Remo shot ahead, catching up to the reptile.
He took hold of its jaws and closed them like a crude suitcase. Then, twisting, he took hold of the creature's forelegs, aligning his body with that of the reptile's.
Remo allowed himself to float upward. The feel of the alligator's knobby stomach against his back was like a pebbled beach. Although he was certain the creature had been stunned, he reached up and gave the slick stomach a tickle. He had heard that that made alligators go to sleep. He didn't believe it, but what could it hurt?
When the alligator's ridged back and protuberent eyes popped above the water's surface, there was no sign of Remo Williams.
The alligator started moving forward, looking for all the world like any ordinary alligator swimming through the Everglades-except that this one's legs did not kick and his long tail, instead of trailing behind, drooped forlornly in the brackish water.
Because he wanted the reptile to look as natural as possible, Remo made more splashings with his feet than he needed to pilot the alligator to his destination.
Remo's plan was simple. He was going to push the alligator along like a horny torpedo, toward the baptismal site, then slip away.
While everyone-and more importantly, every camera-was focused on the reptile, he would slip out of the water, deal with the target, and slip back. A single heartstopping blow would make it look like Nogeira had suffered a heart attack.
The unexpected crackle of gunfire made Remo abandon the plan, and the alligator. At first Remo thought they had spotted the gator too soon, and had opened up on it.
He pushed against the beast, seeking the water bottom. His idea was to get as deep as possible. Most bullets lost force and direction upon entering the water.
As soon as Remo touched bottom, he realized the gunfire was not directed toward him or the gator. There were almost no sounds of bullets plunking into water.
Remo took a chance. He thrust his head above the waterline.
He saw pandemonium.
The phalanx of beached air-boats was coming apart in a storm of automatic weapons fire. The protective steel cages over the pusher propellers seemed to be melting, the firing was so fierce.
The Federal marshals and FBI agents drew weapons and dived for cover. The media, however, simply stood their ground busily recording every bullet strike and sound as if they had papal dispensations to protect them from harm.
The sources of the firing were the approaching airboats and cigarette boats. Brown-skinned gunmen lined the rails. Assorted Uzis, Mac-10s, Tec-9s and other vicious weapons were pouring out concentrated hell.
Everyone seemed to have a role to play in the sudden drama-except General Emmanuel Nogeira. He stood frozen, bestial face going from the converging attackers to the federal agents digging in for cover. His wide mouth hung open like a greedy frog's.
It was clear the general didn't know whether he was being attacked or rescued.
In the act of pulling the general's groping hand from her skirt, Rona Ripper went white as a sheet.
General Nogeira grabbed her and wrestled her around and in front of him. Bullets chopped moss off cypress tree branches and made plinking sounds in the water.
Remo submerged.
The attacking boats were not far from his position. He laid his palms on his thighs and gave a great double kick.
Remo became a human arrow. As he passed under a pair of boats, he poked holes in the careening hulls. If any of the cameras had been underwater, they would have recorded a casual tapping. Remo used one finger. It was enough.
Perfectly round finger-sized holes perforated the hulls. Water surged in. Then the crafts began to wallow and slow down.
Remo veered toward an air-boat. Its flat bottom surged over him.
He took hold of the dangling rudder and made a fist. The fist went through the aluminum hull as if the fist were aluminum and the hull mere flesh.
Kicking back, Remo got out of the way.
The air-boat, being shallow, simply dropped. Mud began stirring up when the great spinning fan dropped below the water line.
Remo moved among the floundering passengers, pulling them down by their legs and breaking their spines at the neck like a farmer harvesting chickens.
Through the nicely sound-conducting water, Remo caught the shrill scream of panic.
"Gators! Look out! Gators!"
Remo grinned, letting a solitary air bubble escape through his teeth. If they thought he was an alligator, so much the better. He continued with his work.
He got a glimpse of brown faces as he pulled the attackers down. Bananamian or Colombian? He couldn't tell. It didn't matter. They were bad guys. Dealing with bad guys was his job.
Remo quickly brought most of the boats down. He didn't come up for air once. He didn't need to. If necessary he could hold his breath for hours, releasing only a little carbon dioxide at a time.
Keeping submerged, Remo swam around to the other side of the isle, away from the tumult.
When he stuck his head back up, he saw that the press had retreated for cover. All except one man, who lay screaming, clutching his minicam with one hand and his bleeding leg with the other. He was crying, "Medic! Medic!" and the look on his face was one of disbelief.
The FBI and Federal marshals had staked out firing positions. They were returning fire in a steady, methodical way, not wasting ammunition or firing recklessly.
A shrill voice carried over the concatenation, crying, "I'll sue! I'm suing everyone for violating my civil rights."
It was Rona Ripper. She was crawling on her stomach for shelter.
An FBI agent in a blue windbreaker started out to assist her. His head disappeared in a fine crimson mist as a dozen machine pistols sought his head.
Rona Ripper instantly started crawling backward, crying, "I surrender! I surrender!" Her face dragged in the sand because she was trying to crawl with her hands raised.
"Damn!" Remo growled, seeing no sign of General Nogeira.
A surviving cigarette boat veered off from the rest of the attacking flotilla and rounded the isle on the opposite side.
Remo figured it had gone after Nogeira. He jackknifed under and began swimming at high speed.
His ears picked up a clumsy splashing and he popped out of the water like a dolphin.
General Nogeira was stumbling out of the back side of the island. His pocked face was a picture of ugly fear.
He saw the churning boat, and his expression became ludicrous. He doubled back.
The cigarette boat piled up on the isle, and its passengers jumped off and gave chase. Some of them wore fawn-colored uniforms not much different from General Nogeira's. One, wounded, had to be helped along.
They all disappeared into the thick foliage.
Hanging back in the water, Remo wondered if he shouldn't let nature take its course. The way he saw it, the Bananamanian armed forces had dibs on the man who had ruined their country.
The decision was made for him. A scream rose up in the close, humid air.
A few seconds later, a man came stumbling back into the water. He ran blindly, his hands clutching his eyes. His fingers and lower face were slick with blood. The blood was coming from his eyes. The five bronze stars on his shoulder boards more than identified him.
The general was screaming in Spanish, a language Remo didn't understand. But the horrible tones told him all he had to know.
The man had been blinded. Probably by a knife across his eyeballs.
He proved this by stumbling over a twisted cypress root and falling face-first into the water.
Remo was wondering if he should put the suffering brute out of his misery when an alligator came charging out of the thicket.
"Charging" was the only word for it. The reptile erupted into view and ran like an absurd, clumsy dog for the water's edge. Its jaws snapped open and shut with every clumsy step.