I estimated I was over eighty feet down. The surface wasn’t visible. Even in the clear water it was only a murky light above. Needing air, I stroked toward my own element.
My head found precious air fifty yards from the stern of Pele. It had taken every bit of willpower I possessed to keep my mouth closed and the pumps shut down. It felt so good to breathe again I nearly hyperventilated, bobbing around on the surface, enjoying the pleasure of oxygen.
Once my breathing returned to normal I checked my options. Now I could worry about sharks.
Pele’s engines were idling. I kept my head as far down in the water as I could and observed the yacht. Thompson’s men were searching the water, using binoculars. They were looking for me as if they’d expected me to defeat the weight belt and handcuffs. They were taking few chances.
Remembering Thompson’s description of the two sharks, I unzipped my pants and pulled them down to my knees. The bangstick was securely taped to my thigh and it took some work to get it loose. I was floating in the warm Pacific like a tourist at Waikiki, traveling at a rate of two to three knots away from my island, but I had to get to the one piece of survival gear that might save me if those monsters returned.
I didn’t know what to expect when I accepted Thompson’s invitation for a cruise, but I don’t make a habit of going to potentially unfriendly environments without a friend or two. Knowing Thompson’s proclivity for using people until they weren’t useful anymore I came to the party with more than just my smile. The knives were for whatever happened; they are the most useful weapons that exist. I’d rather carry a knife than a firearm even though I’m proficient with both. The UM-1 bangstick is an underwater defensive weapon and is issued to SEALs when they operate in shark-infested waters. Mine held a maximum-loaded .44 magnum cartridge with a soft-nosed jacketed slug. The bangstick would kill anything in the water up to fifteen or sixteen feet. It had an inertial trigger, so firing it meant striking the target. I hoped Thompson’s report of a twenty-footer was an exaggeration.
I released the UM-1 from the tape on my thigh and snapped the two pieces into place. It was twenty-six inches long assembled, just long enough to keep the brutes away. It had three rounds, including the one in the chamber.
I pulled my pants up and secured the belt again with its vicious buckle. The little knife was my ultimate backup and I hoped I wouldn’t need it.
With Pele’s crew still looking for me I started swimming toward Oahu. I’m a strong swimmer, but not Superman. Having my hands locked together was a handicap but now that my hands were no longer behind me, many things were possible. I knew fighting the current would be fatal so I swam at an angle to the drift, directly toward Waikiki. Once I got in the lee of the island I’d be out of the strong current and could head toward the beach. Diamond Head looked to be at least ten miles away. I wouldn’t have to swim that far. Only six or seven. If nothing ate me I would make it by midnight.
I swam the combat swim I’d learned at Little Creek, Virginia, moving silently through the sea while making no waves or ripples. The technique didn’t call attention to my presence and could be accomplished even with my hands cuffed together. Pele was still around. And then there were the other predators.
I wasn’t afraid a shark would bite me before he investigated. Most sharks will circle and inspect a potential meal before taking action. I’ve been circled countless times. At that point an aggressive attitude will usually warn them off. Before they bite they like to bump the potential meal with their nose. They have skin like sandpaper, with little “teeth” covering their entire body. Run your hand down a shark’s back and you’re likely to shred your palm. When they bump a potential dinner they’ll lacerate whatever they’re interested in. If it bleeds, they’ll sense the blood and then come back and dine.
Sharks are not brave creatures. They are also not smart. The little microprocessor they have for a brain has a “food” program. If you fit into the pattern you become food. If you don’t, you don’t. Most of the time. I fit two of the profiles as I understood them: I was swimming on the surface late in the afternoon. Sharks are nocturnal predators. They begin feeding about this time. And surface swimmers are one of their favorite meals.
But sharks are not machines. They usually circle, though not always. Hammerheads are notorious for going right for whatever they want, leading by their teeth. Last year a big tiger shark came into five feet of water and carried off a boy playing next to his mother on the shore. There was no preamble, it just struck without warning. I was concerned about that kind of shark wandering around in these waters. If I met one I’d have no chance at all.
I like to be at the top of the food chain. Out here in the pelagic currents, the top position can always be argued.
Something zipped by me, skipping off the surface of the ocean about a foot from my head. I recognized the authoritative bark of a high-powered rifle and submerged before a second bullet found me.
I swam straight down, jogged right and came up about thirty feet from where I’d submerged. The afternoon trades were beginning to pick up, blowing against the current. That meant the ocean would get rougher and I would have some swells to hide in. It also meant Thompson’s platform would not be a stable one. I had to admire his concentration. Coming that close to a moving target on an open ocean was impressive marksmanship.
I dove to twenty feet. The clear water gave me more visibility than on the choppy surface. I could see about a hundred feet in all directions. I remained underwater as long as I could, surfaced and replenished my air supply, and then dove again. This time the hull of Pele came into view, about sixty feet away. I waited a little longer, hoping they would not see me as they searched the ocean. I remained underwater until my head felt as if it were filled with helium.
When I surfaced they were moving away from me at high speed, heading back toward Waikiki. I began swimming toward the black lava rock I called home.
I heard the engines coming back fast. Another shot hit the face of a wave five feet away, chunking into the water. Thompson was up on the bridge, shooting from a higher angle.
I went under again. More shots were fired down into the water around me. The boat stopped, reversing its props, hovering overhead. I moved under the shadow of the hull, mindful of the propellers. I needed air. The only place I could surface was near the bow where the overhang of the forward hull blocked the view from the deck.
I popped up, filled my lungs and dove again in one fluid motion, diving deep, angling under the hull. Tweedledee anticipated me. He was leaning over the forward deck when I came up. He fired a burst from an automatic rifle toward the place where I had been. Pele took off. Had I remained on the surface I would have been shot and then dragged into the propellers.
The Grand Banks moved about ten yards and slowly glided to a stop. I surfaced and dove again before I could take a breath, driven under by an intense barrage of automatic rifle fire. I couldn’t go deep enough fast enough. A bullet hit me in the back of my leg, embedding itself in the soft flesh below my right buttock. The water had reduced the velocity of the bullet but it still penetrated and it still hurt. And it would bleed.
I surfaced, gulping air, ignoring the incoming rounds zinging overhead. The swells made it impossible to get a bearing on me, but spraying automatic fire was one way to get lucky. I dove again.
I’d had enough. I snapped both safeties off the UM-1 and swam toward Pele. When I was directly under the yacht I picked my spot and slammed the bangstick against the fiberglass. The inertial trigger fired, blowing a fist-sized hole in the hull. I dove deep, reloading as I swam.
Pele’s propellers revved. The Grand Banks shuddered as the hull picked up speed and began to plane. They were quitting the fight.
I came to the surface. I couldn’t find the yacht. Her engines were retreating, heading for less dangerous waters. If my calculations were correct, the bullet struck home in the lounge, somewhere in the vicinity of the television. If I got lucky, I hit the big-screen televisio
n. If I hit the jackpot, the bullet hit Thompson. Between the legs.
Pele’s pumps would be strong enough to handle the water in the bilge, but the hole was a hell of an inconvenience and it would have to be repaired immediately. That meant the tape collection would be moved from the boat. Thompson couldn’t afford to have workmen stumbling onto his collection.
All I had to do now was get ashore.
Yeah, right. Ten miles away the volcanic cones of Diamond Head and Koko Head stood like black sentinels against a pale sky. The sun was heading toward its rendezvous with the sea in the northwest, a trip that would take two to three hours. I wished I were at Jameson’s in Haleiwa, sitting with friends and waiting for the sunset from their lanai bar.
I felt the bullet wound. Always the same leg. It wasn’t a bad wound and it was bleeding freely so it wouldn’t tighten up on me and it shouldn’t get infected. It throbbed and that’s as bad as it was going to get. It wasn’t bad enough to kill me unless it attracted some curious, hungry, toothed visitors.
I wondered what Max would say. Shot again in the same damned leg. I hoped I’d get the chance to find out.
The sharks that took the girl had vanished as soon as I hit the water. All the commotion and the engine noise may have scared them off. But they’d be back. There was no question in my mind they’d be back.
It would be dark before I made it to shore. I was alone, bleeding and exhausted. My hands were cuffed. Even the most desperate life insurance salesman would not solicit me now. I was just what sharks like the best: a wounded, weak swimmer, far from home, leaking blood and splashing around on the surface. If I didn’t ring their dinner bell, nothing would.
All I could do was swim toward Oahu and hope for the best. There wasn’t another choice. Giving up was not a part of my repertoire. I was not in the best place, but I still had two rounds left in my bangstick, and if they were going to come for me I’d take as many of the beasts as I could before I became shark dinner.
All things considered, though, I preferred the company of the monsters in the ocean to the real ones aboard Pele.
20
I made steady progress for over two hours before the first predator came to investigate. There was still enough light in the sky to navigate and I saw the dorsal fin about twenty yards off, running parallel to my course. It was a big one. From the size of the fin I estimated it at close to fifteen feet. I ducked my head underwater and watched its approach.
It was a tiger, a big female. She sported scratches along her flanks, evidence of a recent mating.
I readied my weapon, making certain both safeties were off. The shark continued her circumspect approach. She was now ten feet away and edging closer. I could see the eye the size of a hen’s egg watching me. It was a predator’s eye, measuring everything it saw as a possible meal. It reminded me of Thompson. She swam in front of me and sounded, her dorsal fin slipping beneath my feet. I stopped swimming and treaded water, spinning, watching her circle, keeping her in sight.
I didn’t like this at all. I was still miles from shore and there was no way home but to swim. This could be a very long night. Or a short one.
This shark looked determined to have me. There was an excitement in her movements as she circled. I watched for her to hunch her back. That would be the sign of imminent attack.
She orbited again, traveling slowly in a complete perimeter of vision. She was cautious. I watched the monster shark swim closer, feeling more calm than I had a right to feel. For some reason my fear had fled with the shark’s approach. She was something tangible, a brutal opponent who intended me harm. I’d seen her kind before and knew what had to be done.
I planned to hit her with the bangstick the first time she came within range again. It was my only hope. If she made a determined attack, the 44 magnum would have little effect. The round would eventually kill her, but it wouldn’t stop her from opening those terrible jaws and taking me with her. My only chance was to kill the shark before she attacked.
Suddenly she swam away, retreating to the extreme range of visibility. She was only a faint shadow, moving slowly, circling me. She was spooked and she wasn’t afraid of me. Something else was out there. I wondered what could scare something the size of this monster. That potential wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate.
If she had recently mated, the male might still be around. Sharks may be as promiscuous as Californians, but the males stay around for a few weeks. As big as she was, the male would be bigger. And more aggressive.
I started swimming again, slowly gliding with my best combat stroke, simultaneously looking in all directions, swiveling my head. I knew something was there, but I couldn’t see it. I felt it, though. There was a feeling in the water of some massive presence.
The biggest shark I had ever seen swam directly in front of me, not fifteen feet away. He must have been tracking me for some time, hanging back, stalking the weak surface swimmer. This one looked bigger than twenty feet and it was probably the one that had eaten Jasmine. If so, it must have followed me from the time I’d been thrown into the water.
The beast circled once, getting the sense of what I was, and then closed in. There was no time to do anything but react. I hit the shark on the top of the head, just in front of the dorsal fin. The .44 magnum projectile and the expanding gases exploded through the brain chamber of the creature. The bullet exited the thorax, spewing blood and offal into the water. The giant shark shuddered, jinxed right and swam away, trailing bloody white strings of tissue. He started a wide circle, aimed back toward his original angle of attack and closed in.
I reloaded my last round, the surcharge of adrenaline overcoming the handicap of the cuffs.
The shark turned, exertion pumping black blood from its wounds, and came directly at me. I raised the bangstick, my last line of defense. It felt totally ineffectual, like aiming a camera at a charging elephant.
The shark hunched its back, his huge jaws open, teeth spread outward toward me, jagged horizontal armament leading the charge like lances. As he approached, he began to list to one side, as if my first shot had damaged some control mechanism somewhere deep in his prehistoric brain. Pectoral fins failed to stabilize him and he continued to roll, his great gaping mouth moving away from me. When he got close he hit me with the top of his head, shoving me back through the water. His jaws snapped shut and I could hear the crack of gristle like a hammer blow as lower and upper teeth slammed together. I rode the creature’s snout, pinned against his dorsal fin while I was pushed backward through the water, his powerful tail pushing him onward toward an unknown destination.
I got my legs around the shark’s body and dug in, trying to gain some balance so I could use my last round. I raised the bangstick and smashed it down against the head of the shark, just above the great eye. The bullet blew out the remainder of the brain case.
The great beast heeled over, turning away. I released my grip on the flanks of the shark and then I was violently shoved aside. The female tiger rocketed past me and hit the big wounded fish in the belly, tearing away a great mouthful of meat.
She had been behind the big shark, waiting for an opening. I’d lost sight of her while her mate attacked.
She turned in a tight circle that would have made an F-14 pilot proud and struck the other shark again, descending with it as the huge body spiraled into the depths, hitting the beast repeatedly until both animals were lost from sight.
So much for shark love.
I began swimming as carefully and as quietly as I could. The two sharks were deep and getting deeper every minute and I wanted to put as much distance as I could between them and me. I didn’t know what else was out there.
I was so tired I almost didn’t care.
21
Kate’s voice was groggy and indistinct.
“Who is this?”
“It’s John Caine.”
“What do you want?”
Kate’s was an uncharitable but understandable reaction to being awake
ned by a pager’s call in the early morning hours. I didn’t have her telephone number, but she had given me her beeper, and I tried it. It was a shot in the dark, but I needed help and I needed the kind of help she could provide. There were others I could have called, but she was keyed into this case and she would understand more quickly than most.
“Can you come get me?”
I could hear her moving around on the other end of the line, adjusting to the transition from sleep to wakefulness. As tired as I was, a transitory vision of what she might look like in her bed flashed across my mind. “Jesus! Do you know what time it is?”
“Midnight.”
“Try three!”
“Didn’t know. Sorry. I hate to bother you but you’re the only one I know who has a key to handcuffs.”
“Playing games? I didn’t think you went for that kind of stuff.”
“I don’t.”
There was a silence while she digested the tone of my voice. My answer had been much harsher than I’d intended.
“Are you in trouble?”
“I’m in handcuffs. I’ve been shot in the leg. I’ve been hit on the head and left for dead ten miles at sea. I just made it to shore. I’m at a pay phone near the lighthouse below Diamond Head. You know where it is?”
“Jesus! Do you need an ambulance?”
“I need to talk to you. I need clean clothes and I need a place to hide.”
“Stay right there. I’ll call for a uniform to get you out of the cuffs—”
“No! You come. I’ll hide until I see your car.”
“It’s serious.”
“As bone cancer,” I said.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said and hung up.
The telephone booth had a light over it and it was working. I moved away from the light toward the kiawe scrub at the top of the cliff. Nothing moved. The night was balmy, but I was chilled by my swim and the loss of blood, and felt nauseous from the pain. The bullet wound had finally stopped bleeding while I was in the water but now it was welling blood again, slowly weeping what was left of my precious supply down the back of my leg.
Diamond Head Page 11