Before I have time for second thoughts, I lean into a hard turn to the right, and just keep on going until I’m eighty or ninety meters off to the right of the Otter. Then I straighten up my course until I’m paralleling the boat. Cutting back left, I point the bow of the Watersport at the center of the Otter, crack the throttle, and clamp down on the twin triggers. I can see where my fire’s falling, chewing up the water a dozen or so meters short of the Otter, so I shift my weight back until my arms are fully extended. Up comes the bow—not much, but enough—and it’s like I’m walking my fire onto the Otter. Meanwhile, spray from the other gunner’s fire is kicking up all around me. But at the speed I’m going, and the way the Watersport’s skipping around on the waves, I’m a frag of a tough target. The way the bike’s moving is just splattering the stream of MG fire every which way, saturating the volume of space occupied by the Otter. At least that’s what I’m hoping for. The boat is looming bigger and bigger—thirty meters away, twenty. Something goes spang off my hull, and another round punches clear through the right fairing. I’ve got to break off ... .