“What are you saying?”
“Loren Smith and Vince Margolin are sentenced to die so Alan Moran can be President. The barge is to be their tomb in a hundred fathoms of water.”
70
“Any sign of pursuit?” the river pilot asked, synchronizing the control levers of the helm console with the finesse of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Lee Tong stepped back from the large open window at the rear of the pilothouse and lowered the binoculars. “Nothing except a strange cloud of black smoke about two or three miles astern.”
“Probably an oil fire.”
“Seems to be following.”
“An illusion. The river has a habit of doing weird things to the eyes. What looks to be a mile away is four. Lights where no lights are supposed to be. Ships approaching in a channel that fade away as you get closer. Yes, the river can fool you when she gets playful.”
Lee Tong gazed up the channel again. He had learned to tune out the pilot’s never-ending commentary on the Mississippi, but he admired his skill and experience.
Captain Kim Pujon was a longtime professional river pilot for Bougainville Maritime Lines, but he still retained his Asian superstitious nature. He seldom took his eyes off the channel and the barge ahead as he expertly balanced the speeds of the four engines generating 12,000 horsepower and delicately guided the towboat’s four forward rudders and six backing rudders. Under his feet the huge diesels pounded over at full power, driving the barge through the water at nearly sixteen miles an hour, straining the cables that held the two vessels together.
They hurtled past an inbound Swedish oil tanker, and Lee Tong braced himself as the barge and towboat swept up and over the wash. “How much further to deep water?”
“Our hull passed from fresh to salt about ten miles back. We should cross the coastal shallows in another fifty minutes.”
“Keep your eyes open for a research ship with a red hull and flying the British blue ensign.”
“We’re boarding a Royal Navy ship after we scuttle?” Pujon asked in surprise.
“A former Norwegian merchantman,” explained Lee Tong. “I purchased her seven years ago and refitted her out as a research and survey vessel — a handy disguise to fool customs authorities and the Coast Guard.”
“Let us hope it fools whoever chases after us.”
Lee Tong grunted. “Why not? Any American search force will be told we were picked up and are under lock and key by the finest English accent money can buy. Before the research ship docks in New Orleans, you, I and our crew will be long gone.”
Pujon pointed. “The Port Eads light coming up. We’ll be in open water soon.”
Lee Tong nodded in grim satisfaction. “If they couldn’t stop us by now, they’re too late, far too late.”
General Metcalf, laying his long and distinguished career on the line, ignored Moran’s threats and ordered a military alert throughout the Gulf Coast states. At Eglin Air Force Base and Hurlburt Field in Florida, tactical fighter wings and special operations gunships scrambled and thundered west while attack squadrons rose from Corpus Christi Naval Air Station in Texas and swept toward the east.
He and Sandecker raced by car to the Pentagon to direct the rescue operation from the war room. Once the vast machine was set into motion, they could do little but listen to reports and stare at an enormous satellite photomap thrown on the screen by a rear projector.
Metcalf failed to conceal his apprehension. He stood uneasily rubbing his palms together, peering at the lights on the map indicating the progress of the air strike as the planes converged on a circle lit in red.
“How soon before the first planes arrive?” asked Sandecker.
“Ten, no more than twelve minutes.”
“Surface craft?”
“Not less than an hour,” replied Metcalf bitterly. “We were caught short. No naval craft are in the immediate area except a nuclear sub sixty miles out in the gulf.”
“Coast Guard?”
“There’s an armed rescue-response cutter off Grand Island. It might make it in time.”
Sandecker studied the photomap. “Doubtful. It’s thirty miles away.”
Metcalf wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “The situation looks grim,” he said. “Except for scare tactics the air mission is useless. We can’t send in planes to strike the towboat without endangering the barge. One is practically on top of the other.”
“Bougainville would quickly scuttle the barge in any case.”
“If only we had a surface craft in the area. At least we might attempt a boarding.”
“And rescue Smith and Margolin alive.”
Metcalf sank into a chair. “We might pull it off yet. A Navy special warfare SEAL attachment is due to arrive by helicopter in a few minutes.”
“After what happened to those FBI agents, they could be going to a slaughter.”
“Our last hope,” Metcalf said helplessly. “If they can’t save them, nobody can.”
The first aircraft to arrive on the scene was not a screaming jet fighter but a Navy four-engined reconnaissance plane that had been diverted from weather patrol. The pilot, a boyish-faced man in his middle twenties, tapped his co-pilot on the arm and pointed down to his left.
“A towboat pushing one barge. She must be what all the fuss is about.”
“What do we do now?” asked the co-pilot, a narrow-jawed slightly older man with bushy red hair.
“Notify base with the cheery news. Unless, of course, you want to keep it a secret.”
Less than a minute after the sighting report was given, a gruff voice came over the radio. “Who is the aircraft commander?”
“I am.”
“I am, who?”
“You go first.”
“This is General Clayton Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs.”
The pilot smiled and made a circular motion around the side of his head with an index finger. “Are you crazy or is this a gag?”
“My sanity is not an issue here, and no, this is not a gag. Your name and rank, please.”
“You won’t believe it?”
“I’ll be the judge.”
“Lieutenant Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Why should I doubt you?” Metcalf laughed. “There was a great third baseman by that name.”
“My father,” Grant said in awe. “You remember him?”
“They don’t hand out four stars for bad memories,” said Metcalf. “Do you have television equipment on board, Lieutenant?”
“Yes… yes, sir,” Grant stammered as he realized who he was really talking to. “We tape storms close-on for the meteorologists.”
“I’ll have my communications officer give your video operator the frequency for satellite transmission to the Pentagon. Keep your camera trained on the tow-boat.”
Grant turned to his co-pilot. “My God, what do you make of that?”
71
