Operation Sea Ghost

27

THE ITALIAN-BUILT NUMERO Two racing yacht was like the Smoke-Lar in almost every way.

It, too, was shaped like a sharp-point bullet; it had special paint, aerodynamic glass, a semi-enclosed cockpit and a gas turbine for propulsion. And it, too, could reach speeds in excess of eighty mph on water.

They were virtually the same vessel, except Numero Two was painted red and the Smoke-Lar was painted white.

Michele Savoldi was Numero Two’s pilot; his cousin Giuseppe was his engineer. They’d left Monte Carlo at the same time as the Smoke-Lar, but had fallen behind the Dutch-designed boat almost immediately, losing sight of their opponent not ten minutes into the race.

This was not so unusual; it was just a difference in racing philosophy. Going at a moderate speed early, as Savoldi had, saved fuel for later on. If you start out at full throttle, as the Smoke-Lar had, you might get a big lead, but that could diminish as the race went along, especially if you ran into mechanical issues that sucked up more fuel than expected. Per the competition’s rules, Savoldi had never met or talked to the Smoke-Lar’s pilot, and every driver had his own methods. But in Savoldi’s opinion, his opponent did seem to be pouring it on a bit prematurely.

In fact, Savoldi had been out of sight of the Smoke-Lar during most of the Mediterranean leg of the race. It was only after both vessels passed through Gibraltar in late afternoon and were out on the open ocean that he increased his speed and finally resighted his rival.

Savoldi did not have any binoculars with him; only absolute essentials could be brought on the race because any extra weight meant loss of speed. This was why when he finally saw the Smoke-Lar again it was simply a dot on the horizon leaving a faint spray of water and smoke in its wake.

He’d been keeping a close eye on the Dutch boat ever since, though. His plan was to gradually increase his speed during the night and creep up on his opponent. Even though they were trying to outrun the sun, if Savoldi could get within five miles of the Smoke-Lar by dawn the next morning, he would be happy.

* * *

GIUSEPPE HAD JUST changed out a fuel tank when Savoldi realized something was about to fly over them. He’d seen all kinds of aircraft during the Mediterranean leg—everything from airliners, to private planes, to TV helicopters taking pictures as he roared along below. But since moving out into the Atlantic, only the contrails of the airliners remained and even they became few and far between.

But there was an aircraft above him now and it wasn’t an airliner or a private plane. It was a huge flying boat—and it was flying extremely low.

It had come up from his aft starboard side, making no noise until it flew right over him not fifty feet above the mast.

And now, as he and Giuseppe watched, the big plane turned violently to the left, and started coming back at them from the opposite direction.

Savoldi had no idea what was happening. Giuseppe was equally baffled. This huge hulking airplane seemed so interested in them—but why?

The flying boat went over a second time, again very low and extremely loud. Its four propellers even drowned out the roar of the Numero Two’s turbine engine. Savoldi didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to deviate from his precise, predetermined course—that might cost him time and speed at the finish line. But he didn’t want to collide with the huge plane either. Yet it was flying so low that seemed like a possibility.

The plane turned a third time, and came at them now from the starboard bow. It went by no more than twenty-five feet off the water, its wing almost touching the boat’s nose. Then it turned once more, sped up—and landed with a great splash about a half-mile directly in front of the Numero Two. Incredibly, it began taxiing toward a collision course with the racing yacht.

Savoldi had no choice. The plane had succeeded in outmaneuvering him. With great reluctance, he disengaged the autopilot and pulled back on the throttles. The boat slowed down to almost nothing.

That’s when he saw a person frantically waving something from the flying boat’s open cockpit window.

It was an Italian flag.

This person was also yelling for Savoldi to come to a stop.

* * *

INSIDE TWO MINUTES the flying boat had come up alongside the idling Numero Two.

By now Savoldi and Giuseppe were convinced that something had gone wrong and the race had been canceled. But then they saw a raft deploy from the rear of the flying boat with several heavily armed people on board. They began paddling madly toward the racing yacht, reaching it in seconds.

The first man to climb aboard was an Italian; he identified himself as one of the pilots of the flying boat. He told Savoldi and Giuseppe that he was ex–Stormo Incursori and that the people with him were an American special operations unit that had to take over the Numero Two.

By this time, the rest of the strange group had climbed aboard. Four of them were wearing futuristic battle suits and huge helmets and carrying large combat weapons. But Savoldi was mystified to see this small army was made up primarily of a man missing an eye, a man missing a leg and a man missing a hand. A fourth man was not in a battle suit; he was dressed like an average American citizen, someone’s grandfather out for a leisurely stroll. And the fifth person was not only the most beautiful girl Savoldi had ever seen, she looked like his favorite movie actress.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“These people are taking over my vessel?” he asked the Stormo pilot in Italian. “In the middle of this race?”

The Stormo nodded yes.

“Come pirati?” Savoldi asked. “Like pirates?”

The Stormo pilot thought for a moment and then nodded.

“Preciso…” he replied. “Sono proprio come i pirati…”

They are just like pirates.

* * *

THE SHIN-1’S MONTE Carlo stopover lasted only thirty minutes.

The flying boat had taxied up to the amphibian dock on the edge of the busy harbor to be met by Batman and Twitch. They knew right away this was the airplane that Alpha Squad had taken to Gottabang because of the detailing around the cockpit and tail section.

Nolan had jumped out of the open hatch even before the flying boat had stopped moving. He greeted Batman and Twitch warmly—as if he hadn’t seen them in years, when actually it had only been a few days.

Nolan looked especially strange to Batman. He was battered and bruised all over, like he’d been shipwrecked, beaten-up, through a major battle and more. Yet he seemed … happy. Batman had never known his friend to be anything but in a dark mood and angry at the world, especially after the team’s misadventure at Tora Bora. But now, he appeared to be a changed man.

Nolan told them he knew Monte Carlo was the only logical place to look for them. They were full of gratitude he’d followed his gut. Then a reunion that should have taken hours or even days, was accomplished in a matter of minutes, right on the dock.

Batman and Twitch talked first. They quickly told Nolan what had happened to them in the past forty-eight hours. Their arrival in Monte Carlo, their brief stay in the world-class luxurious penthouse, their fall to pauper status. They explained their comeback via Batman’s vast gambling winnings, the events surrounding the gagnant, and its tragic aftermath—and finally, their unusual alliance with a guy named Bobby Murphy, and his revelation to them just how dangerous the Z-box was, and how the key needed to activate it was now in the hands of terrorists.

In the retelling, each chapter sounded more fantastic than the one before it. The money, the intrigue, chasing jump jets, mysterious women. But as incredible as it all was, nothing could have prepared Batman and Twitch for the surprise Nolan had in store for them.

Only the need to get properly dressed in an extra Stormo flight suit had delayed Emma Simms’s arrival onto the dock. But as soon as she stepped out of the airplane, Nolan saw the look on Batman’s face and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

To which Batman replied, “Better watch what you say…”

They’d had no idea she’d smuggled herself aboard the Shin-1 for the trip to Gottabang. No idea that she’d been with Nolan all along.

But then it got really weird.

On first seeing them, Emma greeted Batman and Twitch like they were long lost brothers.

“We were so worried about you two,” she told them breathlessly, embracing them and kissing their cheeks. “We were off doing our own thing, but we were always wondering how you guys were. We had to rescue a bunch of really unfortunate people from Gottabang and then these really bad pirates called the Bum Cats kept attacking us, but we fought them off because of these poor people—we just had to save their lives even though they’re wracked with disease and malnutrition, and…”

She went on and on … and on, telling it all, at times hugging Nolan, at times laughing and then almost crying, and then laughing again.

It was so unexpected, that at the end of it, in perfect deadpan, Twitch had asked her, “And who are you again?”

* * *

THEIR CONVERSATION CONTINUED while the Shin-1 was being gassed up and the Alpha Squad was introduced to Bobby Murphy.

It was clear that a lot of strange things had gone on with both teams, especially when Batman pulled Nolan aside and told him the unusual spiritualized way he’d so quickly won the immense fortune playing cards.

But they really didn’t have enough time to ponder any of it. They had to concentrate on the two most important items of information: that Beta now knew what the Z-box was, and that Alpha had a good idea where it was—at an address with the zip code of 10007.

When a quick Internet search told them that 10007 was located in lower Manhattan, frighteningly close to where the Twin Towers once stood, everyone agreed that, considering what had transpired and what was at stake, it was up to Whiskey to stop the Jihad Brothers before they got where they were going.

Which is why they were now on the Numero Two.

* * *

THEY HAD A plan.

They’d worked it out during the flight from Monte Carlo to this point almost 800 miles off the French coast.

The plan was typical Whiskey: highly improvised and held together by Band-Aids and duct tape. That’s what had worked best for them in the past. They had no time to change their technique now.

Most of the team’s special combat equipment had remained aboard the Shin-1 after Gottabang, so now they had access to it again, including their sniper rifle, a Barrett M107 LRSR capable of firing a .50-caliber round almost four miles, an astonishing distance. If the person firing it knew what he was doing, the M107 could be an extremely effective weapon.

It would have to be for Whiskey’s plan to work.

They’d immediately discounted any kind of ship-to-ship boarding action as a way of stopping the Smoke-Lar. Though it was more their forte, attempting such an attack would almost definitely cost Murphy’s protégé Li her life, not to mention it would have to be done while both vessels were traveling in excess of 80 mph.

So their idea was this: If they could get within four miles of the Smoke-Lar, then they would use the M107 to shoot the terrorist who was piloting the boat, and hopefully his engineer as well.

It seemed crazy, killing the two people who were in control of the high-speed vessel. But in theory it would work because just like Numero Two, the Smoke-Lar was basically run by a computer. As long as its autopilot was engaged, whether a human was at the helm or not, the boat would continue going where it was supposed to go.

But Whiskey also figured that, with both terrorists dead, the beautiful female hostage would be able to figure out how to take the computer off-line and stop the boat. Or even if that failed, by not changing out the fuel tanks, the vessel would eventually stop on its own.

Another advantage of the plan was that the Jihad Brothers would probably never know what hit them, at least not until the last moment. The roar of the Smoke-Lar’s turbine engine would be Whiskey’s ally here. Just as its racket masked the sound of the terrorists killing the Dutch support crew back on the dock in Monte Carlo, so now it would mask the sound of any gunfire being aimed in their direction.

The hope was neither terrorist would realize anyone was even shooting at them until the first sniper bullet hit. And as far as they knew, as the race was still on, the only people following them were the two people trying to beat them to the finish line.

Finally, because they were still about 3,000 miles from the U.S., mainland, Whiskey would have almost forty hours to carry out the scheme.

* * *

BUT, AS WAS usually the case when Whiskey took on these high-risk endeavors, there were potential complications.

Though the M107 rifle could indeed hit a target four miles away, that was based on an expert doing the shooting and that expert being on solid ground. A non-expert firing the weapon from a racing yacht going 80 mph over six-foot ocean waves might prove a bit problematical.

The second dilemma was how to get close enough to the Smoke-Lar to get off a good shot. The Numero Two had already been ten miles behind the Dutch vessel when Whiskey appeared on the scene. The midocean stop took another ten minutes, putting the Smoke-Lar another fifteen miles in front, for a total of more than twenty-five miles.

The Numero Two would have to somehow make up a lot of that distance if they hoped to get within decent firing range of the lead boat.

* * *

BUT ON HEARING the plan, Savoldi, Numero Two’s pilot, simply laughed at them.

“Non si può fare,” he told them. “It cannot be done.”

The Shin-1 had departed and the Italian racing boat was climbing back up to 80 mph, its nose pointing northwest. While Savoldi’s main concern was to get moving again, he’d been quickly briefed on who was driving the Smoke-Lar and how they had killed the racing yacht’s driver, engineer and support crew. As it turned out, the pilot was intensely sympathetic, as he’d had a close relative slain by al Qaeda gunmen while serving in Iraq. And he wished he could help Whiskey in catching these terrorists.

But, he reiterated, their plan was unworkable. Why? Because the Numero Two had become seriously overloaded.

“This boat is built for two people,” he explained to them in rough English, shouting to be heard over the roar of his recharged turbine engine. “And Giuseppe and I are thin on purpose. We diet just to make this trip. The boat goes fast not just because of the engine but because everything else on board is built lightweight or it does not come with us at all. We don’t even have binoculars or sat-phones or more than one radio. We drink energy drinks instead of bringing food and water, and we pop pills so we won’t need a place to lie down and sleep.”

He used his hands to indicate all the equipment Whiskey had brought with them. Their weapons, their ammunition, their heavy battle suits. And the fact that there were now five extra people on the boat.

Savoldi guessed they were at least six hundred pounds overweight. And while there was one extra person on the Smoke-Lar, she was probably less than 100 pounds at the most, which equaled Emma’s weight. So the two females were a wash.

But that still left the fact that Nolan, Batman, Twitch and Murphy were all extra poundage, as was all their gear, something that never dawned on them while they were en route, cooking up this plan.

To put it in numbers, Savoldi explained the Numero Two’s turbine contained a sensor that, in simple terms, indicated how hard the engine was working. That information could then be translated into how much the boat weighed at any given moment.

When he checked this sensor, it showed they were 575 pounds overweight.

“I am with you one hundred percent in this endeavor,” the surprisingly even-keeled Savoldi concluded. “But we have no hope of catching the lead boat, because we’d have to get rid of almost 600 pounds just to get back to even—and that seems impossible.”

In other words, with the Shin-1 long gone, and with no way of calling it back, Whiskey was now stuck aboard the racing yacht whether they liked it or not.

So much for off-the-cuff planning.

* * *

BUT WHISKEY COULD not just give up.

Once Savoldi’s cold truths sank in, they began accounting for anything aboard the racing boat that was not necessary and could be thrown overboard.

The first to go was most of Whiskey’s weapons. Over the side went their beloved M4s, all their ammunition and their sidearms. Next went the teams’ heavy battle suits, their helmets, utility belts and even their boots.

They knew this was not nearly enough, but still wanted to know how they did. Savoldi checked his sensor

They’d shed only eighty pounds.

Next to go were the two gunny sacks containing MREs, some water, medical supplies, blankets, an assortment of things usually needed by special ops groups.

Another check of the sensor. They’d only lost another thirty pounds. And that was just about all the equipment Whiskey had brought aboard the vessel.

With Savoldi’s blessing, they started searching for items belonging to the boat itself that weren’t necessary. The racing yacht was made up of three basic components: Its extended nose was empty; its main purpose was to provide the aerodynamics of a long narrow snout. The semi-enclosed cockpit, where they were all congregated, was also where all the navigation and steering controls were located, as well as all the computers. The third component was the engine compartment, the claustrophobically small, brutally hot rear space where the turbine sat surrounded by a slew of twenty-five-gallon fuel containers. Once a container was used up, it was thrown overboard, thus making the vessel that much lighter, and making it go just a little bit faster.

Whiskey crawled all over the vessel, inspecting every bit of it. But as Savoldi had said, the intricately designed boat had been built to be lightweight in the first place, so there really wasn’t much on board that could be discarded.

Then Twitch said, “Just before they went to the moon, they discovered the Apollo lander was too heavy. So the first thing they did was get rid of the seats.”

The Numero Two had a pair of seats located in front of the control panel. Again, on Savoldi’s OK, Whiskey went about dislodging these seats from the deck, using their combat knives as screwdrivers. It took more than an hour, but they finally came loose and we’re thrown overboard.

Each seat weighed twenty pounds, so an additional forty pounds was gone.

But they were still more than 400 pounds from their goal.

* * *

SCOURING COMPARTMENTS ADJACENT to the engine compartment, Nolan found a steel box that contained many unusual and exotic tools. Giuseppe, the engineer, indicated the tools were on hand in case the vessel’s turbine broke down.

This began an extensive discussion. While the chances of the turbine breaking down were remote, it wasn’t impossible, especially considering the many hazards of the sea. Finally they asked Giuseppe what were the most important tools he would need if a problem arose.

He pointed out a handful of ratchet extensions and wrenches, then told them in broken English: “If I can’t fix it with these, then I can’t fix it at all.”

That’s all they needed to hear. Giuseppe took out the tools, then the box went over the side.

Savoldi checked his sensor. It was a total of sixty pounds gone.

But about 350 pounds of dead weight still remained.

* * *

THEY SPENT THE next two hours going over the racing yacht yet again, picking up scraps, like deck mats, extra seat cushions, even some lightbulbs.

But discarding things like this had minimal effect; less than ten pounds for all their efforts. Plus, it was getting dark and the Numero Two had made up little if any distance separating it from the still out-of-sight Smoke-Lar.

They’d all worked hard at it—even Emma and Murphy. But slumping back down in the cockpit after yet another hour of searching, the universal feeling was obvious: Their plan wasn’t going to work and the terrorists would probably reach the U.S. unchecked to do their dirty work.

“We still have the option of calling in help,” Twitch said finally, even though Murphy’s sat-phone had run out of juice a long time ago. “If we sent a radio message to someone in a position of responsibility, they could pass the word along and someone can still deal with these guys before they’re within sight of the U.S.”

“But you know what that means,” Batman said glumly, having heard the argument before. “The Navy will get involved and more likely than not, they’ll cream that boat and apologize later.”

Twitch just shrugged. “I still think we should consider it,” he said. “Because what we’ve been doing here just ain’t going to work.”

Overhearing the conversation, Murphy slowly got to his feet and calmly made his way over to the boat’s control panel. Without a word, he pulled the small two-way radio out of the console and nonchalantly tossed it overboard.

Then just as calmly he sat back down again.

“That was at least ten pounds,” he said.

* * *

ONCE AGAIN, THEY started searching, this time concentrating on the cockpit and the various tiny compartments that ran off it.

Batman found a box tucked way behind the control panel. It was so heavy, he needed Nolan’s help to pull it out.

“This is got to be at least a hundred pounds,” Nolan said. “Maybe more.”

“Actually it weighs almost one hundred and forty pounds,” Savoldi told them.

“Christ—what is it then?” Nolan asked. “Can we toss it?”

That’s when Savoldi pointed out a tag on the side of the box that read: EMERGENZA ZATTERA

Loosely translated: LIFE RAFT.

There was a slight gasp from the others.

Batman looked up at Nolan. “Remind me again how much we want to do this?” he said. “I mean, no radio, no phones and no lifeboat?”

Nolan did a quick calculation. “We’d still be more than two hundred pounds overweight,” he said.

“We should vote,” Twitch said.

But Nolan knew this was hardly the time for democracy. Besides, it really wasn’t their decision to make, especially now that the radio was gone.

He turned back to Savoldi, who’d been amazingly gracious as Whiskey had ripped apart his boat.

Nolan said to him, “You have the right to tell us to stop all this right now,” he said. “Bottom line, you guys are the victims of circumstance here.”

But Savoldi shook his head no. “I want to beat the man in that boat more than anything now. Race or no race. I have trained for something like this my whole life. He’s a fraud. Plus, he killed people like me. People who do what I do. It is my duty to help you catch him.”

Giuseppe was vigorously nodding in agreement.

“But this is not something we can do half-ass,” Batman said. “Once it’s gone, that life raft, like the radio, ain’t coming back.”

Strangely, it was Savoldi and Giuseppe themselves who settled the matter. They each took an end of the box and hurled it overboard.

No one said a word. For five long minutes, as they roared along, hammering against the Atlantic waves, everyone was silent.

Savoldi checked his weight sensor. It was down 140 pounds, but still that had only a minimal effect on their speed. They had 200 pounds more to go, and that was just to break even. And according to Savoldi, those 200 pounds were more than enough to prevent them from even seeing the Smoke-Lar again, never mind catching up to it.

This had a huge dampening effect on the uninvited passengers. Hearing it, they all collapsed to the deck of the cockpit, tired and beaten, and contemplated this unexpected disaster. They’d been aboard the boat for six hours now. They were wet, they were cold, and there was no food or water for them, only energy drinks for nourishment. And as these were highly caffeinated, they would only serve to put people on edge. It might have been the worst predicament Whiskey had ever found itself in.

His back pressed up against the rear panel, Nolan spied Twitch across the cockpit and could almost feel frustration oozing off of him. Truth be told, he’d been of little help in the weight search because, due to his makeshift umbrella-parts prosthetic leg, he had an especially hard time moving around the boat.

Now Nolan could almost hear him thinking, “If I just throw myself overboard, it might be enough to get close to the terrorist boat.”

This vibe was so intense, Nolan leaned over to Batman, told him his fear about Twitch, and then said: “Please keep an eye on him. Don’t let him do anything rash.”

Batman replied, “OK—but who’s going to keep an eye on me?”

* * *

NIGHT HAD FALLEN by this time. As was always the case at sea, one moment it was dusk, the next it was the dead of night and the stars were out in all their brilliance.

Still sitting in the back of the cockpit, Nolan saw an airliner going over their heads. Way up there, all lights and contrails, he thought: You lucky bastards.

Emma was right up next to him as always, her head pressed against his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling about all this. It was embarrassing that after all they’d gone through he’d f*cked up so royally with such an unworkable plan. As everything had more or less gone their way in the past few days, he’d never considered the string of good luck would so suddenly run out. And that had been a big mistake.

But all she said to him was: “Who will tell our story if we all die?”

* * *

NO ONE SLEPT. No one spoke.

The racing yacht roared on, bouncing constantly by riding atop the ocean waves.

Nolan watched Savoldi, as if he was waiting for a miracle to occur. The pilot was continuously checking his computer readouts, checking the weight sensor, checking the GPS screen and tracking the little red dot that represented the Smoke-Lar. But he could tell every time Savoldi went through this procedure, it was not good news. They just could not get close enough to the terrorist boat, and if even the slightest thing went wrong with Numero Two, they would probably be lost for good.

Who will tell our story if we all die?

Those words were now stuck in Nolan’s head.

Through it all, Murphy sat off by himself, staring into space. He looked so out of place, like an old man lost at the supermarket. He’d said nothing for the longest time, so Nolan started to worry about him as well.

At one point Savoldi pulled a notebook from underneath his control board. It was the operating manual for Numero Two and probably weighed a quarter of a pound if that. Yet the pilot considered throwing it overboard as all the information within was duplicated on his computer.

But Murphy stopped him.

“May I?” he asked the boat pilot.

Savoldi shrugged and said, “Be my guest.”

Murphy took the book and sat back down.

* * *

THEY PLOWED ON into the night.

The roar of the turbine first became physically tiring, and then painful. Again, the team was huddled at the very rear of the semi-enclosed cockpit, definitely not a space designed to carry people. A lot of spray made its way onto their heads and the temperature was plummeting. Their hopeless condition made them more miserable by the minute.

But suddenly, Murphy came alive.

He sprang to his feet, operating manual still in hand, and made his way up to Savoldi at the control board.

“Turbine engines have a tendency to leak fuel, am I right?” Murphy asked him.

Savoldi thought a moment, then nodded. “More so than other types of engines, si.”

Listening in, Nolan also knew this to be true, especially on some jet aircraft or turbine-powered helicopters. When turbines were first started, they were flooded with fuel, and some of that fuel inevitably leaked out. It was the nature of the beast.

“What do you do with that leaking fuel?” Murphy asked him.

Savoldi had to think a moment. “It’s found and used again,” he said in the best way he could find to explain it.

Murphy’s eyes lit up. “So, your engine has an attachment that captures and then recycles this leaking fuel?”

Savoldi called for Giuseppe. His cousin crawled out of the engine compartment having just changed out a fuel container.

Savoldi explained Murphy’s question to him and Giuseppe nodded. “When the turbine stops, we take extra fuel back,” he said.

“So, your engine has a fuel recycle and recovery tank?” Murphy pressed Giuseppe directly.

Giuseppe nodded. “Si…” he said. “A big one.”

Nolan was up beside them now. Murphy explained to him that the turbine’s recycling attachment and recovery tank must weigh at least four hundred pounds. Yet according to Numero Two’s manual, they really didn’t need it, as the amount of fuel it would save in a couple days was negligible. If they were able to take it off, along with the recovery tank, it would be a huge weight savings.

Nolan and Savoldi both understood, but then Savoldi said, “Such a thing can’t be done while turbine is running—everything in the engine is too hot to touch. And we can’t stop to do it or we’ll be way too far behind. Plus, fuel usually caught by the recycler would wind up on the floor of the compartment.”

“But the engine can run without this attachment?” Nolan asked Giuseppe.

He nodded again, but confirmed the fuel would collect on the bottom of the engine compartment.

He said, “Kerosene. One spark—boom! All over…”

Nolan turned back to Savoldi. “If we were able to lose all that equipment, would we catch up to the Smoke-Lar?”

Savoldi checked the Dutch boat’s position and then nodded. “It’s a better possibility,” is how he replied.

Now Nolan had a million thoughts shoot through his head. If they could somehow get rid of this nonessential engine part, then they might still be able to make this all work.

But how could they detach it? Giuseppe was indicating that he knew how to do it, but how could they work on a piece of equipment that would be red hot?

“I can do it,” Batman suddenly said from the corner of the cockpit.

Nolan turned to him. “You? Why you?”

Batman held up his twisted prosthetic hand and said, “Because I got nothing to burn.”

* * *

SIX HOURS.

That’s how long it took for Batman to disconnect the fuel recycler and its recovery tank from the boat’s massive gas turbine engine.

All the work had to be done inside the extremely tight confines of the engine compartment, a hot, smelly greasy place that had no headroom, no legroom, and only a dull fifty-watt-equivalent bulb to light it.

Add in the constant bouncing of the boat, and the thunderous roar of the engine itself, it equaled a little piece of hell traveling at 80 mph.

Batman stuck with it, though. The attachment was located at the front and on the underside of the turbine, the most inconvenient spot imaginable when attacking it from the rear. It was held on by a flange of countersunk bolts, designed to be removed by a universal wrench, which was one of the tools Giuseppe had retained. The problem was, there were three-dozen of them, and each bolt took many minutes to slowly come undone.

Batman worked the wrench with his good hand, using his mechanical hand to hold the loosening flange in place and to collect the bolts each time one needed to be removed. Nolan sat just outside the engine compartment hatch throughout, passing in a t-shirt soaked with seawater for Batman to cool himself off, however minimally. Giuseppe sat just inside the cramped room, providing encouragement and collecting the bolts each time one was removed.

Nolan found himself thinking more than once the engine room was so small, even Crash’s ghost would have a hard time fitting inside.

The attachment was finally separated from the turbine five hours into the operation. The sixth hour was spent trying to position the heavy, four-by-five boxlike recycler so they could work it out of the engine room. This proved to be the hardest part of all, and for a few scary minutes it seemed that after detaching it, the recycler was just too big to take out though the engine compartment’s hatchway.

But with a lot of pushing, pulling and even some kicking, they managed to squeeze the 400-pound attachment out the engine hatch, where Nolan, Twitch, Savoldi, Murphy and Giuseppe triumphantly pushed it over the side. The recovery tank was also given the heave-ho. Then Savoldi checked his weight sensor again.

The Numero Two was lighter by a whopping 422 pounds.

They could feel the boat moving faster already.

* * *

BUT THEN THEY extracted Batman from the engine compartment, and one look at his other hand—the one without the prosthesis—told just how painful the procedure had been. All of his fingers and his palm down to his wrist were horribly burned.

Emma immediately wanted to take care of him, but all their first-aid supplies had gone overboard. The only thing she could treat it with was salt water from the spray coming into the boat. She gathered it up on the t-shirt and gently rubbed the burns.

It must have been hugely painful, yet Batman just sat there and took it.

“How do we get ourselves into these situations?” he asked Nolan darkly through gritted teeth. “I had more fun when the IRS was chasing me.”