The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 11: Lovely Day (Part 3 & 4 of 8)

Clouds hid the moon and turned the sea into an endless rippling expanse of black blood.  The night was reduced to ragged breaths and the monotonous rhythm of the muffled oars pounding through the still water.  The small boat's engine had been cut for the last half-an-hour.  In that time, a heat sweat had built up in Maxwell's wetsuit, eliminating all the coolness the open-air offered.

 Everything was focused on the tiny bubble of reality surrounding his Sillinger inflatable. 

Stroke.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Stroke.

The lights from shore were becoming star points.  The distinctness of the buildings and the town they formed were breaking apart into a loose constellation.

Maxwell cursed himself for looking back.  Don't get distracted.  Stroke.

The white shape of the El Silbón lurked in the mysterious mid-space where it didn't appear to be getting any closer, but faint sounds were beginning to travel out to his ears.  There was music that rose and fell as though linked to the rhythm of the waves.  It was a throbbing bass beat, likely coming from one of the radio stations on the Trinidadian shore.  Occasionally a word broke the night, distinguishable only as a human voice and bereft of meaning.

Alone on a boat in the ocean, Maxwell was far out of his comfort zone.  The exertion forced him to recognize the damage the desk job had done to his body.  He should be in better shape to attempt this mission all by himself.  Even in ideal circumstances, it should have been a two-man job—three or four wouldn't be a bad idea.  But there was no help from the DTAA, and he could risk hiring mercenaries.

Serves me right for becoming a bureaucrat.  Stroke.

He looked up to see the yacht racing toward him.  He was coming in too fast.  The tide was adding speed to his small craft.  The gleaming hull towered above him.  Lights were on in the portholes and on the deck.  The music and voices were more constant but no clearer.  It was two hours past sunset and El Silbón was still full of activity.

Some would question his tactics.  Maxwell had no doubt that most people would choose to attack later when the passengers and crew were in bed.  But he doubted he could board with the silence required for that plan.  A little activity would help mask his movements.

He paddled backward, trying to slow himself.  The ship rushed in at him.  Maxwell pivoted his boat to come in sideways and hauled the oar out of the water.  He leaned his body over the side and took the impact with his shoulder, silencing the collision.  Clenched teeth held back the groan that threatened to escape him.  Before the bounce could send the Sillinger too far away, he attached the tether line to the hull with a self-sealing vacuum suction-cup.

After testing to make sure the black rubber was solidly fastened to the ship, he let the line out.  Using his hands, Maxwell maneuvered himself around from the starboard side to the aft.

The vibration of the engine traveled through his neoprene gloves, as he used the pressure from his hands to brake the Sillinger.  Running only to power the yacht's electrical systems, the tremor of the motor was faint.  Even with it shut off, Maxwell would have known where to plant the C4.  He pressed the putty to the fiberglass surface until it stuck and then armed the detonator.  The small inflatable could probably outrun the El Silbón.  Its eighty horsepower and lightweight would make his tiny boat swift on the water.  But the yacht could put up a chase and there was the risk of Torrealba's mercs firing on him.  Better they were disabled as he made his getaway.  When he was clear, he'd trigger the plastic explosives and leave them dead in the water.

Maxwell backtracked over to the starboard side, inching along with frustrating slowness until he reached the swim ladder.  Since no one was planning on taking a dip in the hundred-and-twenty-foot deep night drenched sea, it was in the up position, about six feet above his head.  Once he stood up, he might have had a shot at jumping for it, if he'd been on solid ground.  This was going to take a lot more work.