Vixen 03

by Clive Cussler

  "I think so. All three are loaded and breeched tight. The men don't look too good, though. Concussion, I think. Most of them are bleedin' through the ears."

  "Where are you now, Obasi?"

  "In the turret officer's booth, sir. It's awful hot down here. I don't know if the men can take much more. Some are still out. One or two may be dead. No way of tellin'; I guess the ones that's dead are the ones bleedin' through the mouth."

  Fawkes squeezed the microphone handle, his face filled with indecision. When the ship went, as he knew it surely must, he wanted to be standing on the bridge, the last battleship captain to die at his station. The silence over the radiophone became heavy with torment. Ever so slightly the curtain lifted and Fawkes glimpsed the terrible dimension of his actions.

  "I'm coming down."

  "The outside deck hatch is jammed tight, sir. You'll have to come up from the magazines."

  "Thank you, Obasi. Stand by." Fawkes paused to remove his old Royal Navy cap and wipe the sweat and grime oozing from the pores of his forehead. He gazed through the splintered windows and studied the river. The cold mists rose along the shallows and reminded him of the Scottish lochs on just such a morning. Scotland: it seemed a thousand years since he'd seen Aberdeen.

  He replaced the cap and spoke into the microphone again. "Angus Two, come in, please."

  "Gotcha, big Angus One."

  "Range?"

  "Eighty yards short but right on the money. Just compensate for elevation and you got her, man."

  "Your job is finished, Angus Two. Take care."

  "Too late. I think the dudes in the khaki suits are about to take me away. So long, man. It's been a heavy date."

  Fawkes stared at the receiving end of the microphone, wanting to speak words of appreciation to the man he'd never met, to thank him for jeopardizing his life even if it was for a price. Whoever Angus Two was, it would be a long time before he could spend the money placed in a foreign bank account by the South African Defence Ministry.

  "A street sweeper," snorted Higgins. " Fawkes's spotter drove a god-damned city street sweeper.The city police are booking him now."

  "That explains how he moved through the roadblocks without arous-ing suspicion," said March.

  The President seemed not to hear. His attention was trained on the Iowa. He could clearly make out small forms in black wet suits darting from cover to cover, pausing only to fire their weapons before moving ever closer to the machine guns that dwindled their numbers. The President counted ten inert SEALs sprawled on the decks.

  "Can't we do something to help those men?"

  Higgins gave a helpless shrug. "If we open up from shore, we'd probably kill more SEALs than we'd save. I'm afraid there is little we can do for the moment."

  "Why not send in the Marine assault teams?"

  87

  "Those copters are sitting ducks once they land on thelowa 's aft deck. They each carry fifty troops. It would be mass slaughter. We'd accomplish nothing."

  "I agree with the general," said Kemper. "The Satans bought us a breather. Number-two turret appears to be knocked out. We can afford to give the SEALs more time to clear the decks of terrorist opposition."

  The President sat back and stared at the men surrounding him. "Then we wait-is that what you're saying? We wait and watch while men die in living color before our eyes on that damned TV screen?"

  "Yes, sir." Higgins answered. "We wait."

  62

  Consulting his diagram of the ship while on the run, Pitt unerringly led Lusana down a series of darkened passages and alleyways, past dank empty rooms, until he finally paused at a bulkhead door. Then he wadded the diagram in a ball and tossed it to the deck. Lusana stopped obediently and waited for an explanation.

  "Where are we?" he asked.

  "Outside the projectile-storage area," Pitt answered. He leaned his weight against the door, which grudgingly creaked three quarters open. Pitt peered into a dimly lit room and listened. They both heard men shouting against the metallic clash of heavy machinery, the rattle of chains, and the hum of electric motors. The sounds seemed to come from above. Cautiously, Pitt stepped over the sill.

  The tall armor-piercing shells were neatly stacked on their bases around the hoist tube, their conical heads gleaming menacingly under two yellow light bulbs. Pitt eased past the shells and looked upward.

  On the deck overhead two black men were leaning in the hoist-tube access doors and hammering and cursing at the elevator cradle. The explosions that rocked the ship had jammed the mechanism. Pitt pulled back from the opening and began examining the shells. There was a total of thirty-one, and only one shell had a rounded head.

  The second QD warhead was not present.

  Pitt took a tool kit from his belt and handed the flashlight to Lusana. "Hold this steady while I operate."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Deactivate a shell."

  "If I am to be blown to smithereens," said Lusana, "may I know why?"

  "No!" Pitt snapped. He hunched down and motioned for the light. His hands circled the cone of the shell as lightly as those of a safecracker fingering a tumbler dial. Locating the locking screws, he carefully undid them with a screwdriver. The threads were frozen with age and they fought his every twist. Time, Pitt thought desperately; he needed time before Fawkes's crew repaired the hoist and returned to the projectile-storage compartment.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the last of the screws sheared off and the nose cone came loose in his hands. Tenderly, as though it were a sleeping baby, he set it aside and looked inside the warhead.

  Then Pitt began to disconnect the explosive charge that was set to split the warhead and release the cluster of bomblets containing the QD organism. There was nothing tricky or particularly hazardous about the procedure. Working on the theory that too much concentration makes the hands tremble, Pitt idly whistled under his breath, thankful that Lusana wasn't plying him with questions.

  Pitt cut the wires leading to the radar altimeter and removed the explosive detonator. He paused for a moment and took a small money sack from his coat pocket. Lusana was mildly amused to see that the lettering on the soiled canvas read WHEATON

  SECURITY BANK.

  "I've never admitted this to a soul," Lusana said, "but I once robbed an armored truck."

  "Then you should feel right at home," replied Pitt. He lifted the QD bomblets from the warhead and gently deposited them in the money bag.

  "Damned clever smuggling method," Lusana said, smiling tightly. "Heroin, or diamonds?"

  "I'd be interested in knowing that myself," Patrick Fawkes said as he ducked under the door frame into the compartment.

  63

  Lusana's first reflex was to shoot Fawkes. He spun around in a firing crouch and threw up the Colt, confident he couldn't miss such a massive target, dead certain the captain had the split-second advantage of a first shot.

  Lusana barely caught himself in time. Fawkes's hands were empty. He was unarmed.

  Slowly lowering the Colt, Lusana looked down at Pitt to see how the jther man was taking the situation. As far as he could see, Pitt gave not jthe slightest reaction. He continued loading the sack as if the intrusion lad never occurred.

  "Have I the honor of addressing Patrick McKenzie Fawkes?" Pitt Snally said without looking up.

  "Aye, I'm Fawkes." He moved closer, his expression one of curiosity. |"What goes on here?"

  'Excuse me for not rising," Pitt said casually, "but I'm deactivating a joison-gas warhead."

  Perhaps five seconds passed as Lusana and Fawkes digested Pitt's Drief explanation, staring at each other blankly and then back down at Jitt.

  "You're daft!" Fawkes blurted.

  Pitt held up one of the bomblets. "Does this look like your everyday explosive charge?" "No, it does not," Fawkes admitted. "Is it some sort of nerve gas?" Lusana asked. "Worse," Pitt answered. "A plague organism with an ungodly potency. Two shells containing the deadly organism were mixed in with the
shipment sent by the arms supplier." There was the stunned silence of incredulity. Fawkes hunkered down and examined the shell and the bomblet in Pitt's hand. Lusana bent over and stared, too, not sure what he was supposed to be looking at.

  The skepticism slowly faded from Fawkes's eyes. "I believe you," he said. "I've seen enough gas shells to recognize one." Then he gazed questioningly into Pitt's face. "Mind telling me who you are and how you came to be here?"

  "After we find and deactivate the other shell," Pitt said, brushing him off. "Do you have another projectile-storage area?"

  88

  Fawkes shook his head. "Except for the three shells we've fired, all of which were of the armor-piercing variety, this is the lot-" He broke off as the realization struck him. "The turret! All guns are loaded and the breeches locked. The other plague projectile must be inside one of the three barrels."

  "You fool!" Lusana shouted. "You murdering fool!"

  The agony in Fawkes's eyes was apparent. "It's not too late. The guns will not fire except by my order."

  "Captain, you and I will find and neutralize the other warhead," Pitt ordered. "Mr. Lusana, if you will be so kind as to drop this over the side." He handed Lusana the sack bulging with the QD bomblets.

  "Me?" Lusana gasped. "I don't have the vaguest idea how to get out of this floating coffin. I'll need a guide."

  "Keep making your way topside," Pitt said confidently. "Eventually you'll hit daylight. Then throw the sack in the deepest part of the river."

  Lusana was about to leave when Fawkes placed a great paw on his shoulder. "We'll settle our business later."

  Lusana stared back steadily. "I look forward to it."

  And then the leader of the African Army of Revolution melted into the darkness like a shadow.

  At two thousand feet Steiger made a slight adjustment in pitch and the Minerva dipped over the Jefferson Memorial and crossed the Tidal Basin on a course along Independence Avenue.

  "It's crowded up here," he said, motioning to a bevy of Army helicopters hovering from one end of the Capitol mall to the other like a swarm of mad bees.

  Sandecker nodded and said, "Better keep your distance. They're liable to shoot first and ask questions later."

  "How long since the Iowa's last shot?"

  "Nearly eighteen minutes."

  "Maybe that's the end of it, then," said Steiger.

  "We won't land until we're sure," Sandecker replied. "How's the fuel?"

  "Enough for nearly four more hours' flying time."

  Sandecker twisted in his seat to relieve his aching buttocks. "Stay as close as you dare to the National Archives building. If the Iowa cuts loose again, you can bet that's the target."

  "I wonder how Pitt made out?"

  Sandecker put up an unworried front. "He knows the score. Pitt is the least of our problems." He turned away and looked out a side window so Steiger couldn't see the lines of worry that creased his face.

  "I should have been the one to go in," said Steiger. "This is strictly a military show. A civilian has no business risking his life attempting a job he wasn't trained for."

  "And you were, I suppose."

  "You must admit my credentials outweigh Pitt's."

  Sandecker found himself smiling. "Care to bet?"

  Steiger caught the admiral's cagey tone. "What are you implying?"

  "You've been had, Colonel, pure and simple."

  "Had?"

  "Pitt carries the rank of major in the Air Force."

  Steiger looked over at Sandecker, his eyes squinting. "Are you going to tell me he can fly?"

  "Just about every aircraft built, including this helicopter."

  "But he claimed-"

  "I know what he claimed."

  Steiger looked lost. "And you sat back and said nothing?"

  "You have a wife and children. Me, I'm too old. Dirk was the logical man to go."

  The tenseness went out of Steiger's body and he sagged into his seat. "He better make it," he murmured under his breath. "By God, he better make it."

  Pitt would have gladly given the last penny in his savings account to be anyplace but climbing a pitch-black stairway deep inside a ship that at any second might turn into an inferno. His brow was clammy and cold with sweat, as though he were running a fever.

  Suddenly Fawkes stopped and Pitt ran into him like a blind man against an oak tree.

  "Please remain where you stand, gentlemen." The voice came from the lightless landing several steps above. "You cannot see me, but I can see enough of you both to strike your hearts with a bullet."

  "This is the captain," Fawkes snapped angrily.

  "Ah, Captain Fawkes himself. How convenient. I was beginning to fear I had missed connections. You were not on the bridge, as I supposed."

  "Identify yourself!" Fawkes demanded.

  "The name is Emma. Not very masculine, I admit, but it serves the purpose."

  "Stop this foolishness and let us pass." Fawkes made a move up two steps when the Hocker-Rodine hissed and a bullet zinged past his neck. He froze in midstep. "Good God, man, what is it you want?"

  "I admire a no-nonsense approach, Captain." Emma paused, and then said, "I've been ordered to kill you."

  Slowly, unnoticed by Fawkes and, he hoped, by the man on the landing, Pitt slipped down to his stomach on the steps, shielded by the shadowy bulk of the captain. Then, fractionally, he began slithering up the stairs like a snake.

  "Ordered, you say," said Fawkes. "By whom?"

  "My employer does not matter."

  "Then why all the prattle, damn you. Why not shoot me in the chest and be done with it?"

  "I do not operate without purpose, Captain Fawkes. You have been deceived. I think you should know that."

  "Deceived?" Fawkes thundered. "Your foggy words tell me nothing."

  An alarm began to sound in the back of Emma's mind, an alarm honed by a dozen years of cat-and-mouse existence. He stood there silently, not answering the captain's question, his senses probing for a sound or a movement.

  "What about the man behind me?" asked Fawkes. "He has no hand in this. No need to murder an innocent bystander."

  89

  "Rest easy, Captain," said Emma. "My fee is for only one life. Yours."

  With agonizing slowness, Pitt raised his head until he was eye level with the landing. He could see Emma now. Not in detail-the light was too dim for that-but he could make out the pale blur of a face and the outline of a figure.

  Pitt didn't wait to see more. He could only guess Emma would blast Fawkes in the gut during the middle of a sentence, after lulling him with idle conversation. An old but effective trick. He dug the balls of his feet into the steps, took a breath, and lunged, going for a vicious impact with Emma's legs, his hands clawing for the gun.

  The silencer flashed in Pitt's face, and a stabbing pain slammed the right side of his head as he grabbed for Emma's arm. After the haze of sudden shock he swam into unconsciousness and began falling, falling. It seemed to take forever before the abysmal void swallowed him and there was nothing.

  64

  Goaded on by Pitt's flying tackle, Fawkes charged up the steps like a maddened rhino and threw his great weight against the bodies of both men. Pitt went limp and fell off to one side. Emma struggled to bring the gun to bear, but Fawkes slapped it away as though it were a toy in a child's hands. Then Emma went for Fawkes's crotch, clutched his cock and balls, and squeezed ruthlessly.

  It was the wrong move. The captain roared like thunder and reacted by swinging both his massive fists from over his head down upon Emma's upturned face, crushing cartilage and tearing skin. Astoundingly, Emma maintained the pressure.

  Though his groin felt as if it were bursting in white-hot agony, Fawkes was wise enough not to try knocking away the hands that held him like a vise. Calmly, purposefully, like a man who knew exactly what he intended to do, he gripped Emma's head and began pounding it into the metal deck landing with every ounce of strength in his tree-trunk arms. Merc
ifully, the pressure eased, but shrouded in his pain-lashed rage, he kept smashing away until the back of Emma's skull turned to pulp. When his fury was finally spent, he rolled over and gently massaged his groin, cursing.

  After a minute or two he rose stiffly to his feet, took the coat collars of the two inert men, and dragged them up the stairway. One more short flight, a few yards down a passageway, and he came to a cargo-loading door in the upper starboard side of iheIowa's hull. He cracked the door enough to let in daylight and examined Pitt's wound.

  The bullet had scored Pitt's left temple, causing, at worst, Fawkes figured, a nasty gash and a concussion. Then he checked Emma. What skin that was visible through the mask of blood on the assassin's face was turning blue. Fawkes went through his pockets and found only a spare clip for the Hocker-Rodine pistol. Strapped around a heavy woolen sweater was an inflatable life vest.

  "A nonswimmer, hey?" Fawkes said, smiling. "I don't guess you'll be needing this anymore."

  He removed the vest from Emma and tied it around Pitt. Reaching into his own coat pocket, Fawkes took out a small notebook and made several notations with the stub of a pencil. Next he took his eelskin tobacco pouch, emptied the contents, inserted the notebook, and tucked the packet snugly under Pitt's shirt. The cord to the CO2 bottle was yanked and the vest hissed as it inflated.

  Returning to Emma, Fawkes grabbed the corpse by the front of the sweater and pulled it toward the open hatch. The weight was too much for the angle of Fawkes's grip and the sweater slipped over Emma's head. Something around Emma's upper torso caught Fawkes's eye. It was a nylon binding that tightly circled the chest. Entranced, Fawkes undid a tiny clasp and the nylon fell away, releasing two small rosebud-tipped mounds.

  For a moment Fawkes stood petrified.

  "Holy Mother of Christ!" he murmured in awe.

  Emma had indeed been a woman.

  Dale Jarvis pointed at the viewing screen. "There, just below the second gun turret, on the side of the hull."

  "What do you make of it?" asked the President.