Sahara (23 page)

“Not on your life,” Pitt said emphatically. “Mrs. Pitt’s boy has no death wish. I’m gambling Kazim wants this boat so bad, he paid off Niger officials to let it pass into Mali so he could grab it. If I win, he won’t want even the slightest scratch or dent in the hull.”

“You’re putting all your eggs in the wrong basket,” argued Gunn. “Shoot down one plane and you’ll stir up a hornet’s nest. Kazim will send everything he’s got after us.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You’re talking like a crazy man,” said Giordino suspiciously.

“The contamination data,” Pitt said patiently. “That’s why we’re here. Remember?”

“We don’t have to be reminded,” said Gunn, beginning to see a slip of light in Pitt’s seeming loss of reality. “So what’s boiling in your evil caldron of a brain?”

“As much as I hate to ruin a beautiful and perfectly good boat, a diversion may be the only way one of us can escape and carry the results of our operation out of Africa and into the hands of Sandecker and Chapman.”

“There’s method to his madness after all,” Giordino admitted. “Keep talking.”

“Nothing complicated,” explained Pitt. “In another hour it will be dark. We reverse course and get as close to Gao as we can before Kazim gets tired of the game. Rudi goes over the side and swims for shore. Then you and I start the fireworks show and take off downriver like a vestal virgin chased by barbarian hordes.”

“That gunboat might have something to say about that, don’t you think?” Gunn reminded him.

“A mere trifle. If my timing is on key, we’ll flash past the Malian navy before they know we’ve come and gone.”

Giordino peered over his sunglasses. “Sounds remotely possible. Once the good times roll, the Malians’ attention won’t be focused on a body in the water.”

“Why me?” Gunn demanded. “Why not one of you?”

“Because you’re the best qualified,” Pitt justified. “You’re sly, cunning, and slippery. If anyone can grease their way into the airport at Gao and onto an airplane out of the country, it’s you. You’re also the only bona fide chemist among us. That alone entitles you to lay bare the toxic substance and its entry point into the river.”

“We could make a run for our embassy in the capital city of Bamako.”

“Fat chance. Bamako is 600 kilometers away.”

“Dirk makes good sense,” Giordino agreed. “His gray matter and mine put together couldn’t give you the formula for bathroom soap.”

“I’ll not run out and allow the two of you to sacrifice your lives for me,” Gunn insisted.

“Don’t talk stupid,” Giordino said stonily. “You know damn well Dirk and I don’t have a mutual suicide pact.” He turned to Pitt. “Do we?”

“Perish the thought,” Pitt said loftily. “After we cover Rudi’s getaway, we fix the
Calliope
so Kazim never enjoys its luxury. After that, we abandon ship ourselves and then mount a safari across the desert to discover the true source of the toxin.”

“We what?” Giordino looked aghast. “A safari . . .”

“You have an incredible knack for simplicity,” said Gunn.

“Across the desert,” Giordino mumbled.

“A little hike never hurt anybody,” Pitt said with a jovial air.

“I was wrong,” Giordino moaned. “He wants us to self-destruct.”

“Self-destruct?” Pitt repeated. “My friend, you just said the magic words.”

19

Pitt took one final look at the aircraft overhead. They still circled aimlessly. They had shown no inclination to attack and obviously had no intention of making any now. Once the
Calliope
began her dash downriver Pitt could not afford the time to keep them under observation. Running wide open over a strange waterway in the black of night at 70 knots would take every shred of his concentration.

He shifted his gaze from the aircraft to the huge flag he’d run up the mast that supported the shattered satellite antenna. He had removed the small Jolly Roger from the stern jackstaff after finding a United States ensign folded away in a flag locker. It was large, stretching almost 2 meters, but with no breeze to lift it in the dry night air, it hung curled and flaccid around the antenna.

He glanced at the dome on the stern. The shutters were closed. Giordino was not preparing to launch the remaining six rockets. He was attaching them around the fuel tanks before wiring them to a timer/detonator. Gunn, Pitt knew, was below, stuffing the analysis data tapes and water sample records in a plastic cover that he tightly bound and stuffed in a small backpack along with food and survival gear.

Pitt turned his attention to the radar, fixing the position of the Malian gunboat in his mind. He found it surprisingly easy to shake off the tentacles of fatigue. His adrenaline was pumping now that their course was irrevocably set.

He took a deep breath and jammed the triple throttles wide open and crammed the wheel to the starboard stop.

To the men watching from the command aircraft it was as though the
Calliope
had suddenly leaped from the water and twisted around in midair. She carved a sharp arc in the center of the river, and hurtled downriver under full power, sheeted in a great curtain of foam and spray. Her bow came out of the water like an uplifted sword as her stern plunged deep under a great rooster tail that exploded in the air behind her transom.

The stars and stripes jerked taut and streamed out under the sudden onslaught of wind. Pitt well knew he was going against all government policy, defiantly flying the national emblem on foreign soil during an illegal intrusion. The State Department would scream bloody murder when the enraged Malians beat their breasts and lodged a flaming protest. God only knew the hell that would erupt inside the White House. But he flat didn’t give a damn.

The dice were rolling. The black ribbon of water beckoned. Only the dim light of the stars reflected on the smooth surface, and Pitt did not trust his night vision to keep him in the deep part of the channel. If he ran the boat aground at its maximum speed it would disintegrate. His eyes constantly darted from the radar screen to the depth sounder to the dark watercourse ahead before repeating the routine.

He did not waste a glance at the speedometer as the needle hung at the 70-knot mark and then quivered beyond it. Nor did he have to look at the tachometers to know they were creeping past their red lines. The
Calliope
was giving it everything she had for her final voyage, like a thoroughbred running a race beyond her limits. It was almost as if she knew she would never make home port.

When the Malian gunboat moved almost to the center of the radar screen, Pitt squinted into the darkness. He just discerned the low silhouette of the vessel turning broadside to the channel in an effort to block his passage. It ran no lights, but he didn’t doubt for an instant that the crew had their guns aimed down his throat.

He decided to feint to starboard and then cut port to throw off the gunners before skirting the shallows and charging under the gunboat’s bow. The Malians had the initiative, but Pitt was banking on Kazim’s unwillingness to ruin one of the world’s finest speed yachts. The General would be in no hurry. He still had a comfortable margin of several hundred kilometers of river to stop the fleeing boat.

Pitt planted his feet squarely on the deck and positioned his hands on the wheel in preparation for the fast turns. For some unearthly reason the roar from the flat-out turbo diesels and the crescendo of wind pounding in his ears reminded him of the last act of Wagner’s
Twilight of the Gods.
All that was missing was the thunder and lightning.

And then that struck too.

The gunboat let loose, and a whole mass of shrieking fire burst through the night, ear-piercing, a nightmare bedlam of shells that found and slammed into the
Calliope.

Aboard the command plane, Kazim stared in shock at the unexpected attack. Then he flew into a rage.

“Who told the Captain of that gunboat to open fire?” he demanded.

Cheik looked stunned. “He must have taken it upon himself.”

“Order him to cease fire, immediately. I want that boat intact and undamaged.”

“Yes, sir,” Cheik acknowledged, jumping from his chair and rushing to the communications cabin of the aircraft.

“Idiot!” Kazim snapped, his face twisted in anger. “My orders were explicit. No battle unless I so ordered. I want the Captain and his ship’s officers executed for disobeying my command.”

Foreign Minister Messaoud Djerma stared at Kazim in disapproval. “Those are harsh measures—”

Kazim cut Djerma off with a withering stare. “Not for those who are disloyal.”

Djerma shrank from the murderous gaze of his superior. No man with a wife and family dared face up to Kazim. Those who questioned the General’s demands disappeared as though they never existed.

Very slowly Kazim’s eyes turned from Djerma and refocused on the action taking place on the river.

The vicious tracers, glowing weirdly in the desert blackness, streaked across the water, at first swinging wildly to the port of the
Calliope.
It sounded as if a dozen guns were blazing at once. Waterspouts thrashed the water like hail.

Then the aim of the gunners steadied and became deadly as the fiery shells walked across the river and began thudding into the now defenseless boat at almost point-blank range. Jagged holes appeared in the bow and foredeck; the shells would have traveled the interior length of the unarmored boat if they hadn’t been absorbed by spare coils of nylon line and deflected by the anchor chain in the forecastle.

There was no time to avoid the initial barrage, barely time to react. Caught totally off balance, Pitt instinctively crouched and in the same movement desperately spun the wheel to avert the devastating fire. The
Calliope
responded and shot clear for a few moments until the gunners corrected and the orange, searing flashes skipped across the river and found the high-speed craft again, ripping the steel hull and shattering the fiberglass superstructure. The thud of the impacts sounded like the tire of a speeding car thumping over highway centerline reflectors.

Smoke and flame leaped from the holes torn in the forecastle where the tracers had fired the coils of line. The instrument panel shattered and exploded around Pitt. Miraculously, he wasn’t hit by the shell, but he faintly felt a trickle of liquid down his cheek. He cursed his stupidity in thinking the Malians wouldn’t destroy the
Calliope.
He deeply regretted having Giordino remove the missiles from their launchers and secure them to the fuel tanks. One shell into the engine room and they would all be blown into unidentifiable morsels for the fish.

He was so close to the gunboat now, if he had looked, he could have read the orange dial of his old Doxa dive watch from the muzzle flashes.

He cranked the wheel savagely, swerving the riddled yacht around the gunboat’s bow with less than 2 meters to spare. And then he was past, the avalanching slab of water from the sport yacht’s wash pitching the gunboat into a rolling motion that threw off the aim of the gunners and sent their shells whistling harmlessly into the night.

And then, quite suddenly, the continuous blast from the gunboat’s cannon stopped. Pitt did not bother to fathom the reason for the reprieve. He maintained a zigzag course until the gunboat was left far behind in the darkness. Only when he was sure they were in the clear and the still functioning radar unit showed no indication of attacking aircraft did he relax and exhale his breath in welcome relief.

Giordino appeared beside him, concern on his face. “You okay?”

“Mad at myself for playing a sucker. How about you and Rudi?”

“A few bruises from being thrown around by your lousy driving. Rudi received a nasty knot on his head when he was knocked flat during a hard turn, but it hasn’t stopped him from fighting the fire in the bow.”

“He’s a tough little guy.”

Giordino raised a flashlight and shined it on Pitt’s face. “Did you know you have a piece of glass sticking out of your ugly mug?”

Pitt raised one hand from the wheel and tenderly touched a small piece of glass from a gauge that was embedded in his cheek. “You can see it better than I can. Pull it out.”

Giordino slipped the butt end of the flashlight between his teeth, pointed the beam at Pitt’s wound, and gently took hold of the glass shard between his forefinger and thumb. Then with a quick jerk, he yanked it free. “Bigger than I thought,” he commented offhandedly. He threw the glass overboard and retrieved a first aid kit from a cockpit cabinet. Three stitches and a bandage later, while Pitt kept his eyes on the instruments and the river, Giordino stood back and admired his handiwork. “There you go. Another brilliant operation in the continuing saga of Dr. Albert Giordino, desert surgeon.”

“What’s your next great moment in medicine?” Pitt asked as he spied a dim yellow glow from a lantern and slewed the
Calliope
into a wide arc, just missing a pinnace sailing in the dark.

“Why, presenting the bill, of course.”

“I’ll mail you a check.”

Gunn appeared from below, holding a cube of ice against a blossoming bump on the back of his head. “It’s going to break the Admiral’s heart when he hears what we did to his boat.”

“Down deep, I don’t think he ever expected to see her again,” Giordino prophesied.

“Fire out?” Pitt asked Gunn.

“Still smoldering, but I’ll give it another shot from an extinguisher after I breathe the smoke out of my lungs.”

“Any leaks below?”

Gunn shook his head. “Most of the hits we took were topside. None below the waterline. The bilge is dry.”

“Are the aircraft still in the neighborhood? The radar only shows one.”

Giordino tilted his head at the sky. “The big one is still giving us the eye,” he confirmed. “Too dark to make out the fighters, and they’re out of earshot, but my old bones tell me they’re hanging around.”

“How far to Gao?” asked Gunn.

“About 75 or 80 kilometers,” Pitt estimated. “Even at this speed we won’t see the city’s lights for another hour or more.”

“Providing those characters up there leave us alone,” Giordino said, his voice raised two octaves to overcome the wind and exhaust.