Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

The scope was working, so why wasn’t it picking up Kurt’s body heat?

Fearing the worst, he grabbed the scanner and stared in the exact direction of the beacon. Kurt wasn’t there, but in the darkness Joe caught sight of a dim flash, too dim to be seen from more than twenty or thirty feet away.

“There,” he said.

El Din nudged the throttles and then brought them back.

The boat coasted forward on the impulse, closing the gap.

As the dim flash came into range, Joe used a fishing net, stretching over the side. He scooped a familiar-looking cylinder out of the water.

“Is that what I think it is?” El Din asked.

Joe nodded. “Kurt’s transmitter.”

“So where is the man who’s supposed to be attached to it?” A sudden rumble from the yacht drowned out any reply. Joe turned to see water churning at the aft end of the big vessel and the bow of the yacht swinging around rapidly as if guided by a bow thruster. Almost simultaneously the twin spotlights on the bridge converged on the small fishing boat and the sea around it.

In quick order the behemoth was charging toward them. “Go,” Joe shouted.

El Din gunned the throttles and turned away from the yacht, setting a heading for the shore. As the chase began, Joe saw a big problem with their plan. The yacht was still accelerating and already gaining on them.

“We can’t outrun it,” he shouted. “Turn toward her.” “Are you sure?”

“Quickly,” Joe shouted. He was amazed by the speed of the Massif ’s acceleration. It was bearing down on them like a thundering giant, eating up the distance rapidly.

El Din spun the wheel to port. The outboard motors pivoted in their cradles and the nimble little boat curled back toward the big yacht. Joe had to hold on to keep from being tossed out. The Massif tried to match their turn but was simply unable to change direction fast enough. The little boat raced by less than a hundred feet from the yacht.

Gunfire rang out and Joe dove for cover. He gazed up at the side of the yacht as it swept by.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“If you mean getting shot full of holes,” El Din said, “I’d have to agree with you.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the problem I was talking about,”

Joe said. “I’m afraid we need to get closer.”

“Closer? Why would we want to get closer?”

“Because Kurt is clinging to the side of their hull.”

From his position, the side of the hull, Kurt had watched the fishing boat coast to a stop. He’d felt the sudden surge of power through the hull of the Massif as the gas turbine engines came on full bore and her twin screws bit into the warm gulf waters.

He’d hoped the boat with his friends on board would run for the shallows, but they’d turned and raced back toward him, passing in clear view.

The two vessels were now caught in a stalemate. Like a grizzly bear being pestered by a yappy little dog, the big yacht could not turn with the small boat. But if the fishing boat tried to flee, the Massif would use her great speed to run the small boat down.

When gunfire rang out, Kurt knew he had to go on the offensive.

As the yacht leaned into another turn, Kurt began a slow climb. He moved straight up, heading for the anchor and the hawsehole, where the chain came through the hull.

The higher up he went, the more angled the bow became. It was like climbing an inverted overhang. He had to be careful. If one of the magnets slipped, he might fall from his perch and hit the water in front of the ship’s bulk. An image of his body getting crushed under the keel and then shredded by the propellers at the aft end flashed through his mind.

He shook it off. “I really have to learn to think positive,” he told himself.

He made it to the hawsehole, squeezed through, and found himself on the foredeck jus

t as the yacht whipped into another turn. With all eyes tracking their prey, no one saw him.