The boat made a show of limping over at minimal speed, swinging around the back of the barge before inching toward the NUMA ship. While the boat was temporarily out of view, a lone gunman leaped aboard the barge’s stern and sneaked his way to the pilothouse.

Soon a large man stood on the boat’s afterdeck, waving at Gunn with a cold smile. He wore black slacks and a loose knit black shirt, odd attire for a fishing trip. The approaching twilight obscured his coffee complexion and flat facial features, more typical of Central American heritage than Mexican. The man tossed a line to a waiting deckhand, then turned to Gunn, who leaned over the rail with a five-gallon container of gas.

“Thank you, señor,” he said in a baritone voice. “We stayed too long fishing and feared we would not make it to shore.”

He reached for the can and set it on the deck. Then, moving as quickly as a cat, he grabbed the rail and leaped aboard the Drake. A Glock semiautomatic materialized from his back paddle holster—and was leveled at Gunn’s chest the instant his feet touched the deck. “Tell your crewmen to put their hands on the rail and face the sea.”

Gunn relayed the order to a pair of shocked crewmen on the deck, who nodded. They raised their arms, then shuffled to the rail.

Two more gunmen climbed aboard and sprinted up to the Drake’s bridge. Gunn winced when he heard gunfire, but then breathed easier a few moments later when he saw the helm watchman marched down to the deck. One gunman had spotted the Drake’s rigid inflatable lifeboat and casually pumped several rounds into it, making the rubber boat sag like a limp balloon. When a scientist ducked out of the lab to see what the commotion was about, he was grabbed roughly and herded together with the other crewmen.

Gunn looked to the tall man in black. “What is it you want?”

The man ignored him as a small radio clipped to his waist chirped.

“The barge is secure,” radioed an unseen voice.

“Bring it alongside and join us aboard the research ship,” the gunman replied. “We’ll be ready shortly.”

The radio sounded again. “Pablo, the submersible has surfaced.”

The man in black cursed as he looked over the side, seeing the crown of the submersible. Pocketing the radio, he grabbed Gunn by the collar and marched him to the lift crane. “Raise your friends out of the water, but don’t bring them aboard the ship.” He stepped back, keeping his weapon drawn.

As Gunn reached for the controls, he searched for a way to warn Pitt. The idea was abandoned when he felt the Glock pressed against his spine. Gunn attached the recovery clamp, raised the submersible, and stood by helplessly as he left it suspended in the air.