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Max made sure not to make any more noise as he heaved himself over the boat’s gunwale.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a dart gun with me in case it seems like he’s starting to come out of it. And if I’d wanted cracks about the sounds I make, I’d give one of my ex-wives a call. Now, are you going to help me translate or what?”
Max went over to Tanjung, who was dozing, and nudged him with a foot until he stirred. Max had a handheld radio that was tied into the comm system and held it up to Tanjung’s face.
“Go ahead, Juan.”
Juan spoke in Arabic, and for a moment it seemed like the young terrorist wouldn’t respond. Finally, he spoke as if he’d chugged a fifth of whiskey.
“What did he say?” Max asked.
“He’s convinced that what he originally told me is correct,” Juan said.
“He seems like a newbie hired to drive the boat. Maybe he’s out of the loop.”
“Could be.”
Before they could try another question, a different voice cut in. It was Gomez Adams, the Oregon’s expert helicopter and drone pilot and a veteran of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the U.S. Army unit known as the “Nightstalkers,” responsible for carrying Special Forces operators into combat. He was back on the Oregon providing them an eye in the sky.
“Oh, man, where did they come from?” His voice sounded both puzzled and angry, which was a bit concerning coming from someone as experienced as he was.
“What is it, Gomez?” Juan asked.
“I’ve got two guys on the deck walking toward the ladder down to the boat. They’ll be able to see over the side in less than ten seconds. Max, get under cover now.”
Max may have been fit for his age, but getting back inside the Gator that quickly wasn’t going to happen. His only choice was to duck into the boat’s tiny wheelhouse.
He retreated under its roof and heard voices above him. The terrorists obviously thought they still had the ship to themselves because they didn’t care how loud they were.
Then they fell silent.
“They’re looking over the side of the ship,” Gomez said. “They see the Gator and the man down.”
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“Where are you, Juan?” Max whispered.
“On my way up to you from the pump room,” Juan answered. Max could hear him breathing hard as he ran up the stairs.
“Now they’ve got their weapons out, and one is climbing down the ladder,” Gomez narrated.
“Great,” Max muttered, pulling the dart gun from his waistband. What he hadn’t told Juan was that the weapon had just one dart in it.
“Tanjung,” the man coming down called out softly. “Tanjung.”
The last thing Max wanted was for the terrorist to spray the boat with assault rifle fire. The second-to-last thing he wanted was for the man to take a pot shot at the Gator and put holes in it.
“Gomez,” Max said. “I could use a distraction.”
“One distraction, coming down,” Gomez said.
A couple of seconds later, Max heard a sound like an angry hornet approaching. The whine of the quadcopter’s propellers was intended to be confusing to the terrorist, which was exactly what Max needed.
The drone whizzed by, which was followed by a surprised yelp.
“I think I’ve got his attention,” Gomez said.
Max peeked out and saw the terrorist twenty feet above him holding out his AK-47 to try to get a bead on the flying menace. Max aimed the dart gun and fired.
