doing that.” Drummond indicated the accelerator, which Charlie still had pressed all the way to the floor.
Indeed the Amphibus continued to function, distancing them from the runway. But at a turtle’s pace.
“You sure about the ‘jet propulsion’ part?” Charlie asked, watching the cops spring out of their cars, all with sidearms drawn except for the last man, who had a shotgun.
“An interesting piece of information is that it took ten million man hours to develop amphibious vehicle technology,” Drummond said.
The shotgun roared and a round barreled into the cargo hold, creating a fist-sized hole in the wall behind them and boring into the dashboard. The radio spat out sparks.
More bullets rained against the vehicle, with such frequency that the dings and chimes formed one continuous peal. Too many bullets to count entered the cabin, kicking up a confetti of vinyl bits from the dashboard along with a geyser of sparks, and turning any remaining glass into gravel. The air filled with a salty mist.
Crouched as far down as possible, Charlie kept his hands on the accelerator. He tried to steel himself by remembering that he and Drummond had escaped worse.
That reduced the odds of their succeeding again, come to think of it. Better not to think, he decided.
The Amphibus reached thirty kilometers per hour, according to the speedometer, slashing through the waves.
The hail of bullets dwindled to a sprinkle, then nothing. The ruckus of gunfire and sirens receded and was soon drowned out by the inboard engines’ hums. Charlie felt safe enough to emulate Drummond and climb back onto the bench.
Through what remained of his window, he glanced aft at the policemen standing at the water’s edge, their heads lowered.
“Now what?” Charlie asked.
Drummond didn’t reply, fully attuned to the French chatter from the walkie-talkie pressed to his ear. After a moment, he said, “They’re dispatching two Coast Guard cutters.”
Charlie looked to shore. The airport now appeared the size of a dollhouse. Other than the engines, he heard only the patter of waves against the hull and a faint cry of a seabird. The moonlit seascape could have been used by the Martinique Travel Bureau.
“How about we get out and let this thing keep on chugging to sea, so that when the cops get to it, there’s nobody aboard?” Charlie said. “We can use one of the life rafts to get back to the island.” He thought back to what Bream had said: Anybody who wants to sneak onto Martinique can pull up in a million places by boat.
“They’re also sending a helicopter.” Drummond indicated the walkie-talkie.
“Super. With a searchlight?”
As he sometimes did, Drummond massaged his temples, as if trying to trip the button that activated his memory. “Sorry,” he said in conclusion.
“Okay, how about a more basic survival question?” In this respect, Charlie thought, Drummond’s tradecraft was practically ingrained. “If you were now, hypothetically, a fugitive, what would you do?”
“Swim to shore.”
“But they’d still see you.”
“Not if I swam underwater.”
“It’s got to be a couple of miles at least.”
“Well, that would be my best course of action, if I were a fugitive.”
The distant cry, which Charlie had thought of as a seabird’s, grew louder, into a whine. He recognized it. Helicopter rotor.
He gripped his door handle. “Well, either way, we need to get out of here now.”
“This way,” Drummond said, unlatching the door to the cargo hold.
“What difference does it make?” Charlie asked.
Pushing open the door, Drummond pointed into the dark hold. The glow from the console outlined walls blooming with vests, masks, fins, and cylindrical tanks like the one that had flown out the rear door and onto the runway.
“I guess you’ve scuba dived off an amphibious rescue vehicle before too,” said Charlie, who had never even snorkeled.
Drummond pulled on a wet suit. “Maybe so.”
A minute later
Indeed the Amphibus continued to function, distancing them from the runway. But at a turtle’s pace.
“You sure about the ‘jet propulsion’ part?” Charlie asked, watching the cops spring out of their cars, all with sidearms drawn except for the last man, who had a shotgun.
“An interesting piece of information is that it took ten million man hours to develop amphibious vehicle technology,” Drummond said.
The shotgun roared and a round barreled into the cargo hold, creating a fist-sized hole in the wall behind them and boring into the dashboard. The radio spat out sparks.
More bullets rained against the vehicle, with such frequency that the dings and chimes formed one continuous peal. Too many bullets to count entered the cabin, kicking up a confetti of vinyl bits from the dashboard along with a geyser of sparks, and turning any remaining glass into gravel. The air filled with a salty mist.
Crouched as far down as possible, Charlie kept his hands on the accelerator. He tried to steel himself by remembering that he and Drummond had escaped worse.
That reduced the odds of their succeeding again, come to think of it. Better not to think, he decided.
The Amphibus reached thirty kilometers per hour, according to the speedometer, slashing through the waves.
The hail of bullets dwindled to a sprinkle, then nothing. The ruckus of gunfire and sirens receded and was soon drowned out by the inboard engines’ hums. Charlie felt safe enough to emulate Drummond and climb back onto the bench.
Through what remained of his window, he glanced aft at the policemen standing at the water’s edge, their heads lowered.
“Now what?” Charlie asked.
Drummond didn’t reply, fully attuned to the French chatter from the walkie-talkie pressed to his ear. After a moment, he said, “They’re dispatching two Coast Guard cutters.”
Charlie looked to shore. The airport now appeared the size of a dollhouse. Other than the engines, he heard only the patter of waves against the hull and a faint cry of a seabird. The moonlit seascape could have been used by the Martinique Travel Bureau.
“How about we get out and let this thing keep on chugging to sea, so that when the cops get to it, there’s nobody aboard?” Charlie said. “We can use one of the life rafts to get back to the island.” He thought back to what Bream had said: Anybody who wants to sneak onto Martinique can pull up in a million places by boat.
“They’re also sending a helicopter.” Drummond indicated the walkie-talkie.
“Super. With a searchlight?”
As he sometimes did, Drummond massaged his temples, as if trying to trip the button that activated his memory. “Sorry,” he said in conclusion.
“Okay, how about a more basic survival question?” In this respect, Charlie thought, Drummond’s tradecraft was practically ingrained. “If you were now, hypothetically, a fugitive, what would you do?”
“Swim to shore.”
“But they’d still see you.”
“Not if I swam underwater.”
“It’s got to be a couple of miles at least.”
“Well, that would be my best course of action, if I were a fugitive.”
The distant cry, which Charlie had thought of as a seabird’s, grew louder, into a whine. He recognized it. Helicopter rotor.
He gripped his door handle. “Well, either way, we need to get out of here now.”
“This way,” Drummond said, unlatching the door to the cargo hold.
“What difference does it make?” Charlie asked.
Pushing open the door, Drummond pointed into the dark hold. The glow from the console outlined walls blooming with vests, masks, fins, and cylindrical tanks like the one that had flown out the rear door and onto the runway.
“I guess you’ve scuba dived off an amphibious rescue vehicle before too,” said Charlie, who had never even snorkeled.
Drummond pulled on a wet suit. “Maybe so.”
A minute later
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