Sea of Fire

her were the agents who had joined groups like Interpol or the CIA because it seemed glamorous. Many of them did not expect nor ask for the grievous responsibility that had been placed on their backs. Loh hoped their efforts here would be an example to others rather than an exception. The civilized world did not have time to accommodate long apprenticeships.

'I just spoke with General Hopkins,' the pilot informed the group. 'He'll let us refuel there. That gives us ninety minutes of flying time. How do you want to spend it?'

'Warrant Officer, that's your call,' Herbert said.

'I suggest we follow the reef northeast,' Jelbart said. 'HQ said that Darling's property holdings are mostly in the south and west. That would be out of reach for his boat. And his cove is completely open. My guess is he'll make a run for the open sea and a foreign port.'

'Perhaps the same port that swallowed the Malaysian vessel,' FNO Loh suggested.

'That's a reasonable guess,' Jelbart admitted. 'So we'll head north, which we'll have to do to reach Cooktown. Then we'll swing out toward the sea in a tight Z pattern and hope we spot our prey.'

'Sirs, General Hopkins has also offered to launch a pair of A3 Mirage fighters if we need them for surveillance,' the pilot added.

Loh waited to see Jelbart's response. The need for absolute security, to keep any leaks from Darling, versus the need for information.

'It's getting too late in the day for overcaution,' Jelbart said. 'Thank the general and say we would welcome the help. I'll have a look at the map and give him the air routes we'd like covered.'

'Yes, sir,' the pilot replied.

'I'll notify my patrol boat of our plan,' Loh said.

Jelbart passed the headset back to her while he took a look at the flight book.

'I wonder if their base might be a tanker of some sort,' Herbert thought aloud. 'Something mobile.'

'And protectable,' Jelbart said. 'Something that large could be a floating SCUD bank.'

'It sure would be a helluva delivery platform for nuclear-tipped missiles,' Herbert agreed. 'Hell, there isn't a port on earth tankers don't visit.'

Loh listened to the men as she placed her call. She hoped they were mistaken. It was bad enough contemplating the damage petty despots could do with intermediate-range missiles. Add money and international political clout, and there was no limit to the potential subterfuge.

Even if Herbert and Jelbart were wrong this time, they might not be wrong the next time. Or the time after that. Things were going to have to change radically in the way the military and intelligence services did business.

Fortunately, Loh had an idea where they might start. With a resource that was already in their lap.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

The yacht began to sink toward the stern. Kannaday stumbled back against the bed as the floor tilted. The incoming water was settling in the aft section. The captain heard the clatter of boxes and loose equipment below as the vessel shifted.

The crawl space, he thought suddenly.

Kannaday leaned on the wall. He braced himself with both hands as he stood. The far end of the storage area was directly below the cabin. If he could pry up the floorboards, he might be able to squeeze through.

The captain bolted toward the desk and pulled out the drawer. He did not have a letter opener or knife, but the drawer was held in by runners. He yanked it free, tossed it aside, and looked at the screws. A nail file would work. He went into the bathroom and got his nail clippers from the medicine chest. He flipped out the nail file and used it to work out the screws. There were two in each runner. The first one came free quickly. That was all he would need.

The runner was shaped like a squared-off C. Kannaday went back to the bathroom, unscrewed the metal spray head from the shower, and laid the end of the runner on the desk. Holding the showerhead in his fist, he used it to pound the end of the runner flat.

He had his lever.

Grabbing the runner, the nail file, and the showerhead, he dropped to his knees near the door. The floorboards were epoxy-coated mahogany. He wedged the nail file between two of the planks and dug a small hole between them. He inserted the flattened edge of the runner. Rising on the sloping floor, he used the showerhead to pound the runner down. He did it firmly enough to push the metal in, but softly enough to keep it from bending. It took just four whacks to put the runner through. Kannaday repeated the process along the entire side of the narrow plank. As he worked, the boat continued to shift. First it leveled, then it dipped to port, then the aft dropped again. Kannaday tried not to think about going under. Hawke would have taken them several miles out to sea. The water was an average of two hundred feet deep here. Once the Hosannah went down, Peter Kannaday would not be coming back up.

The captain had gone around most of the first plank when he stood and stomped on it. The plank split from the one beside it and dropped into the crawl space. Kannaday got back on his knees and worked on the ends of the plank beside it. When he had punched through those, he put the runner down, put his fingers into the opening left by the first plank, and pulled on the second. With three sides free, it came up easily.

Kannaday could hear the water rushing in. He did not stop. The batteries were in a watertight compartment, but he did not know how long they would last. If they died, he would be in the dark.

He managed to get the third plank up. Kannaday needed to remove at least six before he could think of trying to get in. As he watched the water rise, he realized that there would not be time to continue this way. Reaching behind him, he pulled his pillowcase from the bed. He wrapped it around his hands. Crouching, he reached into the hole he had made and pulled up on the next plank. He grasped the edge of the wood. The pillowcase prevented him from slipping on the moist mahogany. The wood refused to budge. He screamed in frustration and looked around. There was nothing.

Just then he realized that the contents of the crawl space were settling toward the stern. Swearing at his own stupidity, he got a flashlight from his desk, dropped to his belly, and shone the light in the opening he had made.

He saw the tool kit. It was banging around in the area just beyond the door of his cabin.

Reaching in, Kannaday stretched his arm in that direction. He could not quite reach it. He took the runner, bent the end into a hook, stuck it into the opening, and fished for the metal chest.

He snagged it.

Pulling it inside, Kannaday opened the large box and took out a hammer. Getting on his knees, he slammed it repeatedly into the planks. It took two blows each to crack them, one more to send them tumbling into the crawl space. As the water started to flood his cabin, Kannaday realized that he would have to go in headfirst. The yacht settled again slightly. This might be as level as the vessel got before going down. Taking the flashlight in his left hand, Kannaday lay down, took a long breath, then slid into the crawl space.

There was only about twenty-five feet to the opening cut by the crew. But it seemed much farther because of the debris that blocked Kannaday's way. There was no room for vertical or lateral movement. He could not shove the flotsam around, under, or behind him. He had to push the containers, equipment, shards of wood, and other objects ahead as he wriggled forward. It was like moving against a dam that grew thicker by the instant. He was finally forced to let go of the flashlight and use both hands. Fortunately, the crew had left the trapdoor open to facilitate the flow of water. The hall lights filtered through the opening in the deck. Kannaday used both hands to shove on the objects clustered in the crawl space. The captain was literally knee-walking forward as the algae-thick water rolled through the crawl space and lower deck.

The Hosannah continued to tilt and pitch. The geyser of seawater batted the debris back. He did not think he would be able to get much farther ahead. Kannaday's arms and chest hurt from the beating, and the exertion strained his lungs. Even though his brain knew it would kill him, his lungs insisted that he inhale. The captain had to fight that impulse. He was less than four feet from the trapdoor. It was like being under