“I think we’d better follow your father’s orders, boys,” Hank Mahenili said. “We’ll put a little distance between us and the boat—just in case.”
The three moved an anchor rope’s length from the stem of the boat.
The minutes went by. The waiting became almost unbearable. Biff couldn’t control the feeling of fear gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Any moment, he expected to hear the dull thud of an explosion. He expected to see the boat burst open, sending wood and debris flying through the air.
Minutes ticked on. Each one seemed an hour to Biff. At last, he saw his father emerge from the cockpit.
“I’ve got it. It’s all right.”
Biff ran to where his father stood. It may have been all right, but Biff could tell by the beads of perspiration standing out on his father’s forehead and by his soaked shirt, that it had been a ticklish job.
“It’s a bomb, all right. Perez Soto is playing for keeps,” Mr. Brewster said grimly. He wiped his forehead. “It’s a simple thing, really. Anyone with Perez Soto’s experience, or mine, for that matter, could make it.”
“But when was it set to go off?” Biff asked.
“That would depend on when and how long we used the auxiliary engine. See this timer?”
The three leaned forward for a closer look, peering warily at the infernal machine Biff’s father held in his hand.