A Southern drawl came over the communicator.
“How ya doing, fellas? I can see your bubbles. Whyn’t ya join the party?”
“I don’t accept invitations from strangers,” Austin said. “Who’s this?”
“Friend of Ms. Mechadi’s. C’mon up. Your air’s going to run out eventually.”
Zavala unclipped a small slate from his vest and wrote a question mark on it.
Austin paused for a second, thinking. If they did as the stranger wanted, they would get their heads shot off.
He borrowed the slate, and in large block letters he wrote: MOBY-DICK?
Zavala digested what Austin had suggested, and it must have given him a stomachache. He erased the previous message and wrote: OUCH!!
Austin wrote back: SUGGESTIONS?
Zavala shook his head, and scribbled: AHAB, HERE WE COME.
He put the slate away, and dropped the Subvette to the bottom. Zavala spun the submersible around and pointed the nose up at a sharp angle. With a whirr of thrusters, the submersible began its ascent, gaining speed with each foot.
He and Austin braced themselves in their seats.
Chapter 29
MINUTES BEFORE THE SUBVETTE had begun its ascent, Carina had seen the boat round the headland and speed toward Mustapha’s motor cruiser with its bow up on plane, bouncing over the wave tops like a stone skipped across the water.
She had relayed Austin’s urgent message to vacate the premises. Too late. The fast-moving boat had closed the distance. The boat swerved seconds before a collision, and the operator throttled back the powerful inboard engine. The craft bumped sideways into Mustapha’s boat a few feet from where she stood.
One of the men on board let forth with a burst in the air from his machine pistol. She dropped the microphone to the deck.
There were four men all dressed in uniforms of olive drab, and all armed with short-barreled automatic weapons. Aviator sunglasses hid their eyes, and the floppy brims of their military style hats kept their faces mostly hidden in shadow. Only their tight-lipped mouths were visible.
Three men vaulted over the rail onto Mustapha’s boat. The last man to board whipped his hat off to reveal a blond brush cut. Carina recognized Ridley, who had supervised the theft of the Navigator. He grinned broadly, and greeted Carina with a lame Minnie Pearl imitation.
“How-dee, Ms. Mechadi.”
Her initial shock was replaced by anger. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Heard you were in the neighborhood, Ms. Mechadi. Thought me and the boys might drop by for a friendly visit.”
“Don’t patronize me with that fake hillbilly accent,” Carina said. “Where’s my statue?”
Still maintaining his grin, Ridley stepped over to the rail and stared with flat eyes at the bubbles coming to the surface. “Someone taking a swim, Miss Mechadi?”
“If you’re so curious, jump in and see for yourself.” Carina could feel her temper getting away from her but couldn’t help it.
“I got a better idea,” Ridley said. He picked the microphone off the deck, clicked it on, and talked to Austin.
Ridley’s grin grew even wider when he saw increased bubble activity on the surface. His hand unclipped a hand grenade on his belt and hefted it like a baseball pitcher ready to make a throw. Carina tried to snatch the microphone, but Ridley backhanded her across the mouth with a blow that drew blood. The other men laughed at Ridley’s violent response, and didn’t see the turquoise flicker of movement in the sea until it was too late.
The submersible shot toward the surface like a breaching whale. The front bumper slammed into the powerboat with the force of a battering ram.
The speedboat rose up at a crazy angle. The man at the wheel let out a startled yelp as he was catapulted into the air with his arms flailing. He hit the water, went down several feet, and struggled back to the surface, yelling for someone to help him. His weapon slipped from his hands.
THE SUBMERSIBLE had bounced backward after ramming the speedboat, and Zavala fought to keep the sub under control.
Austin saw legs thrashing in a cloud of foam at the surface. An object was falling through the water. He launched himself out of the cockpit and grabbed the plummeting machine pistol.
He lowered himself back into the cockpit and jerked his thumb toward the surface.
RIDLEY WAS a professional soldier. Quickly getting over his surprise, he pointed at the figure in the water
“Get that idiot!” he barked.
His men slung their weapons on their shoulders and threw a ring-shaped life preserver to their comrade. Ridley clutched the grenade in his hand, ready to drop it over the side like an improvised depth charge. He was probing the water with his cold eyes when he heard what sounded like a car horn. He whipped his head around.
“Jeezus!” he gasped.
A turquoise Corvette convertible with a bashed-in bumper was skimming across the water toward Mustapha’s boat, Zavala at the wheel. Austin rested the machine pistol on the windshield frame and let off a few bursts, deliberately aiming high.
Ridley’s men slipped their weapons off their shoulders, dropped them onto the deck, and threw their hands in the air, leaving the man in the water to fend for himself. Ridley slowly brought his hands up.
Carina was being helped to her feet by Captain Mustapha. Austin was distracted by the sight of blood streaming from her mouth. In the meantime, Ridley had brought his hands together over his head, pulled the pin, and had an arm back ready to toss the grenade at the oncoming vehicle.
Austin’s eyes went back to Ridley and his finger tightened on the trigger. He hesitated, fearing that Ridley might drop the grenade to the deck. Captain Mustapha had also seen Ridley arm the grenade. As Ridley brought his arm back in a throwing position, the captain snatched a boat hook from a rack and brought the heavy wooden handle down on Ridley’s wrist. The grenade flew from his fingers, hit the rail, and rolled onto the deck.
Reacting with lightning speed, Mustapha dove on the grenade and flipped it over the side.
Ridley roared with pain and rage. He fumbled at his belt with his left hand for another grenade. Austin’s gun stuttered and laced Ridley’s chest with bullet holes. Ridley pitched over backward into the water as the grenade exploded and sent up a geyser that spattered onto the deck.
Austin swung the gun barrel toward the other two men.
“Jump,” he ordered.
He let off a fusillade at the awning. Shreds of canvas rained down like confetti. The men jumped over the side and joined the crewman already in the water. Austin triggered another burst that ripped into the water within inches of the swimmers.
Austin watched the sorry trio swim to land, then scramble onto shore and disappear into the woods. He put more holes in the listing speedboat and then turned his attention to Carina.
Mustapha wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel and she held the improvised compress against her head. Austin saw that she was not seriously hurt and handed the gun to Mustapha, with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.
Zavala brought the Subvette alongside the motor cruiser and Austin climbed aboard. The vehicle slipped below the surface and descended to the launch platform. Austin swam to the control console, and Zavala brought the vehicle down on the platform and the clamps locked it in place. Austin activated the pumps to expel water from the pontoons.
The launch platform surfaced near the motor cruiser, and it sat at a steep angle in the water because of the weight of the statue at the stern. Mustapha handed Carina the gun and moved his boat closer to the LRT platform. He threw a towline to Austin and Zavala. Then they slipped into the water and breaststroked to the boat ladder.