The pirate’s head lolled and his body collapsed. Shabby, heavily armed men flooded out from shacks around the harbor and crowded against the deck railing of the mothership, pointing and shouting. Jonah grabbed the assault rifle from the deck and slung the strap around his shoulder.
“I–I didn’t finish!” said Fatima, pointing at the nearest mooring line, only half way cut.
Jonah risked a glance around the harbor as he kicked the unconscious pirate’s body off the fantail. It fell into the filthy water with a loud splash.
“You did good,” Jonah lied. “Fatima, go below decks. Go help Klea.”
Klea must had heard the thump because the engines of the Horizon suddenly roared to life and surged forward, almost knocking Jonah off his feet and sending the kitchen knife dancing across the deck and into the ocean. One of the two mooring lines snapped instantly, but the second refused to budge. Shit, he had his dive knife at his side, but it was designed for fishing lines, not entire mooring ropes.
The engines surged again, pulling at the mooring line. Jonah watched as the entire mooring post shifted, imperceptibly at first, then sharply as the pylon snapped. The Horizon leapt forward like a horse from the starting gates, gathering speed as it charged into the harbor. Shots rang out, disorganized, none impacting the ship.
Jonah ran into the cockpit, which was now lit up like a Christmas tree. Klea had done her job keeping everything in working order. She sat in the command chair, feeding power to the throttle and steering directly for the harbor entrance. Two stone sentry towers looming before them.
“You are straight-up ballsy,” said Jonah, putting a hand on the top of her chair, which was taller than she was. It felt like years since he’d talked to a woman, most of the ones he’d known before that had been ex-military or hardcore sat divers. Alexis didn’t count; she had too much of a sisterly vibe for Jonah.
But Klea didn’t react. She stared forward, impassive, then started giving orders. “Engine room,” she said. “Get the two radio transmitters.”
Jonah bolted out of the cockpit and into the engine room. Now lit up with a single halogen bulb, the transmitters were easy to spot. He grabbed both and ran back to the bridge.
“We’re getting some heat spikes in the engine,” said Fatima, her voice thick with concern.
“To be expected,” said Klea. “They’ll cool off once we’re underway. Just tell me if they start redlining.”
The two towers loomed closer and closer. Dark shadows shifted as the guards inside scrambled to load their light machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades, muzzles resting against the bulwarks of the towers.
“What’s the plan?” asked Jonah, fingering the triggers on the two radio transmitters. “Pirates don’t do warning shots.”
“Wait,” said Klea. “We’re still out of their range.”
Jonah knew this wasn’t true, but didn’t want to argue. Then the first tower opened up, sending a long stream of tracer bullets into the harbor water ahead of them. The pirate adjusted aim midfire, sending the stream dancing across their bow and into the port pontoon.
“Still think we’re out of range?” exclaimed Jonah, ducking as the bullets narrowly missed the cockpit.
“Now!” said Klea.
Jonah jammed the triggers of both transmitters simultaneously. Nothing happened. The second guard tower opened up, hitting a patch of water dangerously close to the engine room. Jonah knew they’d find the sweet spot within seconds. He jammed the transmitters again, again nothing happened.
“There it is,” said Klea, pointing to the base of the tower to the right.
Artificial smoke billowed out of some hidden emitter, just wisps at first, but then massive, roiling billows that obscured the guard towers and the exit to the harbor.
Behind them, the pirates assembled men and weapons, jumping into the fast skiffs tied to the motherships. Jonah wished he’d counted them before the action had started. Jesus, there were so many — ten? A dozen? Every one of them mounted with high-performance marine engines, every one of them a fast, lightweight hull more than capable of running down the Horizon. At least they weren’t shooting yet, unlike the guard towers.
The Horizon plunged into the gathering cloud, reducing their visibility to mere inches. Klea increased power, navigating by memory alone. Looking into her eyes, Jonah could tell she’d practiced this a hundred thousand times in her mind, driven by pure focus. He hoped her mind was half as sharp as she clearly thought it was.
Jonah had been hoping for an explosion, a fiery detonation that would bring the guard towers tumbling down. He coughed, the acrid smoke entering his lungs. Even so, he was impressed. Any MIT freshman could make a decent smoke bomb. But it took a truly brilliant mind to make a radio-controlled smoke bomb trigger that would still work after being buried in mud for months, even years.
Bullets whipped past, but with more uneven frequency due to the smoke. One impacted right next to Jonah’s feet, making him jump back as a spot in the deck exploded into splinters.
“Engine room,” said Klea, wasting no words. “Prop fouler.”
Jonah needed no more instruction. He ducked into the engine room and snatched the twin-crossbow prop fouler line. Exiting the compartment, he quickly took a position on the fantail, waiting for just the right moment.
The machine gun fire stopped. Jonah guessed they were afraid of hitting their own men. That meant the skiffs would be in close pursuit.
The Horizon slipped past the smaller guard tower. This was it, the narrowest section of the harbor entrance. Jonah snapped the catch from the twin crossbows. The two bolts disappeared in opposite directions, dragging the propfouling line behind them. He played out the last of the line with his hand and dropped the crossbow in the water.
Tracer fire lit up from the closest guard tower, dancing across the starboard pontoon and the fantail. They’d seen the shadow of the Horizon through the cloud. Jonah dove for cover and fired back at the source with his 9mm, no idea if he’d even come close to hitting anyone.
A buzzing whine sounded from behind the Horizon, the unmistakable engine note of an approaching skiff. The yacht burst through the far side of the cloud and into open ocean. A pirate skiff appeared close behind, but the prop fouler bit deep before the crew could react, bringing the boat to a sudden, jolting halt. A second pirate skiff impacted the first and flipped, dumping her crew into the ocean. Jonah watched as the injured pirates disappeared into the darkness behind them. He smiled. The pile of broken fiberglass would serve a much better barrier than a thin strand of high-tensile fiber. Another impact rang out as a third skiff slammed into the growing pileup at the narrow entrance to the harbor.
Now in open water, Jonah desperately scanned the surface of the ocean for the Scorpion’s periscope. He waved wildly, hoping someone, anyone, was watching the unfolding scene.
“Follow us!” he shouted to empty ocean.
Looking at the shoreline, Jonah realized Klea had turned to the North, towards Oman. So much for taking his opinion into account. Apparently it was her production and he was just a bit character. But by the time Jonah reached the cockpit, he’d decided it was a non-issue.
“Are we being chased?”
“Not as far as I can see,” he said as he took a pair of binoculars off the console. “Big pileup at the mouth of the harbor. Nice work with the filament, I didn’t think that little trick would work.”
Klea smirked, a victory over both the pirates and her surly visitor.