The bullets zipped overhead with a conspiratorial psssst, like someone trying to get his attention. Peter Dees could hear them over the speedboats growling idle, along with the musical plinkplinkplink as they splashed into the rolling Caribbean off the port side. He was briefly surprised that he could make them out over the engines rumble and the thump of his own heart.

"Pendejo!" the driver shouted, trying to keep the Donzi motionless in the rolling sea. "Do it quickly! I cannot outrun a patrol boats cannon!"

The tall thin one with the oily unkempt black beard and the lunatic black eyes laughed. "Los rojos do not even have enough gas for their boats and we have more than enough time. I am correct, senor periodista?"

"Verdad," Dees replied in Spanish, "but only if you dont shoot that thing through the bottom of the boat first."

Thje driver threw back his head and laughed. The thin one scowled and turned toward Dees, but before he could say anything Ramon Vargas spoke. "Emilio, Senor Dees is our friend and our guest. More respect and less talk, eh?"

Marco steadied himself, making sure the rain cover was snugly buttoned to the cameras body and the lens cap was still tightly protecting the thermal night lens. Vargas walked unsteadily across to him and balanced himself against one of the seats in the open cockpit. "You are ready?"

The cameraman nodded. Dees was standing, scanning the coastline with a pair of night vision binoculars. Every thirty seconds or so, winks of light would appear along the coast followed by the glottal glupglupglup as individual rounds hit the water.

"Theyre not trying too hard," Dees said without looking toward Vargas.

"Small arms wont travel this far and if theyve got a .30 or a .50 cal popping rounds at us theyre only doing it a few at a time."

Vargas whispered "And you. Are you ready?"

Dees lowered the binoculars, still staring at the coast. "For what? Drowning? Being eaten by sharks? Maybe getting shot? Or was it ten years chopping cane on the Isle of Youth once were caught youre referring to?" He raised his voice. "And why whisper? They know were here."

Vargas laughed. "And here I thought your main problem was with Emilio. He is okay, just a little excitable."

Dees finally turned and looked at him. "Excitable people get killed faster, which may be all right, but they get people around them killed faster which is not all right. You ever think of feeding him some Valium?"

Vargas laughed again. "Might spoil his aim."

Marco flipped a switch on the camera and listened with satisfaction as it hummed to life. He removed the lens cap, steadied himself against the port gunwale, and pushed in tight to the coastline. He picked up a pair of winks in the darkness and pulled the shot back. It revealed Emilio leaving his cockpit seat, bending over, and removing a cylindrical object that seemed to weigh a couple of dozen pounds from the hold beneath the deck. Emilio grunted and snapped the hatch cover closed. Another grunt and the cylinder---four and a half inches in diameter, roughly two-and-a-half feet long---was heaved onto the flat stern, just above the vibrating engines.

Emilio unfolded a tripod that had been secured flat against the front of the cylinder. It clicked into place. He unfolded another tripod from the rear and locked it. He settled flat on his belly, closed one eye, and squinted through what appeared to be a short, fat telescope attached to the top, almost the same diameter as the tube below it. As he fumbled with the sight, Marco panned slowly from the tubby cylinder toward the coast. More winking lights appeared. A symphony of the contrapuntal plinkplink plopplop glupglup sounds danced in the water around them.

Dees, standing toward the bow so as to be out of Marcos shot, tugged at Vargass shirt. "What the hell is that?"

Vargas kept his eyes on the flashes along the coast. "A version of what you call the Dragon."

Dees turned his eyes toward the black horizon. "And I suppose Id be wasting my time if I asked where you got an anti-tank missile?"

Reflections of the winking lights along the flat coast glinted off Vargass gold tooth. "An incredible waste of time."

Dees glanced at what looked like an olive-green length of sewer pipe and tried to remember what he knew about the thing. The M-47 Dragon, first cousin to the TOW anti-tank missile, designed to be carried by infantry, although if Emilios experience was any indication, not too easily carried, and definitely not available at the local surplus store. It had a range ofwhat? Dees drew a blank.

"Alcance?" Emilio yelled.

Vargas, still watching the coast, replied quietly, "Eight hundred meters, mas o menos."

That was it, Dees finally remembered. A range of a thousand meters on the outside.

The driver gunned the engine, then cut back on the throttle, turning the Donzi slightly to the right. "This is as stable as it gets unless you want to swim ashore and shoot the fucking thing from there!"

There was a piiinnngg as a slug glanced off the tip of the bow. A bright light suddenly flashed on inside one of the tall buildings near the coast. Emilio squinted through the sight again and more or less aimed at the light as the boat rode the gently bouncing waves. Vargas suddenly shouted "Fuego!"

Emilio cackled, jammed a finger onto the "fire" button, and shouted "Luuuccy! Im hooomme!"

With a breathy whooossh, the twenty-nine inch long missile was shoved out of the tube by a launch charge. Sixty tiny thrusters popped to life as three curved fins at the missiles rear locked in place, spinning the small rocket like a drill bit. Marco panned with the camera, following the streak across the water as Emilio tried to keep the sight locked on the light inside the high-rise. The boats bouncing shoved the sight up and down, affecting the missiles guidance. The rocket wobbled but continued scooting fifteen feet above the water, accelerating to over two hundred miles an hour.

Marco had lost track of the pale green streak that threaded across his viewfinder. An orange and yellow flash bathed the dark coast in artificial light for a few seconds, revealing a string of tall buildings overlooking a strip of sand lined with beach umbrellas. Marco twisted the lens with his left hand, pulling the shot back until the viewfinder showed a roiling fireball that seemed to be climbing the side of the high rise.

A large oval object spiraled in front of the blast, reached the top of a narrow arc, and fell out of sight. The fireball receded, replaced by a glowing blaze at the buildings base. A few seconds later the thunderclap of an explosion rolled across the water. "Hooahh!" Emilio laughed, pounding his fist on the stern.

Dees, staring through the night vision binoculars, followed the flight of what looked like a huge propane tank as it arced up and then fell at the base of the building. Dees stared, stunned. I know that place, he thought. Ive had lunch there. Right next to the barbecue grill and propane tank on the patio. He reached out blindly with his left hand, grabbing air until he clutched Vargass pinned sleeve and gave it a jerk.

"You son of a bitch!" Dees yelled. Vargas looked at him uncomprehendingly. He released Vargass sleeve and pointed toward the coast. "Thats Varadero beach! Youre shooting at tourists!"

Vargas seemed to consider it and said calmly, "They have been warned about taking vacations in a war zone."

"War zone?! War zone?!" Dees was becoming hoarse. "Its a damn beach resort!"

Vargas looked at Dees, spit into the water, and shouted "Arriba!" The Donzis V-Eights thundered to life. Emilio barely had time to roll into the cockpit, pulling the empty launch tube with him, before the boats nose aimed toward Ursa Minor. The boat began to pick up speed and seemed to want to launch itself toward the velvet sky. The low sharp bow leveled itself and began to fly across the Florida Straits.

Far to the rear Dees could barely see the fire, still burning.