The kayaker looks behind himself for a few moments, reading the waves, then suddenly turns back around and begins to paddle hard, accelerating, glancing back every few strokes. A big wave is coming, and just as it swells up underneath the kayak, he’s matching its speed. The kayak stays on top of the wave and shoots forward like a missile, riding the swell, suddenly going twice as fast as anything else on the water.
Digging at the wave with one end of his paddle, the kayaker makes a few crude changes in his direction. Then he parks the paddle athwart the kayak, reaches down inside, and hauls out a small dark object, a tube about four feet long, which he hoists up to one shoulder.
He and the speedboat shoot past each other going in opposite directions, separated by a gap of only about twenty feet. Then the speedboat blows up.
The Kowloon has overshot the site of all this action by a few thousand yards. It’s pulling around into as tight a turn as a vessel of this size can handle, trying to throw a one-eighty so it can go back and deal with the Russians and, somewhat more problematically, with Raven.
Raven is paddling back toward his buddies.
“He’s such an asshole,” Livio says. “What’s he going to do, tow them out to the Raft behind his fucking kayak?”
“This gives me the creeps,” the man with the glass eye says. “Make sure we got some guys up there with Stingers. They must have a chopper coming or something.”
“No other ships on the radar,” says one of the other soldiers, coming in from the bridge. “Just us and them. And no choppers either.”
“You know Raven carries a nuke, right?” Hiro says.
“So I heard. But that kayak’s not big enough. It’s tiny. I can’t believe you’d go out to sea in something like that.”
A mountain is growing out of the sea. A bubble of black water that keeps rising and broadening. Well behind the bobbing raft, a black tower has appeared, jutting vertically out of the water, a pair of wings sprouting from its top. The tower keeps getting taller, the wings getting higher out of the water, as before and aft, the mountain rises and shapes itself. Red stars and a few numbers. But no one has to read the numbers to know it’s a submarine. A nuclear-missile submarine.
Then it stops. So close to the Russians on their little raft that Gurov and friends can practically jump onto it. Raven paddles toward them, cutting through the waves like a glass knife.
“Fuck me,” the man with the glass eye says. He is utterly astounded. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Uncle Enzo’s gonna be pissed.”
“You couldn’t of known,” Livio says. “Should we shoot at ’em?”
Before the man with the glass eye can make a policy decision, the deck gun on the top of the nukesub opens up. The first shell misses them by just a few yards.
“Okay, we got a rapidly evolving situation. Hiro, you come with me.”
The crew of the Kowloon has already sized up the situation and placed their bets on the nuclear submarine. They are running up and down the rails, dropping large fiberglass capsules into the water. The capsules break open to reveal bright orange folds, which blossom into life rafts.
Once the deck gunners on the nukesub figure out how to hit the Kowloon, the situation begins to evolve even more rapidly. The Kowloon can’t decide whether to sink, burn, or simply disintegrate, so it does all three at once. By that time, most of the people who were on it have made their way onto a life raft. They all bob on the water, zip themselves into orange survival suits, and watch the nukesub.
Raven is the last person to go belowdecks on the submarine. He spends a minute or two removing some gear from his kayak: a few items in bags, and one eight-foot spear with a translucent, leaf-shaped head. Before he disappears into the hatch, he turns toward the wreckage of the Kowloon and holds the harpoon up over his head, a gesture of triumph and a promise all at once. Then he’s gone. A couple of minutes later, the submarine is gone, too.
“That guy gives me the creeps,” the man with the glass eye says.
Chapter Fourty-Seven
Once it starts coming clear to her, again, that these people are all twisted freaks, she starts to notice other things about them. For example, the whole time, no one ever looks her in the eye. Especially the men. No sex at all in these guys, they’ve got it pushed so far down inside of them. She can understand why they don’t look at the fat babushkas. But she’s a fifteen-year-old American chick, and she is used to getting the occasional look. Not here.
Until she looks up from her big vat of fish one day and finds that she is looking into some guy’s chest. And when she follows his chest upward to his neck, and his neck all the way up to his face, she sees dark eyes staring right back at her, right over the top of the counter.
He’s got something written on his forehead: POOR IMPULSE CONTROL. Which is kind of scary. Sexy, too. It gives him a certain measure of romance that none of these other people have. She was expecting the Raft to be dark and dangerous, and instead it’s just like working where her mother works. This guy is the first person she’s seen around this place who really looks like he belongs on the Raft.
And he’s got the look down, too. Incredibly rank style. Although he has a long wispy mustache that doesn’t do much for his face. Doesn’t bring out his features well at all.
“Do you take the nasty stuff? One fish head or two?” she says, dangling the ladle picturesquely. She always talks trash to people because none of them can understand what she’s saying.
“I’ll take whatever you’re offering,” the guy says. In English. Sort of a crisp accent.
“I’m not offering anything,” she says, “but if you want to stand there and browse, that’s cool.”
He stands there and browses for a while. Long enough that people farther back in line stand up on tiptoe to see what the problem is. But when they see that the problem is this particular individual, they get down off their toes real fast, hunch down, sort of blend in to the mass of fishy-smelling wool.
“What’s for dessert today?” the guy asks. “Got anything sweet for me?”
“We don’t believe in dessert,” Y.T. says. “It’s a fucking sin, remember?”
“Depends on your cultural orientation.”
“Oh, yeah? What culture are you oriented to?”