Clive Cussler - Vixen 03

Dugan and Metz exchanged angry, defeated looks. Metz avoided Fawkes's eyes and gazed down sullenly at the blueprints. "Okay, Captain, you're calling the shots."

There was a confidence born of long years of commanding men reflected in Fawkes's tight smile. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now that we've cleared the air of any misunderstandings, shall we continue?"

An hour later the two shipyard men left the bridge and made their way down to the main deck of the ship. "I can't believe I heard right," Metz mumbled numbly. "Did that lead-brained Scotsman actually order us to remove half the superstructure, the funnels, and the fore and aft gun turrets and replace them all with plywood sheeting painted gray?"

"That's what the man said." Dugan replied. "I guess he figures by dumping all that weight he can lighten the ship by fifteen thousand tons."

"But why replace everything with dummy structures?"

"Beats me. Maybe he and his black buddies expect to bluff the South African Navy to death."

"And that's another thing," said Metz. "If you bought a ship like this to use in foreign war, wouldn't you try and keep the deal under wraps? My guess is that they're going to blast Cape Town all to hell."

"With dummy guns, no less," grunted Dugan.

"I'd like to tell that overgrown bastard to take his contract and stuff it up his ass," Metz rasped.

"You can't deny he's got us by the balls." Dugan turned and stared up at the shadowy figure behind the bridge windows. "Do you think he's ripe for a straitjacket?"

"Nuts?"

"Yeah."

"Crazy like a coyote, maybe. He knows what he's doing, and that's what bugs the shit out of me."

"What do you suppose the AAR really has in mind once they get the ship to Africa?"

"I'll make book she never sees port," said Metz. "By the time we're through ripping her bowels out, she'll be so unstable she'll go belly up before she leaves Chesapeake Bay."

Dugan eased his buttocks onto a massive capstan. He looked down the length of the ship. Her great mass of steel seemed cold and malevolent; it was as though she were holding her breath, waiting for some silent command to unleash her awesome power.

"This whole act stinks," Dugan said finally. "I only hope to God we're not doing anything we'll regret."

Fawkes examined the markings on a wellcreased set of navigation charts. First he computed the known velocity and fluctuations of the current, then the range of tidal conditions. Satisfied with the figures, he next traced a mile-by-mile course to his destination, memorizing every buoy, every beacon and channel marker, until he could picture them all in his mind's eye without confusion as to their exact sequence.

The task before him seemed impossible. Even with precise analysis of every obstacle and its successful conquest, there were still too many variables that had to be left to chance. There was no way he could predict the weather on a given day still weeks away. The odds of colliding with another ship also reared their numerical heads. These unknowns he did not take lightly, and yet the possibility that he might be found out and stopped was refused entrance into his mind. He had even steeled himself to ignore any second thoughts from De Vaal, who might order the mission to be scrapped.

At ten minutes to midnight Fawkes removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He took a small photo holder from his breast pocket and looked into the long-ago faces of his family. Then he sighed and propped the holder on a small packing crate set beside the cot he maintained in the control room of the ship. The first week he had slept in the captain's quarters, but the comfortable accommodations were gone now; furnishings, facilities, even the bulkheads that once enclosed the cabin, had been torched away.

Fawkes undressed and slid his huge frame inside a sleeping bag, taking a final look at the photo. Then he clicked off the dropcord light and became smothered in the darkness of his loneliness and unrelenting hatred.

De Vaal rolled a cigarette between his slender fingers. "Will Fawkes meet his schedule, do you think?"

"One of my operatives reports that he is driving the shipyard workers like a sadist," replied Zeegler. 'I cannot help but think the good captain will launch Wild Rose at the required time."

"What of his black crew?"

"They are under tight security on a cargo freighter moored off a remote island in the Azores." Zeegler sat down across from De Vaal before continuing, "When all is in readiness, the crew will be smuggled on board Fawkes's ship."

"Will they be familiar with the operation of the vessel?"

"Training is being conducted with mock-ups on the freighter. Each man will know his job when Fawkes casts off the mooring lines."

"What have the men been told?"

"They think they have been recruited to pick up the ship for sea trials and gunnery practice before sailing it to Cape Town."

De Vaal sat in concentration for a moment. "A pity we can't have Lusana as a passenger."

"The possibility exists," said Zeegler.

De Vaal looked up. "Are you serious?"

"My sources say he has left for the United States," Zeegler replied. "Trailing him through Africa and knowing his exact traveling schedule in advance is next to impossible. He can slip out of the continent virtually undetected at will. But he cannot slip in without showing himself. When he leaves the States, I will be waiting."

"Abduction." De Vaal said the word slowly, savoring each syllable. "The very bonus that would make Operation Wild Rose virtually foolproof."

The BEZA-Mozambique overseas airliner pivoted off the main runway onto a seldomused taxi strip and dipped its nose as the pilot applied the brakes. The boarding hatch swung open and a baggage handler wearing white coveralls and a red baseball cap stepped from the evening darkness and attached an aluminum ladder to the fuselage. A figure stooped in the light streaming from the interior of the plane, dropped a large suitcase to the man on the ground, and climbed down after it. Then the hatch closed and the ladder was removed. The engines picked up their whine and the plane rolled off in the direction of the Dulles Airport international terminal.

No conversation was exchanged as the baggage handler passed the stranger a spare set of coveralls, which were quickly donned. They climbed aboard a small tractor that had four empty carrier carts attached to its rear hitch and steered a course to the maintenance section of the field. After a few minutes of dodging parked aircraft, the tractor pulled up to a floodlit gate. A guard leaned out at their approach and, upon recognizing the driver, stifled a yawn and waved them through. The baggage handler waved back and drove to the employees' parking lot, stopping beside a door held open by the chauffeur of a large dark-blue limousine. Still without a word, the man from the airplane stepped into the backseat of the car. The chauffeur took the suitcase, lifted it into the trunk, and the baggage handler drove his empty caravan back toward the cargo terminal.

It wasn't until the car entered the outskirts of Georgetown that Lusana relaxed and slipped out of the coveralls. In past years he would have entered the States like any other traveler coming from overseas. But those were the days before the South African Defence Ministry took him seriously. Lusana's fears of assassination were well founded. With a sense of relief he watched the chauffeur stop in front of a house whose downstairs windows were lit. At least someone was home.

The chauffeur carried his suitcase to the doorstep and silently departed. A faint murmur from the TV set came through the open windows. He pressed the bell.

The porch light came on., the door opened a crack, and a familiar voice said, "Who is it?"