Lopez nodded to the side door. “What is this thing? I assume it’s for us?”
“The best we could manage on extremely short notice. We aren’t the Navy Seals, and to be quite honest, this is our first and I hope only sky-to-sea assault mission. Usually we do things with a bit more stealth.”
The man edged over and unzipped one of the bags. Black fiberglass gleamed back at them, reflecting the light of the tablet and cockpit instrument panel.
“But this will get some points for that.”
“It’s a jet ski?” asked Houston.
“Yes,” said the CIA agent. “Electric. Good for the environment.”
Houston nodded. “Silent, in other words.”
“Next to the motors on the boat, most definitely. It’s pitch out there on the open sea and they’re not running all that dark, so you should almost be invisible. We disabled the safety lights. It’s a two-seater, so you’ll both fit with some minimal gear. You stay in their wake and you should be able to grapple on before they know you’re there.”
“Except for the thundering helicopter drop-off, of course,” said Lopez.
“We’ll try to keep as far out as possible, so there will be some distance. You can hit 50 on this thing. Boat tops off at 60 and they aren’t pushing it that hard right now. Nowhere close. You can close the gap.” He looked Houston up-and-down. “It’s not us I’m worried about. Getting on the boat is one thing. Then what? I hope Simon hasn’t lost his mind.”
Houston used the silence to loudly slap a fresh clip into her browning. “Just get us on the water and watch your own ass. We aren’t outfitted for a sea mission. Put us low to avoid a bath and we’ll preserve more function in the gear.”
The CIA man motioned to a rope and pulley. “Thirty feet already laid out. In this blackness, well, that’s pushing it, and the downwash is going to be a problem.”
“We’ll make do,” she answered, wrapping a tactical vest around her.
The pilot spoke through the noise. “Target has decelerated. Down to 30 miles per hour.”
“We do it now,” said Lopez.
The CIA man nodded. “Drop us down, Charlie.”
They felt a tug inside and the helicopter buried itself in the cloud layer, additional turbulence rocking the small craft back and forth violently. The pilot was flying dark except for instrumentation. They plunged below the clouds and the sea swelled into view. Light from the boat ahead bobbed like a beckon.
Houston and Lopez removed the remainder of the tarp on the jet ski. Without a combustion engine, it was surprisingly light, and they positioned it in front of the door. They were dressed in black with protective vests, ski masks and dark gloves, packs on their backs and weapons strapped to utility belts. Night vision googles dangled from their necks.
The helicopter plunged toward the sea, the pilot speaking in their headsets. “Wind’s a bitch! Be quick.”
They lurched to a hover. The pair removed the headphones and fastened the rope to the jet ski. The CIA man opened the side door and they lowered the watercraft quickly. The gears on the pulley hummed as the rope flew through the mechanism, the smell of burnt leaves filling the small space. Far below, they watched the water splash outward from the impact on the surface.
“Go, go, go!” cried the pilot.
Houston leapt onto the rope and wrapped her feet around it. She descended swiftly down it length and vanished below. Lopez paused a split second to give her space to clear, then dropped straight into the wind and night.
It was all completed in less than a minute. The pilot was skilled and held the helicopter in position. Feet firmly planted on the jet ski, they detached the rope as Houston slipped into the driver’s seat and fired it up, the engine purring softly.
The craft leapt forward toward the dancing lights of the yacht. Lopez removed a high-powered assault weapon and focused ahead as the helicopter darted upward, heading back toward the cloud bank and safety.
Only it would not make it. Operators on the boat had seen the craft. Through the washed-out green of the night-vision, Lopez saw a volley of infrared tracers converge on the aircraft. He remembered the large weapon in the recon photos. He removed his googles and stared helplessly.
A bright light erupted above them, painting the ceiling of cloud-cover in orange and white, the water reflecting the growing fireball. The sound shook them as they sped forward, the rending of metal and air pressure from the ignited fuel. In the dimming fireball the wreckage could be seen to careen toward the open sea and slam into the water like the surface was made of concrete, the helicopter crushed and sinking. It vanished below the waves.
Lopez felt all ambivalence evaporate.
“Let’s get these bastards.”
40
Their target accelerated. Houston gunned the jet ski and pushed it to the breaking point. The boat took no evasive action, and even angled toward them to narrow the distance somewhat of their approach.
“They haven’t spotted us,” screamed Lopez behind her. “Running from the crash site!”
Houston nodded vigorously and continued to push the ski full out. The high waves gut-punched them as they sliced through the water, but they gained on the yacht. Lopez began to see just how fortified it was. Anti-pirate, indeed. While it possessed a superficial resemblance to the luxury powerboats decorating many docks, the fiberglass was replaced with thick aluminum, the windows black and refracting light unnaturally, the bullet-resistant composition altering the optical properties. And of course the guards and their weapons, in addition to the churning motors kicking a spray like a comet’s tail behind the craft.
They were within ten yards and still gaining on the starboard side. Now came the true insanity: The boat had accelerated beyond fifty miles per hour and the jet ski was barely holding together. The angle had decreased, reducing their relative velocity, but also affording the only way to try to board. Lopez shouldered the automatic rifle and removed two stun grenades.
“Flash bangs ready!” he called to Houston. They were nearly alongside the yacht.
She nodded and he flung the bombs one at a time toward the bow of the ship. Both landed and rattled across the surface, ricocheting off the gunwale, then exploding. Even from the side of the ship, the sound and light were startling.
Lopez heaved a grappling ladder against the side and it caught, the roped steps unfurling against the hull. Just then the boat lurched starboard slamming into the jet ski. Instinctively, both of them leapt off the doomed craft and grabbed the sides of the ladder, one on each side, their legs half submerged in the sea. The friction of the water threatened to pull the grapple from the boat and deposit them into the propeller blades.
Lopez placed a foot on the roped ladder and violently swung himself toward the gunwale, grasping the side of the boat with his hands. He tucked his legs underneath his torso like a gymnast and planted his boots on the uppermost portion of the hull, a powerful thrust of his legs propelling him over the side to land in the stern on top of the engine box.
Two men were positioned near the cabin looking ahead at the commotion caused by the still smoking flash grenades. At the sound of his awkward landing, they turned too slowly, the shock of the unexpected attack leaving them off guard.
The distance was only a few feet, and Lopez placed his hands on the engine box and swept his leg through the air like a switchblade. His boot connected with the head of the leftmost guard, the neck snapping to the side, teeth raining sideways against the metal. The man fell with a crash and didn’t move.
But it left Lopez open for a strike from the second guard. He prepared for the worst, hoping Houston would be there in time to engage.