“Mas rapido!” Hunt pointed to the throttle and shook his AK menacingly. The driver responded by jamming the throttle up to full speed, which sent Hunt reeling backwards into the transom, where he cracked his elbow on the fiberglass edge. His grip on the automatic weapon faltered, and the seated officer started to get up before Hunt reasserted his hold on the long gun while falling to the deck and pointed it at the man.
He shook his head at him while centering the barrel of the deadly firearm at his midsection. The officer sat back down, bouncing up and down as he did so, as the boat was now travelling fast, the throttle jammed all the way up while the boat driver braced himself against the steering wheel, sea spray buffeting the windshield.
Hunt saw the seated Cuban’s eyes grow wide as he looked past him, which prompted him to take a quick glance backwards as well. He had to push himself up to his feet, leaning against the transom in order to do so, but he managed it with a couple of more bumps and bruises along the way. When he looked back he saw the seaplane bouncing up and down, going airborne for a few seconds before skimming back along the wave tops. Meanwhile, as Hunt whipped his head back forward, he could see that the boat driver was showing no sign of letting up on the throttle, apparently deciding that a bumpy ride was preferable to getting shot with an automatic weapon. Or maybe he was hoping Hunt was going to either lose control of the AK or be seriously injured from bouncing around the boat. Either way, Hunt knew that he had only a few more seconds to put the final step of his plan into place…the most dangerous step.
Then he felt something dislodge from his pants and clatter to the deck. He spotted the pistol he’d found at the campsite. It landed halfway between him and the seated patrolman, who eyed the weapon longingly. Hunt shook his head at him while stepping forward and putting his right foot on the pistol. He slid it back to him and picked it up while holding the AK steady with one hand. Deciding it wasn’t worth possibly losing control of it again and giving his adversaries a weapon, Hunt tossed the pistol overboard, now depending exclusively on the automatic weapon, and the two pistols Jayden had in his possession.
He turned his focus back to the plan. He needed an important implement to be able to carry it out. He shouted at the Cuban not driving the boat. “Knife,” he said in English, not knowing the Spanish word, but making a pantomiming motion that hopefully explained it. He knew almost all boats would have some kind of knife in order to cut rigging in an emergency, or perhaps for a little fishing when not on active duty.
The Cuban looked perplexed but seemed to understand, as he nodded and pointed to the cubby space beneath the steering console. He tapped his own chest and pointed to it. Hunt nodded, giving permission to get up, but he kept his gun trained on the officer as he stepped quickly to the console. The driver looked at him in alarm, thinking a situation was developing, but Hunt moved along the side of the boat, bracing himself against the gunwale, letting him know that he was still very much in control.
The bullets ricocheting off the side of the boat told him that wouldn’t be the case for long, though. The officer not driving grabbed a rusty bait knife and nervously handed it off to Hunt butt first.
Hunt took it with a nod of thanks before waving him back to his seat with the gun muzzle. Then he wobbled back to his spot at the transom, staying low to avoid the gunfire from the two chasing patrol boats, now right behind the plane. He caught a glimpse of Jayden white-knuckling the stick, shouting something at Hunt that he could only take to mean, ‘Do something, we’re about to go airborne!” even though he couldn’t hear the words. The fact that the plane was still tethered to the boat was now treacherous, since it was bouncing higher and higher, its wings giving it the needed lift to go airborne, but then being jerked back down by the rope.
Hunt whipped his head around for one last check on the Cubans, then decided it was time. He eyeballed the seaplane’s pontoons, waiting for the next time they lifted off the water. When he saw the air gap form between the water and the pontoons, he leaned over and cut the starboard-side rope, quickly standing up and turning around in time to see the Cuban sitting back down. They would still rush him if they could.
With the rope cut, it slid free from both of the boat hooks on the transom. Immediately the seaplane rose higher in the air. Hunt told himself not to let go of the rope, or else he’d be left behind on board the boat without the plane. He tossed the AK overboard, unable to do what he was about to while carrying it, but also not wishing to leave it behind for the Cubans to use against him.
Hunt wound the cut end of the rope around his right wrist, knowing that the force he was about to endure would be significant. But he was not expecting what happened next. The seaplane suddenly caught an updraft and rose even higher in the air. Hunt stood up on the transom and jumped off, hoping to avoid the water and increased drag it would cause if at all possible. But the rope was long enough that he was dipped waist deep into the ocean before being lifted into the air. The plane dropped only slightly as a result, but Hunt gasped as he saw one of the patrol boats rocketing straight underneath the plane, occupying the water the plane had ridden on only seconds earlier.
He saw the mounted 50-cal spit fire as he raised his legs so that he was dangling by the rope straight down from the seaplane. He kicked the mounted gunner operator square in the head with both feet, sending the man reeling over the side of the boat. Hunt never got to see what happened to him, for the next thing he knew, he was lifted high above the fray by the seaplane, which was still on an upward trajectory. Hunt knew that this was good since they would need all the altitude they could get, without any fuel, to facilitate a long-distance glide. But that didn’t make him feel any better at the moment, being dragged into the sky by tons of ascending metal, dangling at the end of a rope while being shot at from no less than three vessels below.
Hunt looked up and saw Maddy’s horrified face looking down out the open door. Hunt knew that because of the way he had tied the rope to the plane — the only way he could while in the water, to the struts connecting the pontoon to the wing — that he wouldn’t be able to be pulled all the way into the plane, He’d have to pull himself up to the pontoon and then climb in. So he began to raise himself up hand over hand, flashing back to his military training days, doing the same thing on a base while a drill sergeant yelled at him. He almost managed a smile as he concentrated on the memories instead of the reality. When he next looked up he was about halfway to the pontoon.
Below him he saw that one of the patrol boats was pulling alongside the one towing the plane, no doubt telling the driver to stop, while the third boat — the one with the mounted gun — sped away in order to get some distance from the plane so that they could fire at it.
Hunt mentally urged Jayden to turn left, to make themselves a more difficult target from the water, but still they continued in a straight line, jitterbugging up and down. Jayden was not a pilot, Hunt reminded himself, so he was doing well all things considered.
Keep climbing, soldier. Again, Hunt focused on putting one hand in front of the other, fingers burning with the effort as he ascended the moving rope while being dragged through the air at an angle.
Finally he reached the strut the rope was tied to and gripped the solid metal. He swung a leg up and over the pontoon, straddling it like a rodeo bull. As soon as he looked down, he saw a spark of orange six inches in front of his face as a bullet ricocheted off the strut his rope was tied to. He gripped the strut and forced himself to his feet, still holding onto the rope in case he lost his balance and fell.