“Wait for me here,” he said, motioning with his hands for him to stay put.
Giordino nodded, then held a thumbs-up against the acrylic bubble where Pitt could see it. Pitt turned and ran back to the wheelhouse as more gunfire opened up from shore, now peppering the workboat’s bow. Reaching the wheelhouse, Pitt jammed open the throttle and adjusted the wheel until he was bearing for the end of the pier.
“Stay where you are, big girl,” he muttered aloud, eyeing the luxury boat.
Free of the submersible, the workboat squeezed out another few knots of speed. Pitt kept the bow aimed toward the deep end of the pier, not wanting to give away his hand just yet. To the gunmen on the yacht, it appeared as if the boat was stuck in a large counterclockwise circle. Pitt held the ruse until the boat was passing parallel to the yacht some fifty yards away, then he turned the wheel sharply once more.
Aligning the bow till it was aimed amidships of the yacht, he straightened the wheel, then wedged a life jacket into the bottom spokes to hold it steady. Ignoring a fresh spray of gunfire that raked the bow, he sprinted out of the wheelhouse and onto the stern deck, where he dove headfirst over the rail.
The yacht’s captain was the first to realize they were about to get rammed and he screamed for help to release the dock lines. A crewman appeared on deck and scrambled onto the pier, quickly releasing the bow and spring lines. One of the gunmen tucked away his rifle and crossed the deck to the stern line. Rather than hopping onto the pier to release a shortly secured line, he attempted to unravel the opposite end, which was knotted tightly around a bollard on the yacht’s stern.
The captain saw the bow and spring lines tossed free, then turned in horror to see the workboat bearing down less than twenty yards away. Panicking in self-preservation, he jumped to the helm and pressed down the twin throttles, hoping that the stern line was also clear.
But it wasn’t.
The yacht’s big diesel engines bellowed as the twin props dug into the water and thrust the vessel forward. But it surged only a few feet before the stern line grew taut, anchoring it to the pier. The guard tumbled backward with a scream, nearly losing several fingers as the line snapped tight.
The water churned and boiled off the stern as the yacht fought to break loose. Then suddenly the line slipped free, the crewman on the pier bravely unraveling the dock line and ducking for cover. The yacht burst forth like a rodeo bronco, churning ahead in a spray of foam. The captain glanced out the bridge window, then clutched the helm with white knuckles, realizing the attempted escape had failed.
The unmanned workboat plowed into the yacht, striking the starboard flank just ahead of the stern. The boat’s blunt, heavy bow easily shattered the fiberglass shell of the yacht, mashing its opposite side into the pier pilings. The sound of grinding metal filled the air as the starboard driveline was crushed, mangling a score of fuel and hydraulic lines and high-spinning gears. The combined momentum swung the yacht’s stern to the pier, where its spinning port propeller was knocked off by a piling. The yacht gamely lurched forward as a final gasp, breaking free of both the workboat and pier before its motors fell silent and it drifted aimlessly toward shore.
Pitt didn’t bother watching the collision but instead swam hard underwater, surfacing only momentarily for a quick gulp of air. He pushed himself until his lungs ached, and his stroke count indicated he was close to where he had cut the Bulletloose. Easing to the surface, he gazed toward the pier while regaining his breath. The success of the attack was clearly evident. He could see the yacht drifting helplessly toward shore while the workboat, its motor still throbbing at high revolutions, pounded repeatedly into the pier as its mangled bow sank lower and lower into the water. Numerous people raced along the pier, surveying the scene and yelling in confusion. Pitt couldn’t help but grin when his ears detected a female voice shouting amid the fray.
Secure for the moment, he turned and paddled into the cove, his eyes searching the surface of the water. He took a quick bearing from shore to convince himself he was in the right location, then slowly surveyed the waters around him. In every direction, all he could see was small, dark lapping waves, and he suddenly felt very alone.
For the second time that night, the Bullethad disappeared without him.
40
Rod Zeibig grimaced when he heard the first burst of automatic gunfire. Any hopes of a stealthy getaway seemed to vanish with the metallic clatter of spent shell casings spewing across the wooden pier. Of greater concern was the safety of Pitt and Giordino, who were clearly the target of the barrage.
Zeibig was surprised to hear the gunfire continue for several minutes unabated. Curiosity finally overcoming his fear, he leaned over the edge of the pier and peeked around the stack of fuel drums. Near the opposite end of the dock, he could just make out the superstructure of the yacht and a number of men yelling to shore. On the pier, he noticed a crewman furiously engaged with one of the mooring lines.
Zeibig ducked back into his hiding nook as more gunfire resumed. Seconds later, the gunfire ceased, and then a loud crash shook the pier, jiggling the fuel drums around him. More shouts erupted in the aftermath, but the gunfire remained silent. With a melancholy conjecture, the archaeologist quietly wondered if Pitt and Giordino had died in a last rebellious act.
Staring blankly into the cove while contemplating his own fate, he noticed a sudden disturbance in the water before him. A dull greenish glow appeared faintly in the depths, which gradually grew brighter. Zeibig looked on, unbelieving, as the transparent bubble of the Bulletquietly broke the surface directly in front of him. Seated at the controls was the burly figure of Al Giordino, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.
The archaeologist didn’t wait for a formal invitation to board but hastily lowered himself down a mussel-covered piling and into the water before the submersible finished surfacing. Swimming to its stern, Zeibig climbed up on one of the exterior ballast tanks, then crept to the rear hatch. Giordino immediately opened the hatch and ushered Zeibig inside, quickly resealing it behind him.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Zeibig said, squeezing into the co-pilot’s seat while trying not to drip water on any of the electronics.
“I wasn’t relishing a swim home myself,” Giordino replied, rushing to blow the ballast tanks and submerge the vessel as quickly as possible. Craning his neck upward, he scanned the pier around the fuel drums for sight of any observers.
“No one has bothered to expend much time at this end of the pier,” Zeibig reported, watching the water rise up and over the top of the acrylic bubble. He then turned to Giordino with trepidation in his voice.
“I heard a big crash, and then the shooting stopped. Dirk?”
Giordino nodded. “He stole the workboat that had towed the Bulletto the other side of the pier. He cut me loose, then set off after the moored yacht.”
“I think he was successful,” Zeibig replied in a morose tone.
Eyeing a depth-gauge reading of thirty feet, Giordino halted the ballast pumps, then gently backed the submersible away from the pier. Reversing thrust, he angled into the cove, then gave Zeibig a reassuring smile.
“Knowing Dirk, I don’t think he rode the boat to the end of the line. As a matter of fact, I’d wager a month’s salary that he’s swimming laps in the middle of the cove this very moment.”
Zeibig’s eyes immediately perked up. “But how will we ever find him?”
Giordino affectionately patted the pilot console. “We’ll trust the penetrating peepers of the Bullet,” he said.
With his own eyes glued to a navigation screen, Giordino guided the submersible along a meandering track he had recorded at the point where Pitt had cut him free from the workboat. The dead reckoning system wouldn’t return him to an exact position the way GPS would, but it would be very close.