Echo of War

47

However aesthetically lacking Franjo’s color choice for the skipjack may have been, Tanner now found himself grateful for the battleship gray paint job and matching cover. Trailing less than a mile astern of the Barak, the little boat was all but invisible against the storm-churned sea. The rain fell in sheets. Foam and white water cascaded over the cover and poured through the waist skirt. Tanner could feel the chill water sloshing around his ankles.

With one eye fixed on the Barak’s mastlight and one eye on the ever-shifting waves, Tanner kept the bow doggedly pointed into the motor yacht’s wake. Sporadically, as the wind shifted and gusted, he could hear the faint grumble of her engines.

Three miles west of the Male Srakane, he felt the sea changing as the seabed dropped away. Though markedly larger, the swells stacked and broke with some predictability. Using their rhythm, he threaded the skipjack between the crests, darting from one trough to the next with short bursts from the throttle.

Slowly but steadily, he closed the distance to the Barak.

After and hour’s travel, a sudden gust brought the sound of the Barak’s engines. The pitch had changed, Tanner realized. She was throttling down, coming to a stop. He turned the skipjack’s bow into an oncoming wave, pushed the throttle to its maximum, and broke through the crest. He caught a glimpse of the Barak’s mastlight. She lay less than a half mile ahead, her bow tucked tight against the anchor chain.

It was decision time. Until now he’d been concentrating only on keeping the Barak in sight, not on what he would do if and when he caught her. He was exhausted; his mind felt sluggish. Having caught his prey, he suddenly realized how dire his situation was.

He was outgunned, outmanned four to one, and was sitting in a glorified rowboat that was slowly but surely sinking beneath him in the middle of the worst storm the Adriatic had seen in a decade. Could be worse, he thought. Could be dead. Without realizing it, Tanner found himself chuckling aloud.

Then, from the back of his mind, another thought: Perhaps he wasn’t unarmed after all. Maybe he had a weapon at his disposal. Of course, if he used it, there would be no turning back, no second chances, and no guarantee of success — which, he thought, would leave him no worse off than he was right now.

He spent twenty minutes maneuvering the skipjack around the Barak, until he was dead on her bow. He raised the binoculars and scanned her decks. There was nothing except the faint glow of the afterdeck’s spotlight

He ducked beneath the skirt, crawled to the bow, unzipped the cover, and pushed it back. He found the sea anchor — a garbage can-shaped piece of canvas designed to minimize drift — lashed under the gunwale. He unwound the painter line and tossed the anchor overboard.

His plan required little preparation. He found the skipjack’s emergency kit, removed the flare gun and three spare flares, and stuffed them into his jacket. Next he unbolted the spare fuel can from its bracket beside the motor. Judging by its heft, it contained about eight gallons. He wedged it under the front seat.

He cast a glance at the Barak. He’d drifted too close. He scrambled to the stern, started the engine, and backed up a hundred yards.

One more task to complete. Using his folding knife, he punched three holes in the bottom of the fuel can. Oily liquid began gushing into the bottom of the boat. The tang of petroleum filled his nostrils. Staring at the fuel lapping at his ankles, Briggs felt a twinge of doubt. This was not, he thought, the smartest thing he’d ever done. Then don’t think about it, he commanded himself. Do it. He pulled out the flare gun, loaded a flare into the chamber, and stuffed the other two into his pocket.

He cut the sea anchor free, then took his seat at the stern. He jerked the starter cord, then throttled up and turned for the Barak.

He ran her at full speed, pounding from wave top to wave top until he was twenty yards off her bow. He banked to port, ran for another ten seconds, then banked again. As he drew even with her beam he heard a shout. He glanced right. A figure was standing at the Barak’s railing.

“Karl!” the man shouted. “Eine boot!”

“Was?”

“Eine boot!”

“Auf scheissen! Wir sind fast fertig!” came another voice, this one Litzman’s. Shit! We’re almost done!

A second figure rushed to the railing. In his peripheral vision, Briggs saw both men lift objects to their shoulders. Overlapping cracks echoed over the water. A chunk of the skipjack’s gunwale splintered. Tanner hunched over. A bullet sparked on the motor housing.

He glanced right, gauging his distance to the Barak. On the afterdeck he could see the outline of the sled, its aluminum rails glinting under the spotlights. They had uncrated the CAPTOR and it now sat strapped in the cradle, a blunt-nosed cylinder of black steel six feet long and as big around as a sewer pipe.

Standing beside the CAPTOR’s access hatch was Litzman. As Tanner watched, Litzman’s hands worked inside the hatch for a few more moments, then slammed it shut. He began hurriedly working at one of the floats. Opposite him, another man was doing the same.

A pair of bullets tore into the skipjack’s hull. Tanner ducked down. He peeked over the gunwale to get his bearings. Now! He cut the skipjack sharply to the right, aimed its nose toward the Barak’s afterdeck, and jammed the throttle to its stops. Thirty feet to go.

Litzman glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the CAPTOR.

From the railing, the muzzle flashes were coming rapidly now. Bullets peppered the skipjack’s hull. Fist-sized holes appeared in the hull. Riddled, a three-foot section of gunwale tore free and disappeared into the water. The skipjack veered right. Water sloshed over the side. The motor whined, sputtered, bit down again.

Twenty feet. Tanner felt a bullet pluck at the shoulder of his coat, felt a sting in his bicep.

On the afterdeck, Litzman shouted to the other man, “Fertig … zuschieben!”

He and the other man ran to the rear of the sled, put their shoulders to it, and began shoving it toward the stern. Tanner was fifteen feet away. The Barak’s side loomed before him.

“Zuschieben!” Litzman screamed at the other man. “Zuschieben!”

Together they gave the sled one final shove. It slipped onto the diving platform, where it teetered for a moment, half on deck, half in the water, then tipped upright and plunged into the waves. Litzman and the other man scrambled toward the cabin.

Tanner pulled the flare gun from his pocket, pointed it into the bottom of the skipjack. He released the throttle, flipped his legs over the side, then pulled the trigger and rolled into the water.