"I took the liberty of arranging alternative transportation," Petrov said.
"I thought you came alone."
"Never trust a former KGB man."
Austin scolded himself. Unlike Petrov, he had underestimated the determination of his foe. He had been so eager to confront Razov that he had neglected his own escape plans. He vowed to praise Ivan later for his meticulous attention to detail. He stepped from the ship onto the deck of the powerboat, Petrov followed and Petrov's man ratcheted up the throttle several notches. The boat surged forward, almost pitching Austin and Petrov into the water, as the snarling outboard motor pushed it up on plane.
Austin looked back at the brightly lit ship and chuckled as he imagined the reaction of Razov and his thugs to their escape. His triumph lasted only a second, however. Silent gunfire raked the boat, coming not from the ship but from the harbor itself. Though there was no sound, the muzzle flashes were clearly visible in the darkness, and the hail of bullets stitched their way across the body of the helmsman. He let out a soggy yell before he crumpled over the wheel, and the boat careened off at a wild angle.
Petrov pulled the man away from the wheel and Austin grabbed the helm. Spotlight beams converged on the powerboat. Razov was no fool. He'd stationed a picket line of his gunmen in boats around the yacht.
Another volley raked the boat. There was only one way past the guard boats, and that was through them, Austin concluded. He steered toward a gap between spotlights, and the boat shot between the picket line. Razov's guards held their fire for fear of hitting each other in the cross fire, but once Austin was in the open harbor, they let fly with everything they had.
The water around the fleeing boat exploded with miniature geysers. A few shots found the windshield and shattered the glass. Petrov clutched his head and fell to the deck. Austin ducked low and wrung every ounce of speed he could out of the motor. The boat was fast, but the pursuers were slightly faster. Spotlights were gaining on both sides.
Austin glanced toward shore. They'd never make it… and then another possible refuge offered itself. Dead ahead, her masts and sails illuminated by deck lights, was Old Ironsides.
A volley of slugs from a flanking pursuer slammed into the side of the boat at the waterline and blasted a row of holes in the fiberglass. Austin tried to keep the boat on plane, but the holes were too big and the boat quickly swamped. The outboard motor pushed on until it died with a smoky gasp. The boat went under like a diving submarine. Austin found himself floating in Boston Harbor. Petrov went under. Austin dove after him, grabbed the Russian by the neck and pulled him to the surface, where he was greeted by a bright light shining in his eyes, and he could hear the sound of voices shouting.
STRONG HANDS REACHED down, grabbed Austin by the arms and the scruff of his jacket and pulled him, dripping, from the chill water. He wiped his eyes and saw that he was in a double-ended boat about thirty feet long. A dozen men wearing white navy uniforms and black neckerchiefs pulled at long oars with practiced strokes. Petrov was stretched out at Austin's feet, blood streaming from a wound on his head. He gave Austin a weak wave.
"All you all right, sir?" said a young man who sat next to Austin in the stem, his hand on the tiller. Over his white sailor's uniform he wore a long black coat with brass buttons down the front, a black neckerchief and a shiny black-brimmed hat.
"A little waterlogged. Thanks for hauling us out of the harbor."
The steersman extended his free hand. "Josh Slade. I'm the officer of the deck on board the U.S.S. Constitution. We saw you from up there," he said, pointing to Old Ironsides, which sat in the water a few hundred feet away, her three tall masts brightly illuminated by floodlights.
"My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."
"What's NUMA doing in these parts?" Slade gave him a funny look as he asked the question. Austin brought his hand up to his face and felt his fake nose.
It was hanging half off from the effects of the dunk in the harbor. Austin ripped the nose off and tossed it over the side.
"Long story," Austin said, with a shake of his head. "How's my friend?"
"Looks like the bleeding has stopped. We'll give him first aid when we get back on board."
Music from Razov's yacht drifted across the water. Austin hoped Kaela and Lombardo were all right. He saw no sign of the chase boats and their gun-happy crews, but instinct and experience told him they hadn't gone far.
"Did anyone see the powerboats that were following us?"
"Just a glimpse. They were right on your tail, but when you got into trouble, they disappeared. We couldn't figure out why they didn't stop to help. Don't know where they went. We were busy launching the captain's gig and didn't pay much attention."
"Lucky you were here. It would have been a long swim back to land."
"I'll say. Normally we wouldn't be out here this late. The Constitution does one turnaround cruise a year, on the Fourth of July. We were taking the ship out on a midnight cruise. Got the master gun team, so we can fire a twenty-one-gun salute. The governor and the mayor got the okay from the Navy Department for us to do a nighttime sail-by. What happened? We saw you zipping it along, but then your boat seemed to vanish from under you."
Austin saw no point in beating around the bush. "We were leaving the party yacht. Those boats you saw shot us out of the water and killed our helmsman."
He stared at Austin as if he suspected his sanity. "We didn't hear any gunfire."
“They had silencers on their guns."
"Come to think of it, we saw flashes of light that could have come from guns. We thought they were camera strobe lights. Who were those guys? Whoops," he said, not waiting for an answer. "Going to have to excuse me for a minute."
Slade steered them around behind the Constitution under the white eagle and ship's name emblazoned on the stem. He maneuvered the boat under the davits that projected overhead like extended wooden arms. The rowers lifted the oars out of their locks and stood them in a vertical position, then attached the lines hanging down from the davits and winched themselves up to deck level.
With help from the deck crew, Petrov was extricated from the boat. The Russian had revived and was able to walk with the help of a sailor on either side. Someone made a mattress of life jackets so he wouldn't have to lie on the hard wooden deck. Another crewman gave Austin a coat to replace his dripping jacket.
Slade took his hat off and tucked it under his arm. He was a dark-haired young man in his twenties, a couple of inches taller than Austin's six feet one. With his chiseled features and ramrod posture, he could have posed for a navy recruiting poster.
"Welcome to Old Ironsides, the oldest commissioned warship in the world, still manned by an active-duty U.S. Navy crew." The pride in his voice was obvious.
" 'Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high,' " Austin said, quoting the first line of the Oliver Wendell Holmes poem, "Old Ironsides," that had inspired the nation to save the ship from destruction.
Slade grinned and quoted the second line, " 'And many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky…' Sounds as if you know your naval history, sir."
"I know the ship fought the Barbary pirates and gave the British a major headache during the War of 1812. That she was undefeated in battle. And during the fight with the British frigate H.M.S Guerriere, cannonballs bounced off her sides as if they were made of iron." His eyes fondly swept the two-hundred-four-foot length of the frigate, taking in the long bowsprit, We expansive spar deck with the neat rows of cannon and the two-hundred-twenty-foot-tall main-mast. "Hope I look half as good when I'm her age."
"Thank you. We take great pride in keeping her ship-shape. She was built not far from here, launched in 1797. Actually, her sides were made of live oak from the south-eastern U.S. Her hull is twenty-five inches thick at the waterline. Paul Revere did the copperwork and made the ship's bell. Don't mean to give you the guide routine," he apologized, "but we're awfully proud of the lady." His face grew serious. "Instead of giving you a history lesson, I should call the Coast Guard and let them know we've got an injured man on board." Slade patted the pockets of his coat and frowned. "Damn. My cell phone must have fallen out when I got in the gig. I've got a walkie-talkie we use to keep in touch with the tugboat when we're being pushed or towed. I'll ask the crew to relay a message to the Coast Guard."