It wouldn’t be the first time in recent weeks that a cellular network had been cybersabotaged.
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He pulled out his phone and punched in a new three-digit emergency code set up by the Coast Guard for shoreline alerts. Jimmy felt an icy tingle shoot down his spine. Seven fully bearded men were staring at him, the one at the wheel using his own pair of binocs. Still, he throttled Sexy Streak down and raised his binoculars for a closer look. It appeared to pose a threat primarily to itself. Jimmy doubted the little boat was any sort of problem. Hundreds of innocents had been slaughtered in malls, baseball stadiums, and on crowded beaches since the terrorist group had announced on the Fourth of July that it was launching a “Summer of Blood.” ISIS invaders hadn’t wasted any time exploiting America’s newly porous borders and blowing themselves up on arrival. The strike had dislodged a massive glacier and raised global sea levels by four feet. ISIS suicide bombers had been penetrating the country’s flooded coastlines since the nuclear bombing of an Antarctic ice shelf by Russian hackers four months ago. The nation’s defenders needed all the help they could get. Coast Guard had been calling on sailors everywhere to keep an eye on any behavior that appeared the least bit suspicious. His first impulse was to keep a healthy distance between them and Sexy Streak to avoid having his beauty rammed by drunken revelers. He assumed its occupants were tourists who’d chartered the twenty-footer for the weekend without having any notion of water safety. A moment later Jimmy saw why: the little boat looked as jam-packed as a clown car at the circus. The small open vessel was steaming toward shore, its single engine straining as if overloaded. He was giving the factory-fresh showpiece named Sexy Streak a vigorous shakedown for its new owner, who was heading down from Kentucky for the rest of the holiday weekend.įully pumped with the raw wonders of speed - and the engines’ sharply tuned performance - Jimmy slowed long enough to notice a coastal cruiser on his starboard side. At that speed a single ding to the hull could mean death. The honey-haired twenty-two-year-old throttled up to 180, but kept his eyes peeled for debris. The scorching pace thrilled him but scarcely strained the twin turbine engines, which rocketed him past oil platforms that loomed ghostly in the Louisiana mist like prehistoric creatures marching toward land on mighty steel legs. Jimmy McMasters didn’t mind working the Labor Day weekend, not when it left him at the helm of a fifty-foot carbon-fiber speedboat racing at 170 mph across the Gulf.
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