Mokhtar and the captain went up to wheelhouse, moving quickly. With the explosives now armed, the sooner they quit the ship, the better.
Standing beside Gorgias at the wheel was Ensign Binayah Kerfud, formerly of the Libyan navy. The sad-eyed, gangly young man volunteered for the mission to strike a blow at the Zionist allies of the Great Satan, the United States.
"Any bother?" Farmingdale asked.
"No," Gorgias replied.
"Our cover story is working like a bloody charm. The Israelis still believe that we're en route to Jaffa with a load of olive oil! Damned clever chap, your boss — clever, and thorough, too!"
"I know it," Mokhtar said. "Soon, the world will know it."
The Melina's final destination was the golden strip of beach belonging to Tel Aviv's luxury hotels, a beach now crowded with hundreds if not thousands of tourists and locals. Kerfud would pilot the shallow-draft ship into the shallows, running it aground.
What would happen next was a matter of conjecture in some particulars, though the grisly outcome was never in doubt. The cargo might explode from the impact of hitting the bottom, or it might not.
If it exploded, well and good. If not, Kerfud would activate his hand-held radio transmitter, keying a frequency that would trigger first the detonators, then the tons of explosives.
The Melina was the world's biggest seagoing antipersonnel bomb. The blast would fragment her into a storm of white-hot steel whose every scrap and shard would be a lethal missile. Spectators crowding the shore would be mowed down like weeds under a scythe.
"You are ready?" Mokhtar asked.
"I am ready," Kerfud said.
Mokhtar embraced him. "We shall meet again in Paradise."
"I will not fail!"
Captain Farmingdale threw the Libyan a snappy salute. "Carry on!"
Gorgias shook Kerfud's hand, muttering, "Good luck… er, that is, uh, I mean… well, you know what I mean."
"Come on, let's get the bloody hell out of here!" Farmingdale said.
Captain, first mate, and Mokhtar exited the wheel-house. Mokhtar allowed himself one last glance. All was as it should be. Kerfud had assumed a heroic stance, aware of his central role and determined to make a good show. His gaze searched beyond this horizon, to the world to come.
Mokhtar was a great believer in backup systems. The captain had assured him it would be a simple matter to set the controls on automatic to steer the ship to shore, but Mokhtar mistrusted machinery. He was happier with Kerfud piloting the final run.
He mistrusted people no less than machinery. That was why he carried a second transmitter, a twin of the one in Kerfud's possession. If the Libyan's nerve failed, if he deviated from his suicide run, Mokhtar would detonate the bomb by remote control.
And Kerfud knew it. Doomed in any case, he had every incentive to die a glorious hero and martyr.
Mokhtar left him there, standing at the wheel.
No sense in dawdling now. Mokhtar exhibited some haste in going along the starboard gallery. To himself he said, "Thus begins Operation Ifrit!"
Gorgias and the captain stood at the rail, Farmingdale scanning the southern horizon through a pair of binoculars.
Odd… actually, the operation should already have begun with the spectacular destruction of the Shamash complex. But Mokhtar heard no distant echo of explosions. Hand shading his eyes from the glare, he searched south. No smoky inferno delighted his eyes.
What he did see was the Superbo speeding back toward him.
"I say! That's damned peculiar!" Farmingdale's puzzlement gave way to outrage as the binoculars were torn from his grasp. "Here, now, there's no cause for rudeness!"
Mokhtar stared through the eyepieces.
The powerboat was speeding along, skimming over the waves, carving a white wake across the waters as it followed an irresistible trajectory straight toward the ship.
Nick Carter had company on his showdown run. Elias was along for the ride.
Certifiably dead, the Basque was bound upright in the seat beside Carter, strapped in position by a pair of web belts, a rifle wedged in his arms.
It was simple, desperate strategy — a decoy to draw enemy fire. The shipboard defenders didn't know Elias wasn't in on it with Carter, didn't even know he was dead. He looked alive enough, from a distance. The decoy corpse doubled the targets while halving Carter's chances of catching a bullet.
The rocket launchers were the most sophisticated available. Carter had one primed, its covers off, sighting and trigger mechanisms in place. But the weapon required the use of both hands for proper operation.
Carter solved that problem. He hunched down low, offering the least possible target. He was wedged in his seat, legs folded, bare feet pressing the wheel. The armed launcher's rest was fitted snugly to his shoulder, its flared muzzle clearing the boat's venturi windshield. He opened up the Superbo and came on full speed ahead.
The sweep of the northern horizon receded; the ship loomed before him. He could make out figures darting along the ways, frantically gesturing figures.
They knew he was coming for them.
The Melina grew and grew, its black hull curving up. It blotted out more and more seascape, filling his field of vision.
They were shooting at him. Bullets whipped overhead, buzzing like angry bumblebees. A whole hive of them. One shattered the windshield. Carter's sunglasses shielded his eyes from the debris.
The bow shuddered from the impact of a line of slugs tearing into it. Elias jerked this way and that as bullets ripped him, shredding head and shoulders.
Still the Superbo came on. Carter was too close to miss his target. If he came much closer, it would be impossible for him to pull out in time.
Captain Farmingdale wrung his hands, groaning, "What a bloody cock-up!"
Mokhtar's men lined the rail, working their assault rifles like fire hoses, pumping out streams of slugs. Their aim was no good, the vast majority of shots whizzing harmlessly over the target or raking the water around it.
"He's going to ram us!" Farmingdale cried.
Gorgias turned on the captain. "You damned Jonah!"
"Are you mad? What are you doing?! No, don't…"
Snarling, the first mate tried to strangle the skipper.
Mokhtar screamed for somebody to give him a rifle, but his men were too excited to pay him any heed. Finally, he tore one out of the hands of a startled shooter.
Born and bred a desert raider — and what a long way he had come from that desert in the service of his master — Mokhtar had owned a rifle from his earliest youth. The weapon was his instrument; he could play it like a virtuoso. He was a crack marksman who could hit anything he could see.
His palms slapped stock and barrel as he snatched up the rifle from his man. With the fluidity of effortless skill, he drew a bead on Carter's head.
And that was the last thing Mokhtar ever did, because the Killmaster fired first.
WHOOSH!
The launcher lurched with the backblast, a finned rocket streaking from the muzzle.
Carter didn't wait for the results. Dropping the launcher, he grabbed the wheel with both hands, spinning it hard to starboard, powering into a near 90-degree turn.
The rocket hit the Melina squarely amidships, about eight feet above the waterline. It hit like Thor's hammer.
Steel bulkheads imploded under the impact of the armor-piercing shell, which exploded inside the ship. That blast, mighty as it was, was only the spark that touched off the powder keg.
Split seconds later, an infinitely greater blast was unleashed as the Melina's explosive cargo ignited.