antenna and satellite dish on top that would hit the chopper skids or impale Logan before he landed.
Then they didn’t have to worry about it.
The yacht took its direction from the current and Logan saw his chance evaporating. He hit the clip release and dropped on the roof of the bridge, the impact sending him tumbling down the sloped surface, across the windshield. He grabbed for anything to stop himself. The satellite dish broke off in his hand seconds before he crashed into some deck chairs. Man, I really don’t want to bounce. The force snatched the choice. He was airborne, smacking into the bow railing. The rail broke away on impact, and he scrambled to grip the flagpole and latched on. For a couple seconds, he stopped, then the pole bent, and he went over the side like wet fish.
He caught the twisted metal with one hand, the sudden stop nearly tearing his arm from the socket. He dangled for a moment, beaten like a banner against the side of the yacht. He could hear Max through the radio in his helmet but couldn’t understand anything beyond the noise of splitting waves. If he fell, he’d be crushed under the ship or chewed by the propellers.
He strained his muscles to pull his legs up to the deck, but the metal started to tear. He risked drawing his gun and fired two shots at the Plexiglas portal, then jammed his foot in the rim, pushed up for a better grip and hoisted himself over the side. He fell to the wet wood floor. The chopper hovered.
“The Commies are coming, and the Scarabs are approaching from your east, armed till that yacht reaches the marker, then we’re all fair game,” Sebastian said into his helmet radio. “Gitmo Bay went on alert and Cuba is not answering our hail.”
Guantanamo Bay Marine base. Well, crap. Start a pissing contest with the Cuban Navy over this? He pushed off the floor and hurried to the bridge, throwing open the door. The collision sirens blared in the empty bridge as he rushed to the wheel. The throttle controls were smashed and at full speed. He pulled them back, knowing it was useless, then hit the emergency engine stop. No response.
Oh, you knew what you were doing, you bastard. He didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the attack boats speeding toward him, and rushed around to the computer console, typing. Nothing responded. The ship was still traveling at incredible speeds and she had full tanks. Logan dropped to the floor and rolled under the console, pulling wires.
“Cutter, come in, come in.”
“I’m here,” Logan said and then gave them a rundown. “I’m trying to get into the computers and stop the engines.”
“You’re half a mile from a marker. ETA less than four minutes.”
Great, nothing like a little more pressure.
Logan disabled one computer. Whoever did this had destroyed the steering controls but not the engine operations. Logan disconnected the computer from the main console, then leapt to his feet, tapping keys again. The engines roared high and he smelled burning oil. It’s going to explode, he thought, and take anything within five hundred yards down with it.
He cut the circuits to the engineering and emptied the fuel into the sea. Not environmentally correct, but let the tree huggers deal with that. He went to the wheel and tried turning it, but the craft refused to budge. The engines weren’t cutting off, too much fuel in the system still, and he raced back to the computer and blew the ballast on the right side. The ship listed dangerously, and started turning away from the marker and Cuban ship, but only slightly. They’d still collide.
The steering was gone, the throttle high and damaged—he couldn’t stop it. There was no connection between the operating computers and the engines.
He left the bridge and ran down the curved stairwell to the belly of the ship. The LCD panels were lit up, the horn blaring a warning of the oncoming collision. Yet the entire access panel was smashed and smoking. He followed the computer wires from the panels to the electronic console, then yanked a handful of wires. Nothing.
“Well, shit,” he muttered and went to the electrical panel, flipped it open and reached to switch off circuits and found them smashed and melted in the ON position. “Gimme a break here!” Rushing topside and back to the bridge, Logan’s view filled with the Cuban naval ships, as big as the yacht but faster and heavily armed. While the Cuban ship recognized the oncoming collision and made to turn, a few thousand tons of steel didn’t skip on the water. He blew more ballast, nearly capsizing the yacht as it tipped sharply to the side.
“Cutter, get off that thing!” Sebastian shouted in his ear mic.
“It’s too late.”
Logan braced himself. Impact in five…four…three…two…The gray steel hull of the ship filled the windshield as the stern hull impacted with the prow, scraping its sides. The megaton ship pushed the yacht aside like a bath toy, throwing Logan across the bridge as the yacht rocked violently, nearly on its side, and took on water.
“Oh, hell no. You’re not sinking with me aboard!”
Hanging onto the door, Logan struggled to reach the ballast door’s switch, using shelves and cabinet doors to pull himself toward his target. He slammed his fist down on the switch, unloading the left side. He couldn’t tell if it worked, the impact still propelling the rudderless yacht sideways.
The vessel shuddered violently, engines choked. “Come on, you steel bastard, just die!”
The fuel finally spent from the engine’s chambers, the craft started to slow and almost righted itself. She still had a drunken tilt to her, yet was seaworthy. Oily smoke curled up from below decks into the pilothouse. The ship bobbed on the waves.
“Cutter, Cutter!” Sebastian shouted his call sign over the frequencies.
“I’m here.” Logan yanked at his helmet strap, then winced when Max whistled.
“Jesus, you’re lucky,” Max said. “The Cubans are standing down. Guantanamo Bay must have gotten through. The other ship is banged but above the waterline.”
“They’ll probably bill us.” Logan didn’t exhale a breath before the engines blew, bearings ricocheting inside the hull like a pinball machine. Exploding parts hit the floor under his feet. He tried dropping anchor but even that failed. At least it was clear of the other ships, he thought, as he removed his helmet and pushed his fingers through his hair before he fixed the transmitter in his ear and adjusted the mic.
Then he smelled it. The familiar scent of death. He looked around the bridge, just noticing the blood splatters. Everywhere.
“Max, get down here. Tell Interpol we’ll need a video camera.”
It wasn’t until he left the bridge on the leeward side that he realized it wasn’t water that made it slippery, but blood.
The ocean’s depth squeezed on his lungs, yet his air flowed freely as the propulsion torpedo dragged him through the water. He felt the pitch of the sea, the jolt of ships colliding, and smiled around his regulator. The impact shuddered through the water, scattering sea life in all directions, but he experienced only a ripple. He held tight to the torpedo as it pulled him toward the fishing boat anchored two miles away.
The agents and whoever was in the chopper wouldn’t find anything he didn’t want them to find. He’d made sure of it. His orders were clear.
No evidence to follow.
He checked
