"Well," Art said, "it's good to know that she's only sitting a couple of feet off the bottom."

"Who told you that?" asked Captain Olinger.

"The lock and dam," I said.

"They use an average depth of the river in an area," said the Captain. "Before we ever berthed the Beau, we had to dredge a channel for her, to avoid bottom debris and to keep her props from eroding the bank. Out two hundred feet, and four hundred feet north and south."

We looked at him.

"Right now, she's sitting in forty-five feet of water. That'd be enough to submerge her to the pilothouse."

"Can we tow it to shore?" George was right on top, as usual.

"Take a lot," said Olinger. "She's got no propulsion, and she's carrying another… Oh, say, fifteen tons of water now. Not a job for your average winch." He pointed in the general direction of the Beauregard. "Find enough power, attach a good cable to that big tow ring just below the weather deck at the bow…"

We decided that the first step would be to get several hundred feet of cable rounded up, connected, and think of a way to get it to the boat in a hurry. What to attach it to on the bank, to pull such a load, was the largest problem. It was also a problem we had to solve before we went for the bad guys inside the Frieberg bank.

George wondered about a wrecker. No way. Couldn't overcome the inertia, according to Captain Olinger.

Lamar solved that one. "Sally, get hold of the railroad. See when they can have a couple of those big diesel engines on the track by the boat landing…" He turned to the captain. "That be enough?"

"Oh, it sure would," he said, grinning. "Plenty. Hell, you could water-ski behind her with that land of pull."

"Now we just got to figure a way to get cable attached to the boat without getting somebody shot." I looked at the dock area. "Can we get an iceboat up here?"

Our local iceboats were 16-foot aluminum flatbottoms, with caged aircraft engines, much like a swamp boat. Ice, water… made no real difference to the iceboats. I'd ridden in one for the first time at a drowning last winter. They just slowed a bit, hit the ice at a slant, and rode right up on it. Same thing going from the ice back to the water.

"We can probably get an iceboat here in fifteen minutes," said Captain Olinger.

"Let's do it," said Lamar. "I want everything in place when we decide to go…"

"It's time for the bank," said Volont.

Lamar looked first at Volont, then at Adams. "How long's it gonna take?"

"Ten minutes from 'Go,'" answered Adams. No hesitation.

"How are you going to do it?" I thought that was covered under "need to know."

Adams told us to look out the window toward the bank, one at a time, as he talked. He never looked, himself.

"The only operable truck they have is the one with the lift gate on the rear. Hydraulic. We can't get a good shot line on the tires. This turns out," he said, "to be a good thing."

He explained that there were a couple of blind spots in the bank. The bigger of the trucks had been the one the robbers had backed to the hole they'd blown in the wall. The hole wasn't quite large enough to accommodate the rear of the truck, so they'd had to leave a gap of about four feet between the end of the truck and the bank wall, to accommodate the powered lifting gate. His officers had been watching the robbers move the 55 gallon drums of money between the truck and the bank. They said that there was a good chance they could get in by approaching in the blind spot, creeping the wall, and just walking in through the hole in the wall when the power gate was in the down position.

They'd also had good views through some of the windows and were aware of the position of most of the hostages. Most.

In addition to the entry team, there would be four more TAC team members moving along the other blind spot, who would rush the door after the others got inside.

"Have the robbers locked the doors?" asked Lamar.

"The big glass doors? Doesn't make any difference," said Adams. "Not really."

Lamar stood looking out toward the boat. "What are your odds at the bank?"

"Good," said Adams. "Not perfect, but good. Given this situation, it's not likely to get any better."

"And the hostages?"

"Good, too."

"But not perfect," said Lamar. "Never is, is it?"

"No, it never is," said Adams.

Lamar kept looking out at the boat. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he said, mostly to himself. "Lose six hostages in the bank, or over six hundred on the water…"

"We have to go now," said Volont, "or the window of opportunity closes."

"Are you sure?" Lamar turned. "If they get to leave the bank, do you think he'll sink the boat?"

"He will, to cover his escape," said Volont.

"And if we take them out of the bank…?"

"Then there's no point to continue the whole business," said Volont. "The soldier surrenders to save lives. Much better press that way."

"I hope you're right," said Lamar. He turned to face Adams. "Take 'em out of the bank."

We left the office to Lamar, Art, and Sally. The rest of us hustled down toward the bank. Adams left first, and just disappeared into the fog. It was that thick. You could only see about fifty feet before things started becoming indistinct.

I could see the tops of the heads of the five TAC agents who were to go through the hole, as they moved along the bank wall. Then they all ducked down, and I lost them to the fog, the trucks, and the low wall. We waited. And waited. Nothing happened. We waited. I suppose it was all of twenty seconds, to tell the truth, but it felt like a year.

Suddenly, the three TAC agents in the second group popped around the corner of the bank and rushed the main door, disappearing inside in the blink of an eye.

Nothing.

Then, the so-called secure radio crackled to life. "TAC One needs an ambulance at the bank, NOW!"

Sally ordered the ambulance in, and about half a dozen uniformed officers from both our department and the State Patrol moved in with it, running alongside…

Nothing, again.

Then, "Okay, TAC One has lots of healthy hostages, two dead suspects, one wounded. No casualties among the good guys."

"All right!"

"Yes!"

"Way to go!"

"Could somebody" crackled Sally's voice, "come back up here? He's been on the phone again, and Lamar wants you up here when he calls back…"

We got back to Hester's office, and had to wait for almost a minute for Gabriel to call. Lamar looked worried and pleased at the same time. No dead or injured hostages. But we still had to coax Gabriel off the boat.

The phone rang. Gabriel.

"What have you done at the bank? You stupid sons of bitches, what have you done?"

He knew. He was, after all, listening to our radio traffic. I also noticed that his cell phone sounded weak. His batteries were wearing down, I thought. More pressure.

"You might as well give up," said Lamar.

The connection went dead.

This time, water didn't just boil up by the General Beauregard. This time, there was a fountain of water more than fifty feet in the air, as the next charge went off. It came shooting up out of the fog, followed a moment later by a thunderclap that rattled our windows.

Captain Olinger had assessed the damage to the Beauregard almost before the water plume subsided.

"Void four," he said. "She'll be down a good foot to two feet at the stern with that one… I sure as hell hope the fuel tank wasn't ruptured…"

People burst out onto the forward weather decks of the Beau, climbing the exterior steps to the next deck. As she settled, I could see the water creep above the bottom of the glazed panes toward the rear of the boat. That would put the cash-counting rooms, rest rooms, and coin room into the water. The blackjack tables and the lower bank of game machines would be getting damp, as well. And that water was damned cold.