Hunter's Moon by Randy Wayne White Page A

ahead, then found us again.
    I turned. The fog was so dense my eyes registered only vaporous glare. Where the hell was the light coming from? Then I felt a faint seismic vibration. It moved through the boat’s hull and into my chest, increasing incrementally. The cadence was familiar.
    A moment later, a thudding sound accompanied the vibration, the flexing whomp-ah-whomp-ah-whomp of rotating blades, and I knew the source of the light. A helicopter was tracking us, flying low off our stern.
    â€œGoddamn! What bad luck is here now?”
    Maybe bad luck for all of us, depending on the helicopter. Coast Guard helicopters are equipped for rescues at sea. Military helicopters are equipped with machine guns and rockets. Which had the Secret Service called?
    â€œMechanic. You take!” Panicking, the friendly terrorist shoved the tiller toward me and lunged for his assault rifle. The boat turned so violently that I almost went overboard with bearded guy. It also snapped the rope holding my canoe. The loss of drag caused an abrupt increase in speed that almost flipped us.
    I pushed the man off me and climbed back into my seat. The friendly terrorist was on his knees trying to shoulder his assault rifle. The other men were also struggling to get to their weapons.
    I put my hand on the tiller arm, straightened our course, then moved to the inflatable’s port side. Coast Guard or not, if the friendly terrorist started shooting the chopper would return fire. I didn’t want to get much farther from my canoe, but I also didn’t want the terrorists to get a clean shot.
    I shielded my eyes and glanced behind. I guessed the chopper was a few hundred yards out. The pilot had waited until he was almost over us to toggle his megawattage searchlight. It told me something. Visibility was zero yet he knew where we were.
    Some kind of high-tech radar? Older infrared systems don’t work well in fog. But this aircraft’s electronics had nailed us. A thermal image sensor system maybe. Or thermal FLIR goggles. Whatever it was kept the chopper latched to our stern. The pilot seemed to be keeping his distance intentionally.
    I took another quick look, then concentrated on driving. The chopper’s military searchlight illuminated the mist without piercing it; my strobe added blinding starbursts. The combination screwed up my depth perception, which was nil to begin with. I’d straightened our course but couldn’t tell if I was focusing on a veil of fog fifty yards ahead or five feet ahead. It was like rocketing underwater through radiant bubbles.
    Two men remained hunched low in the inflatable, gripping the outboard safety line. But the friendly terrorist and Folano had managed to balance themselves between the middle seat and deck, both with automatic rifles. In a moment, they’d open fire.
    I waited. Kept our course steady, expecting to slam into a reef at any moment . . . or take a bullet in the back. The boat’s top speed couldn’t have been more then thirty knots, but it felt like fifty. When Folano touched his cheek to the rifle’s stock, taking aim, I jammed the tiller hard to port—a threshold turn that almost jettisoned him into the water.
    â€œGoddamn mechanic. ”
    From his belly, the friendly terrorist pointed his rifle at me. I ducked low and pulled the tiller hard to starboard, then shoved it away. The boat skidded for a moment, then heeled at an impossible angle. He tumbled onto his side and lost control of the weapon.
    In rapid succession, I rocked the steering arm back and forth. With each wild turn, the boat careened on its edge, so the four men could do nothing but stay low and hang on to the outboard safety line.
    Behind us, I suspected the chopper’s crew interpreted our zigzagging as evasive action. They’d been on our tail for less than a minute, but it was enough time for their weapons systems to lock. The pilot was probably on the radio with his superiors