Free The Natanz Directive by Wayne Simmons Page A

boat’s beautiful wooden hull. Anyone who hadn’t dropped to the deck did so now, all except a woman in a cocktail dress with a wine goblet stuck to her fingers. She was paralyzed with fear, and I couldn’t blame her. I dragged her to the deck, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Don’t move.”
    Another salvo of bullets clawed through the port-side windows, shattering wine bottles and turning dishes into shards of porcelain. Wine and food splattered the deck.
    A speedboat skimmed toward us from the right, bounding over inky water dappled with the yellow reflections of streetlamps. I saw a man take up a position on the bow. I saw him raise what looked like an AK-47 to his shoulder. The muzzle let loose a ball of fire, and bullets sprayed the houseboat.
    At the front of the galley, a flight of stairs rose to the bridge. Someone begged for help over a radio. I sprang up the steps. Two crewmen wore blue jackets, khaki pants, and matching baseball caps. One looked completely panicked at the helm; the other was gripping a radio handset and screaming into the mike. Their faces beamed in shock when they saw me climb onto the bridge.
    â€œDown, down, down,” I shouted, physically throwing the radioman to the floor of the bridge deck and pushing the helmsman aside. I grabbed the wheel. I shoved the throttle to its front stop, and the houseboat surged forward.
    Our sudden wake rocked the speedboat, knocking the shooter off-balance and into the canal. Now it was two against one. Better odds. Not great.
    The pilot of the speedboat gave his motor a squirt of gas and turned the boat toward us. Another man crawled from the cockpit, a fresh AK-47 at the ready.
    The houseboat lumbered forward; no way could we outrun them. Our advantage, if you could call it that, was size and heft.
    I turned the helm to the left and motored into the middle of the canal. The speedboat pilot was so fixed on getting into a good firing position that he didn’t notice that I was nosing him toward the canal’s opposite wall.
    The shooter raised his gun, but I drove him off the hull with three quick shots from my Walther. I had seven bullets left and a fresh magazine in my coat pocket. I fired two more in the direction of the speedboat’s pilot. He eased off the throttle long enough for me to nudge him closer to the canal wall. We were now thirty feet away and closing.
    The speedboat pilot finally realized the danger and hollered in panic. He jerked the throttle and tried to reverse his engine. The boat didn’t respond.
    I spun the helm to the left. Now there was nothing to cushion the blow with the canal wall except the speedboat trapped between us. That was the plan.
    A surge of water lifted the speedboat, and the houseboat slammed the tiny hull against the concrete. The speedboat splintered, taking both pilot and gunman down with it.
    I didn’t look back. I eased the throttle back on the houseboat and guided it into the middle of the channel, toward a second canal on the left and a stone bridge. I heard sirens. I saw patrol cars with blue lights flashing on their roofs. One parked close to the railing on the opposite side, and a searchlight lanced across our flotilla of gondolas.
    From what I could see, there was no sign of the gunmen on the thoroughfare by this time. I filled my lungs and took note of my heart rate: sixty-six. A little high, but not bad given the excitement.
    I urged the houseboat’s two crewmen to their feet. “Take the wheel,” I said to the helmsman. I pointed to a wooden pier jutting out into the water a hundred yards ahead. “That’s my stop. Get me close.”
    Then I caught the radioman’s eye. “Alert the channel police. And get an ambulance over here. Then get downstairs and check on your passengers. If you’ve got a first aid kit, I’d bring it along.” He just stared at me. I snapped, “Now, sailor!”
    He jumped to it, powering up