"And Alpha Two Spotter has the same subject moving to the shore side of the boat, and, and… He's coming out onto the deck…"

I saw the glazed door open, and a man step out onto the deck with what looked like an AK-47 in one hand. He was in a green coverall and was wearing a dark ski mask. He started toward the bow of the Beau, about twenty feet from him. He brought his other hand to the rifle, and began to bring it to his shoulder.

"Shoot," said Adams. Very calm, very matter-of-fact.

I didn't hear a thing, but the man with the rifle just suddenly fell off the deck into the icy water, as if he'd been backhanded by a giant.

The iceboat edged closer to the bow of the Beauregard. All of a sudden we could see a myriad of small splashes erupt in the water around the small craft, and a twinkling from the boat. Automatic rifle fire, and a large bit of it.

"Let's suppress the fire, people," intoned Adams. "Get all of 'em. There's at least one shooter on the river side of the deck… Suppress that asshole…"

An occasional star appeared in the glazed area of the Beauregard, but I couldn't see anything else happening. The sharpshooters were having a hell of a time getting a clean shot at any shooters on the boat, because the passengers were bunched up all over the place. The firing at the iceboat did seem to slacken off, though, and it kept edging closer and closer to the bow. When it got within about ten yards, it should be concealed from the shooters by the bow of the riverboat. A safe zone, although temporary. It slid up to the bow, and we all let out a little cheer.

"Let's not get happy, people," said Adams into his radio. "They gotta get out of there, too. Find the shooters. Take your best shots, but be careful." He said to me, as an aside, "We gotta make a decision as to whether or not to accept collateral damage. We hold a shot to save a passenger, we could lose several hundred in return…"

He seemed awfully calm, for all that to be going on in his head. My respect for him went up another notch.

We watched as the trooper clambered back to the front of his boat, grabbed the towing ring of the Beauregard with one hand, and the cable with the other. Surely, and with what appeared an easy motion, he drew them together, and began to fasten the cable to the ring.

"He makes it look easy," said George.

He did, too. Slicker than hell.

We all began to make noises of relief, when there was another explosion on the Beau, throwing up a gout of water, oil, and mud.

"There she goes!" hollered Olinger. "Damn it, they've sunk her for sure now!"

True enough, the General Beauregard began to settle noticeably, and by the stern.

"Get those fuckin' yard engines moving!" hollered Lamar. "Now, now!"

As the Beau started for the bottom stern-first, the yard diesels began to slowly take up the slack on the cable. Too fast, and they'd tear the towing rig right off the bow. Too slow, now, and they'd lose some 650 people to the icy water.

"Fast as they can," muttered Lamar.

The DNR iceboat accelerated rapidly, and came flying onto the concrete ramp at about 30 mph, lofting and skidding up the concrete slab for about 100 feet, before coming to rest behind a tin shed. The sense of relief was enormous, if fleeting.

As the Beauregard took on more and more water, her weight increased. As she settled deeper and deeper, the drag on the hull also increased. I was beginning to wonder if the yard engines were gong to be able to pull her in at all. So was Captain Olinger.

"It's gonna be goddamned close," he said.

As we watched, she began to glide toward us, but it was pretty obvious that she was going to be down a good amount before she got anywhere near the shore.

The hatchway doors along the lower deck began to open up, and passengers began to stream out toward the upper decks.

Suddenly, there was a belch of smoke from the two yard engines, and they began to move rapidly up the railroad tracks, being very careful not to gain speed too quickly. A few moments later, and the Beau had developed a noticeable movement. She was coming in.

She was also going down. The main deck was nearly awash for its full length, and the increasing angle at the stern had caused water to lap onto the rear portion of the second deck. It was going to be awfully close.

"If she strikes the bottom with her stern," said Captain Olinger, as much to himself as anyone, "I don't think the yard engines will be able to overcome the drag…" He looked at Lamar and said, "If that happens, we'll lose her."

The gunfire from the Beauregard seemed to have stopped completely, and many firemen were converging toward the area where it looked like she'd beach, if she was lucky.

"Do we have any fire trucks with really long extension ladders?" asked Adams. "She's pretty close now…"

"Nope," I answered. The tallest occupied structure in Nation County was three stories tall. Hook and ladder trucks weren't available.

Suddenly, the Beauregard seemed to lurch, and swayed over to her left, before righting herself. I could see some ten or fifteen passengers lose their footing, and slip and slide into the water.

"Fuck!" Lamar yelled at Sally to get the rescue crews into the water with whatever boats they had available.

"Struck the bottom," said Olinger, "but she bounced a bit."

The bow of the Beauregard was about 25 feet from the ramp, and the emergency personnel were beginning to prepare plank, netting, and a short section of floating dock that they'd detached from a long, beached dock about 50 yards from the water. The Beau was also way down at the stern, with water beginning to lap around the glazing at the rear of the third deck.

Suddenly, both the General Beauregard and the yard engines stopped, with the tension causing the bow cable to sing.

"Back the engines down!" hollered Lamar, into his walkie-talkie. "She's stuck… stop…"

Before he could finish, the cable snapped clear of the bow ring on the Beau, whipping and snaking through the air, flashing toward the yard engines. It struck one of the fire trucks near the ramp, rocking it, and throwing an extension ladder into the air.

Then, stillness.

The General Beauregard was stopped about ten feet from the end of the concrete boat ramp. We'd won.

"Let's go," said Hester, as she and Art grabbed a stack of papers. "What are those?" I asked, heading for the door right behind them.

"Xerox photos of Gabriel, to hand out to the troops. We don't want Gabe to slip by us, they gotta know what he looks like," said Hester.

I figured Volont wouldn't be too pleased. What the hell.

We ran all the way from the pavilion to the dock area.

Fire, rescue, and boat security personnel were busy preparing the portable ramps to carry the passengers to the dockside, and most of our officers were getting ready for a fight in case the suspects were crazy enough to resist. I was still very worried about that. Smart money would just surrender. But, then, smart money wouldn't necessarily have tried to rob the damned boat in the first place.

As the passengers were being very professionally handled by the boat staff and the rescue people, cops were everywhere, armed with their photocopies of Gabriel, and trying to scan every person who left the Beauregard. Just as Shamrock had reported, our suspects, who had originally been in coveralls, had removed them and their ski masks as soon as the one who ventured out on deck had been shot. They were mingling with the crowd, and it was pretty impossible to identify them in the rush, but at least twice we were aided by irate and frightened passengers who helpfully pointed out suspects. Nice work. They'd be reexamined in the holding areas.