Fire Ice

32

YOU'RE GETTING CARELESS in your old age, Kurt Austin. The next time it could be fatal."

The hard pressure was removed from his back. Austin turned and saw the livid white scar on Petrov's face in the silvery moonlight.

"I aged at least ten years when you stuck that gun in my ribs, Ivan. A simple hello would have been sufficient to grab my attention."

"It keeps me in practice," Petrov said "I don't want to lose my edge."

"Believe me, your edge is as sharp as ever. Who let you in my country?"

"Unlike your unsanctioned adventure in Russia, my visit here comes with the blessing of your State Department. I'm in the U.S. on an agricultural trade mission for Siberian Pest Control and asked the local Russian consulate to include me on the guest list for this reception."

"How did you find me?"

"I saw you leave the grand salon and followed you into the restricted area of the ship. Your face threw me off, I must admit, but it was impossible to hide those wide shoulders and that confident walk. I've been wondering, where did you get that incredible wig?"

"I bought it at a KGB yard sale."

"I wouldn't be surprised at that the way things are going. May I ask why you were crawling about in the dark on your hands and knees?"

"I lost a contact lens?"

"Really? I don't remember your dossier saying anything about contacts."

Austin chuckled and told the Russian about the electronic sniffers. Ivan was duly impressed and asked only that he be kept informed as information developed. "I suggest that we rejoin the festivities," he said. "Most of the guards are watching the guests, but a few are making the rounds."

Austin knew they were already pressing their luck. They moved toward the lights and music, taking advantage of every shadow or pocket of darkness. They saw only one guard and ducked behind a bollard until he passed. Moments later, they were strolling along the deck.

Petrov, who looked debonair in his tuxedo, lit up an American cigarette. "What are your plans now?"

"You didn't see Razov's pet monk, did you?"

"I suspect that Razov prefers to have Boris stay out of sight on public occasions. He mayor may not be on the ship. We're not likely to see him."

"In that case, maybe I'll spend a few minutes talking to our host."

"Razov? Do you think it's wise to play your hand here on his territory?"

"Maybe I can get him rattled enough to make a mistake."

"I've heard it's not safe to play with rattlesnakes, but do what you wish. I think I'll wander around and enjoy the food and drink as long as I'm here."

"You came alone?"

Petrov plucked a shot of vodka from the tray of a passing waiter. He slugged it down and smiled. "I won't be far away if you need me."

The party was going full-blast. Guests wandered about the deck with food and drinks. The Cossack band had switched from Russian folk tunes and was belting out a rock number. Petrov mingled with the crowd and disappeared like a leaf being swept away in a stream. Austin saw a knot of people, with Razov holding court at its center. He moved closer, wondering how he was going to get past the body- guards flanking Razov. The pair of long-legged canines took the matter out of his hands. Razov's dogs jerked away from him and galloped toward Austin in a dead heat. As before, they jumped up, put their paws on his chest and licked his face. He managed to dislodge them with strategically placed hip blocks.

He grabbed the leashes and held them short to keep the rambunctious hounds under control. A moment later, the dogs' trainer came running up, this time with panic in his eyes. Austin was about to pass the leashes over when he saw Razov and his two bodyguards coming up behind the trainer.

"I see you've met Sasha and Gorky," Razov said, with a genial smile. He took the leashes from Austin and said some1hing in Russian. The dogs obeyed instantly and sat by his side. Their haunches quivered as they fought their instincts.

"I shared some prime rib and sausage with them a while ago," Austin said. "Hope you don't mind."

"I'm surprised they ate it," Razov said. "They dine on fare much better than most people's. My name is Razov." He extended his hand and glanced at the name on the press pass hanging around Austin's neck. "I'm the host of this little celebration."

"Yes, I know. I heard you speak. Very impressive." He squeezed the hand until the bones crunched and he saw Razov wince with pain. "My name is Kurt Austin."

Razov's face showed no emotion. "The famous Mr. Austin. You look nothing like I expected."

"Neither do you. You're much smaller than I thought you'd be."

"This is only a temporary diversion. I'm still with NUMA. We've been doing some treasure hunting in the Black Sea."

"I hope it was worth your while."

"Someone beat me to a treasure aboard a ship called the Odessa Star."

"That's too bad, but treasure-hunting is very competitive."

"What I can't figure out is why someone who already possesses huge wealth would go through so much trouble to recover a few shiny baubles."

"We Russians have always been fascinated by baubles, as you call them. We believe that beyond their intrinsic value, they impart a power to the possessor."

"Treasure didn't do the tsar and his family much good."

"The royal family was betrayed by traitors in its midst."

"I assume you intend to return the treasure to the Russian people."

"You know nothing about my people," Razov said. "They don't care for jewels. What they need is the firm hand of a leader who can restore their national pride and fend off those countries who are circling like vultures."

"That's assuming your secret Operation Troika is a success."

"There's nothing secret about Troika," he said, with undisguised scorn. "It's shorthand for my plan to open trade centers in Boston, Charleston and Miami. Look around, Mr. Austin. There is nothing sinister about my business."

"What about the massacre aboard the NUMA ship? Would you consider that sinister?"

"I read about it in the press. A tragedy, certainly, but I had nothing to do with that unfortunate incident."

"I don't blame you for not taking credit for it. It was a botched attack. You screwed up, Razov. Your mad dog got the wrong ship. I wasn't on the Sea Hunter, and your men murdered the Sea Hunter's crew for nothing. Of course, you know all that by now."

Austin saw a flash of anger in Razov's eyes. "Really, Mr. Austin, you disappoint me. You sneak aboard my ship in that ridiculous disguise, drink my vodka and eat my food, then repay my hospitality by calling me a killer."

"I had another reason to come aboard. I wanted to look into the face of the murdering scum I plan to destroy."

The mask of the affable politician melted away, to be replaced by the street thug. "You destroy me? You're a mere flea."

"Maybe, but there are many more fleas where I come from. And we all bite."

"It will take more than NUMA and your government to stop me," Razov said. "When I'm through bringing Russia back to its former glory, the U.S. will be like a puking, mewling child, a world beggar, its resources depleted, its leadership weak and confused – " Razov saw that he had gone too far and stopped suddenly. "You're no longer welcome aboard my yacht, Mr. Austin. My security men will escort you to the launch."

"I can find my way. 'Til we meet the next time, Mr. Razov." He started to walk away.

Razov's lips parted in a feral grin. "There isn't going to be a next time."

Razov made a subtle gesture, and his guards started to follow. Austin let out a low whistle. The wolfhounds perked up their ears and, with tails wagging, broke away from Razov, trailing their useless leashes. Austin grinned and looked Razov straight in the eye. The Russian stared at Austin with a look of pure hate. Austin turned and walked quickly toward the stern of the boat, merging with the crowd with the dogs at his heel. He realized that he had to lose the hounds. They were too conspicuous and would call attention to him.

He stopped and patted the dogs on their heads, then handed their leashes to a startled young woman wearing a maroon blazer. He whipped his wig and sunglasses off and tucked them in the woman's pocket.

"Would you return these to Mr. Razov, please? With my compliments."

Walking quickly, he made his way past the salon entrance and slipped through the crowd, almost bowling Kaela over.

"What's the big hurry?" she said.

"Get off the yacht as soon as you can," he said.

"Where are you going?"

"Don't know. See you at the Ritz Bar in about an hour." Austin pecked Kaela's cheek and headed toward the stairs that would take him to the launch deck. He hoped to catch a ride on a launch, but abandoned that course. Two guards flanked the stairway, their eyes scanning the crowd. Austin had assumed, wrongly, that Razov wouldn't risk an incident with all the people around. But Razov had spilled more than he'd intended and was willing to take the risk. Pushing his way back through the crowd, Austin was trying to gain a few minutes while he figured out an alternative escape route, when someone grabbed his arm.

Austin whirled and tensed his body into a combat stance. Petrov released his grip. The Russian was smiling, but his eyes were deadly serious.

"I think you'd better not go that way," he said. Austin followed Petrov's gaze. A guard was working his way through the crowd. He looked straight at Austin and spoke to a microphone in the lapel of his suit. Austin let Petrov guide him into one door of the salon, around the dance floor, then through the other door and out onto the deck. They headed toward a stairway, but this too had a tall guard stationed at it. The man had a hand cupped next to his ear, listening to his radio.

Wearing a broad smile, Petrov went up to him and said something in Russian. The guard responded with a suspicious glare and reached for the gun inside his jacket. Petrov drove his fist into the man's midsection. The guard doubled over, gasping for breath, and when he came up for air, Austin was waiting with a right cross. The big man tumbled like a big tree felled by a lumberjack.

Stepping over the fallen guard, they raced down the stairs to the deck below. Austin saw a door like the one used on the other side of the ship for the guest shuttles. Petrov worked the latch and pushed the door open. Austin wondered if they were going to have to swim for it when a shaft of light fell on a powerboat. The motor was idling, and the man at the wheel grinned and waved when he saw Petrov.

"I took the liberty of arranging alternative transportation," Petrov said.

"I thought you came alone."

"Never trust a former KGB man."

Austin scolded himself. Unlike Petrov, he had underestimated the determination of his foe. He had been so eager to confront Razov that he had neglected his own escape plans. He vowed to praise Ivan later for his meticulous attention to detail. He stepped from the ship onto the deck of the powerboat, Petrov followed and Petrov's man ratcheted up the throttle several notches. The boat surged forward, almost pitching Austin and Petrov into the water, as the snarling outboard motor pushed it up on plane.

Austin looked back at the brightly lit ship and chuckled as he imagined the reaction of Razov and his thugs to their escape. His triumph lasted only a second, however. Silent gunfire raked the boat, coming not from the ship but from the harbor itself. Though there was no sound, the muzzle flashes were clearly visible in the darkness, and the hail of bullets stitched their way across the body of the helmsman. He let out a soggy yell before he crumpled over the wheel, and the boat careened off at a wild angle.

Petrov pulled the man away from the wheel and Austin grabbed the helm. Spotlight beams converged on the powerboat. Razov was no fool. He'd stationed a picket line of his gunmen in boats around the yacht.

Another volley raked the boat. There was only one way past the guard boats, and that was through them, Austin concluded. He steered toward a gap between spotlights, and the boat shot between the picket line. Razov's guards held their fire for fear of hitting each other in the cross fire, but once Austin was in the open harbor, they let fly with everything they had.

The water around the fleeing boat exploded with miniature geysers. A few shots found the windshield and shattered the glass. Petrov clutched his head and fell to the deck. Austin ducked low and wrung every ounce of speed he could out of the motor. The boat was fast, but the pursuers were slightly faster. Spotlights were gaining on both sides.

Austin glanced toward shore. They'd never make it… and then another possible refuge offered itself. Dead ahead, her masts and sails illuminated by deck lights, was Old Ironsides.

A volley of slugs from a flanking pursuer slammed into the side of the boat at the waterline and blasted a row of holes in the fiberglass. Austin tried to keep the boat on plane, but the holes were too big and the boat quickly swamped. The outboard motor pushed on until it died with a smoky gasp. The boat went under like a diving submarine. Austin found himself floating in Boston Harbor. Petrov went under. Austin dove after him, grabbed the Russian by the neck and pulled him to the surface, where he was greeted by a bright light shining in his eyes, and he could hear the sound of voices shouting.

STRONG HANDS REACHED down, grabbed Austin by the arms and the scruff of his jacket and pulled him, dripping, from the chill water. He wiped his eyes and saw that he was in a double-ended boat about thirty feet long. A dozen men wearing white navy uniforms and black neckerchiefs pulled at long oars with practiced strokes. Petrov was stretched out at Austin's feet, blood streaming from a wound on his head. He gave Austin a weak wave.

"All you all right, sir?" said a young man who sat next to Austin in the stem, his hand on the tiller. Over his white sailor's uniform he wore a long black coat with brass buttons down the front, a black neckerchief and a shiny black-brimmed hat.

"A little waterlogged. Thanks for hauling us out of the harbor."

The steersman extended his free hand. "Josh Slade. I'm the officer of the deck on board the U.S.S. Constitution. We saw you from up there," he said, pointing to Old Ironsides, which sat in the water a few hundred feet away, her three tall masts brightly illuminated by floodlights.

"My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

"What's NUMA doing in these parts?" Slade gave him a funny look as he asked the question. Austin brought his hand up to his face and felt his fake nose.

It was hanging half off from the effects of the dunk in the harbor. Austin ripped the nose off and tossed it over the side.

"Long story," Austin said, with a shake of his head. "How's my friend?"

"Looks like the bleeding has stopped. We'll give him first aid when we get back on board."

Music from Razov's yacht drifted across the water. Austin hoped Kaela and Lombardo were all right. He saw no sign of the chase boats and their gun-happy crews, but instinct and experience told him they hadn't gone far.

"Did anyone see the powerboats that were following us?"

"Just a glimpse. They were right on your tail, but when you got into trouble, they disappeared. We couldn't figure out why they didn't stop to help. Don't know where they went. We were busy launching the captain's gig and didn't pay much attention."

"Lucky you were here. It would have been a long swim back to land."

"I'll say. Normally we wouldn't be out here this late. The Constitution does one turnaround cruise a year, on the Fourth of July. We were taking the ship out on a midnight cruise. Got the master gun team, so we can fire a twenty-one-gun salute. The governor and the mayor got the okay from the Navy Department for us to do a nighttime sail-by. What happened? We saw you zipping it along, but then your boat seemed to vanish from under you."

Austin saw no point in beating around the bush. "We were leaving the party yacht. Those boats you saw shot us out of the water and killed our helmsman."

He stared at Austin as if he suspected his sanity. "We didn't hear any gunfire."

“They had silencers on their guns."

"Come to think of it, we saw flashes of light that could have come from guns. We thought they were camera strobe lights. Who were those guys? Whoops," he said, not waiting for an answer. "Going to have to excuse me for a minute."

Slade steered them around behind the Constitution under the white eagle and ship's name emblazoned on the stem. He maneuvered the boat under the davits that projected overhead like extended wooden arms. The rowers lifted the oars out of their locks and stood them in a vertical position, then attached the lines hanging down from the davits and winched themselves up to deck level.

With help from the deck crew, Petrov was extricated from the boat. The Russian had revived and was able to walk with the help of a sailor on either side. Someone made a mattress of life jackets so he wouldn't have to lie on the hard wooden deck. Another crewman gave Austin a coat to replace his dripping jacket.

Slade took his hat off and tucked it under his arm. He was a dark-haired young man in his twenties, a couple of inches taller than Austin's six feet one. With his chiseled features and ramrod posture, he could have posed for a navy recruiting poster.

"Welcome to Old Ironsides, the oldest commissioned warship in the world, still manned by an active-duty U.S. Navy crew." The pride in his voice was obvious.

" 'Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high,' " Austin said, quoting the first line of the Oliver Wendell Holmes poem, "Old Ironsides," that had inspired the nation to save the ship from destruction.

Slade grinned and quoted the second line, " 'And many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky…' Sounds as if you know your naval history, sir."

"I know the ship fought the Barbary pirates and gave the British a major headache during the War of 1812. That she was undefeated in battle. And during the fight with the British frigate H.M.S Guerriere, cannonballs bounced off her sides as if they were made of iron." His eyes fondly swept the two-hundred-four-foot length of the frigate, taking in the long bowsprit, We expansive spar deck with the neat rows of cannon and the two-hundred-twenty-foot-tall main-mast. "Hope I look half as good when I'm her age."

"Thank you. We take great pride in keeping her ship-shape. She was built not far from here, launched in 1797. Actually, her sides were made of live oak from the south-eastern U.S. Her hull is twenty-five inches thick at the waterline. Paul Revere did the copperwork and made the ship's bell. Don't mean to give you the guide routine," he apologized, "but we're awfully proud of the lady." His face grew serious. "Instead of giving you a history lesson, I should call the Coast Guard and let them know we've got an injured man on board." Slade patted the pockets of his coat and frowned. "Damn. My cell phone must have fallen out when I got in the gig. I've got a walkie-talkie we use to keep in touch with the tugboat when we're being pushed or towed. I'll ask the crew to relay a message to the Coast Guard."

While Slade retrieved his handheld radio, Austin went over to where Petrov was stretched out on the deck. Someone had covered him with a section of sail. A crewman was keeping watch.

Austin knelt by Petrov's side. "How are you feeling, tovarich?"

Petrov groaned. "I have a splitting headache, as you would expect after having a bullet bounce off a comer of my skull. Why is it that every time I get too close to you, I get blown up or shot up?"

"Just lucky, I guess. Razovmust have taken something I said the wrong way. Sorry that you lost your man."

"I am, too. He wasn't a bad sort for a Ukrainian. He was aware he was in a dangerous business, though. His family will be well-compensated."

Austin told Petrov to take it easy, then he rose and walked to the thick wooden bulwark, the chin-high raised side that enclosed the uppermost deck. While he was scanning the harbor, Slade returned.

"Mission accomplished," he said. "The tug crew will notify the Coast Guard and the police harbor patrol. They'll ask them to send some EMTs over to take care of your friend. How's he doing?"

"He'll live. A half an inch lower and he would have lost some brain power."

"Is he with NUMA, too?"

"He's a Russian trade representative from Siberian Pest Control."

Slade gave him that funny look again. "What's he doing in Boston Harbor?"

"Looking for Siberian pests," Austin said.

Slade noticed Austin peering back toward where the tugboat was nudged up against the stern of the ship.

"The tug pushed us away from the wharf," Slade explained. "We were getting ready to raise sail after they got us into the outer harbor. We're supposed to do a run for the television cameras, then rendezvous with the tug and get a ride back to the navy yard."

Austin was only half listening. He squinted into the darkness at the snarl of boat motors. The sound grew louder. Then he saw firefly points of light made by muzzle flashes.

Traveling in a line, three fast powerboats materialized and raced toward the stern of the sailing vessel. Then came the snap and whine of rounds ricocheting off the tugboat. Sparks exploded where the bullets struck the steel hull. The tugboat crew got over its surprise at being fired upon. With a roar of its engines, the tugboat went into reverse and headed off at full throttle. The boats circled the slower craft, riddling the wooden pilothouse with bullets. The tug slowed, traveled a few hundred feet before it stopped completely.

Austin clenched his fists in anger, helpless to prevent the cowardly attack on the innocent tugboat. He asked Slade to call the tug on his walkie-talkie. After several attempts, the sailor gave up. , "It's no use," he said. "Damn, why'd they attack those guys?"

"They know the tug was our only propulsion."

Although the boats were out of sight at the edge of darkness, Austin could hear their idling motors. Then he saw the gun flashes, followed by what sounded like a hundred woodpeckers attacking the ship. Slade tried to lean over the bulwark to check out the noise. Austin pulled him down on the deck.

"Jeez, those idiots are shooting at us!" Slade yelled. "Don't they know this is a national treasure?"

"We'll be fine," Austin said. "Old lronsides stopped cannonballs. A little automatic gunfire isn't going to sink her."

"I'm not worried about that. I don't want my crew hurt."

Austin had been listening with one ear to the gunfire. "They've stopped shooting. Tell your men to keep their heads down and wait for orders." Austin realized Slade was in command. "I'm sorry. Those are suggestions. This is your command."

"Thanks," Slade said. "Your suggestions are well taken. Don't worry, I won't fall apart. I was a Marine before they gave me this duty. I'm only here because I hurt my knee in an accident."

Austin studied the young man's face and saw no fear, only determination.

"Okay, here's my take on that strafing run. They wanted to drive off the tug so we'd be dead in the water. They know they can't sink us. My guess is that they'll try to board us."

Slade tucked his chin in. "That's unacceptable. No enemy has ever come aboard the Constitution except for prisoners of war. You can be certain it's not going to happen on my watch." He glanced around the spar deck. "There's only one problem. The ship originally carried more than four hundred men. We're a little shorthanded."

"We'll have to make do. Can we get the old girl moving?"

"We were about to hoist sail when we stopped to pick you and your friend up. The best we can get out of it is a couple of knots. lronsides is no speedboat."

"The main thing is that we establish even a little control of the situation. It will keep them guessing. Speed's not important. What about weapons? Any on board?"

Slade laughed and pointed to the cannon lined up on both sides of the deck. "You're talking about a fighting ship. Take your pick, thirty-two-pounder Carronades on this deck and twenty-four-pounder long guns below. Plus a couple of Bow Chasers. More than fifty cannon total. Unfortunately, we're not allowed to carry gunpowder."

"I was thinking about something more practical."

"We've got boarding pikes and axes and cutlasses. There are belaying pins everywhere. They make fine blackjacks."

Austin told the young officer to do what he could. Slade gathered his men around, introduced Austin and told the crew that the people who shot up the ship might try boarding it. He ordered every light on the ship doused and told some of the crew to get aloft. They scrambled up the rigging and onto the yards, where they loosed the topsails. The inner jib was set and the ship began to move, on her own, at a speed of about one knot.

The sail crew dropped down to the deck and hauled up the main topsail yard. The 3,500-square-foot mainsail filled with the breeze, and the mast began to squeak. The ship crept along at the speed of a fast snail. Then the outer jib was set, followed by the fore topsail. The ship tripled its speed. The movement would pose no problem for anyone trying to board, but it gave the crew a modicum of control. In the meantime, weapons were being stacked on the deck.

Slade picked up a cutlass and felt the sharp edge of the blade. "Warfare was a personal thing back then, wasn't it?"

"Unless you know how to use that thing, this might be more practical," Austin said, hefting a boarding pike, basically a long wooden shaft with a sharp metal spearhead on one end.

The crew split up into two parties, one for each side, and nervously kept watch. A party was dispatched to the fighting platform halfway up the main mast where Marines and sharpshooters used to rain death down on attackers. Austin paced restlessly back and forth, a belaying pin in his hand.

They didn't have to wait long. The first sign of the renewed attack was the loud rapping against the ship's side. The attackers were trying to soften them up with automatic gunfire. The bullets chipped the black and white paint, but hardly put a dent in the two-foot- thick oak hull. The doughty old ship plowed through the water, brushing off the bullets as if they were a swarm of pesky mosquitoes. Like the Barbary pirates and the British navy, the attackers learned Old lronsides was no pushover.

The attackers saw that their bullets were having no effect and stopped firing, instead switching on their spotlights, revving their motors and closing on their slow-moving target. Austin heard the boats thump against the hull. He had figured that the attackers would try to climb up the standing rigging that ran from the masts down the side of the ship like rope ladders, and when he saw a hand grab onto the bottom ledge of a gun port, Austin brought the belaying pin down on the attacker's knuckles.

There was a shriek of pain. The hand let go, and the attacker fell into the harbor with a loud splash. A face appeared on the other side of the gun port. Austin set aside the belaying pin and picked up a boarding pike. He tucked the spearhead under the man's chin. Austin was practically invisible on the darkened deck. The attacker felt the sharp point tickling his Adam's apple and froze, afraid to move.

Austin pushed the pike forward slightly, and the face disappeared. This time there was a loud thud, as the attacker fell into a boat. Seeing his gun port clear for the time being, Austin strode down the line of cannon. The ship's crewmen were using their boarding pikes with similar effect. Working in pairs, some of them tossed cannonballs over the side. Judging by the yells and crunching sounds, they were finding their mark.

Slade came running up, still wearing his cocked hat. "Not one of those jerks has set foot on deck." His sweaty face beamed with pride.

"Guess they're getting the point," Austin said. A face appeared over the bulwark behind Slade. Before Austin could warn Slade, the attacker had hooked a leg over the side and was bringing his assault rifle to bear.

Austin threw the boarding pike like a Masai warrior taking on a lion. The pike struck the attacker in the chest, and he let out a cry of surprise and toppled back, his weapon firing uselessly in the air.

Austin grabbed a cutlass and leaped onto the nearest cannon, intending to cut the rigging to prevent it from being used as a ladder. As he brought the sword back, he heard someone yell:

"Starboard!"

The shout came from the fighting platform. The assault had moved around to the other side of the ship.

Two of Razov's men had climbed onto the bulwark and were unslinging their weapons, preparing to spray the defenders concentrated on the deck.

Acting on pure instinct, Austin slashed the line nearest to him, grabbed onto the loose end like Tarzan swinging through the trees and launched himself across the deck, his legs extended in front of him. The attackers looked up and saw a dark Batman-like apparition flying their way. They tried to get their guns around, but Austin's feet struck them with the full force of his weight, and they pitched over backward. Austin reached the end of his arc and swung back, then dropped onto the deck amid loud cheers from the astounded crew.

"Wow!" Slade said. "Where did you learn that trick?"

"Watching old Errol Flynn movies in my misspent youth. Is everybody okay?"

"Couple of cuts and bruises, but Old lronsides's deck has not been violated."

Austin grinned and clamped the sailor on the shoulder, then looked around.

"What's that?"

"Boat motors," Slade said. They ran to the side of the ship and peered over. They could see three wakes. A cheer went up from the crew, but it faded when the boats came to a stop a few hundred feet away and the pinpoints marking muzzle fire began. But instead of aiming for the nearly impregnable sides of the ship, they were concentrating on the rigging. The sails were being shredded. Bits of rope and splinters of wood began to rain down on the deck. The observers scrambled down from their platforms.

"Those cowards!" Slade yelled. "They can't board her, so they're going to rip her to shreds." Tatters of sail fell on his head. "We've got to do something!"

Austin grabbed the sailor's arms. "You mentioned a twenty-one-gun cannon salute."

"What? Oh, yeah, the two cannon on the foredeck. We fire them every morning and sunset. They're old breechloaders. We've jerry-rigged them to fire three-hundred-and-eighty-millimeter shells. But they shoot blanks, except for the time when someone forgot to remove a cap and we hit a police boat."

"Our friends out there don't know they're blanks."

"That's right."

Austin quickly outlined his plan. Slade ran back and ordered the helmsman to steer a new course. The helmsman swung the wheel over, and the Constitution slowly came about so that its bow was pointed at the attack boats.

Slade rounded up his gun crew and they climbed down to the gun deck and hurried forward. Within moments, the forward cannon were loaded. Austin peered through the gun port and saw the attack boats lined up. They had been readying for another assault when the ship turned and came at them. With Old lronsides taking the offensive, they seemed to be confused. Austin wanted them as close together as possible. The gap was closing. The boats started to move apart.

"Now!" Austin ordered. He stepped away and covered his ears.

Slade pulled the lanyards. There was a double roar, the foredeck was enveloped in smoke and the cannons leaped back, their recoil held in check by thick cordage. The gun crew had purposely left the caps in.

The bluff worked. The attackers saw the big black ship bearing down on them behind a cloud of purple smoke, heard the twin projectiles whistle though the air and saw the geysers of water. The boats sprinted out of the way like startled jackrabbits, then headed at full throttle toward the mouth of the harbor where they disappeared in the darkness.

The cannons roared again, with blanks this time, as the ship gave chase.

Even as the echoes faded, a mighty roar went up from the crew.

"Party's over," Austin said. Slade was grinning from ear to ear. The comment that followed might not have been in the same class of immortal words as "Don't give up the ship" or "Damn the torpedoes!"… but as Austin watched the departing wakes of the attack boats, he couldn't argue with the young sailor when he said, "Old lronsides still knows how to kick ass!"