“George Watson,” he declared roundly, “is even stupider than I ever thought. Putting that monster,” he pointed at the rakish hull, “on any river—except maybe the Mississippi or the Amazon!—is like trying to use a transfer truck for a golf cart. The damned thing is a speed machine, pure and simple. Sure as hell whoever designed it never expected some landlocked hillbilly to plunk down umpty-ump thousand dollars for it!” He snorted derisively. “Course, only a lunatic would’ve done it, lottery win or not.”
“Maybe,” Eddie agreed, then he grinned again. “All the same, I’ve got to admit I always really wished I could take it out and play with it myself. Seemed unfair someone like George had it sitting behind his house all that time.”
“That’s because your poor teenaged brain is too awash in testosterone for rational thought,” Clements told him. “Besides, you’d probably have killed yourself with it in nothing flat.” He hawked and spat on the ground while he absently massaged his chest with one hand. “I know you kids. You’d have taken that over-powered bastard out on a river somewhere and shoved the throttles to the stops, wouldn’t you?”
“Well . . .”
“Sure as hell that’s what you would’ve done. And when you did, you really would have killed yourself. Trust me, Eddie—comparing that son-of-a-bitch to any bass boat or ski boat you’ve ever handled is like comparing an F-16 to some Piper Cub.” He shook his head. “I spent eight years in the Coast Guard when I was about your age, son. Put in a lot of time handling small craft, and I’ve owned half a dozen good-sized boats of my own since. But this sucker is like a rocket on slick grass.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing Frank and Mike sent you along, isn’t it?” Eddie chuckled. “Without you to drive it, we’d have to trust Larry with it.”
“Larry Wild?” Clements shuddered. “Eddie, I’ve seen him steering a ski boat. Trust me, it would be like . . . like giving Hans Richter a Corvette!”
“Nothing could be like giving Hans a Corvette,” Eddie replied firmly. “Personally, I always figured the best thing about Jesse’s teaching him to fly was that at least in the air there’s nothing he can run into!”
” ‘Cept the ground,” Clements agreed.
“Well, yeah,” Eddie conceded. “On the other hand, Jack,” it still felt . . . odd to him to be calling Clements anything besides “Mr. Clements,” but officially, he actually outranked the older man, “it’d probably be a good idea for you to check Larry and me both out on the Outlaw.” Clements raised both eyebrows, and Eddie shrugged. “Well, Larry, at least. Seems pretty obvious that it’s going to be our ‘flagship,’ ” he pointed out. “It’s the biggest, fastest thing we’ve got. And Mr. Ferrara managed to put together an eight-cell launcher for her, and we can carry at least three or four complete reloads in the cabin. The Chris Craft and your boat are both slower, and they’re both completely open-cockpit designs, too.” He shook his head. “That’s going to make stowing extra ammunition dicier. Too much chance of the exhaust from one launch touching off the backup rounds. So seems to me it only makes sense to have a backup driver just in case, well . . .”
He shrugged again, but this time the gesture carried a completely different meaning.
Trying resolutely to ignore the ache in his chest, Jack Clements looked at the young man standing beside him with his denim jacket buttoned against the October chill. The youngster could have used a shave, he thought. And for all the gold bars pinned to the collar of his plaid shirt, he looked like exactly what he was—a kid who’d stopped being a teenager less than two months ago. But there was nothing particularly kidlike about the eyes watching the Outlaw dragging its way past them. Or about the thoughts behind those eyes at this particular moment.
“Of course,” Clements said after a moment, his voice deliberately light, “the proper Navy term is ‘coxswain,’ not driver, you ignorant lout.”
“Coxswain, driver—whatever,” Eddie allowed with a dismissive wave of his hand.