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 deck 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
