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Guppy, Pacific Ocean
Monday, 10 May
0643 Local Time
Monalisa Montgomery stood at the Guppy’s helm and rested her binoculars against the rail one-handed and held the radio mic with the other. After the first blast of her shotgun—which had incidentally been the first human she had killed by any means, and her stomach still wasn’t sure how she felt about that—they’d had no need for concealment.
With the attack in full swing, she was free to radio for help. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. Any Coast Guard or US Navy vessel, this is the Guppy with urgent traffic.”
Windows exploded from the Hatteras, and Monalisa ducked instinctively. The radio crackled and spat. A scratchy baritone said, “Guppy this is the Coast Guard command, Honolulu Station. State your emergency.”
State your emergency. Now, there was a task. She had any number of emergencies, all of which needed stating and all of which needed to be believed by the powers that be.
“Coast Guard command, Guppy. There is a hijacked LNG carrier”—she glanced at the GPS and read off coordinates—“in the Pearl Harbor channel. I believe these to be the same terrorist group that has attacked other targets in and around the Hawaiian Islands. I am retired Master-at-Arms Monalisa Montgomery, US Navy, and this is not a hoax.”
There was radio silence, then, “Guppy, Coast Guard. Go to Channel 21.”
Another explosion rocked the Hatteras, and shards of debris pattered the water. Monalisa flinched again, though she held the Guppy at one hundred yards, and none of the shrapnel came close. After switching channels, she spent the next ten minutes arguing with an ascending scale of Coastie officers, each one more suspicious than the last.
“Look! Just check it out!” Monalisa yelled at the latest example of military efficiency on the other end of the line. “A goddamn floating bomb is in the channel leading to Pearl Harbor. Don’t you think you might want to fucking stop it?”
“Young lady,” Admiral Dimwit said, “there is no need for that kind of language on the radio. A cutter is already en route, and we’ll be checking your story. In the meantime, be aware that your transmission has been triangulated, and if your story fails to check out, there will be consequences.”
“Fine. I don’t care. Just get your ass out here before—” Her finger released the transmit button. She dropped the mic to hold the binoculars steady with both hands. Focusing, the lenses snapped to the image of an inflatable powering over the water. The inflatable carried a number of men. And they were making a beeline toward the Kekepi.
#
YEAGER SWAPPED MAGS on the run—more of a shambling shuffle than a run. Fatigue weighted his legs with concrete. Adrenaline could only take a person so far, and Yeager had used up an industrial-sized supply of it in the past forty-plus hours. The well was dry.
He passed through the salon and ducked through the blown-out doorframes at the rear. Glass crunched underfoot, making more noise than a tractor in a field of dry wheat. If Pettigrew was down, and an enemy held the swim deck, then Yeager’s presence had just been announced with a brass band.
So be it. He might as well make some noise. “Charlie!” Yeager crabbed toward the port ladder leading down to the swim deck, pistol extended in a two-handed grip. “Where are you?”
A long silence passed, followed by, “Abel? Is that you?”
A sluice of relief washed through Yeager, and he staggered to one knee. Glass stabbed through his jeans, and he hardly registered the discomfort. His throat had closed, and he had to try twice to force the words out.
“Charlie?” It came out so weak he could barely hear it himself. Yeager drew a breath and tried again, louder. “Charlie?”
His wife appeared at the bottom of the ladder, and God’s fist squeezed Yeager’s heart so hard he was sure it stopped beating. His eyes watered, and breathing through the dry knot in his throat became a chore.
Charlie held herself awkwardly, one arm cradled tightly to her body. She had been battered and bruised, it looked like, but she was alive. Her blue eyes were red rimmed, and tears spilled down her cheeks. The look on her face mirrored the emotions tearing through him.
“I... I...” Words refused to form.
“Abel. Oh God.” She drew a shaky breath. “Winston’s hurt bad. We need to get him to a hospital.”
#
THROUGH THE WOBBLY binoculars, Monalisa counted eight men in the inflatable boat, wearing black fatigues and carrying AK-style rifles. She studied the group for a long time before convincing herself they weren’t allies coming to the rescue. No, these were terrorists, returning to their lair, either as part of the plan or in reaction to the assault.
She estimated the inflatable was sixty seconds from crossing her bow and less than two minutes to the hundred-foot yacht. A force that size would quickly overwhelm the three-man rescue squad.
She switched her focus back to the Hatteras and caught a glimpse of Victor escorting a man in a suit past the blown-out windows along the starboard side, the man walking like a prisoner with his hands interlaced behind his head. He appeared oblivious to the threat.
Monalisa cranked the Volvo Pentas to life, and the Cobalt rumbled with contained power. The feel of the big diesels charged up her spine like a crackle of electricity. As much as she loved her sailboat and the challenge of mastering wind and wave, the Guppy’s power thrilled her in ways she cared not to admit aloud.
“Sorry, Thad,” she muttered. “I’m going to scratch the paint a bit.”
Thirty seconds out. Monalisa eyed the closing gap with a sailor’s intuition and pinned an intercept point in her mind’s eye. She had no targeting computer to calculate speed and trajectory, so this would be pure seat-of-the-pants guesstimation and prayer. The inflatable was much more nimble than the motor yacht. If she missed, they would run circles around her, either reach the Hatteras unimpeded or shoot her full of holes, then continue their mission. Though perhaps the noise would give Victor and the guys a heads-up.
Fifteen seconds. Blow the horn? The sound would definitely alert the boys to trouble, but it would also alert the bad guys that the Cobalt was a threat. If they vectored away or started evasive maneuvers, her chance at a clean intercept would be blown. Then it would be back to a firefight.
Ten seconds. Monalisa caressed the throttle and waited. Three... two... one... now!
She shoved the throttles full forward, and the Pentas roared. The Cobalt’s tail dropped, and the forty-footer powered ahead. Water churned and frothed behind her. The Guppy slapped the waves, bang-bang-bang, and the diesels bellowed. Monalisa screamed with them, howling a war cry of her own.
All the faces in the inflatable turned in her direction. The man at the tiller gawped for a moment—Monalisa could see the perfect O of his mouth—then pushed the control handle hard to starboard. The rubber boat swerved away, curving sideways and smacking a wave hard enough to tip the boat high. For a second, Monalisa thought the thing would go over completely—Problem solved, yay, let’s all go have a beer. But no, the craft flopped back down and powered for open sea. Gunfire ripped out from the inflatable, rapping the Guppy’s hull.
The men in the boat gaped at her in the last second before they disappeared under the yacht’s prow. She felt a thud, and the Cobalt stumbled for a second, then it leaped ahead. Squealing, scraping noises came from the hull.
She hoped to God she was right and that the guys weren’t a bunch of SEALs out for a cruise. Monalisa cut back the throttle and steered the Guppy in a wide circle to get a look at her handiwork. The inflatable was dying. It sank stern first, being dragged under by the weight of its outboard, half-deflated and with only the prow holding enough air to keep it from sinking completely.
A couple of heads popped up, then two more. A fifth man floated, face down and limp. Red froth and debris marked the collision site, evidence of where her screws had churned through the inflatable and the men aboard her.
Sickness clenched her belly, and she fought back an urge to upchuck. Oh God. Did I do the right thing? I’ve gone from killing one man today to killing a bunch.
And the four survivors? She certainly couldn’t take them aboard, which her instincts were driving her to do. Four hostile terrorists? They’d tear her apart.
The men had all swum to the floating half of the rubber boat, where they clung to it. As she idled closer, one of them cursed her in an Asian tongue and shook his fist. Monalisa held the Guppy at thirty yards from the foundering inflatable and paused there long enough to throw out four life vests and an inflatable ring.
“There!” she yelled. “Best I can do for now. I’ll call the Coast Guard to come get you.”
Whether they understood or not, she didn’t know. Packing away her guilt for later—where Monalisa was sure it would come out and twist her in knots—she kicked the Guppy’s throttles back up and headed for the Hatteras.
“I hope this nightmare is over soon,” she said to herself.