This brought a glower from one of the Federal marshals, who said, "We are here to allow the prisoner to exercise his freedom of religion, not to give a speech."
"Not him," the throaty voice snapped. "Me."
"No time," the marshal said.
"If I am not allowed to exercise my constitutional right to free speech," the voice growled, "then I fully intend to sue you, your superiors, and the entire United States government."
The Federal marshal turned red. An FBI agent stepped forward. They conferred briefly.
Finally the Federal marshal said, "Make it short." He did not sound happy about the delay.
The woman came into view. Remo recognized her then. Rona Ripper. The ACRC lawyer who had singlehandedly spearheaded the legal drive to get General Nogeira baptized. She looked like Elivra, plus forty pounds.
Rona Ripper stepped up to General Nogeira and put her arm around his shoulder. The general's smile gained an inch at either side of his mouth as he placed his arm under hers. His hand came to rest at the small of her back, above the belt line.
"This man," she said loudly, "stands before you a victim of U.S. imperialism!"
Camera flashbulbs popped. Microphones rose. Pencils scribbled furiously in lined note pads.
"This man, this patriot in his country, was exercising his right to rule his nation as he saw fit, when murderous U.S. killer-soldiers descended from the skies and virtually kidnapped him out of his lawful seat of power!"
Remo wondered if Rona Ripper was talking about the same General Nogeira who had nullified an election, and had his goons stone the duly-elected president and vicepresident of Bananama in full view of television cameras.
From his vantage point, Remo had an excellent view as the general's hand slipped down over the woman's right buttock. He gave her a playful squeeze. Rona Ripper went on as if she hadn't noticed.
"They accuse this man of all kinds of barbarism!" she thundered. "None of it true!"
General Nogeira pinched experimentally.
"This man is neither a criminal nor a torturer nor a murderer. He is kind, gentle, and loving. Children write him letters, and he answers every one of them."
General Nogeira took a fistful of buttock and gave Rona Ripper a hard squeeze.
Rona Ripper turned bright red. It was impossible to tell if the coloring was the result of blushing, or the passion aroused in her by her speech. She plowed on.
"He is a great man, a man who-"
General Nogeira's straying hand went up to the top of Rona's skirt and slipped down inside it.
This produced an immediate reaction. Rona Ripper shoved him away and simultaneously slapped him in his pocked face.
Remo took this as his cue.
He withdrew into the water. It smelled. Remo drew in a deep breath and his head went under. He struck out in the general direction of the isle where the baptism was to take place.
Even though it smelled, the water conducted sound perfectly. It brought to Remo's alert ears the slither and splash of an alligator entering the water.
Remo changed direction. He scarcely had to turn his head in the direction he wanted to go, and his body followed. That was Sinanju, which unified every cell in the body into a single responsive organic engine.
The alligator was long and greenish-black, like a mutant glob of snot, and it had hooded eyes that reminded Remo very much of General Nogeira's. Sleepy, yet as creepy.
The gator was working in his direction by kicking and pawing the water with its feet. Its mouth yawned open, disclosing rows of yellowed needle teeth
Remo knew little enough about alligators. He did know they could grab hold of a man's arm and literally saw off the limb. He got that from a Leave it to Beaver episode. Their muscular tails could lash out and stun a man senseless, perhaps kill him. Remo wasn't sure where he'd picked up that morsel of information. He might actually have read it somewhere, but the "where" escaped him, and there was no time to think about it because the alligator had suddenly shot forward, his jaws distending.
For a wild moment, Remo wondered if it was going to attempt to swallow his head. Did alligators do that?
Remo made a half fist that left his lower palm exposed and drove the hard heel of his right hand into the alligator's snout
Limp-legged, the reptile shot back as if equipped with reverse thrusters. And why not? It had just been struck by a blow that carried as much force behind it as a steampowered pile driver.
Remo shot ahead, catching up to the reptile.
He took hold of its jaws and closed them like a crude suitcase. Then, twisting, he took hold of the creature's forelegs, aligning his body with that of the reptile's.
Remo allowed himself to float upward. The feel of the alligator's knobby stomach against his back was like a pebbled beach. Although he was certain the creature had been stunned, he reached up and gave the slick stomach a tickle. He had heard that that made alligators go to sleep. He didn't believe it, but what could it hurt?
When the alligator's ridged back and protuberent eyes popped above the water's surface, there was no sign of Remo Williams.
The alligator started moving forward, looking for all the world like any ordinary alligator swimming through the Everglades-except that this one's legs did not kick and his long tail, instead of trailing behind, drooped forlornly in the brackish water.
Because he wanted the reptile to look as natural as possible, Remo made more splashings with his feet than he needed to pilot the alligator to his destination.
Remo's plan was simple. He was going to push the alligator along like a horny torpedo, toward the baptismal site, then slip away.
While everyone-and more importantly, every camera-was focused on the reptile, he would slip out of the water, deal with the target, and slip back. A single heartstopping blow would make it look like Nogeira had suffered a heart attack.
The unexpected crackle of gunfire made Remo abandon the plan, and the alligator. At first Remo thought they had spotted the gator too soon, and had opened up on it.
He pushed against the beast, seeking the water bottom. His idea was to get as deep as possible. Most bullets lost force and direction upon entering the water.
As soon as Remo touched bottom, he realized the gunfire was not directed toward him or the gator. There were almost no sounds of bullets plunking into water.
Remo took a chance. He thrust his head above the waterline.
He saw pandemonium.
The phalanx of beached air-boats was coming apart in a storm of automatic weapons fire. The protective steel cages over the pusher propellers seemed to be melting, the firing was so fierce.
The Federal marshals and FBI agents drew weapons and dived for cover. The media, however, simply stood their ground busily recording every bullet strike and sound as if they had papal dispensations to protect them from harm.
The sources of the firing were the approaching airboats and cigarette boats. Brown-skinned gunmen lined the rails. Assorted Uzis, Mac-10s, Tec-9s and other vicious weapons were pouring out concentrated hell.
Everyone seemed to have a role to play in the sudden drama-except General Emmanuel Nogeira. He stood frozen, bestial face going from the converging attackers to the federal agents digging in for cover. His wide mouth hung open like a greedy frog's.
It was clear the general didn't know whether he was being attacked or rescued.