Dawn light, light wind. The boatswain was beckoning from the quarter, the bright orange plastic steps of the jacob’s ladder already rigged. He grabbed the top rail, swung over, went down fast but careful and dropped into the bow. The bowhook grabbed him and pushed him aft and he yelled, “Next man.”
The last guy dropped in, the engine gunned, and they moved out, rocking under the impulse of the prop.
Cassidy clambered over bodies back to where Marty clung by one arm, trying to keep the shotgun from sliding off with the other. “Here’s the plan,” he yelled. “They want the sixty in the bow. Everybody locked and loaded. Three hundred yards off the ship. One of these dhows swerves out of line, we fire a burst across his bow. If he keeps coming, they’ll designate him to the twenty-five-millimeters. So we better be ready to haul balls out of the line of fire.”
“Roger that,” he said. The coxswain nodded, mouth hard, and reached down to pull his flak jacket out from under the console. Marty wiggled forward and got Crack Man and Sasquatch set up with the gun. Then went aft again, looking back at the ship for the other RHIB. He saw it alongside, saw another M60 being handed down. Good, they wouldn’t be the only ones out here.
The Johnsons slowed, dropping to a ringing note like a free-running table saw. The boat coasted, then took up a slow pitch and tilt. He clung to the console and looked around the harbor, then back at the ship again.
He turned, to see the dhow approaching.
It came on unhurriedly, rusty dented prow parting the water into a modest ripple of foam. These were not high-speed boats. But with their swelling midships, their broad beams, they looked like good haulers. Of fish, or of less innocent cargo. Its hull was russet, as if painted with Rustoleum primer. A white prow extension, like the bow dragon on a Viking longboat, pointed in his direction. Under a stumpy mast amidships was a rack of very long, thick bamboo poles. Diesel exhaust blew downwind. Fucker was headed right for them. He went forward and knelt on the floorboards and dug his grip into Sasquatch’s shoulder. “The first burst goes across his bow. Five seconds after that, he doesn’t swing away, fire through the pilothouse windows, then sweep the rest of the deck.”
“Roger that, Senior Chief.”
“Riflemen, get ready to sweep the deck. Light up any melonhead who pops up. Okay, lock and load.”
The rattle and clack of bolts and cartridges slamming home, then they steadied their sights on the oncoming prow. Only two hundred yards away now. It did not seem to have the slightest intent of going anywhere else than right over them. If anything, it was increasing speed, the putt-putting of the engine coming clearly across the harbor to the tensely waiting team in the rocking inflatable.
Aisha clung to the dash as the Chevy went faster and faster, finally hitting a hundred on the expressway leading toward the harbor. Ahead sirens warbled, lights flashed, Mercedeses and Toyotas pulled over as the convoy bore down. The trucks of security troops were going even faster than they were.
“You’re sure you got through to the ship?” Diehl said anxiously, twisting around in the front seat. For some reason she didn’t get to drive when it was a question of getting there fast. Garfield had grabbed the wheel without a word, Diehl slid in shotgun, leaving her in the back. They were mad she’d found the map, not them. That the newest agent, a colored girl at that, had managed to pick up the one piece of paper that told exactly what was going on.
“I didn’t try to get through to the ship. I called Rossetti.”
“Good call. Kinky knows what to do.”
“They’re calling their navy people, too, or coast guard, whatever they have,” Garfield said, pulling around a cement truck, then stepping on the gas again. “One way or another, they’ll get the word.”
“Unless it’s already too late,” Diehl moaned. Aisha glanced at him. His cheeks were spotted pink and white. She hoped he wasn’t going to have some kind of attack. He was staring through the windshield, a sheen of sweat where his hair must have been when he was young.
The trucks came to a straight stretch. The traffic police stood at the intersections, batons extended to block cross traffic. Buildings flashed by, avenues flashed by, startled faces on the sidewalks flashed by. The needle crept up again as Garfield floored it. Ninety-five. One hundred. One hundred and ten, the engine roaring, the wind tearing by. She leaned forward. “Tune the radio to four-forty”
“What’s that?”
