Zavala elevated the vehicle’s long nose and gave the thrusters minimal power. Austin saw a smaller silhouette on the surface next to that of Mustapha’s boat and motioned for Zavala to stop. The communicator clicked on. They were in contact with the surface boat again.

A Southern drawl came over the communicator.

“How ya doing, fellas? I can see your bubbles. Whyn’t ya join the party?”

“I don’t accept invitations from strangers,” Austin said. “Who’s this?”

“Friend of Ms. Mechadi’s. C’mon up. Your air’s going to run out eventually.”

Zavala unclipped a small slate from his vest and wrote a question mark on it.

Austin paused for a second, thinking. If they did as the stranger wanted, they would get their heads shot off.

He borrowed the slate, and in large block letters he wrote: MOBY-DICK?

Zavala digested what Austin had suggested, and it must have given him a stomachache. He erased the previous message and wrote: OUCH!!

Austin wrote back: SUGGESTIONS?

Zavala shook his head, and scribbled: AHAB, HERE WE COME.

He put the slate away, and dropped the Subvette to the bottom. Zavala spun the submersible around and pointed the nose up at a sharp angle. With a whirr of thrusters, the submersible began its ascent, gaining speed with each foot.

He and Austin braced themselves in their seats.

NUMA 7 - The Navigator

Chapter 29

MINUTES BEFORE THE SUBVETTE had begun its ascent, Carina had seen the boat round the headland and speed toward Mustapha’s motor cruiser with its bow up on plane, bouncing over the wave tops like a stone skipped across the water.

She had relayed Austin’s urgent message to vacate the premises. Too late. The fast-moving boat had closed the distance. The boat swerved seconds before a collision, and the operator throttled back the powerful inboard engine. The craft bumped sideways into Mustapha’s boat a few feet from where she stood.

One of the men on board let forth with a burst in the air from his machine pistol. She dropped the microphone to the deck.

There were four men all dressed in uniforms of olive drab, and all armed with short-barreled automatic weapons. Aviator sunglasses hid their eyes, and the floppy brims of their military style hats kept their faces mostly hidden in shadow. Only their tight-lipped mouths were visible.

Three men vaulted over the rail onto Mustapha’s boat. The last man to board whipped his hat off to reveal a blond brush cut. Carina recognized Ridley, who had supervised the theft of the Navigator. He grinned broadly, and greeted Carina with a lame Minnie Pearl imitation.

“How-dee, Ms. Mechadi.”

Her initial shock was replaced by anger. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Heard you were in the neighborhood, Ms. Mechadi. Thought me and the boys might drop by for a friendly visit.”

“Don’t patronize me with that fake hillbilly accent,” Carina said. “Where’s my statue?”