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The hydrofoil entranced Nick Pembroke. Her lines were sleek and smooth and firm, her motion graceful in flight as she lifted out of the water onto her foils. There was no feeling quite like that moment when she soared, for he was transformed into the captain of a vessel on the ocean, captain of a plane in flight, captain of the most graceful vehicle man had yet invented. She exuded power as she raced at high speed, darting over the waves, her weapons seeking out anything in her path. It was a humbling experience to have so much sheer power at his fingertips at once.
His instructor at Revolution City, a Chinaman, had lectured the little group and showed them a film before they were allowed their first ride on one of the hydrofoils. The instructor said he could not explain the hydrofoil as much as he could show what it meant to have one of them under your feet. First, there were pictures of a falcon in flight. "Watch now," the instructor had said, "Watch his wings as he soars." The bird had increased altitude with the slightest movement of its body, the wings, and airfoil to steady flight. The bird's eyes were on the ground. "He sees something." The falcon decreased its altitude slightly. "Watch the right wing." The wing dipped almost imperceptibly and the bird banked gently to the right. "See if you can tell what he does now." The instructor's voice was practically a shout. Faster than his own eyes could tell, Nick saw the bird dive. He had no idea what it had done with its body, but he watched in awe as it approached the ground, putting on the brakes at the last possible moment with its wings, and its talons outstretched. Then with two powerful thrusts of its wings, it was airborne again, a mouse hanging forlornly in its grasp. "The flight, the search...the attack...perfectly executed." There was silence.
"Now I want to show you something else, something equally exciting." The scene switched to a snow-covered mountainside. Nick had never seen snow like that before, so soft-looking, nothing to break its surface. Then a single skier appeared, legs together as if he were on one leg, knees been and arms slightly outstretched for balance. As he increased speed down the steep slope, a rooster tail of powdery snow formed behind him. The film gradually shifted to slow motion, and Nick was fascinated by the easy change in direction as the skier seemed to flow one way then another, effortlessly. The smoothness of the snow was broken only by the geometric pattern of the skier's path to and fro across the fall line. It was fluid, rhythmic, a ballet, and the rooster tail behind him rose or fell in tandem with his speed and shifting weight.
"Now, we switch," the instructor shouted to break the silence. And there was a skier on the screen again, this time clothed like a jet pilot, complete with a helmet and form-fitting silver uniform. He vaulted out of a gate between two flags, a man with a stopwatch bellowing something as he passed. It was a race but against a mountain rather than another person. The skier was on a hard surface course, with no rooster tail this time, and his movements were no longer soft and easy. They remained graceful but represented tremendous concentration as he increased speed and shot to and fro between poles. At one point he was in a crouch as he shot between two poles in a spray of snow. Even as he was passing between them, his body was already shifting in the opposite direction and his skis were aimed between another set of poles. To and fro he went, cutting each corner so tightly that poles flew into the air as his shoulder scraped by them. Then he was in final descent, body tucked in a crouch. And he was through the end of his run, snow flying as he braked to a stop, arms thrown in the air in victory.
As the lights flickered back on, Nick remembered people in the film running across to throw their arms around the racer. Their instructor was already at the lectern, an arm jabbing into the air. "Again you saw the flight over the snow, the grace and pleasure of discovery. And then....then the attack....attacking the mountain....racing against time. The fastest, the most aggressive, the man who wants victory the most----that is the one who will win. It will be no different in your new boats....."
Pembroke would never forget that lesson. All else was just a means to an end. The challenge....victory....his instructor had been so right.
Now he had the chance to put into use all he had been taught. The steady pounding of guns, the hollow woosh of launchers, the shattering explosion of missiles on the docks, and the hypnotic effect of the destruction and flames against the darkness of the approach from the breakwater just moments ago, all were a narcotic to add to his love of his boat, Lucifer. It was his chosen name for her. He had been in charge of her when she arrived in Cuba, and he supervised the overhaul that transformed her into a high-speed man-o'-war bristling with new weapons. The Cubans gave her a number designation, but he had chosen the name Lucifer.
Nick watched the patrol boat coming toward them, firing bravely with its puny forward deck gun. It was no match for him. He could see their pilothouse was already badly damaged. The flames from shore created a shadowy effect where a gaping hole had been shot in its bow by his gunners. He flicked the small wheel slightly to the right to open up the target for all his guns.
He saw by her decreased bow wave that she was losing speed, yet still rushing headlong at him. Again and again, it was hit. Pembroke became absorbed in the boat's death rattle as it seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. He was about to turn in toward the boat to make his kill when it veered sharply to the left, cutting across his bow. Pembroke became absorbed in the boat's death rattle as it seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. He was about to turn in toward the boat to make his kill when it veered sharply to the left, cutting across his bow. Pembroke threw his craft hard to port, cutting her speed as he did so.
Machine gun bullets from its bow gun pursued him, pausing at his pilothouse. Nick found himself momentarily crouched on the deck until the line of fire swept toward the stern. Leaping to his feet, he saw that the other boat's stern gun could now bear on him. He felt the impact of the heavier shells as they exploded into his Lucifer, holing the hull systematically, searching for a weakness that might finish him also.
Pembroke cut in under the stern of the other boat, increasing speed, determined to come up on the port quarter of the other craft to finish the kill. But it was nearly dead in the water. He could see smoke and occasional flames through the jagged holes in her hull. It couldn't be much longer, though her gunners were still firing.
The door to the pilothouse flew open and Wen Guanyu stepped inside. Pembroke waited, expecting criticism of suggestions, but the Russian stayed quiet, grasping for a handhold as Pembroke kept the hydrofoil slewing back and forth. "I suppose you never been in a fight like this one?" he shouted above the din.
The Chinaman shook his head. "Not with someone like that," he said, pointing at the craft they were closing. "They're like tigers in the mountains—cornered or wounded, they fight back with ferocity."
As Wen completed his sentence, their forward gun was blown apart in a hail of metal fragments slamming through the pilothouse. Pembroke was knocked backwards by the blast, sensing at the same time the shards of metal tearing into his body. But there was no pain!
He raised himself to his knees, searching curiously for blood that hadn't yet appeared. Wen was on one elbow, a look of shock spreading across his face. Pembroke saw a trickle of blood start down the man's forehead. He noted more blood welling out near the Chinaman's shoulder. Their boat yawed wildly, and Pembroke could feel them settling into the water, realizing his Lucifer was no longer flying.
Grasping the instrument panel, Pembroke pulled himself to his knees. Looking across the water, no more than 100 yards away, he saw the other boat, flames now licking out of the myriad holes in her hull. She was listing heavily to port, and he could see people leaping off into the water. But the one thing he noticed, the one factor that impressed him more than anything ever before in his memory, was their forward machine gun was still firing. His own men were scrambling for safety behind what remained of the pilothouse. Some failed in their attempt as the bullets searched them out in their final dash for safety.
The gun on the other boat was at last silent, more likely from a lack of ammo than guts, Pembroke thought. There was an explosion near the stern on the other craft. Then the last fuel caught, and flames raced forward across its deck. Pembroke grabbed his binoculars, focusing them on the bow. Would that gunner escape before the boat exploded? He found him through the flames and his respect became surprise. The man wore civilian clothes. He wasn't military. With fascination, Nick watched him first go into the pilothouse, then return to the deck alone. The man hesitated for a moment, staring back at Lucifer. The flames were almost upon him when he leaped far out from the vessel. Pembroke lost sight of him behind the burning in the water.
Nick was now aware that Lucifer was heeling sharply to starboard, toward the boat they'd just sunk. Wen was on his feet, his head out of the pilothouse, looking toward the stern.
"She's finished, Nicolas. Your stern's just about blown right off. She's not going anywhere again." Wen pulled his head back, his eyes staring into Pembroke. "You must abandon. You have no choice." The blood was streaming down Wen's face from his forehead. His shirt was soaked near the shoulder and his arm hung limply at his side.75Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxDuc0fRzEg
Pembroke said nothing, nodding his assent silently. Lucifer hasn't really flown for more than two or three minutes. But it was a beautiful flight, he thought. She flew, she searched---she attacked. His missiles had struck home. She'd sunk another boat. She had done her duty.
He followed Wen out on the steeply sloping deck in search of any survivors before he left Lucifer himself. After insuring that one of his men would take care of Wen, he dove off. Lucifer's stern was already underwater when his head broke the surface.75Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSXXqDxITZR
