Sneak Attack: A Novel

By John McCord

As Mike Norris and his friend sit in eerie darkness, tucked away in the back of a coffee shop, Mike tells his story. Years before, he was in a funk. He had suddenly fallen into money and could afford to retire and buy expensive toys. Still, he was bored, his love life was in the toilet, and he was drifting through life aimlessly. Then a "chance meeting" and other strange things happen to him. During the September 11th attacks, he has an encounter with a government agent and suddenly realizes that the U.S. is not as safe and secure as it had once seemed. After some soul-searching, an old friend recruits him into a mysterious group of very wealthy people. He embarks on an odyssey involving spies, foreign operatives, and an alarming plot that, if Mike and his friends don't prevent, will change the power structure of the world forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452030586

John McCord

After receiving a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering, John McCord spent over 20 years in the defense, IT, and Internet industries as an engineer and senior project manager. He now writes works of fiction full time and resides with his wife in the Charlotte, North Carolina area.

Book preview

Contents

Book One

Book Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Book Three

Epilogue

acknowledgements

Book One

June 11

The sizeable commercial fishing boat was quite stable, floating on the gentle Gulf swells. It was a perfect morning for deep-sea fishing, among other things. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but a faint glow of light was beginning to emerge in the eastern sky. The boat’s engines idled as the skipper held a steady course to the north, some 100 miles due south of New Orleans. Ahmad went into the hold and pulled a fire axe out of its sheath. Then he went onto the aft deck and began chopping. The first mate left his post with the skipper at the conning station and ran down to inquire exactly what (in God’s name) Ahmad thought he was doing.

What is going on? the man asked, with a heavy Cuban accent. You are destroying the boat. Do you want us to sink?!

Ahmad, knowing that he could no longer keep the purpose of the fishing trip from the two nonessential crew members, replied, I am preparing the missile.

Missile! What missile?! the man inquired.

This one, Ahmad said, sweeping away some wood chips, revealing part of the modified, multi-stage Taepodong missile concealed within the belly of the boat.

The Cuban man’s eyes became very big at the sight of it, but before he could say another word, Ahmad pulled out a pistol and shot him in the head, killing him.

Kim Kang Sung ran up to Ahmad, protesting, What did you kill him for? Do we not still need the crew to take us to the rendezvous point—and the escape vessel—to pick us up?

We only needed them to navigate to this spot. Our escape will happen here, Ahmad lied. I tfhink you should go into the cockpit and calm down our pilot, he added, motioning to the helm, where the skipper had been observing the situation with a frantic look on his face.

Kim took a deep breath and then said, I’ll take care of it. He walked into the cockpit.

Ahmad continued working, while Kim tried to reassure the skipper, who was gesticulating hysterically. Finally, Kim called down to Ahmad, saying, I don’t think I can calm him down. What should I do?

Do you think you can hold this heading while I prepare the missile for launch?

Yes, I think so, Kim replied.

Then throw him overboard, Ahmad said, not knowing whether Kim would take him literally.

To Ahmad’s bemusement, Kim used a couple of advanced martial arts techniques, breaking the man’s neck, and then, obliging Ahmad, he threw the man into the Gulf.

It took about an hour for Ahmad to prepare the missile, set the controls on the platform to raise it to the correct angle immediately prior to launch, and to prepare the warhead. The sun was just above the horizon by this point.

Ahmad walked to the helm to steer the boat, asking Kim to double-check the settings on the missile launch platform to make sure they were correct. Kim returned quickly, saying, The missile is ready. Shall I launch the skiff while you set the timing device?

That is a good idea, my friend, Ahmad said, misleading the North Korean Army missile technician.

As soon as he turned his back, the Iranian operative shot him in the head at point-blank range. Ahmad thought it was unfortunate that Kim had been unaware this was a mission of shahada. Perhaps Allah would have mercy on him, even though he was an infidel, since he had been instrumental in bringing things to this point.

Be that as it may, there is but one thing left to accomplish.

Ahmad tied the boat’s steering wheel to keep it on course. Then he walked back to the missile platform’s controls, initiating the commands to raise the missile and launch it into the sky. Powerful, computer-controlled, hydrodynamic thrusters located along the hull’s waterline became active to stabilize the boat as the missile was raised and the center of mass shifted. Fragments of the boat’s faux exterior cabin, made mostly of lightweight balsa wood, splintered and fell into the water. After several minutes, the missile’s systems were powered, and it was ready to launch. As the main engine ignited, the boat shook mightily.

Ahmad looked up and said aloud, Allah, I crave martyrdom and await my reward, making no move to get into the lifeboat.

The missile launched toward its target far above the earth, shattering the boat’s center section into pieces.

Book Two

Chapter One

It was the middle of the morning as my friend Yusef and I sat in the back of a coffee shop near Fredericksburg, Virginia, sitting in an alcove in comfy brown wing chairs, sipping a couple of cappuccinos. We had just arrived in the area from southwest Florida, via Interstate 95. We stopped the night before and stayed in a motel outside of Rocky Mount, North Carolina, getting up early this morning to finish the drive. Even with two drivers, we’d decided not to drive through the night, since we were towing my 30-something-foot performance boat to its summer home on the Occoquan River. The rig technically qualifies as a wide load, so we were careful to drive in the right lane at or near the speed limit.

I’m Mike Norris, and I am someone who is commonly referred to as an Internet Millionaire, which is one reason I’m a snowbird, albeit younger than most. I started working for AIC, the American Internet Corporation, in 1991. It was my first job after I finished college. At the time, AIC was a newbie company in the cyberspace arena. So, when I was hired as a staff computer programmer the company couldn’t pay competitively, at least in terms of salary. Having just issued company stock to the public, however, AIC attempted to make up for the meager paychecks with huge grants of stock options. Lucky me—I got in early while the stock price was low.

I worked my way up to the level of senior programmer and then fellow (whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean). But then, thanks to the Internet Bubble that burst in about the middle of the year 2000, I instantly became wealthy beyond my wildest imagination. I sold my stock near the top of the Bubble. Again, I was lucky—a matter of being in the right place at the right time—and it was time to retire.

Yusef al Jahfar, on the other hand, still worked for AIC. The company hired him about the time I resigned. As a matter of fact, I interviewed him to replace me. After that, AIC stock crashed, so he has continued working for salary only, stock options having become worthless in terms of employee compensation, or making someone rich. We still stay in touch, and every year I pay for him to fly to Florida, where I spend my winters, and then drive back with me to Occoquan, Virginia, the aforementioned summer dwelling place for my boat and me. He enjoys the all-expenses-paid vacations, and I enjoy the companionship and extra driver.

For most of the trip our conversation had focused on the current gossip at AIC. This morning, though, we began talking about some topics that intrigued me. Yusef is a Muslim, and I had been doing some work relevant to Islam since I left AIC. My current job was not employment in the traditional sense—I hadn’t been financially compensated for my services—nor was it something that I could ordinarily talk about openly.

Yusef continued the conversation in his heavy Arabic accent. "Mike, you need to understand that there is a modern day Axis of Evil."

I nodded and said, Yes, the famous ‘Axis of Evil’ speech.

Yusef said, But talking about it simply in terms of alliances between specific countries doesn’t necessarily paint the Axis with a broad enough brush.

I’m not following, I said.

Yusef continued. "The concern should be about ideologies. For example, I am a Sunni Muslim. The Sunnis make up the vast majority of the Muslim world. Now, we have radicals within our ranks called Wahabites who would, as opposed to the majority, applaud the September 11 hijackers’ actions, as if taken during a holy war."

But you don’t see it that way, I said.

Many of us do not, he replied. We do not take the teachings quite so literally.

Although I was already aware of some of the facts he was speaking about, I wanted him to continue so I could glean more on the subject.

Yusef added, "Now here’s where you really need to follow me. Iran, which is not Sunni, has a mainly Shiite population. Amongst them there are also anti-west radicals. Here’s the dangerous part: Although Sunni and Shiite radicals would ordinarily be at odds, they have, in some cases, allied themselves with one another."

I said, So, radical Sunnis and radical Shiites, typically mortal enemies, have made a truce in order to destroy, or at least weaken, the west, especially the United States and Israel, right?

Right, Yusef said.

Wanting to probe Yusef further, I asked him, So, how does North Korea fit into the equation?

Neither Syria nor Iran should be friendly toward each other or North Korea, because their radicals are on opposite sides of the isle and have no religious commonality with the secular Korean regime. But they have formed relationships of convenience to fight their common enemy, the United States. Yusef paused and then added, The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

The Axis, I echoed. Then I said, "That’s one thing that I don’t get, though. If the radical Sunnis and radical Shiites are enemies who have made a truce in order to defeat the U.S. and Israel and they succeed, what then? I mean, what do they do with each other once we are out of the way?"

My theory, Yusef explained, is that each side figures that after they jointly succeed, one shall double-cross and then either destroy or dominate the other.

I nodded, and then Yusef said to me, Well, enough about international intrigue. Tell me what’s been going on with you these last few months. You’ve been so secretive and difficult to get in touch with. What is up? Is there another lady in your life?

Well, actually, I’ve been—

Before I could finish, the lights went out, and one could hear an attenuating whine, indicating that the air conditioner had suddenly stopped. It was obvious that a power outage had just occurred, and we experienced one of those unnerving moments when a room unexpectedly becomes dark. We were tucked away in the back of the establishment, away from the windows, and it took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

I wasn’t wearing a watch, so I reached toward Yusef and motioned for him to show me his. I need to see your watch. It’s battery operated, right? Yusef nodded and held out his left wrist with a puzzled look on his face. I looked at it for several moments. The second hand did not move. The watch had apparently stopped the moment the power went out. I said to him, I think I know what this is, and if I’m right, we won’t have power for a while—a long while.

What? he inquired, reaching toward his waistband with his right hand. I did likewise. Yusef and I were fellow marksmen.

I smiled and said, When did you put on your piece?

At the rest stop immediately across the Virginia border, when you were in the restroom, he replied.

(Although we were both licensed to carry concealed firearms in Virginia, some of the states to the south had not yet granted reciprocity. One was required to transport firearms unloaded until crossing the state line and entering the Commonwealth.)

Well, my friend, I continued, patting my concealed holster on the right side of my waistband, if this is what I think it is, we will be very glad to have these.

Tell me about it, Yusef said.

The marina where we were supposed to take the boat did not close until 5:00 p.m., assuming power was restored. On the other hand, if I was right about what had just caused the outage, it, along with any other establishment requiring electrical power, would most likely be closed starting today—and remain so for a long time.

We’ve got time, maybe a lot of time, I said, knowing that Yusef would probably enjoy the story as much as I the telling. As we sat in the eerie darkness of the coffee shop’s alcove, I began my saga. Remember when I retired from AIC? I went down to Florida and rented a house on that key near Charlotte Harbor, off the Intracoastal Waterway.

Yes, I remember—your ‘earlier-than-usual midlife crisis,’ several years ago, Yusef said, with a wry grin.

I shrugged and then continued. Well…

Chapter Two

March 1st, 2001

Coincidental with my resignation from AIC, I had just broken up with Amy, my girlfriend of four years (not to mention, my first serious girlfriend ever). People had been laying odds we would end up in the corner lot with three children and a white picket fence. It didn’t work out that way, largely because of me. I thought that she was way too bossy. So I was lonely and bored, not exactly living the life everyone dreams of, even though I was in the warm paradise of southwest Florida.

It was a typical late winter day. The sun was out, the temperature was about 80 degrees, and there was very little humidity. It was late morning, and I decided that I wanted to have a cheeseburger for lunch. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV just as the Weather Channel reporter was talking about a nasty winter storm heading into the northeast. I snickered and made a mental note to call my brother later and give him crap about having to scrape the ice from his windshield while I was working on my tan. I put on a pair of cargo shorts, a golf shirt, and a pair of running shoes. I applied sunscreen and then walked outside to the dock next to the house.

My performance boat was white with fiery orange and red graphics. It was fast, but I rarely ran it at top speed (unless I wanted to show up another boater—usually for pissing me off by doing something unsafe or idiotic).

I took off the cockpit cover and began checking the systems and fluid levels, engine oil, hydraulic fluid, and the like. I pressed a switch and raised the engine cover in the back. The boat was one of my first major purchases after calling in rich to work. I had taken delivery of it only a few months prior, and looking at the three huge V-8 engines still gave me a rush. Everything seemed in order, so I closed the hatch.

I turned on the blower to vent whatever gas fumes remained in the engine compartment. Even though I ran the boat at least once a day, I didn’t want to take any chances. Gas fumes have a tendency to build up in such enclosed spaces. In fact, some boats have been turned into fireworks displays upon engine ignition because their skippers failed to use the blower for a few minutes prior to turning the key.

While I was waiting, I noticed Gloria, an incredibly built blonde, walking onto the deck on the second floor of the house next door. She didn’t notice me at first, and I feigned not seeing her either. It was a good thing I was wearing my reflective sunglasses so I could pretend not to be looking directly at her as she prepared her lounge chair. Man, was she hot! She was spending the winter months here while her husband, a corporate information officer, was making copious coin in New York City.

Hi, Mike, she said, finally noticing me.

Hi, Gloria, I said, turning my head, pretending to have just noticed her.

Going over to Cabbage Key for lunch? she inquired.

Am I that predictable? I said.

It’s a nice day for it. You’ll have to take me with you someday.

She is killing me.

It never ceases to amaze me that ostensibly happily married women can sometimes be monumentally flirtatious, as Gloria often was. I usually played back, even though I would never even consider moving in on a man’s wife, no matter how much of a prick he was. I figured, though, that this was just harmless flirting, and it gave me practice interacting with women, in that I was just starting to get back into the dating scene after having been off the market for four years.

You know, Gloria, you won’t get an even tan riding on the boat, I jested, giving her a little wave and then reaching for one of the engine keys.

She laughed and said, See you later, waving back and then lying down on her lounge chair.

I started engine number one, which roared to life with the deep, throaty sound of a big-block V-8 engine. Then I started the other two. I stepped onto the pier, walked to the back of the boat, and untied the stern line, throwing it into the boat. Then I walked toward the front and untied the spring line, jumped back on board, and put the engines in gear. I maneuvered into the narrow channel that leads from the dock into the Intracoastal Waterway. I was careful to keep the boat as close to the middle of the channel as I possibly could. That’s where the deepest water was. Waterways in southwest Florida can be very shallow, and I did not want to ruin my brand-new propellers on the coral.

There’s nothing like the sound of three big-blocks at idle speed—bla-da, bla-da, bla-da, bla-da. As soon as I reached the Intracoastal, I would be out of the no-wake zone and could then bring the engines up to speed. I typically kept the boat at a slow pace, however, since I didn’t have far to go. I changed my mind when I saw a fleet of small boats heading toward Cabbage Key. It looked like a group of early birds trying to get to the marina before the rush. I decided that I wanted to do so as well.

I turned south into the Intracoastal and pushed the throttles all the way forward. The engines responded by almost instantaneously coming to maximum speed. It took only a few seconds for the boat to plane, skimming swiftly across the surface of the water. I noticed the speedometer needle going through 65 miles per hour as I passed to the left of the small armada, giving the other boats as much room as possible within the narrow channel. When I had gained a safe distance in front of the lead boat—I estimated about six boat lengths—I cut in front, slowed down to idle speed, and entered the no-wake zone leading to the Cabbage Key marina—mission accomplished.

Since, from the perspective of the other boaters, I came out of nowhere, I was sure some of the skippers would assume that I was some hotshot, zipping around recklessly. I didn’t care what they thought, though. I was hungry.

When I was near the marina, I saw the dockmaster, Charlie, busy talking to one of the hands. I brought the boat to a stop. He still didn’t notice me after a minute or two, so I gave a call on the radio.

Charlie pulled the handheld radio from his belt and said, Boat calling for dockage at Cabbage Key marina, state your position.

I’m on station about fifty feet from the end of the wharf on which you are standing, Charlie, I replied.

He looked toward me and said, Oh, it’s you, Mike. Sorry, I didn’t see you. I’ve got an armada of boats coming in for lunch, and I’m trying to figure out where to put them all.

I know, I responded with a big grin. I just passed them on the way in. Want me in my usual spot?

Yeah, Charlie replied. You know, you’re really making my life difficult today,

I don’t think so, I said, pointing back into the channel. They are!

Charlie smiled and shook his head, pointing to the side of the wharf where he usually had me dock. I pulled up alongside the wharf and threw him a line that I had cleated next to the helm. We tied up the boat, and I shook his hand, wishing him luck with the boats that were just arriving. Then I headed up the small hill and into the restaurant.

I entered through the porch, walking past the hostess stand and into the bar. There were still plenty of barstools available, in that it was a few minutes before noon. The barmaid was busy setting up the cash register for the lunchtime rush, so she didn’t notice me. I sat for a while, taking in the romantic beauty of the tropical setting and sizing up the characters in the room.

After the barmaid had finished counting the cash, I said, Hey, Sarah, beer me!

She turned around and said, Oh, hi Mike! You haven’t been here long, have you?

No, I said. I saw you counting the register, and I decided I needed to wait until after noon anyway, you know, before I have a drink.

Sarah was used to my sense of humor, and I wanted to reassure her that I wasn’t bothered by the wait.

You know what they say, she said, it’s after noon somewhere in the world!

I chuckled, and she handed me a Samuel Adams.

I continued bantering with Sarah for a while until the bar started to fill up. Then I ordered a cheeseburger and minded my business while she attended to the rest of the establishment’s patrons. The man and woman sitting next to me were pretty much into each other, so, instead of intruding on their conversation, I decided just to sit and take in the atmosphere. There was nothing too exciting going on, as I had anticipated. It was just another lazy day in paradise.

I finished my sandwich and fries and then ordered another beer. As famished as I had been when I came in, I was now becoming quite full. I figured that I would sit and let my stomach settle before getting back on the boat. It was a nice day, and I wanted to take it out into the Gulf for a ride. Maybe if I became ambitious, I would head north along the coast all the way to Longboat Key for a dinner of stone crabs, while they were still in season.

Maybe, but it was difficult to think about food at the moment. I continued looking around the room, and I realized that a gentleman sitting at a corner table was looking at me. At first, I acted like I didn’t notice him, but then, since he persisted, I stared back at him. All of a sudden, it dawned on me that I knew him. It was Kevin Cavell, an old buddy of mine from high school.

Chapter Three

Why don’t you come over here and join me, ya dumb jackass?!

Kevin said, perceiving from my facial expression that I had recognized him.

I immediately got up and walked over, addressing Kevin by his traditional nickname from our high school days. Hey, Caveman! What the hell are you doing here?

Just a little r-and-r, he replied. I decided to take a couple of weeks off to escape the frigid weather to the north.

Well, you came to the right place, I said, reaching out and shaking Kevin’s hand.

Have a seat, he said, motioning to an empty chair at the table. I’m staying in one of the bungalows here on the island—er—key, as they call it.

Cool, I said, struggling to jump-start the conversation.

I had no reason to worry, however, because Kevin gladly filled the silence. I might ask you the same question. This is quite a coincidence, don’t ya think? What the hell are you doing down here? He suddenly got a serious expression on his face and then asked, You didn’t get caught in the latest layoffs at AIC, did you?

During the time that I worked at the American Internet Corporation, the company had averaged about one round of layoffs every year or so. I had somehow managed to avoid being shown the door in each case.

I said to Kevin, Well, actually, I decided to leave the company on my own. My last day was January first of this year, I said, not wanting to brag by giving him too much detail about my net worth.

Okay, I get it. You must’ve done pretty well for yourself. I’ve followed AIC stock for the last ten years, and… Then, as if a light had suddenly been flipped on in a dark room, Kevin inquired, Hey, that’s about how long you worked there, isn’t it?

Yeah, that’s about right, I replied, trying to downplay the direction of the conversation.

Unfortunately, Kevin was good at math.

I’ve got some AIC stock myself, Kevin said, continuing to bloviate. Not as much as you, I’m sure. But even my little smidgen has split—hey, wait a minute, he said, interrupting himself. There must have been six stock splits over the last ten years.

Seven, I said, correcting him.

"Seven! You’ve been holding out on me, you turkey! Wow! You’ve got to be worth…well, a bundle I’m sure. Why don’t you buy the drinks? Sweetie, he said, motioning to Sarah. Another round here, and put it on his tab," he added, pointing to me.

Sarah looked at me with a puzzled expression. I looked at her and nodded. She shrugged and then went about getting us two more beers.

Same old Kevin, I thought to myself.

Until Kevin added it up, the only person who knew about the 30 million I had cleared, besides my parents and me, was my accountant, which was how I had wanted it to stay.

Hey, are you still dating that hot girl you brought to the high school reunion? What was her name, Amy, I think? Kevin inquired.

No, we broke up right before I left AIC, I replied. I suppose that’s part of why I’m here. I need some time to think, to figure stuff out.

I can imagine, Kevin said. As a matter of fact, my wife and I have split—at least for the time being. Maybe when I get back, she’ll take me back—if I don’t get into too much trouble down here, that is. We both started laughing, Kevin harder than I.

Well, I’m not looking for trouble, myself, I interjected. I just want some peace and quiet, good food, and sunshine.

Yeah, Kevin said. Man, did you see the sunset last night? That was incredible!

Southwest Florida is famous for them, I replied. Then I inquired, So you’re in the same situation I’m in, living on a key that isn’t connected to the mainland by a bridge. How do you get back and forth?

I rented a skiff for the time I’ll be here, Kevin replied. My bungalow is right on the water, and I can pull up to the dock next to it. I mainly stay on the island—I mean key. I was just joking about getting into trouble. I’m here pretty much for the same reasons you are—just want to get away for a while.

We sat and talked for about a half an hour, mainly catching up and talking about some of the nutty things we did in high school. It was good to see Kevin. I had made a few acquaintances since coming to Florida, and my parents lived nearby as well. Still, I was in a funk. Now that I could do just about anything I wanted, it was unexpectedly difficult to figure out what that was. Seeing a familiar face and talking about familiar things seemed to make me forget that I did not have the faintest idea what I wanted to do with myself.

The bar wasn’t air-conditioned this time of year, and although there was usually a nice gentle breeze blowing through the room, it was beginning to get a bit too warm to sit inside.

Just about the time that thought entered my mind, Kevin said, Hey, is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?

It usually does that around this time of day, I said.

What am I thinking? I’m talking to the expert. Do you want to head down to the porch area? Oh, yeah, I forgot. I can show you where my bungalow is.

Sounds good, I said.

We killed time walking around the grounds of the resort. Kevin showed me which bungalow he was renting, and we stood on its adjacent wharf, looking at the 17-foot boat he used to get back and forth from the mainland.

He asked, Do you know where the good spots to fish are?

I looked at him and grinned, saying, "Do you want to take a ride on a real boat?"

He laughed and then said, Have you been holding out on me again?

Why don’t you get whatever you need for the rest of the afternoon? We can go out on the Gulf and work up an appetite. I know several nice places to eat. Are you allergic to shellfish?

No way, man, he replied. I love it!

Kevin went into his bungalow, got some things, and then we walked to the marina. As we approached my boat, Kevin said, Hey, man, is this yours?!

Yup, I replied.

"Okay, then. You are definitely buying dinner."

I smiled, looked at Charlie the dockmaster, and said, Did you gas her up for me?

Absolutely, he replied.

I handed him a ten, which was his tip. I had a running account with the marina to pay for the fuel. Then I said, We’re going to take her out for a spin on the Gulf.

Nice day for it, Charlie said.

I stepped into the skipper’s chair, inserted all three keys, and started the engines, one by one. Charlie untied the lines and threw them into the boat. I handed him my boat hook, which he used to push the boat from the wharf. Then he handed it back.

Kevin noticed that we had done this before and said, Don’t I feel like the schmuck, sitting here with nothing to do.

I chuckled, maneuvering the boat slowly into the channel.

You can turn on the radio if you want, I said.

Kevin fiddled with the sound system controls for a while until he settled on a station.

Man, that’s a beautiful sound, he said, referring to the throaty sound of the engines.

You’ve gotta love it, I said.

Kevin asked, How fast does this thing go?

On a day like today, with very little wind and the water on the Gulf about as flat as a bathtub, we could get her up over a hundred, I said, trying not to sound too full of myself.

Holy shit! Kevin exclaimed. Then he inquired with a touch of reservation in his voice, "We’re not going to go that fast, are we?"

Don’t worry, buddy. I only go so fast when I have a helmet on and a throttle man beside me, meaning someone who knew how to handle the throttles in a racing situation.

Once we were out of the no-wake zone, I pushed the throttles forward and brought the boat to about 15 miles per hour. At that speed, because of the hull’s shape, the boat would produce a rather large wake. It would actually be larger than when the boat was planing across the water at a much faster speed. I was doing this for a reason. After about five minutes, I turned around and looked behind the boat. There were two dolphins jumping and playing in the wake. They were swimming fast enough to keep up with us. I tapped Kevin on the shoulder and motioned for him to look.

That’s cool, he said. "Did you