Vixen 03 dp-5

by Clive Cussler

  "Won't nerve gas accomplish the same thing?"

  "Under ideal conditions, yes. But meteorological disturbances such as wind or storm or extreme temperatures can dilute the lethal dosage of a nerve or toxic agent when it's released over a wide area. An outbreak of QD, on the other hand, can ignore the weather and produce a localized plague that is extremely tenacious."

  "But this is the twentieth century. Surely epidemics can be controlled?"

  "If the microorganisms can be detected and identified, then it's possible. Decontamination procedures, inoculations with serums and antibiotics, will in most cases slow down or halt a raging epidemic. But nothing on this earth could stop QD once it grabbed a toehold on a city."

  "Then how did QD come to be loaded in an aircraft in the middle of the United States?" Pitt demanded.

  "Elementary. The Rocky Mountain Arsenal outside of Denver was the nation's primary manufacturer of chemical and biological weapons for over twenty years."

  Pitt remained silent and let the old man go on.

  Bass looked out at the panorama below, but his eyes were unfocused. "March of fifty-four," he said, as long-buried events began unfolding in his mind. "The H-bomb was set to burst over Bikini. I was placed in command of the QD tests because Dr. Vetterly was funded by the Navy and I was an expert on naval ordnance. I thought it logical at the time to conduct experiments cloaked under the excitement of the nuclear explosion. While the world was concentrating on the main event, we conducted our tests on Rongelo Island, four hundred miles to the northeast, totally unnoticed."

  "Rongelo," Pitt said slowly. "The destination of Vixen 03."

  Bass nodded. "A raw, bleached knob of coral poking through the sea in the middle of nowhere. Even the birds shy away from it." Bass paused to shift his position on the bench. "I scheduled two series of tests. The first was an aerosol device that scattered a small amount of QD over the atoll. The second included the battleship Wisconsin.

  She was to lie back twenty miles and lob a warhead with QD from her main batteries. That test never took place."

  "Major Vylander failed to deliver the goods," Pitt surmised.

  "The contents of the canisters," Bass acknowledged. "Naval shells armed with QD."

  "You could have ordered up another supply."

  "I could," Bass agreed. "But the real reason I halted the test series was because of what we learned after the aerosol drop. The results were godawful and filled all who shared in the secret with a feeling of horror."

  "You talk as though the island was devastated."

  'Wisually, nothing had changed," said Bass, his voice barely audible. "The white sand of the beach, the few palms, all was as it had been. The test animals we had placed on the island were all dead, of course. I insisted on a waiting period of two weeks to give any residual effects a chance to dissipate before permitting the scientists to examine the results first-hand. Dr. Vetterly and three of his assistants landed on the beach wearing full protective clothing and breathing apparatus. Seventeen minutes later, all were dead."

  Pitt fought to preserve his balance. "How was it possible?"

  "Dr. Vetterly had vastly underestimated his discovery. The potency of other lethal agents wears off after a time. Conversely, QD gains in strength. By what method it penetrated the scientists' protective gear we were never able to determine."

  "Did you retrieve the bodies?"

  "They still lie there," said Bass with sadness in his eyes. "You see, Mr. Pitt, the terrible power of QD is only half its malignity. QD's most frightening quality is its refusal to die. We later found that its bacillus forms superresistant spores, which are able to penetrate the ground — in Rongelo Island's case, the coral — and live out an astonishing lifespan."

  "I find it incredible that after thirty-four years no one can safely go in and carry out Vetterly's remains."

  There was a sickness in Bass's voice. "There is no way of pinpointing the exact date," he murmured, "but our best estimate indicated that man won't be able to step foot on Rongelo Island for another three hundred years."

  34

  Fawkes leaned over the ship's chart table, studying a set of blueprints, his hand making notations with a pencil. Two large men, well muscled, the faces beneath their hard hats tanned and thoughtful, stood on either side of him. "I want her gutted, every compartment, every scrap of unnecessary tubing and electrical conduits, even her bulkheads."

  The man on Fawkes's left snorted derisively. "You've lost your gourd, Captain. Tear out the bulkheads and she'll break up in any sea rougher than a millpond."

  "Dugan is right," said the other man. "You can't gut a vessel this size without losing her structural resistance to stress."

  "Your objections are duly noted, gentlemen." Fawkes replied. "But in order for her to ride high, her draft must be cut by forty percent."

  "I've never heard of gutting a sound ship just to raise her waterline," said Dugan. "What's the purpose of it all?"

  "You can scrap the armor as well as the auxiliary machinery," Fawkes said, ignoring Dugan's question. "While you're about it, you can see to the removal of the turret masts."

  "Come off it, Captain," snapped Lou Metz, the shipyard superintendent. "You're asking us to ruin what was once a damned fine ship."

  "Aye, she was a fine ship," agreed Fawkes. "In my mind she still is. But time has passed her by. Your government sold her for scrap and the African Army of Revolution bought her for a very special undertaking."

  "That's something else that rubs us wrong," said Dugan. "Busting our ass so's some bunch of nigger radicals can kill white people."

  Fawkes laid down the pencil and fixed Dugan with a rigid stare. "I don't think you people quite realize the economics of the situation." he said. "What the AAR does with the ship once it leaves your shipyard needn't concern your racial philosophies. What counts is that they pay my wages the same as they pay yours and those of your men, who, if my memory serves me, number one hundred and seventy. However, if you insist, I'll be happy to convey your sentiments to the officials in charge of the AAR treasury. I feel certain they can find another shipyard that will prove more cooperative. And that would be a pity, particularly since their contract is the only one on your books at present. Without it, all one hundred and seventy men on your crew would have to be laid off. I do not think their families will take it kindly when they find out your petty objections put their menfolk out of work."

  Dugan and Metz exchanged angry, defeated looks. Metz avoided Fawkes's eyes and gazed down sullenly at the blueprints. "Okay, Captain, you're calling the shots."

  There was a confidence born of long years of commanding men reflected in Fawkes's tight smile. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now that we've cleared the air of any misunderstandings, shall we continue?"

  An hour later the two shipyard men left the bridge and made their way down to the main deck of the ship. "I can't believe I heard right," Metz mumbled numbly. "Did that lead-brained Scotsman actually order us to remove half the superstructure, the funnels, and the fore and aft gun turrets and replace them all with plywood sheeting painted gray?"

  "That's what the man said." Dugan replied. "I guess he figures by dumping all that weight he can lighten the ship by fifteen thousand tons."

  "But why replace everything with dummy structures?"

  "Beats me. Maybe he and his black buddies expect to bluff the South African Navy to death."

  "And that's another thing," said Metz. "If you bought a ship like this to use in foreign war, wouldn't you try and keep the deal under wraps? My guess is that they're going to blast Cape Town all to hell."

  "With dummy guns, no less," grunted Dugan.

  "I'd like to tell that overgrown bastard to take his contract and stuff it up his ass," Metz rasped.

  "You can't deny he's got us by the balls." Dugan turned and stared up at the shadowy figure behind the bridge windows. "Do you think he's ripe for a straitjacket?"

  "Nuts?"

  "Yeah."

  "Crazy like
a coyote, maybe. He knows what he's doing, and that's what bugs the shit out of me."

  "What do you suppose the AAR really has in mind once they get the ship to Africa?"

  "I'll make book she never sees port," said Metz. "By the time we're through ripping her bowels out, she'll be so unstable she'll go belly up before she leaves Chesapeake Bay."

  Dugan eased his buttocks onto a massive capstan. He looked down the length of the ship. Her great mass of steel seemed cold and malevolent; it was as though she were holding her breath, waiting for some silent command to unleash her awesome power.

  "This whole act stinks," Dugan said finally. "I only hope to God we're not doing anything we'll regret."

  Fawkes examined the markings on a wellcreased set of navigation charts. First he computed the known velocity and fluctuations of the current, then the range of tidal conditions. Satisfied with the figures, he next traced a mile-by-mile course to his destination, memorizing every buoy, every beacon and channel marker, until he could picture them all in his mind's eye without confusion as to their exact sequence.

  The task before him seemed impossible. Even with precise analysis of every obstacle and its successful conquest, there were still too many variables that had to be left to chance. There was no way he could predict the weather on a given day still weeks away. The odds of colliding with another ship also reared their numerical heads. These unknowns he did not take lightly, and yet the possibility that he might be found out and stopped was refused entrance into his mind. He had even steeled himself to ignore any second thoughts from De Vaal, who might order the mission to be scrapped.

  At ten minutes to midnight Fawkes removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He took a small photo holder from his breast pocket and looked into the long-ago faces of his family. Then he sighed and propped the holder on a small packing crate set beside the cot he maintained in the control room of the ship. The first week he had slept in the captain's quarters, but the comfortable accommodations were gone now; furnishings, facilities, even the bulkheads that once enclosed the cabin, had been torched away.

  Fawkes undressed and slid his huge frame inside a sleeping bag, taking a final look at the photo. Then he clicked off the dropcord light and became smothered in the darkness of his loneliness and unrelenting hatred.

  35

  De Vaal rolled a cigarette between his slender fingers. "Will Fawkes meet his schedule, do you think?"

  "One of my operatives reports that he is driving the shipyard workers like a sadist," replied Zeegler. 'I cannot help but think the good captain will launch Wild Rose at the required time."

  "What of his black crew?"

  "They are under tight security on a cargo freighter moored off a remote island in the Azores." Zeegler sat down across from De Vaal before continuing, "When all is in readiness, the crew will be smuggled on board Fawkes's ship."

  "Will they be familiar with the operation of the vessel?"

  "Training is being conducted with mock-ups on the freighter. Each man will know his job when Fawkes casts off the mooring lines."

  "What have the men been told?"

  "They think they have been recruited to pick up the ship for sea trials and gunnery practice before sailing it to Cape Town."

  De Vaal sat in concentration for a moment. "A pity we can't have Lusana as a passenger."

  "The possibility exists," said Zeegler.

  De Vaal looked up. "Are you serious?"

  "My sources say he has left for the United States," Zeegler replied. "Trailing him through Africa and knowing his exact traveling schedule in advance is next to impossible. He can slip out of the continent virtually undetected at will. But he cannot slip in without showing himself. When he leaves the States, I will be waiting."

  "Abduction." De Vaal said the word slowly, savoring each syllable. "The very bonus that would make Operation Wild Rose virtually foolproof."

  36

  The BEZA-Mozambique overseas airliner pivoted off the main runway onto a seldomused taxi strip and dipped its nose as the pilot applied the brakes. The boarding hatch swung open and a baggage handler wearing white coveralls and a red baseball cap stepped from the evening darkness and attached an aluminum ladder to the fuselage. A figure stooped in the light streaming from the interior of the plane, dropped a large suitcase to the man on the ground, and climbed down after it. Then the hatch closed and the ladder was removed. The engines picked up their whine and the plane rolled off in the direction of the Dulles Airport international terminal.

  No conversation was exchanged as the baggage handler passed the stranger a spare set of coveralls, which were quickly donned. They climbed aboard a small tractor that had four empty carrier carts attached to its rear hitch and steered a course to the maintenance section of the field. After a few minutes of dodging parked aircraft, the tractor pulled up to a floodlit gate. A guard leaned out at their approach and, upon recognizing the driver, stifled a yawn and waved them through. The baggage handler waved back and drove to the employees' parking lot, stopping beside a door held open by the chauffeur of a large dark-blue limousine. Still without a word, the man from the airplane stepped into the backseat of the car. The chauffeur took the suitcase, lifted it into the trunk, and the baggage handler drove his empty caravan back toward the cargo terminal.

  It wasn't until the car entered the outskirts of Georgetown that Lusana relaxed and slipped out of the coveralls. In past years he would have entered the States like any other traveler coming from overseas. But those were the days before the South African Defence Ministry took him seriously. Lusana's fears of assassination were well founded. With a sense of relief he watched the chauffeur stop in front of a house whose downstairs windows were lit. At least someone was home.

  The chauffeur carried his suitcase to the doorstep and silently departed. A faint murmur from the TV set came through the open windows. He pressed the bell.

  The porch light came on., the door opened a crack, and a familiar voice said, "Who is it?"

  He moved under the light so that it illuminated his face. "It's me, Felicia."

  "Hiram?" Her voice was stunned.

  "Yes."

  The door opened slowly. She was dressed in a sheer and sexy chiffon peasant blouse and a long soft jersey skirt. A knotted bandana covered her hair. She stood motionless, her eyes searching his. She wanted to say something appropriately clever but her mind went blank. All she managed was, "Come in."

  He stepped inside and set the suitcase down. "I thought you might be here," he said.

  Her dark eyes quickly shifted from surprise to calm composure. "Your timing is right on the money. I just got back from Hollywood. I've cut a new album and auditioned for a part in a TV series."

  "I'm happy all goes well for you."

  She looked up into his face. "You never should have sent me away with Frederick."

  "If it will make you feel any better, I've often regretted my hasty decision."

  "I could go back with you to Africa

  He shook his head sadly. "Someday, maybe. Not now. You can do more for our cause here."

  They turned in unison as Frederick Daggat, casually attired in a paisley-print bathrobe, appeared from the living room. "My God, General Lusana. I thought I recognized your voice." He looked down at the suitcase and his face clouded. "There was no advance word of your arrival. Has there been trouble?"

  Lusana grinned wryly. "The world is not safe for revolutionaries. I thought it expedient to return to the Land of the Free as inconspicuously as possible."

  "But surely the airlines… customs… someone must have announced your presence."

  Lusana shook his head. "I sat in the pilot's cabin on the flight from Africa. Arrangements were made for me to leave the plane after landing and bypass the Dulles terminal."

  "We have laws that frown on illegal entry."

  "I am a citizen. What difference does it make?"

  Daggat's expression softened. He placed his hands on Lusana's shoulders. "If there is any
fuss, my staff will take care of it. You're here, and that's all that counts."

  "But why all the subterfuge?" asked Felicia.

  "For good reason." Lusana's voice was very cold. "My intelligence people have uncovered a sensitive piece of information that can prove highly embarrassing to the South African minority government."

  "That's a serious charge," said Daggat.

  "It's a serious threat," retorted Lusana.

  Daggat's eyes registered a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He nodded toward the living room. "Come in and sit down, General. We have much to talk over."

  "Every time I see you it's like looking at an old photograph. You never change."

  Felicia returned Loren's admiring look. "Flattery from another woman is flattery indeed." She idly stirred the ice in her drink. "It's amazing how time evaporates. How long has it been — three, maybe four years?"

  "The last inaugural ball."

  "I remember," Felicia said, smiling. "We went to that little dive down by the river afterward and got smashed. You were with a tall, sad-looking dude with spaniel eyes."

  "Congressman Louis Carnady. He was defeated in the next election."

  "Poor Louis." Felicia lit a cigarette. "My date was Hiram Lusana."

  "I know."

  "We parted company only last month in Africa," Felicia said as if Loren had not spoken. "I wonder if my life has been one big downer, chasing after every liberal cause that pops on stage, taking up with any stud who promises to save the human race."

  Loren motioned to the waiter to bring them two more drinks. "You can't blame yourself for believing in people."

  "I haven't got a hell of a lot to show for it. Every crusade I've ever joined, I screwed up."

  "I don't mean to pry, but did you and Lusana have personal differences, or was it political?"

  "Strictly personal," Felicia said. She felt her chest tighten as Loren circled the bait. "I no longer mattered to him. His only love was his fight. I think at first, deep inside him, there was a feeling for me, but as the struggle expanded and his pressures grew, he became distant. I know now that he had taken all he ever wanted from me. It was as though I was as expendable as one of his soldiers on the battlefield."