“Too bad this isn’t the engine room,” he muttered, thinking of all the damage he could cause back there. “But it’ll have to do.”
Another burst of gunfire rang out and the spotlights swung around overhead until they pointed down the starboard quarter.
Kurt scrambled to where the anchor chain was wrapped around a large capstan. A fierce-looking metal hook, known as a devil’s claw, secured the chain.
A check of the control panel told him it was a standard type. He activated the power, eased the chain back, and unhooked the claw.
He considered dropping the anchor until it caught the seafloor. The average depth of the Persian Gulf was only a hundred fifty feet, and they had plenty of chain for that. But the anchor itself was a fluke type. With the yacht traveling at such a high rate of speed, it would literally fly once it hit the water like a kite on the breeze.
Even if it did reach the seafloor and catch, it would just rip out the capstan and pull free from the hull. And if it took the full length of chain—to what was known as the bitter end—it wouldn’t even do that, as the last link was designed to break under such a load.
Despite the confusion it would cause, cosmetic damage wouldn’t help his friends much. Kurt made some quick mental calculations and pressed the release button. The chain began to play out, the fifty-pound links chattering loudly as they went.
The sound reached all the way to the bridge, and a warning light flashed on the control panel.
“Captain,” the helmsman said. “We’re losing the port anchor.”
It was Acosta who replied, pushing past the captain. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s released it.”
The anchor hit the water with a splash and slammed against the hull in the slipstream. The clang of the impact reverberated through the ship.
“The intruder is still aboard!” Acosta said. “That’s why we couldn’t find him. Get a spotlight on the foredeck!”
Acosta raced to the stubby bridge wing and watched as the spotlight changed its aim and lit up the foredeck. “There!” he shouted, spotting a shape on the deck. “Kill him!”
Two of his men opened fire. Sparks lit out around the man on the foredeck. But with the deck pitching, it wasn’t an easy shot. None of the bullets found their mark, and the intruder quickly ducked behind the bulkhead.
Acosta turned to the captain. “Can you stop the anchor from here?”
“No,” the captain said. “He’s switched it to manual. But . . .” “But what?”
The captain had a perplexed look on his face. “For some reason, he’s stopped it himself.”
The ship began slewing to port, caused by the drag of the anchor on that side. Another tremendous clang rang out as the anchor slammed against a side of the hull farther back.
The sound was enough to send shivers down Acosta’s spine. But the next impact was worse.
The anchor was now trailing out behind the vessel like a streamer out the side of a speeding car, swinging back and forth in the current. As it swung in once again, it whipped itself around the stern and caught one of the propellers.
With brutal efficiency, the four-ton anchor snapped off the spinning blades. An instant later the chain fouled the propeller shaft and was pulled tight. It snapped against the side of the hull like a plumb line, shattering windows and gouging a diagonal crease in the hull.
The sudden braking action on the propeller shaft destroyed the transmission, and the yacht lurched and swooned to the right in response.
Acosta and the others were thrown against the control panel. The captain pulled back on both throttles immediately, and the yacht became controllable.
“What are you doing?” Acosta growled.
“Until we can slip that anchor and drop it to the bottom of the sea, we can’t move at anything faster than quarter speed. Otherwise, we risk it swinging back up and destroying the other prop or punching a hole in the bottom of the hull.”
Acosta’s eyes bulged, the veins on his neck popped out. He turned to Caleb. “Get down there, kill him, and bring me his bullet-riddled carcass.”
“I will,” Caleb shouted, eager to redeem himself. He raced for the ladder with two others following him.
“If you don’t succeed,” Acosta warned, “don’t bother to come back!”
From the back of the fishing boat, Joe noticed the yacht losing ground. “They’re slowing down,” he shouted. “I think they’re having some trouble.”