Vixen 03 (32 page)

The temperature had dropped and the rain was becoming an icy sheet. Two large boxlike shadows materialized under the headlights. “The bus and truck,” announced Pitt. He parked the car but left the motor running and the lights on.

“No sign of the drivers,” said Jarvis.

Pitt took a flashlight from the car’s door pocket and got out. Jarvis followed, but Metz hurried off into the night without saying a word. Pitt aimed the beam through the bus windows and into the back of the truck. They were both empty.

Pitt and Jarvis skirted the deserted vehicles and found Metz standing stock still, hands clenched at his sides. His evening jacket was soaked and his hair plastered to his scalp. He looked like a resurrected drowning victim.

“The/owa?” Jarvis asked.

Metz spastically waved his arms at the dark. “Shagged ass.”

“Shagged … what?”

“That damned Scot has sailed her away!”

“Jesus, are you sure?”

Metz’s face and his voice were alive with a desperate kind of urgency. “I don’t misplace battleships. This is where she’s been moored during the refit.” Suddenly he spotted something and ran over to the edge of the dock. “My God, look at that! The mooring lines are still tied to the dock bollards. The crazy idiots cast off their lines from the ship. It’s as though they never intend to moor her again.”

Jarvis leaned over and stared down at where the heavy lines disappeared into the inky water. “My fault. Criminal negligence not to have

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believed the handwriting on the wall.”

“We still can’t be certain they’re actually going through with an attack,” Pitt said.

Jarvis shook his head. “They’re going to do it; you can count on that.” Tiredly, he rested his weight against a piling. “If only they’d given us a date and a target.”

“The date was there all the time,” said Pitt.

Jarvis looked at him questioningly and waited.

“You said the idea behind the attack was to motivate sympathy for the South African whites and provoke American anger against the black revolutionaries,” Pitt continued. “What more perfect day than today?”

“It is now five minutes past twelve on Wednesday morning.” Jarvis’s voice was tense. “I make nothing eventful out of that.”

“The originators of Operation Wild Rose have a superb sense of timing,” said Pitt in a dry, ironic tone. “Today is also December the seventh, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.”

Pretoria, South Africa-December 7, 1988

Pieter De Vaal sat alone and read a book in his office at the Defence Ministry. It was early evening and the summer light filtered through the arched windows. A soft rap came at the door.

De Vaal spoke without looking up from his reading.

“Yes?”

Zeegler entered. “We’ve been alerted that Fawkes has launched the operation.”

De Vaal’s face showed no trace of interest as he laid aside the book and handed Zeegler a piece of paper. “See that the communications officer on duty personally sends this message to the American State Department.”

It is my duty to warn your government of an impending attack on your shore by African Army of Revolution terrorists under the command of Captain Patrick Fawkes, Royal Navy retired. I deeply regret any inadvertent rdle my cabinet has played in this grave infamy.

ERIC KOERTSMANN Prime Minister

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The Iowa
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“You have admitted guilt in the name of our Prime Minister, who is totally ignorant of Operation Wild Rose,” said an astonished Zeegler. “May I ask why?”

De Vaal clasped his hands in front of him and peered at Zeegler. “I see no reason to discuss the details.”

“Then may I ask why you have thrown Fawkes to the wolves?”

The Minister went back to his book with a dismissive gesture. “See to it that the message is sent. Your questions will be answered at the appropriate moment.”

“We promised Fawkes to attempt his rescue,” Zeegler persisted.

De Vaal sighed with impatience. “Fawkes knew he was a dead man the instant he accepted command of the raid.”

“If he survives and talks to the American authorities, his confession would prove disastrous to our government.”

“Rest easy, Colonel,” De Vaal said with a crooked smile. “Fawkes will not live to talk.”

“You seem quite certain, Minister.”

“I am,” De Vaal said calmly. “I am indeed.”

Deep inside the bowels of the Iowa a figure dressed in greasy coveralls and a heavy wool jacket stepped from a passageway into what had been the ship’s sick bay. He closed the door behind him and was enveloped in a smothering blackness. He aimed the flashlight and played its beam about the gutted room. Several of the bulkheads had been cut away and it seemed as though he were standing in an immense cavern.

Satisfied he was quite alone, he knelt on the deck and removed a small gun from inside his jacket. Then he attached a silencer to the end of the barrel and inserted a twenty-shot clip into the handgrip.

He pointed the 27.5 Hocker-Rodine automatic into the darkness and squeezed the trigger. An almost indistinguishable piff was followed by two faint thuds as the bullet ricocheted off unseen bulkheads.

Pleased with the results, he taped the gun to his right calf. After a few steps to make sure it was comfortably snug, Emma switched off the flashlight, slipped back into the passageway, and made his way toward the ship’s engine room.

Carl Swedborg, skipper of the fishing trawler Molly Bender, rapped the barometer with his knuckles, regarded it stoically for a moment, then walked over to the chart table and picked up a cup of coffee. His mind visualizing the river ahead, he sipped at the coffee and gazed at the ice that was building on the deck. He hated miserable wet nights. The dampness seeped into his seventy-year-old bones and tortured his joints. He should have retired a decade past, but with his wife gone and his children scattered around the country, Swedborg could not bear to sit around an empty house. As long as he could find a berth as skipper he would stay on water until they buried him in it.

“At least visibility is a quarter of a mile,” he said absently.

“I’ve seen worse, much worse.” This from Brian Donegal, a tall, shaggy-haired Irish immigrant who stood at the helm. “Better we have rotten weather going out than coming in.”

“Agreed,” said Swedborg dryly. He shivered and buttoned the top button of his mackinaw. “Mind your helm and keep wide aport of the Ragged Point channel buoy.”

“Don’t you fret, Skipper. Me faithful Belfast nose can sniff channel markers like a bloodhound, it can.”

Donegal’s blarney seldom failed to raise a smile from Swedborg. The skipper’s lips involuntarily curled upward and he spoke in a stern tone that was patently fake. “I prefer you use your eyes.”

The Molly Bender swung around Ragged Point and continued her course downriver, passing an occasional lighted channel buoy that came and went like a streetlight beside a rain-soaked boulevard intersection. The shore lights glowed dully through the thickening sleet.

“Somebody coming up the channel,” announced Donegal.

Swedborg picked up a pair of binoculars and looked beyond the bows. “The lead ship carries three white lights. That means a tug with her tow astern. Too murky to distinguish her outline. Must be a long tow, though. I make out the two white thirty-two-point lights on the last vessel in line about three hundred yards astern the tug.”

“We’re on a collision course, Skipper. Her mast lights are in line with our bow.”

“What is the bastard doing on our side of the river?” Swedborg wondered out loud. “Doesn’t the damn fool know that two boats ap—

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preaching each other should keep to their starboard side of the channel? He’s hogging our lane.”

“We can maneuver easier than he can,” said Donegal. “Better we alert him and pass starboard to starboard.”

“All right, Donegal. Swing to port and give two blasts of the whistle to signal our intentions.”

There was no answering blast. The strange tug’s lights, it seemed to Swedborg, were approaching far more rapidly than he had any right to expect, far more rapidly than any tug he’d ever seen with a fleet of barges in tow. He was horrified as he watched the other vessel turn toward the Molly Bender’s altered course.

“Give the fool four short whistle blasts!” Swedborg shouted.

It was the Inland Waterway danger signal-sounded when the course of an opposing vessel or its intentions were not understood. Two of Swedborg’s crew, roused from sleep by the whistle shrieks, groggily entered the wheelhouse, instantly snapped to sudden astonishment by the nearness of the strange vessel’s running lights. Clearly, she wasn’t acting like a tug in tow.

In the few remaining seconds Swedborg snatched a bullhorn and shouted into the night. “Ahoy! Turn hard aport!”

He might as well have shouted at a ghost. No voice replied; no return whistle blast came through the icy dark. The lights bore down relentlessly upon the helpless Molly Bender.

Realizing collision was inevitable, Swedborg braced himself by clutching the lower frame of the window. Fighting to the last, Donegal frantically reversed engines and twisted the wheel back to starboard.

The last thing any of them saw was a monstrous gray bow looming through the sleet high above the wheelhouse, a massive steel wedge bearing the numeral 61.

Then the little fishing trawler was crushed to pieces and swallowed by the icy water of the river.

Pitt stopped the car in front of the White House gate. Jarvis was halfway out when he turned and looked back at Pitt. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said sincerely.

“What now?” asked Pitt.

“I have the distasteful duty of booting the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff out of their beds,” Jarvis said with a tired smile.

“What can I do to help?”

The Iowa
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“Nothing. You’ve done more than your share. It’s up to the Defense Department to carry the ball from here.”

“The Quick Death warheads,” said Pitt. “Do I have your assurance Jthey will be destroyed when the ship is located and taken into custody?”

“I can only try. Beyond that, I promise nothing.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Pitt.

Jarvis was too tired to argue. He shrugged listlessly, as though he no longer gave a damn. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is.” Then he slammed the door, showed his pass to the guard at the gate, and was gone.

Pitt turned the car around and swung onto Vermont Avenue. A couple of miles on he spotted an all-night coffee shop and slipped into a parking stall. After ordering a cup of coffee from a yawning waitress, he found the pay phone and made two calls. Then he downed the coffee, paid, and left.

Heidi Milligan met Pitt when he entered Bethesda Naval Hospital. Her blond hair was half hidden under a scarf, and despite the weariness around her eyes, she looked vibrant and strangely youthful.

“How is Admiral Bass?” Pitt asked her.

She gave him a strained look. “Walt is hanging in there. He’s tough; he’ll pull through.”

Pitt didn’t believe a word of it. Heidi was clinging to a slowly parting thread of hope and putting up a valiant front. He put his arm around her waist and led her gently down the corridor.

“Can he talk to me?”

She nodded. “The doctors aren’t keen on the idea, but Walt insisted after I gave him your message.”

“I wouldn’t have intruded if it wasn’t important,” Pitt said.

She looked up into his eyes. “I understand.”

They came to the door and Heidi opened it. She motioned Pitt toward the admiral’s bed.

Pitt hated hospitals. The sickening sweet smell of ether, the depressing atmosphere, the businesslike attitude of the doctors and nurses, always got to him. He had made up his mind long ago: when his time came, he would die in his own bed, at home.

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His resolve was further braced by his first look at the admiral since Colorado. The waxen paleness of the old man’s face seemed to blend with the pillow, and his rasping breathing came in unison with the respirator’s hiss. Tubes ran into his arms and under the sheets, supplying sustenance and draining his body wastes. His once-muscular body looked withered.

A doctor stepped forward and touched Pitt on the arm. “I doubt if he has the strength to speak.”

Bass’s head rolled slightly in Pitt’s direction and he made a feeble gesture with one hand. “Come closer, Dirk,” he muttered hoarsely.

The doctor gave a shrug of surrender. “I’ll stay close, just in case.” Then he stepped into the hall and closed the door.

Pitt pulled a chair up to the bed and bent over Bass’s ear. “The Quick Death projectile,” Pitt said. “How does it operate during its trajectory?” “Centrifugal force … rifling.”

“I understand,” Pitt replied in a hushed tone. “The spiral rifling inside the bore of the gun rotates the shell and sets up a centrifugal force.” “Activates a generator … in turn activates a small radar altimeter.” “You must mean a barometric altimeter.”

“No … barometric won’t work,” Bass whispered. “Heavy naval

shell has high velocity with a flat trajectory … too low for accurate

barometric reading … must use radar to bounce signal from ground.”

“It doesn’t seem possible a radar altimeter can survive the high

g-forces when the gun is fired,” Pitt said.

Bass forced a faint smile. “Designed the package myself. Take my word for it… the instrument survives the initial surge when the powder charge is detonated.”

The admiral closed his eyes and lay still, exhausted by his efforts. Heidi moved forward and put her hand on Pitt’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should come back in the afternoon.” Pitt shook his head. “By then it will be too late.” “You’ll kill him,” Heidi said, her eyes welling with tears, her expression angry.

Bass’s hand inched across the sheets and weakly gripped Pitt’s wrist. His eyes fluttered open. “Just needed a minute to catch my breath… . Don’t go … that’s an order.”

Heidi read the tortured look of compassion in Pitt’s eyes and she reluctantly backed away. Pitt leaned toward the admiral again.