Pitt and Giordino were lowered into the ocean, this time without Ann. Once they reached the seafloor, Pitt proceeded to the boat’s stern and set the submersible down adjacent to the port quarter. Using the manipulator arms, he set down the sling and grabbed the PVC pipe, which he inserted into the sand along the boat’s seam.
“Ready for suction.”
“At your pleasure.” Giordino released a small stream of compressed air from the forward ballast tank, which fed through the flexible hose and into the lower third of the PVC pipe. Air bubbles sailed up the pipe and out the open end, expanding as they rose and generating suction at the bottom end of the pipe. The soft sand beneath the boat began swirling up the pipe, disgorging in a brown cloud behind the submersible that dissipated with the current. It took just a few minutes to clear a large enough gap beneath the boat’s stern quarter to insert the sling.
Giordino killed the air release, and they moved to the opposite side of the boat and repeated the process. Then they pulled the sling under the exposed corners and gathered the free ends above the cabin. As Pitt held them in place, Giordino retrieved a heavy D ring and snapped the four ringed ends of both slings into it. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the manipulator claws to clasp the last ring in place. Now they just needed to attach a lift cable from the barge’s crane to the D ring and it could hoist away.
“Performed with the delicate hands of a surgeon,” Giordino said, securing the manipulator arms.
Pitt glanced at his partner’s meaty paws and shook his head. “A surgeon who moonlights as a butcher, perhaps. Nicely done, all the same.”
Pitt purged the ballast tanks, and the submersible began a lazy ascent. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon when they broke the surface off the Drake’s beam. Gunn stood by the crane as the sub drew alongside. He expertly lowered the jaws and clamped onto the submersible’s hoist ring. Gunn lifted the sub out of the water to deck level, then left it dangling.
“Come on, Rudi,” Giordino said, “bring us on in.”
Pitt stared out the view port, then stiffened. A large man unknown to Pitt stood near Gunn, holding a pistol. The man smiled at Pitt, but there was no warmth in the expression. Gunn eased his hands off the crane controls, then gave Pitt a grim shake of his head before stepping away.
Giordino saw Gunn abandon the controls and asked, “What’s going on?”
Pitt kept his eyes fixed on the gunman aboard the Drake.
“I would say that we’ve been hung out to dry.”
13
THEY HAD ATTACKED THE DRAKE UNDER THE GUISE of helplessness.
The crew on the Mexican powerboat floating nearby had surreptitiously monitored the NUMA vessel all day—until they spotted their objective. When the sun began to follow the submersible beneath the waves, a Spanish-accented voice hailed the Drake over the marine radio, feigning a shortage of fuel. Taking the call on the bridge, Gunn told the boat to come alongside if they were able and he would pass across some gasoline.
The boat made a show of limping over at minimal speed, swinging around the back of the barge before inching toward the NUMA ship. While the boat was temporarily out of view, a lone gunman leaped aboard the barge’s stern and sneaked his way to the pilothouse.
Soon a large man stood on the boat’s afterdeck, waving at Gunn with a cold smile. He wore black slacks and a loose knit black shirt, odd attire for a fishing trip. The approaching twilight obscured his coffee complexion and flat facial features, more typical of Central American heritage than Mexican. The man tossed a line to a waiting deckhand, then turned to Gunn, who leaned over the rail with a five-gallon container of gas.
“Thank you, señor,” he said in a baritone voice. “We stayed too long fishing and feared we would not make it to shore.”
He reached for the can and set it on the deck. Then, moving as quickly as a cat, he grabbed the rail and leaped aboard the Drake. A Glock semiautomatic materialized from his back paddle holster—and was leveled at Gunn’s chest the instant his feet touched the deck. “Tell your crewmen to put their hands on the rail and face the sea.”
Gunn relayed the order to a pair of shocked crewmen on the deck, who nodded. They raised their arms, then shuffled to the rail.
Two more gunmen climbed aboard and sprinted up to the Drake’s bridge. Gunn winced when he heard gunfire, but then breathed easier a few moments later when he saw the helm watchman marched down to the deck. One gunman had spotted the Drake’s rigid inflatable lifeboat and casually pumped several rounds into it, making the rubber boat sag like a limp balloon. When a scientist ducked out of the lab to see what the commotion was about, he was grabbed roughly and herded together with the other crewmen.
Gunn looked to the tall man in black. “What is it you want?”
The man ignored him as a small radio clipped to his waist chirped.
“The barge is secure,” radioed an unseen voice.
“Bring it alongside and join us aboard the research ship,” the gunman replied. “We’ll be ready shortly.”
The radio sounded again. “Pablo, the submersible has surfaced.”
The man in black cursed as he looked over the side, seeing the crown of the submersible. Pocketing the radio, he grabbed Gunn by the collar and marched him to the lift crane. “Raise your friends out of the water, but don’t bring them aboard the ship.” He stepped back, keeping his weapon drawn.
As Gunn reached for the controls, he searched for a way to warn Pitt. The idea was abandoned when he felt the Glock pressed against his spine. Gunn attached the recovery clamp, raised the submersible, and stood by helplessly as he left it suspended in the air.
A few seconds later, the old barge bumped against the Drake’s stern. A fourth gunman, also wearing dark clothes and carrying a pistol, raced across the deck and jumped onto the Drake. He stepped over to Pablo, breathing heavily. His shirt was ripped, and a trace of blood trickled from his lower lip.
“What happened to you?” Pablo asked.