He cut the sea anchor free, then took his seat at the stern. He jerked the starter cord, then throttled up and turned for the Barak.
He ran her at full speed, pounding from wave top to wave top until he was twenty yards off her bow. He banked to port, ran for another ten seconds, then banked again. As he drew even with her beam he heard a shout. He glanced right. A figure was standing at the Barak’s railing.
“Karl!” the man shouted. “Eine boot!”
“Was?”
“Eine boot!”
“Auf scheissen! Wir sind fast fertig!” came another voice, this one Litzman’s. Shit! We’re almost done!
A second figure rushed to the railing. In his peripheral vision, Briggs saw both men lift objects to their shoulders. Overlapping cracks echoed over the water. A chunk of the skipjack’s gunwale splintered. Tanner hunched over. A bullet sparked on the motor housing.
He glanced right, gauging his distance to the Barak. On the afterdeck he could see the outline of the sled, its aluminum rails glinting under the spotlights. They had uncrated the CAPTOR and it now sat strapped in the cradle, a blunt-nosed cylinder of black steel six feet long and as big around as a sewer pipe.
Standing beside the CAPTOR’s access hatch was Litzman. As Tanner watched, Litzman’s hands worked inside the hatch for a few more moments, then slammed it shut. He began hurriedly working at one of the floats. Opposite him, another man was doing the same.
A pair of bullets tore into the skipjack’s hull. Tanner ducked down. He peeked over the gunwale to get his bearings. Now! He cut the skipjack sharply to the right, aimed its nose toward the Barak’s afterdeck, and jammed the throttle to its stops. Thirty feet to go.
Litzman glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the CAPTOR.
From the railing, the muzzle flashes were coming rapidly now. Bullets peppered the skipjack’s hull. Fist-sized holes appeared in the hull. Riddled, a three-foot section of gunwale tore free and disappeared into the water. The skipjack veered right. Water sloshed over the side. The motor whined, sputtered, bit down again.
Twenty feet. Tanner felt a bullet pluck at the shoulder of his coat, felt a sting in his bicep.
On the afterdeck, Litzman shouted to the other man, “Fertig … zuschieben!”
He and the other man ran to the rear of the sled, put their shoulders to it, and began shoving it toward the stern. Tanner was fifteen feet away. The Barak’s side loomed before him.
“Zuschieben!” Litzman screamed at the other man. “Zuschieben!”
Together they gave the sled one final shove. It slipped onto the diving platform, where it teetered for a moment, half on deck, half in the water, then tipped upright and plunged into the waves. Litzman and the other man scrambled toward the cabin.
Tanner pulled the flare gun from his pocket, pointed it into the bottom of the skipjack. He released the throttle, flipped his legs over the side, then pulled the trigger and rolled into the water.
48
Diluted by the seawater, the fuel-oil mixture failed to explode, but simply ignited with a whoosh. In the split-second before impact a wave slammed into the skipjack’s bow. Rudderless and powerless, it veered right, slammed into the Barak’s gunwale, then started sliding aft along the hull.
Watching from the water, Tanner’s heart sank. It wasn’t going to work.
Then, as it had all night, the sea abruptly changed and gave him the break he needed.
A trough opened beneath the Barak. Her afterdeck dropped away. Above her, the skipjack rolled onto its side and skidded across the Barak’s gunwale, spilling flaming fuel oil as it went. Afterdeck ablaze, the Barak bucked upward. The skipjack rolled off the stern, wallowed for a few seconds, then capsized and sunk from view.
Tanner started stroking toward the Barak. He heard a shrill scream.
Engulfed in flame, arms flailing, a man appeared on the afterdeck. “Ach, Got … helfen sie!” The man spun in a circle, crashed into the gunwale, and fell to his knees. He reached up, grabbed the gaff pole jutting from the gunwale and pulled himself upright. He tipped over the side. The screaming stopped.
Tanner reached the Barak’s side. The afterdeck was still burning, but as he watched, the flames sizzled out as the rain flushed the fuel oil down the scuppers and into the water. Feet pressed against the hull in case he needed to escape a sudden roll, Tanner tried to gauge the rising and falling of the gunwale. At the right moment, he reached up and hooked both hands onto a cleat. The Barak heaved upward, dragging him out of the water and tossing him onto the afterdeck.
A puddle of burning fuel oil sloshed over his boot, igniting it. He slapped it out, then rose to his knees and looked around. Across the deck lay another of Litzman’s men; still smoking, the body flopped against the gunwale in time with the rocking of the deck.
To Tanner’s left was the door to the main cabin. It swung open, banged against the bulkhead. Tanner started, half-expecting to see a figure charging out at him. The doorway was empty; beyond it, the cabin was dark. The Barak rolled again and the door slammed shut.
Of Litzman’s team, two men were dead, which left two alive, including Litzman. How much time did he have? Clearly Litzman had armed the CAPTOR before pushing it overboard. Tanner was confident Cahil could stop the Aurasina as planned, but there was too much at stake to assume anything. How long before she was within range? What of the CAPTOR itself? Once overboard, it would have drifted as it descended, but in what direction?
On impulse, Tanner reached for the sat phone. It was gone, lost in the ocean.
Stop. Prioritize. Deal with Litzman; deal with the CAPTOR; find Susanna.
He looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. He jerked the gaff from its gunwale bracket. It was six feet long and tipped by a hook as big around as his thumb. Not as good as a gun, but it would have to do.
First, clear the main deck, then—
The cabin door banged open. Tanner spun, leveled the gaff. As before, the doorway was empty, dark. Nothing. Briggs lowered the gaff. A figure appeared in the doorway. Tanner glimpsed the outline of a rifle — an AK-47—in his hands. Confined by the door’s threshold, it took the man a precious two seconds to bring the AK’s barrel up and around.
Gaff held before him like a lance, Tanner lunged forward. He jabbed the tip of the gaff into the man’s sternum. He let out an explosive gasp. Tanner jerked the gaff downward, hooked the AK by the barrel, and yanked hard. Hand caught in the AK’s sling, the man staggered forward. Tanner sidestepped, let him pass, then reversed the gaff and brought the wooden end down onto the crown of his skull. The man pitched forward, skidded across the deck, and lay still.