us.
Jock spotted them. 'Oh, shit,' he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I pushed the throttles all the way forward. The boat jumped, flattening out on the water as it gained speed. I doused the running lights that I'd turned on as we came into Boca Grande Channel. The go-fast boats could outrun me, but maybe they couldn't see me in the dark. If they had radar, we were in trouble.
I kept the boats in sight on my radarscope, their blips making steady progress toward us. I realized they were on a course to intercept me. They knew exactly where I was. They had radar.
Jock disappeared into the cabin, and in a moment was back, lugging the M60 machine gun and its tripod. He laid it on the deck and went back down into the cabin. He returned with the rocket-propelled grenade launcher. We were loaded for bear.
Logan took the launcher, caressed it softly, smiling. 'Man, I haven't used one of these in years.'
Jock looked up from where he was assembling the tripod for the machine gun. 'Do you remember how to use it?'
'Bet your ass,' said Logan. 'Bet your sweet ass.'
I took another look at the radar screen. 'They're closing on us,' I said. 'They'll be in rifle range in a few minutes.'
Logan pushed Simmermon from his sitting position onto the floor of the cockpit. 'Peggy, get in the cabin,' he said. She did.
Just then, I saw winks of muzzle fire from the lead go-fast. 'He's firing on us,' I said. 'He's too far away to do any damage, but they'll both be in range in a couple of minutes.'
Jock had the M60 tripod braced on the gunwale near the stern. 'I see them,' he said, working to get the gun ready.
He settled in, quickly threading the cartridge belt into the chamber. He pointed it in the direction of our pursuers. I heard the heavy retort of the M60 override the sound of the straining outboards. Jock was firing steady streams of tracers. The lead go-fast had closed to within a thousand yards of us, when it veered off its course, turning away. Jock must have gotten some hits.
Logan was standing, feet planted wide apart, riding with the movement of the boat. He had the RPG launcher on his shoulder, his eye to the optical sight, the breech pointing overboard. He pulled the trigger, and the rocket shot from the barrel, the back-blast rolling harmlessly across the water.
The lead boat exploded. In the bright light of the blast, I could see shards of fiberglass shooting like flaming arrows into the dark water. The boat was gone in an instant, and a burning patch of gasoline was already dying out.
Logan let out a howl of elation. 'Bring it on!' he shouted, shaking his fist at the scene of carnage.
The other go-fast made a wide arcing turn at high speed, bouncing in its own wake. I could hear the roar of its engines as it sped back the way it had come, tracers from Jock's M60 chasing it.
'Should we look for survivors?' I asked.
'There won't be any,' said Logan. 'Let's find out what Simmermon has to tell us.'
I eased the throttles back to neutral. We drifted on the dark Gulf waters. No other boats were in sight, and my radar screen was empty. The quiet of the night was broken only by the slap of small swells hitting the side of the boat.
Logan pulled Simmermon up by his shirtfront and sat him against the bulkhead. He removed his gag and said, 'You want to tell me who you're going to blow up?'
'The world.'
'When?'
'It's started already. You can't stop it.'
'Can't stop what?' Logan asked.
'The bombers. Some have already left the island, and the others are leaving today.'
'What are the targets?'
'The ones God picks.'
'You can do better than that, Rev,' said Logan.
'God talks to me, you know. He tells me what to do. I am his earthly right arm.'
Peggy had come up on deck. 'I think he's schizophrenic,' she said. 'Once, when he had me in his room, he got quiet, and then started talking. It was like he was having a conversation, but I could only hear his side of it. He told me it was God talking to him.'
'Voices,' said Jock. 'He's crazy as a loon.'
Logan kicked Simmermon in the hip. 'I want to know what you're going to blow up,' he said.
'It's not what, it's who,' Simmermon said. 'You'll see. God is going to cleanse the world of heathens.'
'How?'
'Suicide bombers,' said Simmermon, a look of pleasure crossing his face. 'We're going to set the world right.'
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jock was talking into his satellite phone, facing astern, nodding his head, writing on a piece of notepaper he'd pulled from his pocket.
He closed the phone and turned to me. 'We need to meet a Coast Guard boat. They'll take Simmermon off our hands.' He read the coordinates off his notes.
I dialed them into my GPS. 'We're only about ten minutes from the rendezvous point,' I said. 'Did they give you a time to meet?'
'A forty-one footer is on its way now.'
I flipped on my running lights and brought the boat up on plane, turning onto a course that would take us to the Coast Guard boat. Logan was squatting on the deck, still talking to Simmermon. I couldn't hear them over the roar of the engines. Jock stood on the deck holding the stock of the M60, still on its tripod.
As we approached the rendezvous point, I slowed the boat. My radio came alive.
'Recess, Recess, this is the United States Coast Guard. Request that you turn your running lights off and then on.'
'This is Recess. Wilco,' I mumbled into the mic as I flipped the lights off and then on.
A spotlight hit us, its beam piercing the dark and pinning us to the black water. 'Recess, this is the Coast Guard. We have you in sight. I'll approach from your port. Don't shoot.'
'Coast Guard, this is Recess. I copy. I have you in sight. We're standing down.'
The white boat with the red striping and the Coast Guard emblem appeared out of the darkness. Its spotlight was trained on an area off my bow, not blinding us now.
The Coastie coxswain eased his boat alongside us. A woman in blue fatigues threw fenders over the side, and a young man in the same uniform threw me a line. Jock went to the bow to catch another line, and we secured the boats together.
One of the Coasties said, 'Permission to come aboard?'
'Come ahead,' I said. 'We're glad to see you guys.'
A uniformed man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, climbed aboard Recess. 'I'm Petty Officer Bob Postel,' he said. 'I was told to meet you and take charge of a prisoner. Which one of you is Mr. Houston?'
Jock stepped down into the cockpit and said, 'That would be me.'
The Coastie threw a sloppy salute. 'I was told to meet you, sir, and put myself and my boat under your command.'
