by Ralph Zeta
It was hot and oppressive in the small space. I stripped and put on one of the larger wet suits, swearing lustily as the neoprene pulled hairs from my legs and chest. No time for talcum powder. I slung on one of the diving belts and snugged it to my waistline. It had a nice all black combat knife secured in a hard scabbard. I flicked off the light and went topside. James pointed to one of the lockers up front.
“You’ll find everything you need up there, mate.”
He was right: I found another knife and scabbard, which I strapped to my left calf. Fins, mask, and snorkel completed the getup. The element of surprise was essential to my plan. None of the M-4s on board was equipped with sound suppressors. I took the shorter of the two spear guns from the weapons cache. It had a nice webbed strap so it could be slung over the shoulder thoughtful. James gave me a once-over, followed by an approving nod.
I took a moment to study the radar screen once more. We were now roughly two hundred yards ahead of the Carpe Diem, and another fifty from the cruiser. Neither had changed course or speed thus far. That part of the plan, at least, was working. I hoped the rest would work out as well.
“Well, son,” James said as he shifted the boat’s triple levers to neutral and heaved to, “this is the point where you get wet and I don’t.” he handed me a small flare stick. “Use that if you need me. God speed.”
I placed the small flare inside my wet suit near my waist and promptly slipped over the side and into the swells. I watched as James and the boat receded into the gloom. I slid up the face of a large swell and down the backside into its trough, only to repeat the roller-coaster ride several more times as I swam into position. The night was dark and perfect, with a thick layer of clouds cloaking the moon and stars in velvety black cloak.
Since the Carpe Diem was running dark, I would have to guess the best place to intercept it. I had made my calculations based on the position of the lights aboard the Permanent Illusion. It didn’t take long for the cruiser’s lights to come into view. I corrected my position accordingly. I prayed I would be in the right spot when the time came.
I kicked hard, and the long fins bit hard into the water as I fought the swells. I stopped where I thought I needed to be, and treaded water. The swells were six to eight feet with occasional whitecaps. Some individual swells were even higher and, with me in the trough, their sheer size could easily block the sailboat from view. I fought to stay high on the swells as long as I could, searching the gloom for the darkened sailboat.
Taking a moment to reassess my position, I glanced back at the cruiser. It had already passed east of my position and was maybe 70 yards away, its aft lights fading fast. That meant that if my calculations were correct, I should be touching the Carpe Diem right about now.
I turned around, and a jolt of adrenaline fired through every cell in my body. The huge shape was coming straight at me!
I had turned just in time to see the long, sharp angle of the sailboat’s massive bow slicing the big sea mounds, spraying foam and water high as it cut a path trough stormy seas. I began kicking as hard as I could to avoid being crushed, and as I cleared the colossal form I felt the tip of one fin brush hard against the massive hull.
Once clear of the prow, I pivoted back toward the fast-moving hulk. In the night radiance I spotted what I was looking for: the docking bumper, still dangling near the stern a mindless mistake and the perfect access point.
I kicked into position and waited. There would be only one chance. The dark hull seemed to race past me, the force of its monstrous wake pushing me away, like an invisible force field rejecting my very presence. I fought to stay as high and close as possible on the big swells. I had to time and pick my moment precisely.
The moment came a hell of a lot faster than I expected.
It materialized almost out of nowhere. Dangling and just out of reach was the docking bumper, skittering along on the wake. Kicking with every bit of energy I had, I lunged forward and up, arms reaching high, fingers splayed, eyes wide. I came off a wave top and suddenly felt my torso clear the water as my fingers made contact with what I hoped was thick rope. I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter; it was all I had. I closed my gloved hands around whatever it was, and held on for dear life.
The sudden onslaught of pain was excruciating. My arms felt as though they were being ripped from my shoulders as I was yanked violently from the wave’s watery grip and thrust forward with spine-stretching force.
I was being buffeted in the sailboat’s massive wake, the craft’s up-and-down motion and the pounding waves smashing my body against the wooden hull. The thumping sounds my body made against the hull were forceful enough to surely get someone’s attention. I had to do something fast.
Struggling against the forces fighting to strip my hands free from their precarious hold on the thin rope, I began to climb hand over hand up the round rubbery shape as fast as I could. My body was now almost completely out of the water. I hugged the big rubberized bumper with my legs and braced myself with my arms and I prayed whatever stanchion the bumper was tied would hold long enough. Another hard couple of hand-over-hand motions, and I grasped the top of the gunwale. I took a moment to catch my breath, and with my free hand, I unslung the spear gun slung on my back. I readied it, flattening myself against the hull. If someone should peer over the rail searching for the source of the disturbance, I had them dead to rights.
I could feel the rushing ocean just three feet below my six, the spray occasionally blasting me with enough force to dangle me backward over the rushing wake. I could feel each pulsation of the massive boat as the keel cut forcefully trough angry waves, the encounter reverberating through every inch of the dark hull.
I had already expended a lot of energy just getting to this point. Gasping for breath, I was having a hard time settling down into proper form for what I was about to do. Note to self: more running, less tequila. I released the safety on the compact spear gun and aimed it above me, waiting for the attention that was surely coming.
Sure enough, a man’s face appeared above me, peering down into the darkness. He had a bandage over his nose the man I head butted earlier. He held a pistol in one hand and a long flashlight in the other.
The spear caught him in the mouth. Dropping the gun and flashlight, his hands reached instinctively toward the pain.
I released the spear gun and slithered upward and, grabbing the shaft of the spear with my right arm, hauled as if he were a gaffed tuna. He pitched overboard and vanished in the gloom with a barely audible splash.
Discarding my mask and flippers, I slid over the rail and landed silently on the expansive deck. I took a long moment to survey my surroundings. The broad-beamed afterdeck was deserted, and the hatch doors to the living quarters belowdecks were still secured in their open position, letting out a soft yellow glow onto the aft deck. In the open pilothouse immediately above the access hatch, I could see the typical big wheel of a modern sailboat, and a profusion of instruments, but not much else. The man I skewered must have been the only one on night watch. When he heard the sounds, he must have engaged the autopilot before leaving his post to investigate.
Knife in hand, I padded on wet bare feet into the pilothouse. Clusters of red and orange instruments glowed in the dark. The pilothouse was surprisingly large and comfortable and could easily seat at least a dozen adults. A red-and-black thermos rested on a cushion nearby, next to a black walkie-talkie. The man had been alone. It seemed the element of surprise was still working on my favor.
I next peeked inside the open hatch door. The eerily quiet space belowdecks had simple but comfortable furniture that formed a large sitting area, with a dining area on the port side. Beyond the sitting area was a large galley, separated by a floor-to-ceiling built-in unit with plenty of cupboards and drawers. To the right of the built-in there was a small desk, and a hallway that surely led to sleeping quarters beyond. No signs of either Baumann, Debbie from the beach bar or Mackenzie.
Entry into the spac
e would not be easy. If Baumann had heard the sounds, he could very easily be waiting for me. The man had more than proven he was nothing if not meticulous about everything he did and he left nothing to chance. The main cabin had too many places to hide; he would have easy pickings. My best bet was to force him out. I was done underestimating his skills.
I went back to the pilothouse and found the autopilot unit. It was set on a course of 135 degrees magnetic. A course change to 0 degrees would force the Carpe Diem into a hard tack to port that should get Baumann’s attention. He could not allow the sailboat to remain on that course for long, for in less than an hour it would be entering a zone of many deadly shoals.
As the sailboat’s bow came about hard onto its new heading, it rolled roughly, moaning and creaking like an old barn in heavy winds. Massive booms and sails were automatically swung around and trimmed to the new angle of attack, the wind now buffeting rope, wood, and canvas with renewed vigor as the entire hull changed aspect as it headed into its new course and certain catastrophe. The boat first straightened as the wind fell off the sails, only to lean to as the sails again bit into the wind and filled, thrusting the boat forward. The large vessel rode high over the faces of oncoming waves and came down hard on the downside, and seawater splashed high over the bow, some of the spray reaching the pilothouse. I went down to the aft deck and got into position. That’s when I noticed the change.
The living area belowdecks was now a dark void. Someone had killed the lights. Baumann was making his move.
If I crossed the wide deck now, I would be exposed to anyone looking through the open door. I changed course and headed back toward the pilothouse, seeking the high ground. My plan was to approach the hatch door from above.
As I reached the opposite side I heard a soft but familiar sound, then another. A muffled report, like someone banging a thick book against a hard surface in the distance.
At first they were hard to recognize. The flap of wind in sails and whistling past dozens of ropes, cables, and masts, along with the whoosh of the ocean below, served to mute the reports even further. But there was no mistaking the distinct sound of sound-suppressed gunfire.
I felt something buzz past my ear. Another bee zoomed by and slammed with a flat thud into the wooden handrail inches from my head.
I rolled off the steps leading down from the pilothouse, landing hard on the wet deck, and kept rolling, offering as poor a target as I could as I tried to get some distance between me and the hatch door. I came to a stop about fiftee yards away, on all fours near the darkened aft rail, and unsheathed the knife on my dive belt. Grasping it by the blade for a one-and-a-half turn, I emerged from the shadows as I threw it at the lower right edge of the dark doorway, where I expected the shooter to be. Then I flattened myself against the gleaming deck.
There was a grunt, then something heavy and metallic clattering down the wooden steps of the companionway leading below decks. The knife had found its mark.
Now or never, Jason! I said to myself.
Racing, I swiftly crossed the fifteen or so yards to the open hatch door. I lunged forward, grabbed the top edge of the overhanging door lintel, held on, and swung feet first into the darkness belowdecks. I released my grip and landed somewhere near a sofa or large chair, I could not tell in the dark. Keeping the furniture between me and where I believed the shooter had been, I got low and drew the knife attached to my ankle, easing the plastic catch to avoid making a click, and listened, peering around the chair in the darkness. I couldn’t move without revealing my position, and neither could he, that ruled out searching for his pistol in the dark. We both stood motionless in our respective spots, invisible, laying in wait, waiting for the other guy’s move. The fact that no one else had made their presence known was good news. It meant, besides Mackenzie, there was no one else on board.
The silence lasted longer than it should. It felt like an eternity. My breath was even now, and my pulse down to near normal. A cold sense of purpose slowed my racing mind while heightening my senses. My training and combat experience kicking in. It was a familiar and almost comfortable feeling. I knew that from this point forward I would be operating mostly on instinct. Everything mattered, every move was crucial. Baumann and I were now in the realm of the quick and the dead, killer and prey, where there was no quarter and no second chance.
Time was quickly running out for all of us, including Mackenzie, if she was even still alive. Every passing minute brought the Carpe Diem closer to shallow reefs and certain catastrophe. I had to force the situation.
“Come on, Baumann,” I said. “Let’s do this. You know where we’re headed; you felt it when we came about we don’t have much time.”
I heard a smirk. Somewhere near the galley. Then silence. Then I heard the familiar sound of the big Mercury outboards engines somewhere outside. Their growl abated as soon as it had started.
“Jason!”
James’s voice. Shit! What was he doing here?
“Jason!” he shouted again. He must have figured out the eventual dire consequences of our present course and decided to approach and investigate.
I heard a loud sound in the darkness ahead of me, deeper inside the cabin. Someone rushing toward the staterooms, perhaps? That was likely where he had Mackenzie. I couldn’t let him get to her.
I leaped from my hiding place, headed toward the sounds, but came to a dead stop as I heard another sound behind me. Someone shuffling and bumping into furniture. Someone racing toward the hatch!
“Jason!” James called again.
That’s when I figured it out. The sound had been a diversion, a ploy to direct me away from Baumann’s real intentions. He had heard the same engine sounds I had: powerful outboard engines a means of escape. If he got in that boat, he was as good as gone. And there was also James’s welfare to consider.
I spun and dashed toward the door, only to stumble on an invisible piece of furniture. Landing on my hands, I felt something cut into the meat of my palm. I had lost my knife in the fall. I probed in the dark for it but found only shards of glass. I heard someone climbing the steps to the afterdeck and gave up the search and raced toward the hatch door. I would have to confront Baumann empty handed.
A break in the clouds moonlight bathing everything in a muted silvery glow.
I saw Baumann, bleeding and almost to the transom.
“Jason!” James shouted yet again.
Baumann peered over the gunwale, moving slowly and with jerky motions. He reached down, and in the filtered moonlight I saw something dark around his left ankle. A holster! A second later, he was raising his hand. I could never reach him in time. James was a sitting duck.
“Baumann!” I yelled, looking frantically around for anything I could use as a weapon. I only saw the shiny anchors that had been meant for our burial at sea. On the wall beside me was a rack holding three long boat hooks. They were harmless boating tools, meant to retrieve anchoring ropes or other menial tasks, but it was all I had.
Baumann whirled toward me. His tee shirt and khaki trousers were dark with blood, and he wore a thick chain of some sort around his neck, with keys or something dangling from it. The knife I had thrown stuck out just below his left collarbone. He was losing blood, but not as much as if he were to remove the knife. His face told the whole story. There was no pain or fear only rage. His gaze found me, and his face contorted into a look of total vexation, as if he could not believe how things had turned out, as if he was having a hard time dealing with this unfair twist of fate.
He knew well what would happen next. Without medical help he didn’t have much time, but he was a determined adversary, a warrior to the end, one who would do whatever he could to escape or, if he could not, inflict as much damage as he could. Killing, even if it was a wasted effort, meant nothing to this man, I realized. I thought of Mackenzie and prayed he hadn’t had time to get back to her.
Baumann grinned and swung his right arm in my direction, struggling to level the gun at me. About
thirty feet of deck space separated us. Add the sway of the boat, and in his condition, it was a tough shot. Still, there was also little chance, even severely injured, that I could reach him before he fired his weapon, whether at me or at James.
I reached for one of the boat hooks and faced him, ready to hurl the long instrument as though it were a lance when I saw something long and silvery graze flash in the gloom. Whatever it was it had grazed the back of Baumann’s head. He fell forward with a heavy grunt, and the gun clattered noisily away from him.
“Take that you bloody bastard!” James snarled from below.
I understood then: James had fired a spear gun at Baumann’s head, which was probably all he could see from his much lower vantage point on the water.
I raced toward Baumann. He was crawling and clawing his way to the pistol, less than a foot away. I rolled forward and landed off balance, but the roll was well timed. As his hand found the gun and came up to aim it I hammered down hard on his arm with my right heel. The gun caromed away out of reach and I finally came to a stop a few feet away from Baumann. I searched for the gun. It was out of reach.
I glanced back in Baumann’s direction. Somehow, he had gotten to his feet, and seemed ready for a fight, his sheer size still impressive despite his injury, but it mattered little. We were finally alone. He was mine now.
I lunged at him and my left elbow caught his right cheek, and I could feel the maxillary bone crunch and he stumbled backwards. His animal snarl confirmed that I had hurt him. I had hit him with everything I had, and my elbow felt as though it had punched through inch-thick hardwood, and yet, he was not going down.
I turned around and went after the gun, reached it, and palmed it, but Baumann was on me instantly, his hands grabbing mine. He rolled over me, and I felt his crushing weight on my rib cage. He was as strong as a bull and heavier than I had thought. If he had not been hurt as bad as he was, Baumann no doubt would have been a formidable opponent. We rolled over each other, fighting for control of the gun. I really didn’t know how this man could do it, where he got the strength to continue the fight. With a knife still buried above his heart he should be near death, and yet here he was, tossing my 230-pound frame around as if I were a medicine ball.
