“Gracias, amigo,” Giordino said as he parted with the balance of his poker winnings. Then he hauled the fuel can down to the beach.

Counting his cash windfall, the cabby beamed and shouted, “¡Buen viaje!”

Pitt attached the engine’s fuel line to the gas can and then with Giordino’s assistance shoved the inflatable past the surf line and climbed aboard. The outboard fired up with little trouble, and they were soon racing past the rocky breakwater.

“You sure you can find the Drake?” Ann asked, scanning the black horizon. Her eyes were again alert but tinged with apprehension.

Pitt nodded. “I think Rudi will leave the lights on for us.”

Once clear of the jetty, he turned the inflatable north and followed the coast. After a mile or so, he veered out to sea to retrace their original course. Gazing over his shoulder, he found a bearing, the lights of a lone house high on a hill that lined up vertically with a pale yellow streetlamp near the shoreline. Steering to keep the two lights in alignment, he guided the inflatable offshore until the beacons vanished. They motored on for several minutes in complete darkness, Ann fighting her fears that they would become lost at sea. Just as the waters around them became blackest, a faint glow appeared a few points off the bow. A single white light emerged from the distant sea, gradually morphing into several lights. As they bore closer, they could see they belonged to three vessels grouped together.

The Drake and the barge were stationed alongside each other, while a larger ship waited nearby. Pitt observed its white-and-orange-banded hull, signifying a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. A pair of lookouts on its deck monitored the inflatable as Pitt eased it alongside the Drake and killed the engine.

When he saw Ann, a visibly relieved Rudi Gunn leaned over the rail above them. “Thank heavens, you’re safe.”

“Careful, she’s got a bad wheel,” Giordino said. He lifted her to the rail, where Gunn helped her aboard the ship.

“I’ll call for the Edisto’s medic to come aboard,” Gunn said.

Ann shook her head. “All I really need is some ice.”

“Me, too,” Giordino said, pulling himself onto the deck. “In a glass with a shot of Jack Daniel’s.”

Pitt remained in the inflatable, acting as taxi driver to shuttle over the Coast Guard medic. Ann was quickly settled into her cabin with her ankle iced and a dose of painkillers in her stomach. Pitt returned the medic to his ship, tied off the inflatable, and climbed aboard the Drake.

When he met up with Gunn and Giordino on the bridge, Al had already explained their chase through Tijuana.

“El Matador Pitt, eh?” Gunn smiled.

“I must have some Spanish blood in me.” Pitt sighed and gazed out the bridge window toward the Edisto.

“Nice work, getting the Coast Guard out here, but why aren’t they pursuing the Mexican boat?”

“Absent a lifesaving emergency, they weren’t prepared to encroach on Mexican territorial waters without authorization. They’ve called in the Mexican Navy, who will take the lead.” Gunn took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. “Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have a vessel in the area, so the outlook isn’t good. I thought it best if the Edisto stood by until we heard back from you.”

“A prudent call.”

“It seems the thieves were standing by, waiting for us to salvage the Cuttlefish,” Gunn said. “What was in that crate that was so valuable?”

Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a question I’d like an answer for.”

“Whatever it was,” Giordino said, “nobody’s going to be too happy about its demise. Now it’s nothing but a worthless bundle of mashed wires.”

“Speaking of which,” Gunn said, “we replaced the bridge radio with a spare unit from belowdecks. I guess I should let the Edisto know we can all head back to San Diego now.”

“Rudi, aren’t you forgetting some unfinished business downstairs?” Giordino said, pointing toward the sea.

He looked down his angular nose at Giordino. “Do you think we’ve been sitting around playing tiddlywinks while you were gone?”

He stepped to the rear of the bridge and pointed out the window at the barge. Bathed in the glow of a dim deck light sat the Cuttlefish, supported on a pair of wooden cradles.

“You landed her without us!” Giordino turned to Pitt. “Now, how did we miss that?”

“Guess we were too focused on the Coast Guard cutter. Nice work, Rudi. Did she give you any trouble coming up?”

“None at all. We just ran the sling cables from the submersible to the barge crane and hoisted away. She came up clean as a whistle, but I think you’ll want to take a look at her hull.”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Pitt said.

Gunn gathered some flashlights, and they motored in the inflatable to the bow of the barge. The vessel was ghostly quiet, its pilot asleep in his bunk with the dachshund curled at his feet.

The Cuttlefish stood tall above them. The hull’s sides were clean and dry, and the boat’s chrome sparkled bright under their lights, showing little indication it had been submerged for nearly a week.

Giordino let out a low whistle as they viewed a gaping hole ripped in the base of the hull. “She must have sunk in a heartbeat.”

“I guess the DARPA folks had reason to be suspicious,” Gunn said. “By the looks of it, this was no accident.”

“Our buddies in the cabin cruiser probably attached some explosives to the hull,” Giordino said. “Must have detonated prematurely, before they could lay their hands on the crate.”

“Actually, they planted the explosives inside the boat.” Pitt studied the damage with his flashlight. “The blast marks seem to indicate an internal explosion.”

Gunn put his hand on a serrated section next to the hole; it flared outward. “You’re right. The explosives must have been placed inside the cabin.”

Pitt knelt beneath the opening and shined his flashlight into the dark interior. The remnants of the boat’s galley were visible above him, with black-stained bulkheads and a crater-sized blast hole through the ceiling. Still, the interior damage was less severe than the breach in the hull.

Examining the damage, Pitt noticed a pair of frayed orange wires trailing from the hole. He traced the wires’ path across the galley to an aft corner bulkhead, where they rose through a drilled hole. Squeezing through the blast hole, Pitt climbed into the galley and stepped aft past the cramped dining area to a flight of steps. He followed them up to the wheelhouse, where he stopped and studied the helm. In front of the pilot’s seat, he pulled open a kick panel, which contained a rat’s maze of colored wires that powered the boat’s electronics. He soon found the orange wires. One was spliced to a power lead, while the other ran up to the throttle housing. A minute later, he found its terminus—a hidden toggle switch mounted beneath the helm panel.

Giordino and Gunn had walked around the Cuttlefish and climbed up its stern. Finding Pitt standing at the helm, lost in thought, Gunn asked what he had discovered.

“A slight twist in my theory,” Pitt said. “It wasn’t the Mexicans who blew up the Cuttlefish. It was Heiland himself.”

21

STEPPING INTO THE DRAKE’S MESS JUST AFTER SUNUP, Pitt was surprised to find Ann seated across from Gunn, finishing her breakfast. Grabbing a cup of coffee, he headed to their table.

“Good morning. Mind if I join you?”

Gunn waved him to a seat next to Ann. “Always interrupting my fun.”

Pitt looked to Ann. “Sleep well?”

“Just fine,” she said, softly averting his gaze.

Pitt smiled at her sudden sheepishness. Returning from the barge the night before, he had gone straight to his cabin to go to bed. He’d answered a light knock at his door to find Ann in the doorway, an expectant look on her face. She’d worn a loose-fitting ship’s bathrobe that failed to conceal the straps of her lingerie. Barefoot, she stood on her good leg, relieving the pressure on her wrapped and swollen left ankle.