Page 51 of Ground Truth

A boat passed under them, the curve of the Robinson’s flight path making them seem to move sideways.

The Gulf looked mostly blue with mottled green areas floating and drifting. “Algae,” Flint said.

They completed a circuit. Drake moved in for another loop closer to the target point.

“Lower,” said Flint, pointing down. “Thousand feet.”

Flint watched the instruments as Drake brought the helicopter down, feathering their descent to level out smoothly at exactly one thousand feet. The tiny helicopter shook, buffeted by the wind.

The Gulf looked rougher at lower altitude, too. A few feet of swell and some whitecaps were visible close by. A small boat pushed slowly toward shore, rocking as the waves passed under it.

In the distance, a speedboat hammered over the wave crests, leaving clouds of spray in its wake. The driver seemed determined to make the most of his toy even if it meant pounding hard against the water. Or maybe he liked the torture.

The helicopter continued on its curved path and the speedboat rotated out of Flint’s field of view. Occasionally, he saw various items bobbing on the waves. Trash. Some from the shore, some thrown overboard, some washed off decks along the shoreline.

They completed another revolution. Drake moved the helicopter toward the center of the circle on the screen.

“Last lap,” he said.

The speedboat had closed the gap between them, its captain still pushing the boat’s throttle to the max. Now the boat was only a few hundred yards away. The captain stood at the controls and another man stood at the rear. The passenger seemed to be struggling with a harpoon gun.

The boat slowed instantly. Almost like an emergency stop. Its big engine must have been cut from full power to nothing. No longer hammering over the crests, the boat rolled in the waves.

The driver went to help the passenger. Flint scanned the water. “What could those guys be fishing for this far out into the Gulf with a harpoon gun?”

“I don’t know. Marlin? Grouper? I do seem to remember lots of photos of Hemingway holding some big fish into the air,” Drake said with a grin. “Didn’t he fish a lot out here?”

“Farther south, I think. Closer to Key West,” Flint replied, still watching the boat.

The passenger swung the harpoon up. Flint saw the weapon well enough to identify it. Not a harpoon at all.

Secured on a straining bar across the boat, it was some kind of long gun.

Grips and stands and handhold protruded. It was big and bulky with a long barrel.

The guy put his head down right behind the weapon.

Adjusting his aim. Lining up.

In a moment Flint realized he was staring straight down the barrel’s black void.

“Fifty cal!” Flint shouted, pointing to the right, away from the speedboat. “Dive. Fast. Go, go, go.”

Drake rolled the helicopter right, tipped the nose forward, and yanked up on the collective. The engine began to spool up.

“What the hell?” Drake shouted. “Why is that fool shooting at us?”

Clouds of smoke erupted from the gun. The shooter jerked backward. The captain had moved forward, bracing the shooter, helping him to remain standing.

Even though they were wearing noise-canceling headsets, the sound of metal being torn screeched through the Robinson with deafening volume.

The engine picked up revs. Flint felt more G’s in his stomach.

Drake peeled the helo away from the boat.

More bursts of smoke came from the gun. Flint braced himself for a direct hit, but it didn’t come.

Flint reached for his Glock and decided against it. Everything was moving too much and too fast. A lucky shot might take down their attackers, but he couldn’t be certain. And with only one clip, he couldn’t lay down much suppressing fire against the fifty cal anyway.

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