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“She was already having second thoughts. I knew you didn’t trust that Duppy, so I didn’t, and when she had a chance to think it over I don’t think she did either. She was convinced at first, though, that you had set up this Valdez guy for murder. The guy they killed on the road. She was pretty mad and Duppy handled her pretty good. But later—”

The sun had been shining for some time. It was a bright, beautiful, clear-cool day. I remembered and glanced to my right, to where the Citadel was a massive purple blur on its mountain top.

Suddenly the blur dissolved into streamers of red and yellow. Jagged rockets of stone soared upward in curving trajectory, hung in midair, plummeted downward. Black matchsticks that could only be cannon went into brief parabola and vanished into the gaping hole in the side of the mountain. A pillar of smoke began to build and sway in the wind. Sound and blast reached us and shook the helicopter like a giant terrier killing a rat. We sank and rose and brushed the tops of a stand of tall trees.

Hank Willard fought the controls and stared in awe. “What for Christ’s sake was that?”

I took a long look. The Citadel still stood, but it would never be the same. “Little thing called a barometric fuse,” I told him. “Don’t let it worry you, pal. Let Papa Doc try to figure it out.”

He shook his head and the ginger beard fluttered like a tattered ensign. “So much screwing stuff that I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Maybe if we get out of this you’ll explain, huh?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Not now, though. No time. Look down there. We’ve got another problem.”

We flapped along toward the old dock and the rotting outbuildings. There was no sign of Sea Witch and I hoped that meant she was still under the dock. It was a good bet, for a moment later Lyda Bonaventure came running out of one of the buildings, looking up and waving a scarf. She seemed glad to see us. I was glad to see her, but at the moment I was wondering what in hell a Russian submarine was doing in this part of the world. Just off Papa Doc’s shore, her black hull glistening in’ the sun as she surfaced, water streaming from her jutting sharp sail on which was emblazoned, in red, the hammer and sickle.

“Now what the screwing hell?” exclaimed Hank. “This is turning into a screwing nightmare!”

I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Chapter 15

And yet it made sense. The submarine was a catalyst that melded a lot of the plot. Later I saw that. At the moment we were in new trouble.

The engine quit as Hank was hovering and bringing her down. We did the last fifty feet in an express elevator. The ‘copter was a total wreck, and Hank and I rolled out of her, cursing a blue streak and nursing a whole new assortment of cuts and bruises. None of which I felt. I was running and shouting orders and wondering how much time we had and how long we could bluff.

Because I hadn’t meant to force Duppy’s hand this much! He had gone whole hog and called in his comrades.

I grabbed Lyda’s hand and pulled her along with me. Hank came limping after, cursing and complaining. We pounded out on the dock just as a hatch on the sub opened and an officer stuck his head up.

I waved and yelled. Let him think it was a reception committee. The natives were being liberated and were mad with the joy of it. He waved back and I saw him fumbling with a binocular case.

I yelled at Lyda. “The trapdoor — where is the damned thing?” I couldn’t make it out.

She found it and raised it and I pushed her down in front of me. “Get the lines off her, Lyda. Hank, go up front and get one of those recoilless rifles. Get as many rounds as you can carry. Hurry! I’ll take the engines and the con.”

Hank glared at me. “You mean we’re gonna — you gone out of your screwing mind?”

I lashed a kick at him. “We are. Get moving! We can get in the first couple of shots because they don’t know the score. Hubba it, sonny! We get hung up here and Papa Doc has got a rope waiting for you, remember?”

He took off. Lyda was throwing away the mooring lines. I made a long jump for the cockpit and started the engines and slammed her in reverse. As we came foaming out from under the dock I cast a glance at the sub. Four men on her deck now and they were all watching us with glasses. My throat got a little drier. She had a deck gun and machine guns. A couple of sailors came out of the hatch carrying submachine guns slung across their chests.

Hank came pounding back carrying the recoilless and some ammo.

“In the deckhouse,” I yelled. “Fire out the port when I swing around. Try to hull her! Under the water line, keep her from submerging.”

Hank as pale. He threw a frightened glance at the sub. “Hell, man! They’re on to us.”

An officer was pointing and yelling and men were racing for the deck guns. I put the juice to Sea Witch, full throttle, and she roared and lifted her bow. Lyda lost her footing and nearly went overboard. I beckoned her down into the cockpit with me. She had not, as yet, spoken a single word. Now she smiled and reached for my hand and squeezed it, still not speaking. That was all right, then. We were friends again.

I put Sea Witch in a long curve to cross the T of the sub’s bow. Standard naval tactics. Admiral Carter! I shouted at Hank. “Start firing, goddamn it. Use armor piercing!”

The Ivans were slow on the machine guns, but the deck gun barked at us. Flame spouted. The fly bridge went to hell. Lyda squealed With excitement and ran for the deckhouse.

Hank let go with the recoilless rifle and the .57 mm ruined a machine gun and spattered two men over the sub’s deck.

“Lower!” I screamed. “Lower, damn it! Hull her.”

I saw the patrol boat rushing up from the east, a bone in her teeth, the black and red of Haiti flaunted on her forepeak. My heart sank. Then I had a thought and yelled at Lyda. She was firing a machine gun at the sub.

“Lyda — get that Haitian flag and break it out! Hurry it up.”

A shell from the sub’s deck gun damned near took off my head. It burst far to port, but the air concussion twisted my head and deafened me for a minute. Hank got a round into the sub below the water line. There was a spurt of flame and smoke and the sub heeled a little.

“On target,” I screamed. “That’s it — give her more of those.”

I crossed the T and took Sea Witch on out to sea. Hank got in two more below her water line. Lyda came running back and ran up the black and red ensign. J prayed and waved at the patrol boat, now surging past us toward the sub, and I told Hank and the girl to wave and grin and clap hands and dance with joy.

We put on a pretty good act. Loyal Haitians welcoming succor. The patrol boat bought it and kept going, closing fast on the sub and opening fire with her bow chaser and machine guns. One of Papa Doc’s fighters came out of the clouds and nosed down in a long whining dive at the sub. It was beautiful. His cannon and machine guns swept the deck of the sub, and that was that. Her hatch was down, but she made no effort to submerge, and I figured that Hank had loused up her innards with the .57 mms. What was left of her crew and Papa Doc would soon be having a little talk. I knew what was on that sub and I felt a little sympathy for the Russians. Not too much. When you fish in forbidden waters you have to expect to get bitten.

I had full throttle on Sea Witch, trying to get her up to thirty knots, because I had a nasty premonition that we weren’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.

Hank and Lyda came back to the cockpit. Hank was carrying a bottle of whisky. I knew he was a drunk, but I didn’t say anything. The guy had earned his booze.

Lyda poured the stuff into three glasses and we all had a drink. I pointed astern and said: “I was going to propose a toast, but I think it would be a little premature. Look and see if you see what I see?”