Hunter's Moon by Randy Wayne White Page B

maybe asking permission to fire. Stick a rocket into our engine’s exhaust. Could that happen?
    Yes.
    I continued zigzagging, eyes forward, as I looped the fuel hose around the tiller arm to prevent the boat from circling. Then I found the gas tank with my right hand and twisted the cap off. Gas sloshed. The fog had wicked fumes; the two vapors melded into a petroleum cloud. Striking a flare now would’ve been insane, so I lobbed the stick over my shoulder. Then I felt around in my pocket for the lighter—a search that was hampered by my own misgivings. In a cloud of gas fumes, I knew what would happen if spark was added.
    I did it anyway . . . took a deep breath . . . released the tiller so I could cup my left hand over my eyes, then flicked the plastic lighter and . . .
    Whoof!
    A sphere of pressurized heat blasted me backward. I used the momentum to somersault overboard, my left hand now covering my nose, my right hand over my nuts.
    Impact: I skipped once on the hard surface, then water settled around me, the bay warmer than air. I stayed under for a moment, then surfaced. I’d worried about landing on an oyster bar, but the depth here was waist-deep, the bottom soft beneath my shoes.
    I crouched low in the water, expecting the boat to be in flames. It wasn’t. Maybe the explosion had consumed oxygen so abruptly that it had extinguished itself. Whatever the reason, the inflatable wasn’t ablaze but the strobe I’d left aboard was still firing.
    The helicopter rocketed past at tree level and I ducked again . . . then stayed low, thinking the terrorists might manage to fire a shot. They didn’t. Maybe they’d gone overboard, too, when I’d ignited the gas.
    I waited, listened. I heard no voices, saw no movement ahead. They were still on the boat.
    After a few moments, I stood, my eyes tracking the course of the inflatable by the strobe’s irregular starbursts, feeling relieved but also dumb. The chopper pilot didn’t need thermal imaging to find the boat. All he had to do was follow the blinking light.
    The noise of the engines faded but the fogbank continued to flare. It reminded me of a storm cloud filled with lightning. I was surprised the boat hadn’t hit something. I was also surprised that the chopper hadn’t opened fire.
    I turned . . . and got another surprise.
    Towering above me, closing in fast, was a red light and a green light, aligned like glowing eyes—a boat’s running lights. The patrol boat was bearing down on me at high speed in pursuit of the inflatable.
    It was like stepping off a sidewalk into the path of a cement truck. The pilot couldn’t see me, I didn’t have time to get out of the way, and there were only a few inches of clearance between the boat’s churning propellers and the soft bottom.
    I reacted instinctively and dove to the right, trying to dolphin out of harm’s way. But too late . . .
    The vessel was on me . . . then over me. Its forward displacement wake lifted me off the bottom when I tried to submerge. I felt the boat’s port chine graze my thigh and I balled up into a fetal position, expecting the props to chop my feet off. I released air from my lungs, trying to get deeper, then all that displaced water slammed me hard into the bottom as engines screamed past overhead . . . slammed me so hard that I threw my hands out, anticipating impact.
    If I hadn’t, I would’ve broken my neck. Instead, when I hit bottom my left arm buried itself up to the elbow in muck.
    Underwater, I waited for a few seconds to be sure the boat was gone, then I tried to pull my arm free. Surprise! My fist had created a suction pocket. It wouldn’t budge.
    I got one foot on the bottom and tried to stand. I still couldn’t break the mud’s hold.
    Impossible.
    Calmly, I tried again . . . and felt muck constrict around my forearm.
    I opened my eyes. Darkness accentuated a darker realization: I might die this way.