dodging the first thrust. But sensing Roarke’s next move, he lunged forward. Roarke kicked away, but not quickly enough. The knife grazed Roarke’s left calf.
Roarke jerked backward. He fought the temptation to look down at the wound. Instead, he let his body relax. He dropped his arms to his side, giving the diver an easier, stationary target.
Jun Chung had taught him what to do, albeit on dry land and on a gym mat. The lessons from his Tae Kwon Do master in Los Angeles seemed like a lifetime ago. It might be if he didn’t execute the next moves correctly.
“Slow or fast makes no difference,” the Tae Kwon Do master had explained. “It is the point of contact. Concentrate on force, not speed.”
Roarke heard Master Chong through the water, through the years, and through his pain. Concentrate on the force. Force, not speed.
As the attacker pushed through the water, Roarke dodged right, twisted his body and reached forward with his left hand. He gripped the assailant’s right wrist, held it, then with his own right hand coming into play, he forced the man’s knuckles unnaturally backward. The killer struggled to free himself, but he couldn’t. He let go of the knife and tried to kick away. Again, he couldn’t.