“The Commies are coming, and the Scarabs are approaching from your east, armed till that yacht reaches the marker, then we’re all fair game,” Sebastian said into his helmet radio. “Gitmo Bay went on alert and Cuba is not answering our hail.”
Guantanamo Bay Marine base. Well, crap. Start a pissing contest with the Cuban Navy over this? He pushed off the floor and hurried to the bridge, throwing open the door. The collision sirens blared in the empty bridge as he rushed to the wheel. The throttle controls were smashed and at full speed. He pulled them back, knowing it was useless, then hit the emergency engine stop. No response.
Oh, you knew what you were doing, you bastard. He didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the attack boats speeding toward him, and rushed around to the computer console, typing. Nothing responded. The ship was still traveling at incredible speeds and she had full tanks. Logan dropped to the floor and rolled under the console, pulling wires.
“Cutter, come in, come in.”
“I’m here,” Logan said and then gave them a rundown. “I’m trying to get into the computers and stop the engines.”
“You’re half a mile from a marker. ETA less than four minutes.”
Great, nothing like a little more pressure.
Logan disabled one computer. Whoever did this had destroyed the steering controls but not the engine operations. Logan disconnected the computer from the main console, then leapt to his feet, tapping keys again. The engines roared high and he smelled burning oil. It’s going to explode, he thought, and take anything within five hundred yards down with it.
He cut the circuits to the engineering and emptied the fuel into the sea. Not environmentally correct, but let the tree huggers deal with that. He went to the wheel and tried turning it, but the craft refused to budge. The engines weren’t cutting off, too much fuel in the system still, and he raced back to the computer and blew the ballast on the right side. The ship listed dangerously, and started turning away from the marker and Cuban ship, but only slightly. They’d still collide.
The steering was gone, the throttle high and damaged—he couldn’t stop it. There was no connection between the operating computers and the engines.
He left the bridge and ran down the curved stairwell to the belly of the ship. The LCD panels were lit up, the horn blaring a warning of the oncoming collision. Yet the entire access panel was smashed and smoking. He followed the computer wires from the panels to the electronic console, then yanked a handful of wires. Nothing.
“Well, shit,” he muttered and went to the electrical panel, flipped it open and reached to switch off circuits and found them smashed and melted in the ON position. “Gimme a break here!” Rushing topside and back to the bridge, Logan’s view filled with the Cuban naval ships, as big as the yacht but faster and heavily armed. While the Cuban ship recognized the oncoming collision and made to turn, a few thousand tons of steel didn’t skip on the water. He blew more ballast, nearly capsizing the yacht as it tipped sharply to the side.
“Cutter, get off that thing!” Sebastian shouted in his ear mic.
“It’s too late.”
Logan braced himself. Impact in five…four…three…two…The gray steel hull of the ship filled the windshield as the stern hull impacted with the prow, scraping its sides. The megaton ship pushed the yacht aside like a bath toy, throwing Logan across the bridge as the yacht rocked violently, nearly on its side, and took on water.
“Oh, hell no. You’re not sinking with me aboard!”
Hanging onto the door, Logan struggled to reach the ballast door’s switch, using shelves and cabinet doors to pull himself toward his target. He slammed his fist down on the switch, unloading the left side. He couldn’t tell if it worked, the impact still propelling the rudderless yacht sideways.
The vessel shuddered violently, engines choked. “Come on, you steel bastard, just die!”
The fuel finally spent from the engine’s chambers, the craft started to slow and almost righted itself. She still had a drunken tilt to her, yet was seaworthy. Oily smoke curled up from below decks into the pilothouse. The ship bobbed on the waves.
“Cutter, Cutter!” Sebastian shouted his call sign over the frequencies.
“I’m here.” Logan yanked at his helmet strap, then winced when Max whistled.
“Jesus, you’re lucky,” Max said. “The Cubans are standing down. Guantanamo Bay must have gotten through. The other ship is banged but above the waterline.”
“They’ll probably bill us.” Logan didn’t exhale a breath before the engines blew, bearings ricocheting inside the hull like a pinball machine. Exploding parts hit the floor under his feet. He tried dropping anchor but even that failed. At least it was clear of the other ships, he thought, as he removed his helmet and pushed his fingers through his hair before he fixed the transmitter in his ear and adjusted the mic.
Then he smelled it. The familiar scent of death. He looked around the bridge, just noticing the blood splatters. Everywhere.
“Max, get down here. Tell Interpol we’ll need a video camera.”
It wasn’t until he left the bridge on the leeward side that he realized it wasn’t water that made it slippery, but blood.
The ocean’s depth squeezed on his lungs, yet his air flowed freely as the propulsion torpedo dragged him through the water. He felt the pitch of the sea, the jolt of ships colliding, and smiled around his regulator. The impact shuddered through the water, scattering sea life in all directions, but he experienced only a ripple. He held tight to the torpedo as it pulled him toward the fishing boat anchored two miles away.
The agents and whoever was in the chopper wouldn’t find anything he didn’t want them to find. He’d made sure of it. His orders were clear.
No evidence to follow.
He checked his watch, the digital readout counting down.
Drawing his weapon, Logan moved forward. The evidence of someone being dragged was obvious. A victim’s handprints, like claw marks to keep from going over the side, smeared the passageway and rails. The chopper hovered overhead as Max lowered to the vessel, dropped and rolled. He hurried to Logan as Interpol’s Scarab pulled alongside. Logan let down the emergency rope ladder and agents boarded.
The two agents, Brewer and Medina from the South American offices, were chasing sea pirates when Dragon One asked for assistance. Three vessels had been attacked recently, so they were more than happy to lend a hand.
“I’m past the fail-safe mark,” Sebastian said over the radio. “I’ve got to return for fuel.”
Logan waved and Sebastian rocked the chopper before he headed toward land.
“We’ll take belowdecks. Crews’ quarters,” Medina said, handing a compact video camera to Max, then sighting through another, he made a general sweep of the area. After synchronizing radio frequencies, they moved off.
“It’s slippery, so watch it,” Logan said. “I didn’t notice blood belowdecks, but then, I wasn’t looking for it.”
Brewer nodded, his expression grim and angry.
In the aft of the ship were the staterooms, galley and dining/living room. Logan and Max circled the deck, sections of polished wood still gleaming with fresh wax, others stained red with blood. A massacre.
They entered the main stateroom. Long, wide doors were open to the elements, and Logan kicked aside towels and lotion bottles, ignoring the padded chaises about to topple into the sea. The sun brightened across the deep maroon sofas, the wood tables and a wet bar. In inclement weather, the doors would slide closed and seal the passengers in a warm cocoon. Not this time.
Logan