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who retrieved a pair of binoculars from beneath the control console. Michelle slowed the boat as he gazed through the lenses.
    “What is it?” she asked him as he slowly lowered the binoculars.
    “The Mohawk.” The words chilled her more than the sea spray and wind. The Mohawk was a U.S. Coast Guard ship that was currently in the service of the National Council of New Cuba. It was that vessel that had transported Paul Jenson and his team, Lisa included, to Texas to begin a rescue operation. They also knew, however, that that mission was a false flag for Adam Duncan and his Ira Project. Its true goal was to deliver Lisa to the US, so she could collect any remaining evidence of the Ira Project from the Fort Polk facility. The crew had been given the directive to allow Lisa—and only Lisa—to return to New Cuba, and they were loyal to Duncan.
    There had been some doubt regarding Lisa’s information, but with the ship now bearing down upon them, that doubt was quickly erased.
    Taking the wheel from Michelle, Matt returned the boat to its previous course and steadily throttled the engine to its full capacity. She struggled with the binoculars, as the boat cut powerfully through the water.
    “Can we out run it?” she shouted over her shoulder.
    “For now, but they’ll gain on us once we stop to refuel.” Without a guarantee of securing fuel at the first marina at which they stopped, the Mohawk might well overtake them as they searched. “We’ll put as much distance as we can between us before we go to port.”
    Though the boat supported mounted machine guns at bow and stern, the ammunition available to them was limited. Even fully stocked, Michelle doubted their small boat could withstand the firepower of the superior ship. Their only hope was to outpace it, but she could see from the worried creases on Matt’s once calm face that hope was dwindling with each minute of spent fuel.
    Once the ship returned to being a small speck on the horizon, Matt steered their own boat towards the coast. Only luck would provide them with enough fuel to survive. But when has luck been on our side? Michelle thought silently.
     
* * *
     
    The first marina had been wrung dry of fuel, both from the small scattering of boats and the dockside refueling station. As was the second. Finally at their third stop, Matt found a marina whose fuel tanks had not been depleted. Running a length of tubing from the boat to the tank, Matt began the process of replenishing their fuel. As he manned the action, Michelle strained to locate the ship in the distance. The marina’s location, inset into a small bay, made it difficult to see past the buildings and wildlife. Minutes passed and her anxiety rose as the Mohawk still remained beyond her view.
    Indicating their tank was full, Matt hastily rolled a rusted fuel drum onto the deck and ran the hose into it. Soon she could hear the gasoline splash into the drum. Securing a reserve was wise, she knew, but the minutes lost worried her greatly. In all perhaps ten minutes had passed before Matt returned to the bridge and once again started the engine.
    Wary of submerged vessels, he maintained a slow pace as they exited the marina. Out beyond the visual obstructions, gasped Michelle audibly when the hulking mass of the Mohawk came into view. Near enough now to not require binoculars, the black lettering along the ship’s side was as sinister as the devil itself. She could see the stick-like forms of members of the ship’s crew dotting the steel beast. It was the white dome on the front deck, with its massive muzzle turning slowly towards her, that drew her attention. Matt clearly recognized the threatening movement and shifted the boat into higher speed.
    Buffeted by the sudden wind, Michelle clung desperately to the railing along the port side. Seconds later, the spot where the boat had been erupted into a massive funnel of water. Booming percussions sounded in the distance and further eruptions drew ever