"Obviously a mobile unit," said Timothy March. "With three out of four cars on the road carrying a CB radio, identifying the bastard will be next to impossible."
"Our special-forces team and the city police are setting up roadblocks at key intersections around the Capitol area," said Higgins. "If we can keep the spotter out of visual contact of his targets, he won't be able to report range corrections to the ship. Then Fawkes will be firing blind."
The President's eyes were locked on the viewing screen, staring sadly at the enlarged satellite picture of the demolished Lincoln Memorial. "Shrewd planning on their part," he muttered. "A few dead would mean little more than a newspaper headline to most Americans. But destroy a revered national monument and you touch everyone. Rest assured, gentlemen, by this evening a lot of mad Americans are going to seek a way to vent their anger."
"If the next shell contains the QD… " Jarvis's voice trailed off.
"It's like playing Russian roulette," March said. "Two shells fired. That means the odds are down to two out of thirty-six."
Higgins looked across the table at Admiral Kemper. "What do you figure as the Iowa's rate of fire?"
"The time span between shells one and two was four minutes, ten seconds," Kemper answered. "Slow by half compared to former wartime efficiency, but respectable in view of forty-year-old obsolete equipment and a skeleton crew."
"What puzzles me," said March, "is why Fawkes is only using the turret's center gun. He seems to be making no attempt to operate the other two."
"He's going by the book," said Kemper. "Conserving his strength by firing one shell at a time for effect. He got lucky on the second shot and found his target. Next time he gets the range you can bet he'll uncork all three barrels."
The phone in front of Higgins buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, his expression grim. "The third round is on its way. 11
The satellite camera pulled back to show a two-mile radius around the White House. Everyone's eyes roamed over the bird's-eye view of the city, fearful that this projectile held the Quick Death organism while at the same time trying to guess which landmark was the target. Then came a geysering explosion that pulverized a fifty-foot section of sidewalk and two trees on the north side of Constitution Avenue.
"He's going for the National Archives building," the President said, a bitter edge to his voice. "Fawkes is trying to destroy the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution."
"I urge you, Mr. President, to order a nuclear strike on the Iowa at once." Higgins's normally reddish coloring had turned to gray.
The President looked like one hunted. His shoulders were hunched as though he were cold. "No." he said with finality.
Higgins dropped his hands to his side and sat heavily in his chair. Kemper tapped the table with a pencil, quietly mulling something over.
"There is another solution," he said slowly, deliberately. "We knock out the Iowa's number-two turret."
"Knock out the turret?" Higgins said, a skeptical look in his eyes.
"Some of the F-one-twenty Specters are carrying Satan penetration missiles," explained Kemper. "Am I right, General Sayre?"
Air Force chief General Miles Sayre nodded in agreement. "Each aircraft is armed with four Satans, primed to gouge their way through three yards of concrete."
"I see your point," said Higgins. "But the accuracy? Miss, and you might unleash the QD."
"It can be done." said Sayre, a usually taciturn man. "As soon as the pilots fire the missiles, they switch guidance control to the ground troops. Your people, General Higgins, are close enough to the Iowa to lay a Satan within a two-foot diameter."
Higgins snatched the phone and stared at the President. "If Fawkes maintains his firing schedule, we have less than two minutes."
"Go for it," the President said without hesitation.
While Higgins gave instructions to the forces deployed around the Iowa, Kemper consulted a file on the ship's construction.
"That turret is protected with steel-armor plating seven to seventeen inches thick," said Kemper. "We may not destroy it, but we'll sure as hell stun the crew."
"The SEALs," said the President. "Can they be warned of our intentions?"
Kemper looked grim. "We would if we could, but there has been no radio contact with them since they took to the water."
Fergus could not make contact, because the radio had been shot out of his hands by a machine gun deployed on the Iowa's citadel. A bullet had neatly amputated the middle finger of his left hand before biting through the transmitter and his right palm. The backup radio was also gone, strapped to the belt of a team leader who took a hit in the chest and now floated lifelessly somewhere downriver.
Fergus had lost six men out of his original party of thirty while boarding the Iowa. They had climbed the sides after shooting and then looping small lines from crossbows across the ship's stern. These were attached to nylon ladders, which in turn were pulled up to the bulwarks. The SEALs were met with a scathing fire when they reached the main deck. Individually and in small teams they began pouring a return fire at the ship's defenders.
Fergus became cut off from his command and was pinned down behind the fantail mounting where the aircraft crane had once stood. Frustration overrode the pain in his wounded hands. Time was running out. His orders were to secure the landing pad before the South Africans could open fire. He shouted a curse as the burst from the third blast rumbled down the river channel.
Above the bluffs he could see the Marine helicopters hovering, waiting impatiently for his signal to land. Warily he poked his head around the crane mount and peered forward. The guns perched behind steel-armor plating atop the main bridge temporarily ignored Fergus and concentrated on his men, who had moved forward without him.
Cradling his automatic weapon in one arm, Fergus sprang to his feet and sprinted across the open deck, laying down a curtain fire. He'd nearly made it to cover beneath the aft turret when Fawkes's men repaid his attention, and a bullet tore through the calf of his left leg.
He stumbled a few steps, fell, and rolled under the bulk of the dummy turret. The new wound felt as though it were burning every nerve ending in his leg. He lay on the deck, listening to the gunfire forward, soaking up the pain as two Specter jets screamed out of the morning sun and expelled their lethal cargo.
If it weren't for the dull ache that clutched every inch of his body, Pitt would have sworn he was dead. Almost regretfully, he pushed the gray from his mind and forced his eyes opened.
Then he ran his hands over his legs and body. The worst he discovered, besides a horde of bruises, were two, possibly three cracked ribs. He probed his head and sighed gratefully when his fingers came back free of blood. The wooden splinters he found embedded in his right shoulder puzzled him.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and then rolled to his hands and knees. All muscles were responding to command. So far, so good. He took a deep breath and wove to his feet, no less elated at the accomplishment than if he'd climbed Mount Everest. A patch of daylight spilled through a jagged hole several feet away and he stumbled toward it.
His mind slowly began to hit on six of eight cylinders and analyzed why he hadn't been crushed to oatmeal when he smashed into the side of the ship's superstructure. The quarter-inch plywood panels installed to replace the steel bulkheads had broken his impact. He'd barreled through one outer partition like a cannonball and made a healthy dent in a second before coming to rest in a passageway outside the officers' wardroom. So much for the mysterious slivers.
Through the haze he recalled a great booming sound and vibration. The sixteeninch guns, he figured. But how often had they fired? How long had he been out? Sounds of small-arms fire rattled from outside. Who was fighting whom? He dismissed the thoughts almost as they occurred: they really didn't matter. He had his own problems to solve.
He moved twenty feet down the passageway, stopped, and pulled a flashlight from one pocket and a folded paper containing the Iowa's d
eck plans from another. It took him nearly two full minutes to pinpoint his exact location. Looking at the maze that made up the internal arrangement of a battleship was like looking at a cutaway view of a skyscraper lying on its side.
Tracking out a path to the forward shell magazines, he moved soundlessly along the passageway. He had covered but a short distance when the ship rocked under a barrage of solid blows. Dust accumulated during the Iowa's long years in mothballs erupted in smothering clouds. Pitt flung out his arms to maintain his balance, lurched, and grabbed the frame of a door that had opportunely swung open. He stood there choking back the dust while the tremors subsided.
He almost missed it, would have missed it if an indefinable curiosity hadn't tugged at his mind. Not a curiosity, really; rather an incongruity caught within his peripheral vision. He beamed the flashlight on a brown shoe — an expensive, handcrafted brown shoe — and saw it was attached to the leg of a black man stylishly attired in a business suit with vest. His hands were tied wide apart by ropes wrapped to overhead pipes.
61
Hiram Lusana could not distinguish the features of the man standing in the doorway of his prison. He looked large, but not as large as Fawkes. That was all Lusana could tell; the flashlight in the stranger's hands blinded him.
"I take it you lost the ship's popularity contest." came a voice that sounded more friendly than hostile.
The dark form behind the light moved closer and Lusana felt his bonds being loosened. "Where are you taking me?"
"Nowhere. But if you value social security in your old age, I suggest you get the hell off this boat before it's blown to pieces."
"Who are you?"
"Not that it matters, the name's Pitt."
"Are you part of Captain Fawkes's crew?"
"No, I'm free-lance."
"I don't understand."
Pitt untied Lusana's left hand and started on the other without answering.
"You are an American," said Lusana, more confused than ever. "Have you taken the ship from the South Africans?"
"We're working on it," said Pitt, sorely wishing he'd brought along a knife.
"Then you don't know who I am."
"Should I?"
"My name is Hiram Lusana. I am the leader of the African Army of Revolution."
Pitt finished with the last knot and stood back, aiming the light at Lusana's face. "Yes, I see that now. What's your involvement? I thought this was a South African show."
"I was kidnapped boarding an airplane back to Africa." Lusana gently pushed the light aside. Then a thought flooded his mind. "You know about Operation Wild Rose?" he asked.
"Only since last night. My government, however, was aware of it months ago."
"Impossible," said Lusana.
"Suit yourself." Pitt turned and started for the doorway. "Like I said, you better jump ship before the party gets out of hand."
Lusana hesitated, but only for a second. "Wait! "
Pitt turned. "Sorry, I can't spare the time."
"Please hear me out." Lusana moved closer. "If your government and the news media discover my presence here, they will have no choice but to overlook the truth and hold me responsible."
"So?"
"Let me prove my innocence in this ugly affair. Tell me what I can do to help."
Pitt read the sincerity in Lusana's eyes. He pulled an old Colt .45 automatic from his belt and passed it to the black man. "Take this and cover my ass. I need both hands to hold the flashlight and read a diagram."
Somewhat taken aback, Lusana accepted the gun. "You'd trust me with this?"
"Sure," Pitt said offhandedly. "What would you gain by shooting a total stranger in the back?"
And then he motioned for Lusana to follow and quickly darted down the passageway toward the forward part of the ship.
Turret number two had survived the onslaught from the Satan missiles. Her steel plating was gouged and sprung in eight places but never penetrated. The portoutside gun barrel was severely fractured at the recoil base of the turret.
Dazed, Fawkes saw all this through the shattered remains of the glass in the bridge windows. Magically, he was untouched. He had been standing behind one of the few remaining steel bulkheads when the Satans had unerringly zeroed in on number-two turret. He snatched the microphone.
"Shaba, this is the captain. Do you hear me?"
The only reply was a faint ripple of static.
"Shaba!" Fawkes shouted. "Speak up, man. Report your damage."
The speaker crackled to life. "Cap'n Fawkes?"
The voice was unfamiliar. "Aye, this is the captain. Where is Shaba?"
"Below in the magazine, sir. The hoist, she's broken. He went to fix it."
"Who is this?"
"Obasi, Cap'n. Daniel Obasi." The voice had an adolescent pitch.
"Did Shaba leave you in charge?"
"Yes, sir," Obasi said proudly.
"How old are you, son?"
There was a harsh, coughing sound. "Sorry, Cap'n. The smoke, she's real bad." More coughing. "Seventeen."
Good Lord, Fawkes thought. De Vaal was to have sent him experienced men — ' not boys whose names and faces he had yet to see in daylight. He was in command of a crew who were completely unknown to him. Seventeen. A mere seventeen years old. The thought sickened him. Was it worth it? God, was his personal revenge worth the terrible price?
Steeling his determination, Fawkes said, "Are you able to operate the guns?"
"I think go. 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 goddamned city street sweeper. The city police are booking him now."
"That explains how he moved through the roadblocks without arousing 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?"
"Those copters are sitting ducks once they land on the Iowa'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 thirtyone, and only one shell had a rounded head.
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