Russo stood next to Grant. “Anything else you want me to do here?”
“Why don’t you remove the tape from our friends’ mouths, Vince? Nobody’s around to hear whatever they might say or yell.”
Russo grabbed a corner of the tape on Castalani and ripped it off, then did the same to Falcone.
The Mafia boss jerked his head back and winced, then ran his tongue across his lips several times. Staring at Grant through dark eyes, he let loose with a string of Italian verbiage.
“Not happy?” Grant smirked. “Don’t think I heard anything in there with the word ‘lupo,’ Vince.”
Russo laughed. “You’re right about that, sir. He sure as hell hasn’t wished us any luck! And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not translate the rest.”
“You’re excused, Vince.”
Grant took off his cammie hat, then stepped out the port side door and stood by the rail. Wrapping his hands around the smooth metal, he looked down at the seawater rushing by, feeling the cool breeze. He leaned slightly over the rail, then turned his head as he looked toward the bow. The boat hit a slight swell, and a spray of seawater splashed against his face. Wiping a hand across his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then let his eyes roam across the sky.
There were times he missed being at sea, being aboard one of “Uncle Sam’s” ships. Although, as a SEAL and since working for NIS, he still found himself above and below decks of an assortment of vessels. He lost count of the number of destroyers, cruisers, subs, and carriers he had to take care of business aboard.
Scanning the immediate world around him, he only saw blackness, unable to distinguish where sea met sky. Running lights from other vessels were nowhere to be seen. It was a perfect night.
“Approaching our coordinates, Skipper,” Adler said over his shoulder.
Grant walked onto the bridge, smoothed back his hair, and put on his hat as he closed the door. “Vince, have Paul and Ken help you gather up our gear, then standby starboard side.” Russo climbed down the ladder and maneuvered around the furniture in the cabin.
Adler checked his coordinates, then started easing back on the throttle until they were moving at barely five knots.
“Here,” Grant said, reaching for the wheel. “I’ll take over while you go do your thing below deck.” Adler gave up control and left.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grant reveled in seeing the two Italians squirming in their chairs, trying desperately to loosen the bindings that securely held them in place. Now they were both shouting, not at each other, but something more along the lines of panic.
A short time later, Adler returned to the bridge, with Grant asking, “Got the remote?”
Adler patted his top pocket. “Safe and secure.”
“Guess it’s time,” Grant commented, easing back on the throttle until the engines started sputtering. He turned the wheel hard to port as fast and as far as he could. The yacht responded, beginning to travel in a large circle, as Grant held on. It wasn’t going to matter if it started drifting on the currents. How far and where could it go, after all?
Without waiting for Grant to ask, Adler picked up a role of duct tape. Running a piece around a metal spoke of the wheel several times, he then fastened the longer end to the wheel housing by running it completely around the metal surface at least five times, finally ripping the piece from the roll. He dropped the roll in his rucksack, then seeing a section of rope, he muttered, “May as well not take any chances.” Using the rope, he tied the wheel as a precaution. Finally, he said to Grant, “Think we need to make haste.”
Grant shouted to Moore, “Ray! Lower that boat starboard!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Come on, Joe.” Adler grabbed his gear and followed Grant through the main cabin, then went to starboard side. “Ken, Vince, go forward and grab that line. Pull that boat here.” He pointed to the opening in the railing where the gangplank had been. Swiveling his head, he saw the short ladder, resting against the stern’s bulkhead. He ran to retrieve it. From the bridge, he heard panic shouting, maybe screaming was more the word. It was like music to his ears.
Once the Zodiac was hovering just above the water, Russo signaled the three men manning the winch on the upper forward deck to give him more slack. He grabbed the rope that was fastened near the outboard engine and began pulling the boat along the side of the yacht until it was below where Grant was standing. “A little more slack,” he shouted. “Okay, hold it!”
Grant leaned past him and attached the ladder to the side of the yacht. “Joe, you’re driving.”
Adler climbed into the Zodiac. He grabbed the end of a rope attached to the bow and tossed it up to Grant, who wrapped it around the rail. Adler had Russo tie off his end.
Once the boat was secure, Adler released the hook, signaled Moore to haul the cable out of the way, then he took up his position by the outboard motor, and started the engine.
Within a matter of seconds, everyone had gathered along the starboard deck, passed the gear to Russo, then one by one they climbed down into the Zodiac.
Grant took one more look up at the bridge before getting into the boat, stepping around gear stacked down its middle, taking a position on the starboard side.
With everyone kneeling around the Zodiac’s perimeter, ready to end this mission, Grant gave the order. “Release the lines! Kick it in the ass, Joe!”
The Zodiac flew across the water, spraying seawater over everyone. Every so often it would hit a slight swell with a loud “thump,” as it bounced across the wave.
They were already nearly a thousand yards from the yacht, when Grant looked back through his Starlighter, satisfied the vessel was still on its circular course.
“Slow as you go,” he shouted to Adler. He pulled his penlight from his pocket, then took a time check. “Keep your eyes out, men.”
Everyone began searching the sky, waiting, listening, when Simpson called out, “Two o’clock!”
They all turned, focusing on a bright light in the distance. It continued moving toward them, with the noise getting louder, a distinct sound of chopper rotors.
“Move it, Joe!” Grant slid the scope into a rucksack, then lit off one of the pencil flares, waving it side to side, high overhead.
The Chinook started descending, rotating one hundred eighty degrees, until the “ass end” was facing the Zodiac. Inside the cargo area the lights were on. The chopper was now low enough that someone could be seen standing close to the end of the ramp, someone signaling with a flashlight. The chopper continued descending.
“Joe! Get her lined up!” Grant shouted.
With the noise from both the chopper and the engine of the Zodiac, Adler shouted practically at the top of his lungs, “Gutsy move, Skipper!”
Moving in closer from their hundred yard position, they were now seventy yards away when the ass end of the chopper touched water. The pilot raised the nose slightly, at the same time pushing the stick forward, but barely. More seawater rushed into the open bay.
The man in the helo flashed the word “go” in Morse Code. Adler turned the handle of the throttle, steadily aiming the boat dead ahead.
Hanging onto the rope circling the top of the Zodiac, the SEALs leaned forward, steadying and balancing themselves as the boat rocked from the rotor wash kicking up the sea around them. The rocking grew more violent the closer it got, but Adler held steady.
With the Zodiac less than fifty feet away, the man inside the chopper lowered himself into a half crouch, trying to peer through the heavy spray of water being kicked up. Water already covered the lower part of his black boots. Hanging onto a rope secured to the inside bulkhead of the helo, he was prepared to jump out of harm’s way at the snap of a finger.