fishing yacht's engines broke through the water… Shouts! Men were racing down the steep path from the manor house on the hill, the fires beyond it now a steady glow.
'Senor! Quickly… the lines!'
The ropes on the pylons! Kendrick ran to the thick pole on the right and struggled with the knotted line; it pulled free and slipped into the water. He lurched, barely able to stay on his feet, and reached the second pylon, yanking in panic until it, too, came loose.
'Stop them! Kill them!' It was the frenzied voice of Crayton Grinell, chairman of the board of a government within the government. Men swarmed on to the base of the island dock, their weapons suddenly on open fire, the fusillades shattering. Evan dived off the pier and into the stern of the yacht as Emilio swung the boat to the left, engines at full power, and curved out of the cove into the darkness of the sea.
A third and final immense detonation burst over the hill beyond the manor house. The distant night sky became a yellow cloud, then jagged streaks of white and red intruded; the last tank had blown apart. The island of the murderous government within a government was immobilized, isolated, incommunicado. No one could leave. They had done it!
'Senor!' screamed Emilio from the bridge.
'What?' yelled Kendrick, rolling on the deck, trying but unable to rise, his body jolting everywhere in torment, the blood from his wound forming bulges of floating liquid inside his shirt.
'You must come up here!'
'I can't!'
'You must! I am shot. The pecho—the chest!'
'It's your leg!'
'No!… From the dock. I am falling, senor. I cannot handle the wheel.'
'Hold on!' Evan yanked his shirt out of his trousers; pools of blood poured on to the deck. He crawled over to the shellacked ladder and, calling upon reservoirs of strength he could not believe existed, pulled himself up rung by rung to the bridge. He breached the upper deck and looked over at the Mexican. Emilio was holding on to the wheel, but his body had sunk below the bridge's windows. Kendrick grabbed the railing and got to his feet, barely able to steady himself. He lurched over to the wheel, appalled by the darkness and the swell of the waves that rocked the boat. Emilio fell to the floor, his hand springing away from the circular rudder. 'What can I do?' yelled Evan.
'The… radio,' choked the Mexican. 'I haul nets and I am not a captain, but I have heard them in bad weather… There is a channel for urgencia, numero diedseis!'
'What?'
'Sixteen!'
'Where's the radio?'
'On the right of the wheel. The switch is on the left. Pronto!'
'How do I call them?'
'Take out the microfono and press the button. Say you are premero de mayo!'
'May Day?'
'?Si!… Madre de Dios…' Emilio collapsed on the bridge deck, unconscious or dead.
Kendrick lifted the plastic-coiled microphone out of its cradle, snapped on the radio and studied the digital readout below the console. Unable to think, the boat battered by swells he could not see, he kept tapping the keyboard until the number 16 appeared and then pressed the button.
'This is Congressman Evan Kendrick!' he screamed. 'Am I reaching anyone?' He released the button.
This is Coast Guard, San Diego,' came the flat reply.
'Can you patch me into a telephone line at the Westlake Hotel? It's an emergency!'
'Anybody can say anything, sir. We're not a phone service.'
