The Shark Whisperer (22 page)

“If they stop or come too close let me know,” Rickerton said in his typical gruff, why-are-you-bothering-me tone. “Otherwise proceed as planned.”

The captain told the first mate to take the binoculars, go to the stern, and watch the boat. If it didn't pass right by, he was to report immediately back to him on the bridge. Passing the security guards, the first mate told them about the boat. All three went to the stern to check it out.

The mate stared through the binoculars. “Looks like your typical tourists out for a boat ride. Must have gotten lost from Great Exuma or something. Man, the driver's all over the place. What a bunch of dorks. Some people should just never be allowed to drive a boat.”

“Let me have a look,” one of the security guards said, grabbing the binoculars. From all appearances it was a family outing gone horribly wrong. The father was driving, swerving back and forth, unable to keep the boat headed anywhere near straight. The mother was leaning over the side seasick. They were each wearing revoltingly bright Hawaiian shirts, tan shorts, and sandals with black socks. There were also three young teens in the boat, each with a big neck-strangling orange lifejacket strapped on. They were huddling
together on a small seat in front of the steering console and appeared terrified. Periodically, as the boat swerved the kids were thrown off the seat, falling to the deck. When the boat was about a hundred yards away, it slowed to a stop. The father threw the anchor, nearly getting wrapped up in the attached line as it went overboard. He then pulled out several fishing poles, just about spearing one of the kids in the process.

“What are they doing?” the other security man asked.

“Looks like they're going to attempt to fish,” the one with the binoculars answered.

The mate pulled out his radio. “Captain, the boat has stopped. Looks like they're planning on doing a little fishing.”

Onboard the small boat, Coach Fred and Ms. Sanchez were trying to appear as uncomfortable and ill-prepared as possible. They fumbled with the fishing rods, tripped over their feet, and collided with each other frequently. Ms. Sanchez periodically leaned over the side like she was getting sick. Tristan, along with Hugh and Sam wore an uncomfortable bulky lifejacket and was doing his very best to seem scared. That wasn't so hard. After all, the people on the ship did have guns and had kidnapped the older campers.

“Okay, Marten and Haverford we're going to need you to get in the water for the report from our recon teams,” Coach said. “They should be back anytime now. Sam, I'll also need you to tell the dolphins where to place the special packages I've prepared for our friends on the yacht. And we need to find out if they have any divers in the water yet. Just as we planned, right?”

“Got it, Coach,” Sam said and Hugh nodded. Each took a sip from their water bottles for good luck.

Sam and Hugh loosened the straps on their lifejackets. The two of them and Tristan pretended to get in a fight, screaming and wrestling around the boat. In the tousling, Sam and Hugh went overboard as if they had fallen or were pushed.

Ms. Sanchez and Coach yelled, waved their arms frantically, and ran around in a panic. Sam and Hugh's lifejackets somehow accidentally slipped off. The teens sank below the surface. Coach grabbed a ring buoy and line and tossed them overboard. Of course it took him several tries to get anywhere near where the two teens had gone under. Several minutes later they popped up, grabbed the ring buoy, and were pulled back to the boat. Before climbing in, Sam dropped back down behind the boat for a few last words with the dolphins hiding below the surface.

The yacht's security men and mate were watching the family on the boat, shaking their heads. It was clearly the best entertainment they'd had in weeks. Rickerton joined them to see what was going on. He sipped freshly brewed coffee from a dainty teacup that seemed seconds away from imploding in his thick sausage-like fingers. “Where's this boat that threatens to interrupt my search?”

One of his men pointed at the small craft off their stern. “Not to worry sir, just some tourists.” He handed him the binoculars. “Way out of their element. Two of the kids just fell overboard, but they pulled them back in. Looks like they're trying to fish but haven't a clue to what they're doing.”

“Nevertheless, they're in the area and we have some blasting to do. Have the captain radio and get rid of them.”

“What should he tell them sir?”

“I don't care, just get rid of them.”

“Yes, sir. Right away,” the man said hurrying away to talk to the captain.

“Everything is going as planned. Over,” Coach Fred said into the radio. “We've got their attention.”

“Careful now, stay calm, and give it a few more minutes so that everyone is in place,” Director Davis answered from his position in the cave.

“Roger that. Standing by.”

Just then a voice came over the radio. “Small boat to the stern of the vessel
Bigger is Better
in the lee of Glover's Cay. Come in. This is the ship's captain.”

Coach Fred appeared to fumble with the radio.

“Small boat to the stern of the vessel
Bigger is Better
. Come in.”

Coach clicked the radio switch several times, dramatically throwing his arms up in frustration.

“I repeat, this is
Bigger is Better
to the small boat off our stern. Come in.”

Coach turned off the radio, shrugged, and said to Ms. Sanchez, “Looks like our neighbors are getting restless. We better get this show started.”

They saw two men in wetsuits jog to the ship's stern, getting ready to board a pair of Jet Skis.

Coach Fred looked at his watch. “It's now or never.”

16

FLOCK WARFARE

A
DARK SHADOW FELL OVER THE SMALL BOAT AS
if a large cloud had drifted overhead, blocking out the sun. But it was a beautiful cloudless day in the Bahamas. Tristan looked up. It
was
a cloud—a cloud with flapping wings and feathers. To anyone else the mix of birds flying toward the yacht would have seemed exceptionally peculiar. Two majestic ospreys proudly led the pack. Behind them were pelicans in a perfectly aligned single-file formation. A cluster of big black turkey vultures came next. And at the rear were a bunch of seagulls that kept flying in and out of formation like they couldn't stay focused on the flight path.

“Bombs away,” Tristan said happily.

“I would
not
want to be on that ship,” Hugh added.

The first to attack were the ospreys. With wings
tucked in at their sides, they dove like kamikazes toward the men on the upper deck at the back of the ship. The security guards, first mate, and Rickerton were sitting ducks, exposed and completely unprepared for the assault. As the diving ospreys passed just inches from their heads, the men ducked, swerved, and cursed like sailors in a storm. The pelicans were next, gliding in low and fast. The two divers on Jet Skis were the first to be hit, pelted with a rain of stinky slimy white bird poop. Then it was the men on the upper deck's turn to be pummeled with poop. Next came the seagulls. They brought the real firepower, a rapid, blistering barrage of small, but effective smelly gray-green bombs.

Once the initial shock of the attack had worn off, Rickerton and his crew tried to run for cover. But the deck was already slick and slimy, not to mention extremely stinky. It got even worse when the turkey vultures swooped in to deploy their armament compliments of Rosina. Grasped in their talons were small plastic bags filled with transparent gooey mucus. The vultures aimed with great care and just like water balloons, each bag-o-slime splattered on impact.

The men slid, slipped, and every time they fell each became more heavily coated in a foul soup of goo. The ospreys added to the mayhem by periodically buzzing the men with racing fly-bys. And that was just when Jade, Rory, and Rusty ran from inside the yacht—thanks to the octopus's lock-picking skills. Jade led the way with Rory and Rusty hobbling behind as fast as
they could. Reaching the open side of the ship, the two boys jumped overboard without hesitation. Jade took a moment to whack a security guard over the head with a crystal dolphin she had picked up on the way out. She then dove off the ship as well.

“Get those kids!” Rickerton shouted angrily from where he sat fuming, splayed out on the deck, covered in gooey mucus, and reeking with stinky bird poop.

“Yes, sir,” his security man replied. He pulled out his radio, trying to wipe the goop from his hands. “Dive team, forget the boat. The brats have escaped. Get them and bring them back now!”