Crash Course by Derek Fee (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📕

from the wharf and point its prow towards the entrance of the small harbour. The crew had no idea that they were in for a more interesting race than they anticipated. He’d done his job and Penhalion was sure to discover his betrayal. Maybe it was time to scarper. There would be a lot of angry Penhalion team members looking for blood. His sabotage job had been cruder than he had planned but it would at least be enough to put them out of the race. He didn’t like to think that he might have done enough to get someone killed. That wouldn’t be his business. He’d leave it to God to decide whether the boat went arse over tit while it was speeding over the water. He could decide whether any of the crew would get out alive. He’d better make himself scarce. What if something bad happened? The French coppers would lock him up and throw away the key. He wiped a film of sweat off his face and slipped through the ring of spectators surrounding the port before starting back towards his hotel. There were ten thousand reasons for him to get his arse out of Cannes immediately. He could always get back to Karakatis when the money ran out.

Barrett watched the sleek black hull of the Penhalion boat cutting through the blue waves off Sainte Marguerite as it approached the start of the race south of the island of Saint-Honorat.

“We’ll give it to that fucker today,” Milan said, twisting his mouth into a gargoyle grin.

“I’ll deal with Kane. Concentrate on making sure that this tub moves at maximum speed. I want to win this one.” Barrett’s features were set hard.

The thirty powerboats collected around a flotilla of organisers’ boats located south-west of Saint-Honorat. A helicopter bearing the logo of the French national television station, ‘TF1’ hovered directly over the start, whipping up the waves into a sheet of spray. A cameraman was perched perilously on a steel trestle affixed to the door on one side of the helicopter. Further out to sea two safety helicopters were already patrolling the route of the race.

The seas ten kilometres off the coast were not the still pond the drivers had experienced close to Cannes. Long waves broke in white caps lifting and then dropping the stationary powerboats as they waited for the instructions to move to the start.

“Don’t forget, Mark, no sightseeing.” Morweena laughed. “You can take a pleasure cruise along the coast some other time.”

Kane stared straight ahead.

The outline of the famed fortress of Saint-Honorat was directly over their heads when the white flag was raised on the starter’s launch. The blue water around them was immediately churned white as the thirty competitors gunned their engines in anticipation of the start of the race. Kane let the prow of the boat drift around until it was facing directly east along the coastline. Suddenly the starter’s flag fell and millions of pounds worth of highly engineered powerboats shot forward from the starting line.

The course of the second race in the European offshore series ran in a line parallel to the Riviera coast. Each of the fifty laps consisted of a straight run east from Saint-Honorat along the coast towards the Italian section of the Riviera. Each lap measured roughly seven kilometres. A series of buoys had been placed to mark the turning points at each end of the course.

Kane was in the leading group as the boats powered away from the start and onto the first lap of the race. The boat, weighed down by a thousand litres of fuel, skimmed over the waves, occasionally ‘stuffing’ its nose into an oncoming wave. The leading group of ten boats gradually separated until they were spread out across the course at twenty-metre intervals. The noise of the engines was terrific as the throttlemen opened the throttles wide in order to gain an early advantage and some clear water.

“Not a bad start,” David’s voice came crackling over the radio. “We made it in time. You’ll be getting progress reports from us as the race proceeds.”

“It’s good to know you’re there,” Kane replied.

Kane took a quick glance at the GPS. Morweena tried to maximise the shelter they could expect but even at this early stage of the race, the waves were sending up huge sprays which cut visibility and dashed like a thousand hailstones against the toughened canopy of the cockpit.

Barrett settled in behind Kernow as the boats roared away from the start. “Keep the throttle open enough to stay in contact with Kane,” Barrett said into his microphone.

Milan smiled from the other corner of the cockpit. “I love a race with a bit of spice in it. Or maybe I should have said spite.” He cackled into the microphone and eased the throttle forward until they were travelling in the wake of the Penhalion boat.

Constantinos Karakatis was also travelling in the group directly behind the leaders. He peered through the spray which poured in a constant stream over the canopy searching for the black colours of Penhalion’s boat. It was directly in front of him following the inside line by sticking as close as was possible to the coast in the hope of staying away from the roughest water. Karakatis turned the wheel of his boat to the left and brought himself into line behind Barrett. There was no way that Karakatis could match the speed of the two catamarans during the early part of the race; he had already accepted that he would have to play a waiting game. As soon as the catamarans became lighter and were forced to reduce speed, Karakatis would pounce.

The race was beginning to develop into a pattern with the speedier catamarans of Hakonen, Tadeka, Jackson’s Brit1 and Kernow forming a leading group. They sped across the blue water bordering some of the most expensive real estate in the world. A flotilla of yachts and small speedboats clung to the shore serving as vantage points for