“He means wing it,” Joe explained, “which I assume is what we’ll be doing right from the start.”
“You’re wise beyond your years,” Kurt said.
“I just know you too well.”
By now they were nearing the end of the half-mile-long channel, the No Wake zone that led out of the harbor and into the open water. It would take the yacht seven or eight minutes to cover the distance if they held to the rules.
“Let me off here,” Kurt said. “They’ll probably start bending the speed limit
before they pass the final buoy. I don’t want to miss my ride.”
“It’s shallow here,” El Din said. “Twenty feet.”
“She can’t draw more than eight or nine,” Kurt replied. “I’ll wait on the bottom and catch on as she passes by.”
El Din slowed the vessel further, making a slight turn to port to shield Kurt from view.
With Joe’s help, Kurt lifted the torpedo-shaped propulsion unit and balanced it on the transom. He gave the thumbs-up, pulled down his mask, and bit into the soft rubber of his regulator. With a nod from El Din, he and Joe pushed the DPV off the edge and it hit the water and submerged like a model submarine. Kurt slipped into the gulf right behind it.
With the weight of his belt, Kurt sank faster than the propulsion unit, which had only a slight negative buoyancy. He reached it quickly, guided it to a spot in the silt and then settled down on top of it, listening to the sound of the small fishing boat trundle away.
Immersed in the warm gulf water, Kurt soon heard nothing but his own breathing as the air traveled through the lines, into his lungs, and back out to the rebreather. The advantage of this system was that it left no trail of bubbles. He doubted the crew of the yacht would be looking for anything so simple—more likely, they’d be paying attention to their depth sounder and the radarscope—but he wasn’t taking any chances.
As Kurt waited on the bottom of the channel, a low-frequency thrum told him the Massif was approaching.
He gazed down the channel, looking for any sign of her. The first thing he spotted was the foamy V-shaped area at the yacht’s bow. The leading edge of the ship’s keel soon came into focus. It seemed to be grinding toward him, pulverizing the water rather than slicing through it.
Just as he’d suspected, the yacht was moving faster than the allowed three knots.
Kurt changed position, setting himself up like a motorcycle cop on the highway getting ready to chase a speeder. He goosed the throttle and the prop spun, stirring up the sediment and easing him forward. He began to move, trying to time his intercept.
It would be a tricky approach. He needed to come up beside the yacht, close enough to be hidden by the hull’s overhang but not so close he would get himself run over. The best spot would be the sheltered area just behind the V of the bow wave. Any farther forward and he’d be pushed away from the ship with the displaced water; any farther back and he risked getting caught in the strongest part of the slipstream and flung backward toward the propellers.
The harmonic rumble of the yacht grew closer and Kurt increased his speed. A glance over the shoulder told him it was barreling down on him too quickly. He twisted the throttle farther, accelerated, and swung out to the side.
As he passed seven knots, Kurt realized an error in his plan. The force of the water threatening to pull him off the DPV was ten times what he’d feel riding a motorcycle. Already it was like hanging on in a seventy-mile-per-hour wind.
He pulled himself closer to the unit. The water raced past. He turned his head awkwardly. The Massif was still gaining, the keel moving relentlessly toward him like a great blade threatening to cut him in half. Suddenly his great idea seemed less than brilliant.
He gave the DPV full power and began keeping pace with the charging yacht. Almost immediately the propulsion unit began to flash a warning light.
That’s what I get for using a repo left at the airport.
He glanced at the warning light, then back at the approaching hull. He drifted closer, feeling the pressure of the bow surge on his shoulders. The closer he got, the more violent the ride became. The sound alone was tremendous, like the noise of a waterfall and rushing freight train combined. It pounded his ears as the pressure wave hammered against his shoulders. The blinking light on the propulsion pack went from yellow to orange.
Kurt dropped back, passing under the bow wave, and was almost swung out of control. Finally behind the wave, he angled toward the hull and began inching upward. As he broke the surface, the drag on the DPV lessened and he picked up a little speed.
He accidentally banged the hull once, thrown sideways by an eddy. The impact almost sent him spinning out of control, but he reestablished his line and tried once again to move closer. The orange light was blinking now, about to turn red. The power began to fade.
In a desperate effort, Kurt swung toward the hull, stretched forward, and pushed off the DPV with his legs. He let the unit go, clicked his thumb switches, and slammed into the metal skin of the yacht’s hull.
The pads on his forearms hit and locked first. The kneepads followed, snapping into place an instant later.
He was on. Just above the waterline. A stowaway of the strangest order.
He looked up. As far as he could tell, no one had seen him. Nor were they likely to. The V-shaped hull curved out over him, widening on the way up. To spot him, someone would have to lean out over the edge at least two or three feet and look straight down.
For a full minute he didn’t move, gathering his strength as the powerful magnetic fields held him in place. When he felt ready, he clicked the left thumb switch and pulled his left arm away. He stretched it forward and clicked onto the boat once again. Another click and he brought his right leg up.