Another volley raked the boat. There was only one way past the guard boats, and that was through them, Austin concluded. He steered toward a gap between spotlights, and the boat shot between the picket line. Razov's guards held their fire for fear of hitting each other in the cross fire, but once Austin was in the open harbor, they let fly with everything they had.

The water around the fleeing boat exploded with miniature geysers. A few shots found the windshield and shattered the glass. Petrov clutched his head and fell to the deck. Austin ducked low and wrung every ounce of speed he could out of the motor. The boat was fast, but the pursuers were slightly faster. Spotlights were gaining on both sides.

Austin glanced toward shore. They'd never make it... and then another possible refuge offered itself. Dead ahead, her masts and sails illuminated by deck lights, was Old Ironsides.

A volley of slugs from a flanking pursuer slammed into the side of the boat at the waterline and blasted a row of holes in the fiberglass. Austin tried to keep the boat on plane, but the holes were too big and the boat quickly swamped. The outboard motor pushed on until it died with a smoky gasp. The boat went under like a diving submarine. Austin found himself floating in Boston Harbor. Petrov went under. Austin dove after him, grabbed the Russian by the neck and pulled him to the surface, where he was greeted by a bright light shining in his eyes, and he could hear the sound of voices shouting.

STRONG HANDS REACHED down, grabbed Austin by the arms and the scruff of his jacket and pulled him, dripping, from the chill water. He wiped his eyes and saw that he was in a double-ended boat about thirty feet long. A dozen men wearing white navy uniforms and black neckerchiefs pulled at long oars with practiced strokes. Petrov was stretched out at Austin's feet, blood streaming from a wound on his head. He gave Austin a weak wave.

“All you all right, sir?” said a young man who sat next to Austin in the stem, his hand on the tiller. Over his white sailor's uniform he wore a long black coat with brass buttons down the front, a black neckerchief and a shiny black-brimmed hat.

“A little waterlogged. Thanks for hauling us out of the harbor.”

The steersman extended his free hand. “Josh Slade. I'm the officer of the deck on board the U.S.S. Constitution. We saw you from up there,” he said, pointing to Old Ironsides, which sat in the water a few hundred feet away, her three tall masts brightly illuminated by floodlights.

“My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“What's NUMA doing in these parts?” Slade gave him a funny look as he asked the question. Austin brought his hand up to his face and felt his fake nose.