Chubby’s expression changed. “Jesus!” he whispered, and turned to stare at me in disbelief.
“Could I do it?” I insisted quietly, and he sucked his teeth noisily, looking away at the sunrise, scratching the bristles of his chin.
Then suddenly he reached an opinion, and spat over the side. “You might, Harry - but nobody else I know could.”
“Give me the bearings, Chubby, quickly.”
“It was a long time ago, but,” sketchily he described the approach, and the passage of the break, “there are three turns in the passage, left right then left again, then there is a narrow neck, brain coral on each hand - Dancer might just get through but she’ll leave some paint behind. Then you are into the big pool at the back of the main reef. There is room to circle there and wait for the right sea before you shoot the gap out into the open water.”
“Thanks, Chubby,” I whispered. “Now go below. I let the guards have the spare whisky. By the time I start my run for the break they will be blasted right out through the top of their skulls. I will signal three stamps on the deck, then it will be up to you and Angelo to get those pieces away from them and wrap them up tightly.”
The sun was well up, and the triple-peaked silhouette of the Old Men was rising only a few miles dead ahead when I heard the first raucous shout of laughter and crash of breaking furniture below. Daly ignored it and we ran on over the quiet inshore waters towards the reverse side of Gunfire “Reef. Already I could see the jagged line of the Reef, like the black teeth of an*ancient shark. Beyond it the tall oceanic surf flashed whitely as it burst, and beyond that lay the open sea.
I edged in towards the reef, and eased open the throttles a fraction. Dancer’s engine beat changed, but not enough to alert Daly. He lounged against the rail, bored and unshaven and probably missing his breakfast. I could distinctly hear the boom of the surf on coral now, and from below, the sounds of revelry became continuous. Daly noticed at last, frowned and told the other guard to go below and investigate. The guard, also bored, disappeared below with alacrity and never returned.
I glanced astern. My increase in speed was slowly opening the gap between Dancer and the crash boat, and steadily we edged in closer to the reef. ” I was looking ahead anxiously, trying to pick up the marks and bearings that Chubby had described to me. Gently I touched the throttles, opening them another notch. The crash boat fell a little farther astern.
Suddenly I saw the entrance to Gunfire Break a thousand yards ahead. Two pinnacles of old weathered coral marked it, and I could see the colour difference of clear sea water pouring through the gap in the coral barrier.
Below there was another screech of wild laughter, and one of the guards reeled drunkenly into the cockpit. He reached the rail only just in time and vomited copiously into the wake. Then his legs gave way and he collapsed on to the deck and lay in an abandoned huddle.
Daly let out an angry exclamation and raced down the ladder. I took the opportunity to push the throttles open another two notches.
I stared ahead, gathering myself for the effort. I must try and open the gap between Dancer and her escort a little more, every inch would help to confound her gunners.
I planned to come up level with the channel, and then commit Dancer to it under full power, risking the submerged coral fangs rather than test the aim of the gunners aboard the crash boat. It was half a mile of narrow, tortuous channel through the coral before we reached the open sea. For most of it, Dancer would be partially screened by coral outcrops, and the weaving of the channel would help to confuse the range of the threepounder. I was hoping also that the surf working through the gap would give Dancer plenty of up-and-down movement, so that she would heave and weave unpredictably like one of those little ducks in a shooting gallery.
One thing was certain: that intrepid mariner, Lieutenant Commander Suleiman Dada, would not risk pursuit through the channel, so I could give his gun layer a rapidly increasing range to contend with.
I ignored the alcoholic din from below, and I watched the mouth of the channel approach rapidly. I found myself hoping that the seamanship of the crash boat’s crew and commander was a faithful indication of their marksmanship.
Suddenly Peter Daly flew up the ladder to confront me. His face was pink with anger and his moustache tried to bristle its silky hairs. His mouth worked for a moment before he could speak.
“You gave them the liquor, Fletcher. Oh, you crafty bastard.” “Me?” I asked indigriantly. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“They’re drunk as pigs - all of them,” he shouted, then he turned and looked over the stern. The crash boat was a mile behind us, and the distance was increasing.
“You are up to something,” he shrilled at me, and groped in the side pocket of his silk jacket. At that moment we came level with the entrance to the channel.
I hit both throttles wide open, and Dancer bellowed and hurled herself forward.
Still groping in his pocket, Daly was thrown off balance. He staggered backwards, still shouting.
I spun the wheel to full right lock, and Dancer whirled like a ballet dancer. Daly changed the direction of his stagger, thrown wildly across the deck he came up hard ill against the side rail as Dancer leaned over steeply in her turn. At that moment Daly dragged a small nickelled-silver automatic from his side pocket. It looked like a .25, the type ladies carry in their handbags.
I left Dancer’s wheel for an instant. Stooping, I got my hand on Daly’s ankles and lifted sharply. “Leave us now, comrade,” I said as he went backwards over the rail, falling twelve feet, striking the lower deck rail a glancing blow and then splashing untidily into the water alongside.
I darted back to the wheel, catching Dancer’s head before she could pay off, and at the same time stamping three times on the deck.
As I lined Dancer up for the entrance I heard the shouts of conflict in the saloon below, and winced as a machinegun fired with a sound like ripping cloth. - Barrapp - and bullets exploded out through the deck behind me, leaving a jagged hole edged with white splinters. At least they were fired at the roof, and were unlikely to have hit either Angelo or Chubby.
Just before I entered the coral portals, I glanced back once more.
The crash boat still lumbered along a mile behind, while Daly’s head bobbed in the churning white wake. I wondered if they would reach him before the sharks did.
Then there was no more time for idle speculation. As Dancer dashed headlong into the channel I was appalled by the task I had set her.
I could have leant over and touched coral outcrops on each hand, and I could see the sinister shape of more coral lurking below the shallow turbulent waters ahead. The waters had expended most of their savagery on the long twisting run through the channel, but the farther in we went the wilder they would become, making Dancer’s response to the helm just that much more unpredictable.
The first bend in the channel showed ahead, and I put Dancer to it. She came around willingly, swishing her bottom, and with only a trifling yaw that pushed her outwards towards the menacing coral.
As I straightened her into the next stretch, Chubby came swarming up the ladder. He was grinning hugely. Only two things put him into that sort of mood - and one of them was a good punch up. He had skinned his right knuckle.
“All quiet below, Harry. Angelo’s looking after them.” He glanced around. “Where’s the policeman?”
“He went for a swim.” I did not take my attention from the channel. “Where is the crash boat? What are they doing?”
Chubby peered across at her. “No change. It doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet - hold on, though2 his voice changed, yes, there they go. They are manning the deck gun.$ We drove on swiftly down the channel, and I risked a quick glance backwards. At that instant I saw the long streak of white cordite smoke blow like a feather from the threepounder, and an instant later there was the sharp crack of shot passing high overhead, followed immediately by the flat report of the shot.
“Ready for it now, Harry. Left-hander coming up.”
We swept into the next turn, and the next round fell short, bursting in a shower of fragment and blue smoke on one of the coral heads fifty yards off our beam.
I coaxed Dancer smoothly into the turn, and as we went into A another shell fell in our wake, lifting a tall and graceful column, of white water high above the bridge. The following wind blew the spray over us.
We were halfway through now, and the waves that rushed to meet us were six feet high and angry with the
