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.
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 projectilestorage 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 other man was taking the situation. As far as he could see, Pitt gave not the slightest reaction. He continued loading the sack as if the intrusion had never occurred.
'Have I the honor of addressing Patrick McKenzie Fawkes?' Pitt finally 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 poison gas warhead.'
Perhaps five seconds passed as Lusana and Fawkes digested Pitt's brief explanation, staring at each other blankly and then back down at Pitt.
'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.
