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Authors: Charles Knief

BOOK: Diamond Head
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He smiled at me. I wanted to take a lamp and smash him with it repeatedly.
“No.”
“Get kind of a queasy stomach? These aren't for everybody. But they make money.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“Well, Mr. Caine, I'm going back to the yacht club for dinner. You're not going so far. As I said, we do special requests. We've just had one about man-eating sharks.”
I glanced briefly out the porthole over his shoulder, at the rolling blue ocean beyond the railing.
“They're out there, you know. Big ones. Tiger sharks, whites, hammerheads. Man-eaters. And they get hungry right about now. You'll notice that it's three-thirty?”
I kept my gaze on Thompson. “I'll take your word for it.”
“While we were watching the movie my men were chumming. Did you know that a shark can sense one part of blood in thirty million parts of seawater? We've been dumping gallons of blood into the ocean behind us for the past half-hour. By now I'm sure we've got some interested company.
“I'll miss my little secretary. She was a honey, but there's
always another around. Pretty girls are completely replaceable.” He clapped his hands. “Frank! Bring her now!”
I disagreed with him and said so. Pretty girls were a vanishing resource and should be protected and cherished whenever and wherever possible. They're like the trees in a rain forest. No matter how many there are, there are never enough.
“You put on a good act, Caine, but I know you're tight with Chawlie Choy, not MacGruder. His little actress told us all about your plan. She didn't want to, but … well, yes she did. In the end she wanted to tell us everything. It was very important to her to keep us happy.”
I gripped the edges of the lounge chair. I'd brought a couple of weapons with me in case the party got rough. They were in inconvenient places but they were still there.
“Once you're out of the way MacGruder will pay up and Choy will leave me alone. This will be an object lesson for Choy. Losing three of his people in one week.”
“Winners and losers,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Thompson, smiling his tombstone smile. “And I'm always the winner.”
Tweedledee, one of the two shadows I'd met before, brought Jasmine into the lounge. She had not changed but she'd lost her high heels and gained a pair of handcuffs. Without her shoes she looked even tinier, like a lost child. The black bikini was in place, but loose, as though it had been dragged onto her by someone else. Her face was white. She knew what was happening and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
“Have fun in there?” Thompson treated the man he called Frank like a pet. After getting what he needed from Chawlie's spy he'd thrown her to him the way he would throw a bone to a junkyard dog.
Tweedledee smirked at me. He wore only purple Speedos. There were bruises on his face and arms and he moved carefully, as if any movement hurt. Acne raged across his back, evidence
of long-term abuse of anabolic steroids. “We had some fun.” He wrapped one palm around one of Jasmine's breasts, proclaiming ownership. His thumb and forefinger rolled a nipple back and forth beneath the spandex. She flinched, but said nothing. Her fear was absolute and all thought of resistance had fled.
I was dressed for yachting in a pair of loose khaki trousers, deck shoes without socks and a white polo shirt. I wore no watch and carried no wallet or identification, only a couple of bills in my right front pocket. I didn't even have the keys to my boat. They were still in the ignition of the Jeep. I did have some surprises. My belt buckle was a two-inch dagger, and a Phrobis knife was strapped upside down to my left calf. My fallback weapon was secured to the inside thigh of my other leg, snugged up tight against my groin.
Time was running out. I only hesitated because I wanted to see where the other two crew members had gone before committing myself. I heard a noise behind me and started to look around when somebody hit me on the back of the head.
I was surprised how much it hurt.
Then nothing hurt.
 
 
W
hen the world swam back into focus I found my hands cuffed behind my back. I was facedown on the deck, missing my shoes and shirt. The hot sun beat down on my bare back. Blood dripped from behind my left ear, puddling on the teak deck near my nose, smearing into my face and hair. The Phrobis knife was gone from its sheath, but my belt buckle still pressed against my stomach. I carefully rubbed my thighs together. The UM-1 bangstick, a small telescoping cylinder taped to the inside of my upper thigh, had not been discovered. And I was alive. That was the good news. I was handcuffed on a boat owned by a man who killed people the way McDonald's sold hamburgers. That was the bad news. That, and the heavy weight belt strapped around my waist.
A few feet away the two flimsy pieces of Jasmine's black bikini lay on the deck. A trail of quarter-size blood drops led to the railing.
A hand grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled my head from the deck.
“You thought you were clever, Caine.” Thompson's voice was next to my ear, somewhere behind me. “It took only twenty-four hours to find what you were about. Giving me Choy's son was a wasted effort. It's true I didn't know about
the theft, and I will use it against his father. And it helped me find his little spy. The old man owes me a big one for trying to infiltrate my organization.
“You and Choy killed that boy just to give you credibility. I can't say I don't admire that kind of cold-blooded thinking, but it didn't work. By the time the boy died I knew more about his old man than Choy will ever know about me. You did intrigue me, though. We needed to have this little chat. I'm still a little disappointed to find you were so easy.”
“Don't let it get around,” I said. “Ruins my reputation.”
He slammed my face against the teak.
“I always appreciate style, Caine. Don't lose it.”
While my head was raised I got a glimpse of where we were. It wasn't encouraging. Pele was about five miles off Makapu'u Point. These weren't good waters for swimming. There's a strong current running south and east, toward the island of Molokai, called the Molokai Express. It might be easier swimming the distance to that island than trying to get back to shore on Oahu. If the sharks didn't find me first.
“Mr. Caine, I'd like to continue our chat but you've got to go. The girl has already left us. There's a big brute out there, looks to be about a twenty-footer, reminded me of a small submarine. But it's a real tiger. Biggest shark I've ever seen. There's a smaller one, too, fifteen or sixteen feet. I don't think it got a chance to feed earlier, so it might be hungry.
“The big one made short work of the girl. Two bites. It was a short tape, too. Might disappoint the customer. But you're dessert.”
And with that, strong arms lifted me from the deck and threw me overboard.
I hit the clear blue water with a tremendous splash. It sounded like a small whale breaching. That's one way to call sharks.
Sharks were not my first worry. I was sinking fast. Pressure on my ears was intense and increasing. I did what I could to
clear them by yawning. That's hard to do with your mouth closed but the pain and disorientation of broken eardrums in addition to my other troubles right then would finish me.
I worked my cuffed hands down over my buttocks and thighs and finally to the back of my calves. The chain on the cuffs caught on the empty knife sheath. Ignoring a rising panic, I concentrated on the task at hand, determined to get it right, moving the metal links back and forth to try and free them. The chain suddenly came free and my hands were in front of me, the effort nearly dislocating my shoulders. I tripped the quick release buckle on the weight belt. One of the blocks of lead painfully rapped my foot as the heavy belt plummeted toward the depths.
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 television. 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.

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