emergency tool, not a weapon. His instincts were to draw himself into a ball, but he resisted doing so.
One of the scuba divers took a quick look at Jeffrey through his mask. He tapped him on the shoulder and then pointed up.
Seven men had jumped from the helo. Seven men now swam in the sea, including Jeffrey. One of the “men” from the helo had been a heated rubber dummy, weighted to sink and stay down. The others were Brazilian Navy frogmen.
Jeffrey heard a new noise now, a screaming two-toned throbbing buzz. It came at him both through the air and through the water. The frogmen spread out in an extended line, leaving him in the middle.
Lightning sizzled again, very close, and hit the ocean with a blinding blue-white flash. The ripping thunderclap came almost instantly. The curving, whirling funnel of the waterspout seemed not to have moved.
Then Jeffrey saw that it
One of the frogmen shouted something to him in Portuguese. Jeffrey didn’t understand his words, but he sounded tough and confident. The frogmen spread out even more. The two-toned buzzing was very loud, and now it felt and sounded like a whooshing and a growl. It competed with the roaring of the waterspout.
As if out of nowhere, a big black air-cushioned hovercraft raced by in a cloud of spray, so close that the noise of its diesel was deafening. As it passed, its wake rolled over Jeffrey, and he was pummeled by the turbulence of the big airscrew that drove the vessel forward.
The hovercraft continued south, riding just over the water on a man-made wind blown out from under its air-cushion skirt, making at least forty knots.
There was another thunderclap. The sky above was dark now. It began to pour rain; heavy drops pounded the surface. The waterspout was closer and louder. Jeffrey started to hyperventilate. His Draeger air grew stale, and he forced himself to calm his respiration. But still his heart raced from raw fear. The tornado towered above him, much too close, bridging the gap between the clouds and the sea. Its vortex spun so fast it was impossible to make out details: wind and water revolving tightly at two hundred knots or more. When the twister caught him, it would sweep him high and tear him into pieces.
Another vessel came out of nowhere, a smaller one shaped like a race boat. It circled the line of frogmen, then slowed. Now Jeffrey could see someone in the low enclosed wheelhouse and another person at the open stern.
The man working aft leaned over the side and held out a big orange ring. The first Brazilian frogman reached and grabbed this hoop as the speedboat went by. The boat’s momentum lifted the frogman out of the water and he rolled and tumbled bodily into the stern.
Soon it was Jeffrey’s turn. Now his heart was in his throat. He reached up and tried to time everything just right.
The shock of connecting almost dislocated his arm. The world in an instant seemed to do a somersault around him. He thumped into the speedboat. A crewman gestured for him to hurry up and move aside. Almost at once another frogman came aboard. In moments the entire team had been recovered.
The boat turned north to skirt the waterspout and picked up speed. Jeffrey went into the small wheelhouse, his wet suit hood up and his dive mask on. He looked around inside. The speedboat had a crew of two. Both sailors were intent on piloting the vessel now. One of them pushed the throttles all the way forward.
The twin diesels growled and throbbed at over a thousand horsepower. The deck vibrated strongly and the ride became rough as the vessel skimmed and slammed through the strengthening windblown swells from the squall. White water creamed and splashed and sprayed from the long and sharply pointed bow. The wake behind was a fast-receding blur of churning white.
Rain pelted the forward windshield. Visibility closed in. All the noise made conversation difficult.
The radar display glowed a reassuring green. The speed log on the boat’s instruments said they were doing a solid forty-five knots. The vessel turned without warning, banking steeply and skidding and pounding hard. She leveled off. The gyrocompass showed they were heading 070 now, east-northeast.
Their next stop, Jeffrey knew, was Rio de Janeiro. The speedboat he rode was an ex — Royal Navy FIC-145 covert operations craft. Fifty feet long, its Kevlar-sheathed hull was a hybrid, with two hydroplane steps underneath. The frogman training exercise had been a cover for picking him up.
The hovercraft that had headed south was also ex — Royal Navy, sold to Brazil. It was a Type 2000 TDX(M) and could maintain forty knots for a full three hundred nautical miles before needing more fuel.
That hovercraft was
Jeffrey settled back on a bench in the FIC-145’s wheelhouse. The frogmen cleaned equipment and mostly ignored him. He figured they were preoccupied by visions of impending war — war with Argentina, in which they’d play a central role and probably take losses. He thought these men looked ready, intense and well trained. They were Brazil’s equivalent of U.S. Navy SEALs, an elite, and they knew it.
Jeffrey noticed the speedboat was armed with two.50-caliber heavy machine guns. But both were wrapped in canvas shrouds, protected from the rain and corrosive salt spray. No one seemed to think they’d need them soon.
The frogmen showed so little interest in Jeffrey, now that he’d been safely retrieved, that he suspected they had no idea at all who he was. He thought it was interesting how this whole process had been compartmentalized.
Suddenly Jeffrey had to blink. The special-operations craft pierced through the squall’s far side. The morning sun once more shone brightly. The radar display showed land approaching fast off the port bow. Soon he saw the tops of a line of tall hills. Even through the thin haze lingering just above the water, the hilltops shimmered a verdurous green.
Jeffrey watched as the special operations craft moved inshore. In quick succession they passed a series of scenic coves and headlands, islands, reefs, and lagoons. The vessel slowed to twenty-five knots and the frogmen began to examine the coast with binoculars. As they rounded a point, Jeffrey caught his first glimpse of greater Rio. A wide curving beach of glittering yellow-white sand stretched before him. Behind the beach spread a broad boulevard, backed by high-rise luxury hotels and apartment buildings.
“Copacabana,” the frogman leader told him.
Jeffrey nodded. The sand, he saw, was dotted with people, a thick speckling of multicolored bathing suits, umbrellas, and towels. The surf was mild, but very few actually went in the water.
The frogmen continued to use binoculars. One of them handed Jeffrey a pair and helped him stand steady and zoom in.
Jeffrey focused. He spotted a big gathering of what looked like Japanese tourists sitting on beach chairs. All were fully clothed from head to foot, including wide-brimmed hats and dark sunglasses.
“Japanese? Nippon?”
The frogman nodded. He shifted Jeffrey’s field of view to the right.
The new object of attention was a group of young Latino women sunbathing topless. Nearby were others wearing bathing suits so skimpy Jeffrey wondered why they bothered dressing at all. Then he saw people tanning themselves nude.
Copacabana soon fell behind. The speedboat closed on the entrance to the harbor. The vessel’s green, yellow, and blue Brazilian flag snapped jauntily in the breeze. The frogmen, more relaxed now, chatted among themselves while Jeffrey listened. Their Portuguese didn’t sound at all like Spanish. If anything, snatches seemed vaguely similar to Italian. The frogmen were very expressive, and talked constantly with their hands. The speedboat
