Inner Truth Page 17
Tyler hesitated outside the hail of bullets from Little Bo’s captor’s weapon, timing his pounce. When the chance came, he sprang forward, grabbing the terrorist’s neck with both hands. Tyler squeezed and twisted like he was wringing the soapy water from a sponge. When he could feel the man’s spine, he stopped squeezing. The man fell unconscious. Little Bo recovered the Colt and had Tyler’s attacker under guard who was curled up on his side in the fetal position, making gulping sounds as he gradually regained his ability to breathe.
“What should we do with them?”
“I don’t know,” said Tyler. “But that gunfire is going to draw a crowd. We’ve got to get out of here pronto.”
Little Bo dragged their attackers to the roadside, and as he tied them up, Lei frisked them. “Look what I found,” she said, holding up the van keys. She tossed them to Little Bo. He ran to the van and hopped behind the wheel, while she limped after him.
“You’re our driver. See if you can get it running,” Tyler yelled to him. He dragged both bodies farther into the bushes where they wouldn’t be seen if someone passed by. He kept one of their long guns just in case.
Little Bo got the Citroen running and opened the dented passenger door for Lei. The van had a crumpled front grille, fender and hood. There were scrapes down to bare metal all along the driver’s side. It had apparently smashed its right side going into the ditch at the booby-trapped curve and then flipped onto its left side as it was still moving.
Tyler opened the sliding side door with difficulty, jumped in and told his companions, “Drop me off by the stream. I’ll swim out from there. You two go to the village and find someone to take you someplace safe.” He checked his watch, took it off and handed it to Lei. “If the yachts have sailed when I get down there, I’ll get to the village. I’ll run if I have to. If I don’t show up, leave word where you’re going. and I’ll catch up. I’d better take the rifle just in case. I guess I can figure how it works if I have to.” He clapped Little Bo on the shoulder. “You keep your grandfather’s gun. And for God’s sake, don’t forget to make those calls.”
While Little Bo drove to his departure point, Tyler examined the assault rifle, trying to familiarize himself with it. Abruptly he stopped, held up his hands and examined them. He felt none of the thrilling sense of power he had experienced after firing the pistol the first time. My God, have I become a murderer? Luckily Little Bo’s fatalism comforted him. It was in God’s hands. So he dropped the rifle like it was a hot potato. Definitely better it be in God’s hands than his.
He took off his leather jacket and gave it to Lei. He leaned forward and kissed her hair. He stuck his hand out for Little Bo to shake. But the little Moroccan took his hands off the wheel long enough to lean between the front seats and hug him.
“Take good care of him, Lei. We both owe him a debt no amount of money can repay.” Tyler kissed her with his eyes closed because he couldn’t bear to see the distress on her face.
At the stream’s edge, he climbed out of the van without a jacket or a djellaba. “Don’t forget to make those calls!” Then he started toward the sea, not looking back. He could see the prison island, its mass darker than the darkness surrounding it. Both yachts’ running lights twinkled on the water. They hadn’t sailed.
He stripped down to his underwear. He held his Swiss Army knife in his teeth and stepped into the water. From his swimming days he knew the colder the water the faster his energy would drain.
His immediate concern was the currents. He settled into an easy crawl stroke, one he hoped he could keep up as long as necessary. The tide was still coming in, and he would have to fight it. After three minutes of steady stroking Tyler knew the current was stronger than he had expected. He increased his pace for another two minutes before taking stock.
He was weakening and doubted he could reach either yacht unless he stroked faster. He had passed up a chance to flee to safety in favor of this suicidal mission. If he didn’t succeed in reaching the Infidel everything would have been in vain. Failure stalked him like a prowling shark as he stroked hard in the dark.
He neared the yacht. He’d be there with a few dozen more powerful strokes. Then the engines of the Infidel rumbled to life, signaling imminent weighing of the anchor to get under way.
He stroked harder. It was exactly the nightmare he used to have before swim meets, where the end of the pool moved away every time he tried to touch it. His panic triggered a spurt of adrenaline, and he stroked as fast as he could. He trusted the engines would drown out his splashing. When he thought he was within reach, he lunged through the water, propelled by an all-out kick, straining to reach the transom. He made contact, gripping the rail on the bottom of the transom. I’ve made it.
The yacht moved forward. His cold hands began to cramp, and it became harder to hold on to the slippery fiberglass rail. Suddenly he lost his grip. His head submerged when he fell back into the sea. Oh no! The Infidel was on its way without him. No! Nooooo!
Chapter Twenty-eight
In the Mediterranean Sea
Off the Moroccan coast
Near Penon de Velez de la Gomera
Thursday, December 9, 2005
7:57 p.m.
The Infidel pulled away from him. It crushed him to have come so close only to fail. He wished he’d never managed to grab the transom than to have grabbed it and then lost his grip. He cringed, thinking of Arnold harping on his failure. He feared most that Lei might think he had lost his nerve, not his grip.
Then the rough surface of a moving object rubbed against his arm. It was a ship’s line, carelessly left to trail astern. He grabbed it and was again being dragged behind the yacht. Determined to make the most of his reprieve, he pulled himself hand over hand, each pull bringing him closer to the stern. His only goal was to get aboard the yacht.
The transom of the Infidel rose a little more than two meters above the water and had a narrow rail from side to side just above water line. The muscles in his arms burned, holding the line as the water worked to drag him loose. Every gulp of air hurt his bruised ribs. A ladder fixed to the transom to his right reached halfway down the transom. It was jointed and had been folded in half. He pulled himself up on the line, high enough to get a foot on the transom rail. He stood up with his feet halfway off the transom rail, unfolded the ladder and stood on it for a minute to rest his exhausted muscles.
He shook his head in disbelief. Six days earlier he had hoped a bewitching woman would retain him for a job that seemed so simple but turned out like nothing anyone could have imagined. And now he was invading enemy territory with a Swiss Army knife and dripping boxers.
He raised his head over the transom and saw a large open area of couches and cushioned benches with a large expandable dining table in the center. There also were doors on the sides folded against each bulkhead that could enclose one-half of the salon during inclement weather. A passageway headed amidships. He climbed into the salon.
Then a light came on from somewhere down the passageway, and he dove behind a dining chair. He felt exposed because the salon didn’t offer any true hiding places. Just in case, he folded out his Swiss Army knife’s little blade. If he had to use it, he would have to stick it in an eye or an ear because it wouldn’t harm a fleshy body part. The mental image of him sticking the stubby blade in someone’s eye made him nauseous, and he waited for his stomach to settle before he moved toward the passageway.
He stuck his head around the corner of the passageway. It was about ten meters long, with two cabins on each side. At the end was a landing where one companionway led up and another led down. He took the latter to the lower deck. It had a central passageway, leading aft and forward. At the aft end of the passageway he saw a solid plate steel hatch from behind which were coming the sounds of machinery. He hurried to it and put his ear to the hatch, listening for voices. All he could hear was engine noise. Good! I’ve found
the engine room, and maybe it’s empty.
He opened the sturdy hatch by pressing down on a steel bar handle. He pulled the heavy hatch open a foot. The noise was so much louder he worried it would attract attention. He stuck his head into the engine room and saw no one. He quickly stepped in and closed the hatch behind him. The hatch was plate steel, and once he locked himself inside behind that steel hatch, he would have the luxury of time.
Because the hardware on both sides of the hatch moved in tandem, if he blocked the handle from being pressed down on the inside, it would be blocked from being pressed down outside as well. Then there would be no way the hatch could be opened. He searched for a suitable piece of steel, iron, or even wood he could jam under the handle.
He had worried about only having a Swiss Army knife to use as a tool, but as he looked around the engine room, he laughed because tools filled the room. He quickly found a thick board from a scrap bin and jammed the board under the hatch handle before sitting down to relax for the first time since he had climbed over the transom.
The warmth of the engine room was welcome after the chill of the sea. He sat on a workbench stool and focused on the engine. It was more than a meter high, two meters wide, and three meters long, entirely encased in a metal cover. No part of the engine was visible. He had never seen such an engine before. He ran both hands over his head.
I don’t know what to do. What if I can’t disable this?
Chapter Twenty-nine
In the engine room aboard the Infidel
Somewhere off the Mediterranean coast of Morocco
Thursday, December 9, 2005
8:49 p.m.
Time was pressing. Tyler had to act fast. Because the yacht had only been under way for five minutes, she was still in the close vicinity of the GPS location the trio had given the authorities. But soon the Infidel would disappear into the night. Every minute the engine ran the propeller took her farther away in an unknown direction.
Tyler surveyed the engine room again, hoping that something would click. He identified the generator providing electricity. Unlike the engine it was not shrouded with a cover, and he could knock it out without a problem. But he decided to leave that option to a last resort because it wouldn’t stop propulsion. In fact a darkened yacht under propulsion would be harder to locate. If that was the only thing he could do, however, he would cut the electrical power off. Report of a vessel in that busy shipping lane so near to the Strait of Gibraltar underway at night without running lights might trigger an investigation.
But his goal was to disable the engine. Because the engine shroud was bolted to the deck, he searched the workbench drawers for a ratchet wrench set. Drawer after drawer yielded no ratchet wrenches, and he became frantic.
“There has to be a ratchet wrench somewhere.” He tore through more of the drawers. He came across a crescent wrench which he grabbed and slammed down on the bench in frustration. “Crap. Do I have to use a crescent wrench?” A raised edging bordered the shroud’s bottom. It made a crescent wrench poorly suited for loosening the bolts because the edging prevented the wrench to lay flat against the deck to turn the bolt heads. The best grip he could get was by elevating the wrench about twenty degrees, lessening the surface of the bolt head gripped by the wrench, lessening the torque he could exert.
“Please God, let this work.” He braced one bare foot against the shroud. It was almost too hot for his foot. He pulled on the angled wrench, but the bolt head didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing.
The wrench was too small to grip with both hands. He pulled as hard as he could with one hand. The wrench slipped off, and he stumbled back. He repeated that process with another bolt, yielding the same disappointing result.
His plan was to disconnect the hoses carrying seawater through the engine block to cool it. Without cool seawater the engine’s temperature would climb to a point the heat would overcome the engine’s lubricants, causing the moving parts to freeze up and cease operating.
Like many plans it sounded simple. He saw hoses at the bottom of the shroud, but he didn’t see any way to disconnect them.
Crap, man. Just cut them all. More is better. This has got to work. Using his knife in no time he had sawed all eight hoses. Water poured from the cut hoses. With no water circulating through the engine block, the engine’s internal temperature rose. He didn’t know how long it would take for the engine to seize up, but he realized engine temperature was closely monitored by the crew. I bet I’ll have visitors soon. He double-checked the board jammed under the hatch lever before he sloshed his way back to the bench stool.
That’s it. It’s out of my hands now. Enshallah.
Chapter Thirty
In the engine room of the Infidel
Somewhere off the Mediterranean Coast of Morocco
Thursday, December 9, 2005
9:15 p.m.
The banging startled Tyler. With the banging came yelling, but he couldn’t make out what the voices were saying.
“Bug off, assholes. I’m in here, and you’re out there, and that’s the way it’s going to stay,” he yelled back, not expecting they could hear him. “I’m going to sink your fricking boat, and you can’t do a damn thing about it.” His temper rose, and it felt good. He got up and waded through the deepening water over to the hatch. When he got right up to the hatch, he slapped it hard with his flat hand.
The image of a Somali tribesman copulating with a sheep popped into his mind as he yelled back at the steel, “Go to hell, you Arab perverts.” He put his face within millimeters of the steel and made a face at his unseen adversaries. Then he stepped back and flipped them a double bird with his middle fingers.
The ever-rising water reached his knees. Because the engine room hatch was probably not watertight, he figured seawater was seeping into the passageway outside. He saw two portable bilge pumps stowed with the engine room tools and hoped they would need them to save the yacht from sinking.
He heard faint noises outside the hatch that were neither banging nor yelling and wondered if the crew was trying to stop the water. Suddenly an automatic weapon opened up, and a ten second hail of bullets rained against the hatch. Instinctively, he jumped back as lead pummeled steel, making violent sounds that drowned out the noise of the engine. The plate steel was more than a match for bullets from an assault rifle and didn’t even show dents on the inside.
“Hey, you losers. Eat shit. You’re never getting in.” His pulse was still racing, but he felt invulnerable in the engine room.
I bet a couple of crewmen are deaf now. Maybe ricocheting bullets hit someone. Hell, I hope it wiped out the whole bunch. Serves them right for playing with guns.
The water in the engine room reached his thighs. If the crew was running a bilge pump, it was losing the battle. The water was rising, and the stern was dropping.
To check the engine’s temperature he laid his palm on the engine shroud every minute. He was trying to will the engine to overheat faster. He could tell the engine was getting hotter, but he didn’t know how long it would take to destroy its lubrication. The engine might run for another hour. By then the GPS they had given Hacker and Sunny might be useless.
The engine sound changed slightly, and he listened intently. Twice he thought he heard changes in its sound, but when he zeroed in on the changes, they merged back into the usual sound.
The Infidel had been underway nearly a half hour at an unknown speed and had traveled miles from Penon de Velez de la Gomera. The GPS reading was now nearly worthless. He grabbed the crescent wrench from the tool bench and with a loud “take that,” smashed it as hard as he could into the shroud in frustration. The blow only left a small dent in the aluminum cover, but it felt good.
Unbeknownst to him, his angry blow coincided with the last of the camshaft’s lubrication, burned up over the hour of uncooled operation. The increased torque generated by the c
amshaft turning without lubrication found a weak spot in a piston rod and snapped it like a twig. An end of the snapped rod punched a hole in the shroud itself. The cacophony of imploding metal sent shivers down Tyler’s spine. In three seconds the pandemonium within the engine had ruined it irreparably. The engine was dead, never to turn a propeller again.
“Hallelujah! You’re not moving now, you bastards.”
Silence replaced the racket that had filled the room previously. He bent over to examine more closely the jagged gash through the shroud. As he ran his fingers over the very warm cover, he felt something that had escaped his attention before. In a ridge stamped into the shroud’s top were three small hinges, equally spaced along the length of the shroud. Realizing he had made a major blunder by not noticing them earlier, he searched the shroud’s side for a latch. He found one recessed at each end of the shroud just higher than where the hoses entered the shroud. Crap, How’d I miss that?
He flipped the latches and lifted half of the shroud’s top, exposing the destroyed engine. The shroud was hinged in the middle of the top like the hood of a Model T car. He held up one side of the shroud, looked at the engine, and shook his head in disgust.
Arnold’s right. I’m an idiot. I can’t believe it. He heard Arnold as if he was right there. You couldn’t find your ass with both hands.
He automatically thought of excuses. l was in a hurry. I was excited. I’m tired. Then he stopped himself. “No more excuses!” Tyler demanded. Admit it. You screwed up. Again. It’s your fault. Take responsibility for once.
He’d disabled the engine, but he hadn’t stopped the flooding. Eventually the yacht would capsize and sink.