“It’s the Mendar!” Lake said excitedly. “Call me a liar, but I think it is! Holy shit, that’s them!”
Lake snatched up the pair of binoculars Ahmad had taken from one of the dead terrorists the night before. His arms were so tired that they trembled, and he had to lean against the tree to hold the field of view steady as he examined the vessel. As he zoomed in on the flying bridge he instantly recognized the black arms and face of Chief Louis at the wheel. Who better to conn the decrepit diesel-driven vessel than Providence’s best diesel mechanic. Lake’s heart filled with hope once again. He may have been an hour late, but Captain Edwards had held true to his word. He had found a means to pass the reefs and get the shore party off Bunda. Providence must have spent all morning locating the drifting and abandoned vessel, and Louis must have nurtured the Mendar s aging engines like a baby to get her here so quickly.
The boat continued driving toward the shore, heading generally toward their location, no doubt guided by the same GPS satellites Lake and the shore party had used to lead them there. Lake and Michaelson exchanged glances, and the big chief actually smiled. Lake wanted to run down to the beach and wave his arms so that the men on the Mendar could see him, but he didn’t dare leave cover for fear of the watching Al Islamiyyah eyes on the road above.
“Those rocks will stop him from coming any closer,” Michaelson said pointing to the breaking surf a couple hundred yards out from the beach where a pattern of jutting rocks poked above the surface. Even from this distance Lake could see the sudsy seawater rivulets from the last series of waves streaming back into the sea through the rocks’ myriad of time-eroded fissures. The rocks’ narrow spacing afforded no safe place for the Mendar to pass through, and this became apparent when the fishing boat spun her shaft astern and came to a complete stop on the rocks’ seaward side.
“Looks like we’ve got a good swim ahead of us,” Lake said. “I don’t know if we can swim a hundred yards in that surf. Especially you, Chief.”
Still looking through the binoculars, Lake saw activity now on the Mendar s deck. Several U.S. sailors in blue jumpsuits and blue ball caps were rigging something off the fishing boat’s fantail. It was Providence’s dinghy. The same one used to sneak up on the Mendar several nights before. Edwards had thought of everything. Within minutes the rubber craft had set out for the shore, two muscular sailors briskly paddling as they skillfully maneuvered it through the rocks.
“They’ll be here any minute!” Lake said, then shook the sleeping Teresa. “Teresa, our ride’s here! We’ve got to get moving!”
Just then Ahmad broke through the trees, his face as concerned as Lake had ever seen it.
“I got close enough to the men by the road to hear them talking,” Ahmad caught his breath. He must have sprinted the whole way back to be so winded. “I counted sixteen of them, definitely Al Islamiyyah. They’ve seen the fishing boat and the dinghy and they’re coming to investigate. We have only minutes before they get here.”
Teresa gazed at the beach where the two men in the dinghy had just touched the shore and were dragging the craft onto dry land. “How are we all going to fit in that?” she asked.
They all stared at each other as the cold realization sank in. The rubber boat could hold only four people at most, and two of those spots would be occupied by the sailors who had paddled it ashore. Not all of them could go. At least, not all in one trip.
“I will swim,” Ahmad said matter-of-factly as he pulled off his shirt and kicked his shoes into the sand. “You all must decide as you will.”
Without further hesitation, Ahmad darted from their concealed spot and sprinted toward the water. Lake watched with envy as the iron-man agent ran past the confused sailors, standing with paddles in hand by the beached dinghy, and dived head-first into the sea. Surfacing a few seconds later, his lean arms and legs broke into a brisk stroke that propelled him seemingly without effort through the waves toward the waiting Mendar. Even after the intense physical exertions of the last few days, Ahmad still had enough stamina left in him to qualify for the Olympics. His abrupt departure and willingness to abandon his comrades of the past few days so quickly did not surprise Lake. After all, Ahmad had made it no secret that his mission came first. Lake, Michaelson, and Teresa were merely means for him to escape and thus accomplish his mission. Now that the means of escape had appeared, he no longer needed them and cared little if they lived or died.
Now Lake was solely in charge and knew he had to make a quick decision. There were three passengers, and two seats. The choice was clear.
He moved out of the brush cover and waved to one of the sailors on the beach.
“O’Shea!” Lake shouted.
O’Shea was mindlessly staring after the strange Arab man who had just sprinted past him and jumped into the water when he heard Lake’s voice.
“O’Shea!” Lake said hurriedly, “Get your ass up here and help me get Chief Michaelson down to the dinghy!”
O’Shea tossed his paddles into the raft and headed up the sandy slope toward Lake, leaving his comrade alone on the beach.
“All right, here he comes,” Lake said, turning first to Teresa and then to Michaelson.
“You get your ass on that raft, Lieutenant!” the chief seethed.
Lake turned to see that Michaelson now held Ahmad’s discarded AK-47, and it was leveled squarely at Lake’s torso. Leaning against the tree while biting back the pain in his knee, the big chief’s eyes met Lake’s with a fierce, determined look.
“What the hell?” Lake gasped.
“Take Miss Whitehead with you and get the hell out!”
“Are you nuts?” Lake said, advancing toward him. “Give me that thing!”
Michaelson snapped off the weapon’s safety, startling both Lake and Teresa.
“I’m not joking, Lieutenant! I’m staying behind! Somebody’s got to cover the raft, and you’re sure as hell not suited for it!”
As Lake wiped the sand from his eyes he heard faint voices coming from the jungle. Michaelson was right about one thing. There was no way the raft could make it out of rifle range before the Al Islamiyyah fighters showed up. Once the terrorists reached the beach, the raft would be an easy target. Someone would have to divert their attention until the raft made it to a safe distance.
“Good to see you, sir! Chief!” O’Shea said excitedly as he finally reached their position, totally oblivious to what had just transpired. “By the way, who the hell was that guy who jumped in the water back there? Are we taking him with us, too?”
Lake locked his eyes on Michaelson’s. The indomitable chief’s face was fixed in a feral stare that clearly communicated his intention to remain. Lake knew that any argument on his part would be futile.
“Come on, O’Shea,” Lake ordered, not taking his eyes off Michaelson. “Let’s get Miss Whitehead on the raft.” Lake then looked to Teresa. She was obviously moved by Michaelson’s decision to stay.
“Go with O’Shea, Teresa,” he said in a gentler tone.