Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

I guess I should say “Aye, Captain,” like Scotty on Star Trek, but I don't. I just twist and tug the wheel, work the throttles, check the compass, and line us up for a quick run down to Hell.

  We're plowing through breakers. The Lady Fran is doing the Coast Guard one better. She's clipping along at thirty-six knots, plowing up ridges of water in her wake. I wonder what kind of suped-up engines Gus has rigged up under the decking. Somewhere, I suspect, there's a Maserati missing a motor.

  “That's gotta be him,” Gus says. He's staring at the sweeping circle on the long-range radar screen. A blinking blip is sitting smack dab in the middle of the superimposed chart displaying the Hell Hole. “Radar signature appears to be the right size. We should have visual contact in another five or ten minutes. Hang on. I'll be right back.”

  Gus scampers over to the ladder and scurries down. The man is spry. He works the railings and rungs like a scrappy rhesus monkey.

  Ceepak moves around the control console, hanging on to the rails that pen us in as we slice through the crests tossed up by the tide. He wants to be up front so he can be the first to see Mullen's boat.

  Fran is really rocking now. We keep smacking across rollers, the next best thing to a hydroplane.

  “Ceepak!”

  It's Gus, scaling back up the ladder, lugging a chunky pair of binoculars. Ceepak braces the handrails and works his way back.

  “What've you got?”

  “Night-vision capability.” Gus tosses the binoculars to Ceepak. “Couple years back I helped some DEA boys bust up this drug-smuggling ring coming up the coast from Florida. The guys gave me these as a thank you. I use them to watch birds. At night. Their body heat makes the infrared lenses go crazy.”

  Ceepak nods. Presses the binoculars to his eyes. Scans the horizon.

  “See anything?” I ask.

  “Negative.”

  Gus leans in to check the arcing circle on the long-range radar. “He's still too far out for visual. But we're gaining on him, boys. He's definitely dropped anchor. Set up shop for the night. Hasn't moved since we first pinged him.”

  Ceepak lowers the field glasses, drapes their strap around his neck to free up his hands. He retrieves his little notebook from his front shirt pocket. Flips through a few pages. Reads something.

  “Gus,” he asks, “do you have a fire extinguisher on board?”

  “Yeah. A couple. Down in the cabin.”

  “We might need them.”

  “What's up?” I ask.

  “I've been contemplating something else Mullen said. About his mission. How he never completely fulfilled the Lord's Commandments.”

  “What?” I say. “Chopping off their ears and noses wasn't enough?”

  “Not if he was attempting to follow a strict and literal interpretation of the Scripture's edict.” Ceepak reads from his notebook: “Ezekiel. Chapter twenty-three. Verse twenty-five. ‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword: they shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire.’”

  Gus groans. “Jesus. You think he's gonna go after her son, too? T. J.?”

  “Doubtful,” says Ceepak. “His narcissistic fantasy is completely focused on females. I suspect, however, he intends to follow through on the final command. To do what he never did before because it would have denied him his trophies, his skulls and fleshy souvenirs.”

  “He's going to burn her body?” I say.

  Ceepak nods. “We should assume that is his plan.”

  “Jesus. A fire? He'll sink his own freaking boat!” says Gus.

  “I believe this man in all his delusions would consider such a lethal conflagration to be a glorious conclusion to what he perceives as his lifelong mission.”

  “Freaking nut job,” Gus mutters. “Freaking, fucking nut.”

  A flash of green on the radar screen catches the corner of my eye.

  “Guys?” I say. “We're here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  He's showing up on the short-range,” I say. “We just pinged him. Bearing seventy-five relative to current course. Range two-point-two nautical miles.”

  Like a gunner in a tank turret, Ceepak swivels with his field glasses to look where I just told him to look.

  Something stings his eyes. He momentarily lowers the binoculars. Blinks to clear his vision.

  “Infrared flare,” he says.

  “Disco birds?” Gus asks. That's what fishermen call the annoying gulls that swoop into the halogen lights off the back of any night-fishing boat while you're cleaning your catch.

  “Negative,” says Ceepak. He puts the glasses back to his eyes, braced this time for the hot spots. “A burning cross. Two.”

  Gus peers off toward the horizon. “Like the goddamn Ku Klux Klan?”

  Ceepak nods. “Mullen has affixed flaming crossbeams to both outrigger poles-port and starboard. They must be wrapped with a kerosene-soaked fabric of some sort….”

  Great. Cap'n Pete has decorated his ship with holy tiki torches. Next he's going to turn his boat into a luau pit.

  “Can you see anything else?” asks Gus. “Do you see Pete? Rita?”

  “Negative. No. Wait. Yes. I am reading thermal images of two bodies in the stern cockpit. One stationary and seated. The other mobile.” He lowers the glasses. “Danny? Cut back on the engines.”

  I do.

  Ceepak goes back to the night-vision goggles.

  “The stationary body is moving. Slightly. Wriggling against apparent restraints.”

  Good. Rita is still alive.

  “Body appears to be tied down in a fighting chair aft of the main cabin,” Ceepak continues.

  Most fishing boats have these padded chairs you strap yourself into. Makes it easier to tangle with a tuna if your seat belt is securely fastened and you're bolted down to the deck.

  “The other body is moving back and forth to the cabin,” he continues. “Keeps bringing out heavy objects. Stacking them. Judging from the thermal silhouette, the cold object being carried appears to be round. Doughnut shaped.”

  I take a wild guess. “Tires?”

  “Roger that. S.O.P. Standard Operating Procedure for insurgents. Tires and diesel fuel. Stack 'em up, soak 'em down. Creates an excellent improvised incendiary device. Generates intense heat.”

  “Freaking psycho,” says Gus. “Burning up his own damn boat. Rig for silent running, Danny.”

  “You want me to kill the motors?”

  “Make 'em as quiet as you can. Line up our bow with his foredeck, aim for a spot just off his port. We'll sneak up on him from his blind spot, use his bulkhead for cover.”

  I turn the wheel, pull down on the throttles.

  Ceepak, I notice, is checking his pistol.

  “Danny? Lock and load.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You boys bring along a spare pop-gun?” asks Gus.

  “Negative,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps you should man the helm from this point on.”

  “Sure. Make me the freaking chauffeur.”

  I step aside. Gus takes the wheel, concentrates on maneuvering us into position for our sneak attack. He makes a final twist of the wheel and pulls back on the throttles.

  The engines stop whining. Move into a purr. Down into a chug.

  “Danny?” Ceepak whispers.

  “Sir?”

  “I suggest you assume a prone position here on the bridge. It will help steady your aim.”

  “Yes, sir.” I lie down on the deck. Brace my gun against the front-most railing. Line up a shot across our bow.

  I hear Ceepak move aft, slide down the ladder, make his way to the bow, and climb out on the harpooning pulpit. He becomes, as always, our forward gunner.

  We're drifting.

  I can see the Reel Fun now.

  On it are silhouetted two fiery crosses jutting out on the chrome-fitted outriggers at the stern. They frame bot
h sides of the boat with flame.

  Of course, I can't see Rita. She's tied up in the back. We're coming at them from the front.

  “One hundred yards and closing,” Gus whispers. “Adding speed.”

  I slide an inch or two forward on my belly, holding my pistol in front of me with both hands. I steady it in a corner where the horizontal railing meets its vertical post.

  “Eighty yards.”

  I peek up and over my gun. Ceepak is crouched in the pulpit that juts forward off the bow. His pistol is pointed straight ahead, too. I wish he had his rifle. Some sort of sniper weapon system. Ceepak can pierce Roosevelt's ear on a dime with a sniper weapon.

  “Sixty yards.”

  Hang on, Rita. The cavalry's coming.

  Suddenly, a light goes on at the front of the Reel Fun.

  A blindingly bright halogen.

  It spotlights Ceepak.

  “Hello, Lady Fran.” Pete's voice crackles over our radio. “You shouldn't be here, Johnny. Not yet, anyway.”

  I crawl backward. Crab sideways. Move behind the control console. Hug the floor behind Gus's feet.

  “You shouldn't be here!”

  Ceepak doesn't answer.

  “Gus!” Cap'n Pete hollers. “Hello, old friend. Welcome!”

  I look up. Above me, I see Gus frozen in a dusty circle of bright light. He reaches down and grabs the radio mike.

  “Give it up, Pete,” he says. “Over.”

  I hear Pete's wet, jolly laugh rumble out of the radio speaker. Only it doesn't sound so jolly tonight.

  “Johnny,” Pete's voice spikes. “I have Rita tied up down below.”

  I'm guessing Pete is upstairs in his flybridge like Gus-seated at the helm, manning the halogen spotlight, working the radio.

  “If you want your whore to live a single moment longer, kindly lower that cannon you're aiming at me. That's the good boy. Now, toss it overboard.”

  The radio goes quiet. All I hear are the waves slapping the sides of our boat. I stay low, curled up behind the three-foot-wide control console. I'm practically kissing the no-skid strips pasted on the deck.

  “Now, Johnny!” Pete screams. “Throw your weapon overboard or Rita dies, do you understand?”

  Up front, I hear Ceepak's pistol splash into the water.

  Great.

  I think I just became the forward gunner.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  I'm curled up in a ball, lying undetected on the deck of the fly-bridge, hidden behind the control console.

  However, if Cap'n Pete asks John Ceepak to tell him where I am, I'm totally busted, because Ceepak will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do-maybe not even when multiple lives are at stake.

  The radio crackles with static. “Where's Danny?” asks Pete.

  Great. Here we go.

  “I'm not certain,” says Ceepak.

  Okay. Technically, he's telling the truth. He doesn't know if I'm up here, down in the cabin, or hiding with the live bait in the cooler.

  “Is he there with you?”

  “No.”

  Again, technically true. I am not standing on the harpooning pulpit with Ceepak.

  “Probably best that you left the boy at home,” says Pete.

  Ceepak doesn't answer. Pete forgot to phrase his remark in the form of a question. Blew his chance at becoming a five-time champion on Jeopardy! — or at finding my hiding spot.

  “Gus, please be so kind as to bring your vessel around to my stern.”

  “Ceepak?” Gus calls out.

  “Do as he says.”

  “That's the good boy, Johnny. I'll meet you fellows around back. I have work to do.”

  The radio goes dead.

  Gus eases the throttles forward, turns the wheel, brings us around the Reel Fun's port side, pivots our bow left, takes us dead astern to its aft end.

  I can't see much. Just the reflection of the flaming crosses dancing on the waxed floorboards on either side of my hiding place.

  “Cut your engines!” I hear Pete scream from directly in front of our boat.

  “Aye, aye,” Gus grumbles.

  “Drop your anchor!”

  “All right, all right!” Gus moves away from the control console. He goes the long way: to the left and then around the front of the wide podium. He doesn't want to step on me on his way out.

  “Hurry up, Gus!” yells Pete. “I'm on a very tight schedule.”

  I hear Gus clank slowly down the ladder.

  “Don't worry, Johnny,” says Pete. “Rita is heavily sedated. Won't feel a thing. She was a fighter. Very scrappy. Typically, I like to have my girls wide awake for the cleansing.”

  Ceepak still doesn't say anything.

  I sidle to my right. Peek around the podium.

  “I imagined the Coast Guard would spot me first,” Cap'n Pete calls out across the span of water separating the butt of his boat from the front of ours. I'm guessing it's only about ten feet. “I assumed they would fly over in one of their search planes or perhaps read the heat signature once my little inferno really starts roiling. But this is better. Much better.”

  “I want you to untie Rita,” says Ceepak.

  “Of course you do, Johnny. Tell me-does it pain you to see her like this? To know that I have seen her naked flesh?”

  “Please cover her body with a blanket.”

  “How old is Rita? Thirty? Thirty-five? Still quite attractive. You know, I knew her back in the day. Saw her in a bikini. Firm, full breasts. Still has them, doesn't she? Yes, indeedy….”

  “Cover her. Now!”

  “No, Johnny. I can't do that. Rita Lapczynski defied the Lord's Commandments. She was promiscuous. She slept with men outside the sanctity of holy matrimony. Not once, but twice. Maybe more often. How many men do you think have had her, Johnny? Did she tell you? Was it a dozen? Two dozen? More?”

  “I'll ask you once more, Mullen. Kindly cover her.”

  “No! I will not obey your commands! I only listen to Him! Is that clear? You're like my goddamn mother. Nag, nag, nag. Vicious cunt. She was so disappointed in me, Johnny. So disappointed. Of course, I understand why now. I let her down. I truly did. That's why I have not yet had sex with your girlfriend. Oh, I was tempted. Sorely tested. They all tempted me. Their flesh cold and soft, making me strong and rigid.”

  I have the Glock in my hand.

  I have sixteen bullets. Probably one chance.

  “When Mother passed, I thought this was finished. Thought I was done. I no longer felt the urge, Johnny. Not for a full fifteen years. I was content with Mary. Kept my marital vows for a decade and a half. But then, Mother came back to me. Told me I had been selfish. Lustful. Greedy. It's true, of course. I know it. I coveted my souvenirs. I pleasured myself with their flesh. Over and over. Out here. All alone. I did not do as Ezekiel commanded. I admit that, now, Johnny. I confess my sins, here in your presence. And this is why I am so delighted to have you with us tonight. Everyone in town knows Johnny Ceepak cannot and will not tell a lie. You'll tell Reverend Billy and my Mary the truth. You'll tell them all that Peter Paul Mullen kept the Lord's Commandments. He obeyed every single word!”

  I hear feet pinging on the ladder rungs again. Gus is climbing back up. I crane my neck, see his head bob into view.

  We make eye contact.

  He gives me the slightest nod. He hauls himself up and retakes his position behind the wheel.

  “Oh, by the way, Johnny,” Cap'n Pete chuckles, “please forgive me for misleading you. I buried that snapshot under false pretenses. The redhead was never my intended target.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course you do, Johnny. You're very clever that way. Very clever, indeedy. But can you forgive me? Please? I know you can not tolerate liars, but surely you understand my need to temporarily distract you.”

  “Put that down,” says Ceepak.

  “I can't.”

  I hear a small electric motor. Chugging.

  “We must do this prec
isely at midnight. Just like the electric chair or the gas chamber.”

  The motor's purr is coupled with a pulsing click. It reminds me of something.

  Thanksgiving.

  The electric carving knife.

  “You don't need to do that, Mullen,” says Ceepak. “Not tonight.”

  “Oh, but I do, Johnny. It says so in Scripture. Ezekiel's wording is quite explicit. First the ears, then the nose, then the remnant must fall by the sword and the residue must be devoured by fire!”

  I spring up into a kneeling stance. Aim.

  Cap'n Pete sees me. Looks shocked. Holds a huge electric knife stiffly at his side.

  “Daniel?”

  Now he glares at Ceepak.

  “You lied!”

  Gives me time to line up a shot.

  “Freeze!” I scream. “Drop the knife! Drop it now!”

  He does. I hear it clatter to the deck. The motor keeps running, the blades clicking.

  “Put your hands above your head!” shouts Ceepak.

  Cap'n Pete does.

  Gus guns up the engines. Pushes us forward, tugging against the anchor line. The boat rocks. So do I.

  For a second, I lose my line of fire. Stumble forward. Have to reach out with my left hand, brace myself against a railing.

  When I look up, I see Cap'n Pete holding a red gas canister.

  “Drop it!” I call out, lining up my shot again, aiming for the middle of his chest.

  He smiles.

  He dips to his right and swings to his left-sending up a liquid line of diesel fuel to the starboard cross.

  The vapor explodes into a fireball.

  “Take him out, Danny!” Gus screams.

  “Now!” yells Ceepak.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  My first shot misses, thwacks into the gas can, pierces the plastic, sprays flammable liquid everywhere. The fire spreads.

  “Ram him!” Ceepak orders.

  Gus jams the throttles full speed ahead. We lunge forward, as far as the anchor will allow.

  I take a second shot.

  My firing stance is shaky but I hit Cap'n Pete in the chest.

  I hear a hard smack.

  He stumbles backward.

  My third shot whacks him in the chest again. Our bow smashes into his stern.

  Ceepak leaps off the nose pulpit, boards the Reel Fun.