The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller (16 page)

Even as these thoughts were passing through his mind, Flynn was running for the surf, keeping low, dodging from side to side. Shots followed him, smacking into the water like slaps. He strained for deeper water, but it took a while. The tidal flat continued out for a long distance.

A shot passed his head so close the slipstream of the bullet caused an involuntary jerk away. Finally he was wading. He threw himself into the water, swimming through the light surf as bullets whined past. Fire seared his left leg, causing him to cry out, his voice gargling as he swallowed water. As he choked up the salt water, still swimming, he tested the leg. Still working, meaning that it was a flesh wound.

Lethal in this water, though, as soon as the sharks got the scent. He swam on, seeing the lighter green below him give way to deep, infinite blue. He'd passed off the edge of the shelf. He dove. As far as the shooter was concerned, he had disappeared. If he was lucky, they'd see the blood and decide that they had accomplished their mission.

He swam fast, due south, getting out of the line of fire. When he had to surface, he turned on his back, bent his neck, and lifted only his face into the air. He inhaled a series of deep, oxygenating breaths, then let himself sink again, being sure not to create the least ripple on the surface.

When he was back under the water, he heard the deep thrumming of a big diesel, then another, and farther away a third.

Three patrol boats were on their way. From the sound of the engines, about two miles out.

He dove again and swam harder. He had no means of navigation and no idea of the coordinates he was looking for, as if he could even estimate coordinates.

The intensity of the sunlight could blind him if he wasn't careful. This close to the water's surface, the effect was the same as the glare of arctic snow. He swam on for half an hour, stroking now more easily and smoothly, conserving energy, always making sure that the coast was behind him.

So far, no sharks. The bleeding slowed and he was hopeful that the wound was only torn muscle that would soon swell closed in the salt water. Blood in the water didn't inevitably trigger a shark to attack: It depended on how hungry it was. But if there were several in the area, more than one or two, any attack would undoubtedly become a feeding frenzy, and he would be done.

As he swam, he continued listening to the engine notes, which faded, then grew more distinct, then faded again. They were operating a grid search a few kilometers north of his position, working their way in this direction. He was a small target in big water.

The shark appeared without warning, racing up at him in full attack mode. Instantly, he ceased all movement. The shark's mouth was closed, so it was still scouting him. Opening his eyes in the warm salt water stung, but when he did, he could see more of the sleek, speeding shapes below him.

It came in again, sweeping past him quickly. As it turned and came back, he delivered a quick jab with his closed fingers to its eye. The soft, cool tissue gave a bit. He pulled at it and the shark reacted by swimming away fast.

This interested others, which began rising. But he'd stopped bleeding, so he had a chance, although a slim one. He'd been lucky to get an eye, the shark's most sensitive point. If the others came in, one of them was going to take a piece out of him. Then the feeding frenzy.

He hung in the water in absolute stillness. The sound of the patrol's engines was loud now. The southernmost limit of their grid was probably no more than five hundred meters away. If they saw shark fins, they would locate him at once. So which would he prefer, getting flayed alive by torturers or eaten by sharks?

Duty answered the question clearly. Torture would lead to him revealing vital secrets. He would have to choose the sharks.

Above all this, though, was an overriding and overwhelmingly urgent need to get back, or at least get his message to Diana: Aeon had changed sides and was in the process of forming an alliance with Iran.

One of the patrol boats came roaring straight toward him. Still, he remained motionless. It bore down on him, its engines thundering like some kind of wild enormous heart. The wake shoved him like a remorseless great hand, tumbling him over and over. He bounced hard against the screw cage and counted himself fortunate that the hull had one. Otherwise, he would have been cut, probably dismembered, and the sharks would have eaten the scraps.

The force of the screw's thrust propelled him a long distance, taking him far from where he'd been leaving blood in the water. So at least he was free of the sharks for a few minutes.

The searching patrol boats moved south, and did not return. He remained absolutely still. No sharks appeared.

Warm though the water was, it was still well below body temperature, and he assumed the “Help” posture, crossing his arms over his chest to retain as much heat as he could. As the sun crossed the sky and began to drop in the west, he considered the idea of returning to shore for the night. The surface water would cool down in the dark, and he could already feel the thick weight of the fatigue that came from exposure.

He was trying to estimate how far out he might be by now, and whether or not he could manage the swim back, when he felt himself being lifted by deep pressure. He thrust his face under and saw perhaps thirty meters below him a vast, gray shape moving at a slow, searching pace.

No question: It was a submarine. But how to attract its attention? He couldn't catch up with it and he couldn't swim down ninety feet to rap on the hull.

Then it was gone. He fought down the disappointment that came from knowing that he had lost his main chance.

As the sun set, he found himself alone in a vast circle of water. Maybe he was three miles out by now. He could not survive for long, but he also couldn't swim back into the hands of Ghorbani and his kind. His choices were to die here or to die in Tehran.

But he'd already made the decision. He stopped swimming, stopped treading water. He floated, his eyes lifted toward the evening sky, the gulls shining white in the last light, above them the first stars.

Here, now—this would be his grave.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

UNSEEN CREATURES
broached and sighed in the dark—whales, he assumed, maybe dolphins. The stars danced in the water. For hours, he'd been floating, raising his head to breathe, then floating again, staying in the “Help” posture, conserving all the energy he could.

It was well after midnight when a searchlight swept the water about three hundred yards out. Was it the sub? An Iranian patrol vessel? He waited, then saw the light point downward into the water.

It was a fishing boat. They were trying to attract a catch.

He swam toward it. As he drew near, he could hear voices and smell raw fish and cigarette smoke. Diesel fuel. It wasn't much of a vessel, an ancient dhow fitted with an outboard motor to move it when there wasn't any wind.

When he reached the side, he found himself looking up into a great, painted eye, an ancient symbol in these waters. Egyptian sailors would paint them on their ships to guide them through night and storm. The water around him was now a hazy green, the light a white column that played out in the dark below. The bright shaft of it was rapidly filling with speeding, darting squid.

Feeling his way along, he came to some netting and lifted himself just far enough to see four men. They sat around a gasoline lantern, its hissing a counterpoint to their low voices. What were they speaking, Farsi or Arabic? He was unsure.

Then he saw, lying against the mast, the dark but unmistakable form of an AK-47. Were they pirates, then? No, not in these waters. Pirates needed a wider and more anonymous expanse, like the Indian Ocean. The weapon revealed nothing. Anybody out here at night, no matter their purpose, would be carrying some kind of a gun, and you could buy an AK in any bazaar in the Middle East.

One of them, his face invisible in the deep shadows that surrounded the dhow, stood up and came peering over the side. He leaned far out, looking down at the squid.

Flynn moved around to the far side of the boat and waited. After another few minutes, they ran their net out and dropped it. As it sank into the mass of squid, one of them did what Flynn had been waiting for and began pulling the starter cord on the old engine to bring the net back up.

They were all on the opposite side now, and the clatter of the engine nicely masked whatever small sounds Flynn made as he lifted himself into the boat. At once he went to the mast and secured the AK. He thumbed the safety back. He could kill these men in an instant, take their boat, and sail it southwest until he reached Qatar. He could, but he wouldn't. His killer instinct did not extend to the innocent.

The ancient engine clattered and spit oil as they drew their net in. It was a fine catch, the net packed with frantic, squirming squid. The fishermen's voices rose with excitement as they guided the net across the deck and dumped the squid into the hold.

It was then, while they were opening the net, that the first of them saw him. He was standing by the mast waiting quietly, prepared for anything, especially for any hand movements on the part of the one carrying the pistol under his soiled old dishdasha.

One by one, they turned toward him. The squid continued sloshing down into the hold, where they kept up a frenetic splashing. Flynn took a step forward, reached down, and cut off the little engine. The net swung free, but the fishermen ducked rather than move to stop it. Slowly, then more quickly, it came back and then hung still.

He could see the confusion in their faces. He was wearing a tattered shirt and a pair of underwear; that was it. The gash along his left leg was puckered and white from the salt water. He assumed that his face was corpselike. From the fear that was replacing their confused surprise, he knew that they were finally understanding the situation, that a dead man had come up out of the ocean and was pointing their own gun at them.

“Anybody speak English?”

Slow looks, one to the other. “I,” one of them said. “You fall from plane?”

“Boat.”

“Ah.” He gestured toward the gun. “You rob?”

“No. I pay. How much to take me to Qatar?”

The one who could speak English conferred with the others in what Flynn was now sure was Arabic. He turned back. “Where you money?”

“In Doha.”

“You fall off boat? What boat?”

“Pirates stole my boat.”

He spoke again in Arabic, relief clearly audible in his voice. “You thirsty? Hungry?”

“Yes.”

Judging from the stars, they were sailing south-southwest, which probably was the correct direction. Flynn had no idea how the Qatari port officials would react to him, but if he could get them to call U.S. Central Command at Al Udeid Air Base, he was fairly sure that he would be all right.

When they heated lamb stew over a camp stove, Flynn's body reacted, and he didn't think he could remember ever before feeling so hungry or so thirsty. They had orange sodas and bottled water to wash the food down. He could have consumed everything, all the drink and all the food, but he was careful to take only modest portions.

He stationed himself in the prow of the boat and fought sleep as they plowed along in what was becoming a heavy swell. They muttered among themselves and watched the ring that had appeared around the moon. It was October, but maybe there was still the risk of a simoon. The boat began falling into the troughs of waves. The right sort of wind could quickly turn the narrow Persian Gulf into a surging maelstrom, which a boat like this would not weather well, if at all.

They knew it, too; they had trimmed their sail as close as they dared, and the little boat was racing. The sail of the dhow is designed to survive sudden, intense winds, but a lengthy storm would be too much.

“How long?” Flynn asked, looking at the moon, which was now flying in tattered cloud.

“One hour.”

“Until the storm strikes, or until we reach Doha?” Flynn asked, but got a blank stare. The English was too complicated.

The storm came on them with the suddenness characteristic of the region, a roaring surge of white-hot wind stinking of the desert, bringing with it sand-thick spray. The boat leaped and then heeled, cords whipping, the sail as tight as a wineskin, and the crew began shouting the cry of despair universal to the Moslem world, “
Allah o'Akbar
,” again and again, as much an incantation against the storm as a prayer of resignation.

The sky had turned to ink swirling with spray. Close to the boat, pale, roiling surf thundered. The rest was darkness absolute. If they were still on course, God had indeed enacted a miracle. Still, the Persian Gulf isn't like one of the great oceans. You can get lost in it for a while, but it's no trackless waste. Sail east or west, and you will come upon land in a few hours. You can't get out into the Indian Ocean without passing through the Strait of Hormuz, and a storm is certain to run you aground or drown you first.

The calling on God changed to cries of terror when, in a lightning flash, there appeared an onrushing wave so huge it looked like a great wing of water tipped with delicate pale feathers of foam.

The crew were cowering in the prow, so Flynn went to the stern and took the tiller. It would bite, then run free as the stern was lifted high out of the water, then bite again when she smacked back with a timber-shuddering crack. He got her prow into the wind, but she kept falling off, and he knew that it would not be long before she foundered.

He watched the crew in the prow. Their dark, resigned faces looked back at him, blank with despair. The boat shot into the trough of a wave and into a sudden silence. Gulls scudded, seeking fish in the wall of the oncoming roller. Then the boat began to rise, then faster, then so fast their ears popped, and suddenly they were in the roaring surge of the storm again. The boat crested the wave and went speeding down into the next trough like a surfboard.