The Black Silent (49 page)

"I want you to work the land," he told Khan. "I'll go to the water. I'll be on the phone and radio. I think I can get them in that slow boat. I got one more rocket launcher."

Sam felt his way along, using the big fins to propel himself, his right hand touching the steel of the pipe and his left wrapped around one of the Uzis. It was the spookiest thing he had ever tried. It was utterly dark and utterly cold and the temperature bored in on him, getting down to his muscles in moments. Because he had no weight, he had to swim in a slightly head-down position, his body having some tendency to float to the tunnel ceiling. It was probably related to his BC, but he didn't have time to figure it out in a pitch-black pipe.

The cold was so pervasive it became a form of pain. That was the first stage. Soon he knew he would start becoming spastic again, like a hamstrung animal in a pack of wolves, only here he would be eaten slowly, a tiny piece at a time.

He kept looking for light, thinking somehow it would help him fight the cold. If he could just see something, anything, it might not seem so hopeless. No one had told him the length of the pipe. Surely he would be able to sense the light, twenty or thirty feet off, at the very least.

If he made it, he'd have to contend with the men on the rocks. He didn't know if his Uzi would still shoot. If he survived the cold, he guessed he'd need to worry about such things.

Time was hard to measure in the cold and he didn't know how many minutes he had been in the pipe when he finally could see light ahead. It was dim, he supposed he was very deep—probably below sixty feet, near a hundred. As soon as he came out from the pipe, he angled down the beach, while moving up slope to shallower water. As he rose, he realized he had overestimated his depth because of the great cold and the darkness of the water on a late-fall morning.

He felt the weakening first in his legs and knew that if he didn't get out soon, he wouldn't get out at all. He was moving with the current, at perhaps a knot or two, and his buoyancy became welcome now. He fought through a patch of kelp and headed for the rocks finally visible at the shoreline.

The trick was to break the surface unobserved and avoid being instantly shot.

Hopefully, the kelp would provide cover and make his bubbles less noticeable.

He slipped the mask down around his neck and came up under some broad kelp leaves.

Quickly looking around, he saw no one on shore. It was rocky and steep and a sniper would have no easy route down to the beach.

Studying the bluffs carefully, he finally saw what he hoped he wouldn't: five men, four with automatic weapons, making their way down a slash in the rock overgrown with alders. Turning, he saw the yacht in the distance, waiting. He knew that Haley would be nearly hysterical with worry. If they came for him, the boat would be shot to pieces and perhaps even disintegrated by a rocket if they had any left.

With the cold he knew he couldn't stay in the water, so he crawled out on the rocks into some nearby bushes, which grew at the base of the bluff. His clothing stuck to him and the denim of his jeans created a murderous cold in the wind. The wool of the shirt was better, but not much. Crawling next to the bank, he slipped off his tank and stood with his back to the rock. The gunmen wouldn't be able to see him here, but he hoped that with binoculars his friends might spot him from the boat.

In minutes the men would reach the water and they would find him. He had to move.

Forcing his body, he made his way along the steep rocky slopes, stumbling frequently as the cramped muscles and shot nerves sent all manner of pain through to his brain.

He'd hoped he wouldn't have to use his Uzi.

Frick drove back Deer Harbor Road to West Sound, where his boat was moored. If the yacht remained behind Orcas, he would intercept and destroy it. And if Ben Anderson were found, he would fish him out of the water. Spurred on by his proximity to the prize, he floored it and went eighty miles an hour, except where the curves were too much.

He called McStott.

"Did you get a piece of that octopus?"

"It's harder than you think," McStott said. "We don't have any of the technicians and none of us dive. We don't know what they do to get him to come up."

"Get food. Put it over the side, entice him."

"Where's the food?"

"In the house, there on the dock, I would think."
This guy had a Ph.D. ?
"If not, it would be in the storage areas."

"All right, we'll try."

"Do better than try."

Evidently the gunmen saw Sam just as he was disappearing around a large rock. He heard shouts of "cop killer" that bore the excitement of blood sport, a sound he would never get used to. Given the nature of the hired thugs, it was an ironic rallying cry and a tribute to Frick's ability to control the message.

Knowing that they wouldn't be able to see the beach down the way without coming quite some distance, Sam signaled madly at the yacht. He tried to run down the shoreline on the rocks. From the cold his already suffering muscles had become so incapacitated they didn't want to function. Even if they spotted him, bringing the yacht in tight to the beach risked running it onto the rocks.

By coming down the rock face on a series of ledges, the gunmen had lost their line of sight down the beach rendering their weapons useless at certain target angles. As the yacht moved, this condition wouldn't last. Well down the beach from the gunmen, Sam went to a large rock and leaped into the ocean, swimming frantically with his last few calories. As the yacht approached, a barrage of automatic shots rang out and he could see the superstructure of the yacht begin to dissolve. Apparently the gunmen could see only the uppermost portion of the yacht, to a level just below the flybridge. He hoped no one was on the upper bridge because they could not have survived. The shots continued to eat away at the bridge, sending bits of fiberglass flying and opening up long lines in the fiberglass that became jagged slices.

Sam held up his arm as a signal, as best he could, when a shot hit the water directly in front of him. He went under, waiting for the boat. More shots hit the water around him, but not many. When the boat was almost atop him, he bobbed up. Stu stood on the fantail of the boat. Nelson and Ben held him as he leaned over. They would have one try.

After that, the boat would be shot to pieces as the gunmen got closer and improved their line of sight.

Sam grabbed Stu's forearm as it passed and they struggled to hold him.

I
gnoring the five-knot speed limit, Frick drove the sheriff's boat forty-eight knots through Poll Pass. It was the most direct and therefore the fastest route if one ignored all safety considerations, as well as the no-wake zones and the speed limit. At least one man on a small dock shook his fist.

Instead of the roiling waters, the bobbing seabirds, diving eagles, and splashing harbor seals, Flick's mind was on the yacht and the best way to sink it quickly. The victory, if he could achieve it, would be sweet.

Frick got on the cell phone, slightly irritated that Khan hadn't called him with a report.

"He's down by the water and it's rocky," Khan said. "Can't get a clear shot. The guys are going down the rock face. May be a mistake, but it's too late now."

"Where's that yacht?"

"It's in close now. As soon as we get a clear shot, we'll pick 'em apart."

"Sink it, but don't kill Anderson or Walther, unless you have to."

"We'll see. The guys are shooting right now. From up here it looks like . . . yeah . . .

that's Chase in the water and the boat's coming fast."

"Kill him," Frick shouted into the phone. "Kill him!"

Stu gave a massive pull and got Sam half out of the water with his legs dragging in the wake. Spray flew everywhere as Sam tried to get his leaden lower body clear of the water. Suddenly, as they turned seaward, Stu clenched his own leg, now pressed beside Sam's chest. The blood sprung red from his pants, but Stu kept on. At last they got Sam aboard.

Haley was steering belowdecks in the main salon. He saw no blood on her. Amid a new flurry of bullets they all hit the deck.

Too close to shore to turn in toward the beach, Haley continued an outbound turn and immediately the bullets ate their way along the hull as more snipers had better lines of sight. They all stayed down, and Sam saw Haley sitting on the salon floor trying to steer blind.

The bullets made a horrible racket as they shredded the yacht. Sam expected at any second to see Haley's body explode in crimson. She completed a 180-degree turn and then reached up to shove the throttles forward. A line of bullets blew up the steering console and Sam could see sparks shooting down from under the destroyed woodwork.

He crawled forward into the main salon, throwing himself at the cabinet containing the main breaker switch. He broke the glass, dousing the main breaker.

Then he saw something chilling. A man he didn't recognize—no doubt the captain, who had brought the boat to pick them up—lay dead with the top of his skull half-blown away. He had pitched headfirst into the bullet-riddled galley. "The shore," Sam shouted, seeing that they could get closer to the steep granite wall. Haley turned the wheel as more bullets poured into the boat. A bilge alarm sounded.

"Oh, my God," Ben said. A bullet had gotten below the waterline.

Then there was a horrible impact shaking the boat and tilting it. More shots blew through the boat and everybody stayed down. A damn rock! There was a gut-wrenching grinding sound forward. As bullets poured through the superstructure topside, it literally started to collapse. Haley threw the slowly turning engines in reverse, resulting in more grinding. She increased the power and the grinding got worse. They came off the rock.

More shots. Haley turned the boat slightly outward and it seemed to run without shaking. They must have stopped before the rock hit the shafts, Sam thought, as another swarm of bullets tore through the boat. Haley applied more throttle. The bullets began missing the boat and sprays of water leaped around the yacht as it accelerated to top speed.

Sam rose, marveling that the shredded boat still floated. Engines and steering system were intact, but little else. Nelson came up from below, stepping over the body. Ben came to Haley's side. Miraculously, everyone but Stu and the dead captain had escaped injury. Nelson went to work on Stu's leg.

The raucous bilge alarm continued, assaulting their ears and putting fear in their heads.

The alarm ran off batteries and could not easily be silenced.

"I'm wondering if they've gone for their boat. It's probably in West Sound," Sam said.

"We can't outrun them then," Haley said. "They'll just board us, unless we resist. Then they'll sink us. Assuming that by some miracle we're still afloat."

The alarm continued unabated, reminding them that their bilges were filling.

"The hole is forward," Ben shouted above the din. "When the boat rises with speed, the hole must be above the water-line."

"I've got it floored," Haley shouted back.

"Head south," Sam said, "back toward Friday Harbor. Stay right near the beach."

Haley looked skeptical. "But that's the way they'll be coming."

"I have an idea."

"All right," Haley said. "It'd better be good. Their boat goes about fifty knots; ours goes about fourteen."

Frick tried to get Khan to talk to him, but Khan was too busy shooting.

"I think I may have hit Chase right when he was being picked up," Khan said. "I'm sure I saw blood on the back of the boat. Quite a bit of blood."

The reports slowed, then stopped.

"They're out of range," Khan said, his voice less animated. "Boat's still afloat, but I'm sure I punctured the hull at least once. Probably hit some of them. Headed your way."

"Good." Frick rounded the tip of Orcas and headed into the channel between Orcas and Jones Islands, knowing that around the next point he would find a crippled yacht and the people he desperately needed.

More clouds were moving in and the wind was rising. There would soon be small-craft advisories in the open water if there weren't already. Off to his port, dolphins were cruising along, but they were just humps in the water, disappearing and reappearing.

Frick felt not even a flicker of interest. It took two minutes to round the point. They'd have to be there.

At first the yacht appeared as a white blob on the horizon. It wasn't moving. Perhaps Khan and his men had disabled it, after all. With their combined firepower it was certainly possible.

He glanced down at the rocket launcher, waiting to get within fifty yards. Then he'd blow the bow off and pick off the survivors as the yacht sank. He'd keep Anderson and Haley Walther alive long enough to extract the real meat of the scientist's research. And in a way he would have his revenge on Mr. Chase, because as the guy went lights out, there would be no doubt in his mind as to what would happen to Haley Walther.

At fifty yards he cut the throttle and studied the craft, staying low so as not to take a bullet. They could have a rifle on board. He saw no sign of life. That told him he was facing an ambush. They might not anticipate a rocket launcher, though.

He shouldered the green tube and used the laser sight to put the red dot three feet in from the tip of the bow. He blinked sweat from his eyes despite the chill; he didn't like the quiet. There should be some sign, a gun barrel over the edge, anything. He saw nothing.

Curious, Frick lowered the launcher and glassed the boat. They remained well hidden.

"Damn," he muttered, and pulled the trigger. It was almost instantaneous. The whole boat exploded. In front of his eyes it disintegrated. Had he been closer, he would have been injured.

He saw no swimmers; no one could have survived the blast. The blast was unnatural.

Chase had turned on propane or the like. Then it struck him. This was no ambush. It was misdirection. They had gone ashore and he was wasting time. Frick cursed his mother, his father, God, and, most of all, Robert Chase.

He got on the cell phone.