Kate had never been down to the Duke's engine room, but she figured this was the best place to look for the workshop. Telling her where he had locked up the crew, Dave had saved her some time. If, as he'd said, the crew would be able to break out in only a couple of hours, then he might not have been all that careful about stopping someone from releasing them.
Even before she reached the bottom of the stairwell she heard someone hammering on a door. It had to be the ship's crew. Presenting herself outside the workshop door, she picked up a spanner, hammered back, then yelled, 'Captain Jellicoe? FBI. I'm going to try and break you out of there.'
She listened at the door for a second and heard Jellicoe's voice. When he had finished speaking she threw away the spanner and, laughing, looked at the top and bottom of the steel door.
The door was only bolted.
Back in the Britannia's wheelhouse, Dave turned the ignition. Immediately both engines roared into life. He started up the bow thruster, and, a minute or two later, they were bobbing around in the Grand Duke's wake. He waited another few seconds to let the boat get slowly clear of the ship before engaging engines and steering them to the Duke's starboard side. Then he set the course co-ordinates into the computer and began to radio his position on the agreed frequency. It was easier having Al off the bridge. Not having to explain every single thing he was doing: when they would reach the rendezvous point and shit like that.
As the engines picked up revs and the Britannia started to make speed, Dave glanced across at the Duke, thinking of the Carrera with Kate still aboard and bitterly regretting the way he had been obliged to leave her. So he was a little surprised to see her standing on the foredeck of the ship, alongside Captain Jellicoe and a couple of his officers and men. But he was even more surprised when he saw a cloud of smoke appear in front of one of Jellicoe's brass cannons and heard a loud explosion, followed by the whistling roar of an overhead projectile.
Al came rushing up from the engine room as the cannonball landed harmlessly out to sea. He gasped, 'Did you see that? Crazy motherfucker thinks he's the Crimson fucking Pirate.'
Spinning the wheel in his hands, Dave turned the boat hard to starboard and opened the throttle to full revs, trying to put some distance between the boat and the ship's cannon.
'I think he sees himself more in some kind of law enforcement role,' he yelled.
The cannon fired again. This time the shot came close enough to send a cloud of spray over the bow of the boat.
'Jesus Christ,' said Al. 'That one almost hit us.'
To his surprise Dave found himself laughing.
'What's so funny?' demanded Al.
'They missed, didn't they?'
'One of those lead turds hits us, you won't see any fuckin' comedy in our situation. In case you'd forgotten, paper money ain't waterproof.'
'Chill out, Al. This isn't the Nimitz shooting at your rich-as-fucking-Croesus ass. This is Horatio Lord Nelson gunning for you. This is history, man. Last people those guns fired at worked for Napoleon.'
But Al was looking anything but chilled.
'I'll fix those fuckers,' he snarled and, climbing across some bags of money, he retrieved his submachine gun, racked and aimed it at the figures standing on the bow of the ship.
There was no time for Dave to say anything. The last thing he wanted was anyone else killed, least of all Kate. Not that Al would have been in the mood to listen. All Dave could do was spin the wheel hard to port and then hard back to starboard, sending Al reeling off balance from one side of the aft deck to the other, his nine-mill firing harmlessly into the air above them. When Al finally picked himself off the deck, the Duke was well out of range and the third cannon shot was sinking hopelessly short of the Britannia's wide and creamy wake.
'What the fuck did you want to do that for?'
'Evasive action. A zigzag.'
'I was going to shoot that son of a bitch English faggot.'
'Now why would someone with all your obvious advantages want to do a thing like that? Man as wealthy as you are. Guns are no longer a solution. From now on, you want to make your point, you better get out your wallet, not a gun. And remember, it's thickness that counts.'
Al grinned as it began to dawn on him that he was now possessed of an enormous fortune.
'Shit, you're right. I'm rich, aren't I? Hell, maybe I'll let my hair and fingernails grow real long and store my shit in little bottles like that other multi-millionaire guy. The one who invented Jane Russell's tits.'
'Howard Hughes.'
'Right.'
'Al, you can do all kinds of shit now you're rich. But right now I need you back down below, ready to stir that fuel. You hear the engine miss any revs, then make with the teaspoon.'
'Sure thing. How long before we make it to the pick-up?'
