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Maddock glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at Durban harbor, and then steered Sea Foam south, toward the search area. With its sub-tropical climate, palm trees and festive, touristy vibe, Durban, South Africa reminded him a lot of Miami, South Beach, and that made him think about Key West, which in turn made him homesick. It was a new feeling for him, and probably had something to do with the fact that, for the first time in a long time, there was somebody waiting at home for him.
Well, not literally.
Angelica Bonebrake, a professional mixed-martial-arts fighter, was training for an upcoming championship bout, and that left her with little time—or energy—for domestic pursuits. That was fine with Maddock. They were both independent people with careers that meant a great deal to them, and were more than comfortable with the idea that there would be times when they wouldn’t see a lot of each other.
Still, he was a bit surprised at how much he missed her, and felt the mildest twinge of jealousy toward Bones and Willis who were probably somewhere over the Atlantic, on their way back to the States to follow up on the tomahawk head, while he was stuck with what he knew in his gut would be a fruitless search for a ship that refused to be found. Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered him. He liked being on the water, liked looking for things that had eluded everyone else, but right now, the mystery that was calling to him was not the Waratah, but Steven Thorne’s pre-Revolutionary War axe and the as-yet-unidentified plane wreck where it had evidently spent the better part of a century. Unfortunately, he was the boss, and that meant he had to stay focused on the job at hand, running grids until he could say with certainty where the Waratah wasn’t. Besides, Bones was probably better suited to chasing the mystery of the tomahawk than he was, and since they couldn’t both leave the operation, Willis was the logical choice to accompany Bones and keep him out of trouble, which even Bones would admit was probably a good idea.
He was also disappointed that Jimmy had not gotten back to him. Usually, he could count on his old friend coming up with answers to the stickiest research questions in a matter of hours, if not mere minutes, but it had been twelve hours since Jimmy ended the Skype call, and in that time Maddock had not heard a peep from the hacker.
Maybe he had finally handed Jimmy a nut that couldn’t be cracked.
The answer, whatever it was, would probably have to wait a few more days. While Maddock had a satellite phone, capable of both voice and data transmissions, satellite coverage in the region was iffy at best, which was the primary reason why they had been obliged to make the unscheduled port call.
Quit stalling, he told himself. Time to get back to work.
Maddock and his two remaining crew members—Corey and Matt Barnaby—took turns at the helm for the ten-hour cruise back to the search area. It was just after midnight when they reached their destination, but since they didn’t need daylight to look for shipwrecks on the sea floor, they immediately deployed the sonar “fish” and started down the next lane on the search grid at a sedate twelve knots. Maddock knew that the lane would eventually bring them close to the spot where they had found the crashed planes and expected to find more debris, but that wouldn’t happen for at least a couple hours. What he did not expect however was a radar contact on the surface.
“Where did he come from?” Corey asked.
Maddock eyed the orange blob on the radar display. It had appeared suddenly, blinking into existence seemingly from out of nowhere. The signature was too well-defined to be a cloud and too small to be a rogue wave. It had to be another vessel, and it was coming after them at a speed of about twenty-five knots.
“We’re outside the shipping lanes,” Corey said. “What’s he doing out here?”
Maddock could think of only one answer. “He’s looking for us.”
He grabbed a pair of binoculars and headed out onto the open deck, but all he could see through the high-powered glasses was inky blackness. The approaching vessel was running dark.
“Corey,” he called out, still sweeping the horizon with the binoculars. “Bring in the fish.” Then he added, “Matt, prepare to repel boarders.”
Corey poked his head out from the bridge. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Maddock said. “Pull in the fish.”
“I meant the other part. Repel boarders?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Maddock said, but he knew hope alone wouldn’t do the trick. While he couldn’t begin to guess at their motive, there was little question in his mind that the other vessel had hostile intentions.
While Corey reeled in the towed sonar array, Matt—a former-Army Ranger—broke out their arsenal, which consisted of a single AR-15 and two semi-automatic pistols: a Colt M1911 and Maddock’s favorite, a Walther P99. He handed Maddock the latter, and kept the other two weapons for himself.
“So what are we dealing with? Pirates?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I’d rather not wait around to ask them in person.” Maddock stuffed the gun in his waistband and passed the binoculars to Matt. “They’re coming in from our four o’clock. I’ll try to outrun them.”
Matt took the glasses and started scanning the water to starboard while Maddock returned to the helm station. The radar screen showed the approaching vessel less than two nautical miles away and still closing fast. As soon as Corey gave the signal, Maddock pushed the throttles to full.
They immediately pulled away from the pursuer, but within minutes, the gap was shrinking again. The skipper of the other boat had somehow found a way to wring another five knots out of his craft, which was just a little faster than Sea Foam’s maximum cruising speed.
Maddock considered his options. If he redlined Sea Foam’s engines, he might be able to squeeze a little more speed from them, but at the risk of doing permanent damage and even then, there was no guarantee that they would be able to elude the hunters. In fact, it was far more likely that they would blow a gasket or throw a screw long before reaching safe harbor, at which point they would be completely at the mercy of the pursuer.
If he didn’t, the other ship would overtake them within the hour. Sooner or later, the hunters would catch up to them.
Maddock reached for the throttle, but instead of pushing it forward, he drew it back all the way.
Full stop.
Matt stuck his head in a few seconds later. “What’s wrong?”
“You know that old saying about the best defense being a good offense? We’re about to put it to the test.”