Clive Cussler - Sahara

Commander Behanzin Ketou, skipper of the vessel, stood slightly to his side and behind. "It was wise of you to fly from the capital and take command, Admiral."

"Yes," beamed Matabu. "My brother will be most happy when I present him with a fine, new pleasure craft."

"The Frenchmen have arrived within the time you predicted." Ketou was tall, slender, with a proud bearing. "Your foresight is truly inspiring."

"Very considerate of them to do as my thought waves demand," Matabu gloated. He did not mention that his paid agents had reported on the passage of the Calliope every two hours since it entered the delta in Nigeria. The happy fact that it cruised into Benin waters was a wish come true.

"They must be very important people to own such an expensive boat."

"They are enemy agents."

Ketou's face reflected a balance of uncertainty and skepticism. "They appear somewhat conspicuous for enemy agents."

Matabu dropped the binoculars and glared at Ketou. "Do not question my information, Commander. Believe me when I say those white foreigners are part of a conspiracy to rape the natural wealth of our country."

"Will they be arrested and tried in the capital?"

"No, you will shoot them after you board and discover evidence proving their guilt."

"Sir?"

"I forgot to mention that you shall have the honor of leading the boarding party," Matabu said pompously.

"Not an execution," Ketou protested. "The French will demand an investigation when they learn several of their influential citizens were murdered. Your brother may not condone-"

"You will throw the bodies in the river and not question my orders," Matabu coldly interrupted.

Ketou caved in. "As you wish, Admiral."

Matabu stared through the binoculars again. The sport yacht was only 200 meters away and slowing. "Position your men for boarding. I will personally hail the spies and order them to receive your party."

Ketou spoke to his first officer, who repeated the commands over a bullhorn to the captain of the second gunboat. Then Ketou turned his attention back to the approaching yacht. "Something funny about her," he said to Matabu. "No one is in sight except the man at the helm."

"The European slime are probably lying drunk below. They suspect nothing."

"Strange, they do not appear concerned at our presence nor do they show any reaction to our trained guns."

"Shoot only if they try to escape," Matabu cautioned him. "I want that boat captured undamaged."

Ketou focused his binoculars on Pitt. "The helmsman is waving to us and smiling."

"He won't be smiling for long," Matabu said, his teeth showing ominously. "In a few minutes he'll be dead."

"Come into my parlor said the spider to the three flies," Pitt muttered under his breath as he waved and flashed a wide, humorless smile.

"Did you say something?" asked Giordino inside the missile turret.

"Just mumbling to myself."

"I can't see zilch from the bow ports," Gunn spoke from the forward quarters. "What's my line of fire?"

"Be ready to knock out the gunners on the boat off our starboard beam on my command," said Pitt.

"Where's the helicopter?" asked Giordino, who was blind until he dropped the turret shield.

Pitt scanned the sky over the boat's wake. "She's hovering 100 meters directly astern, about 50 meters above the surface of the river."

There were no half measures in their preparations. No one doubted for an instant the Benin gunboats and helicopter were going to let them pass unchallenged. They all went silent, each man settled and resigned to fight to stay alive. Any fear was quickly passing as they approached the point of no return. There was a determination, a single-minded stubbornness against losing. They were not the kind to meekly submit and turn the other cheek. Three armed vessels against one, but surprise was on their side.

Pitt propped the launcher with the incendiary/concussion grenades under a niche beside his chair. Then he slipped the throttles to "Idle" as his gaze swept back and forth between the two boats. He ignored the helicopter. In the opening stages of the battle, it would be Giordino's problem. He was close enough now to study the officers and quickly concluded that the fat African strutting the bridge of the gunboat in a Gilbert & Sullivan comic opera uniform was in command. His unblinking eyes also stared in hypnotic fascination into those of the Angel of Death, who stared back from the black nuzzles of the guns, all aimed at him.

Pitt could not know the identity of the swaggering officer on the bridge who peered back at him through binoculars. Nor did he care. But he was thankful his opponent had made a tactical error by not stretching his two boats broadside across the river bow to stern, effectively blocking any passage while every gun could be brought to bear on the Calliope.

The wave carved by the bow fell away as the Calliope slipped between the two gunboats that had already stopped and were drifting with the river current. Pitt reduced speed just enough to maintain a slight headway. The hulls of the gunboats loomed over the Calliope, no more than 5 meters off her sides. From his cockpit, Pitt could see most of the crewmen standing in casual attitudes, each armed only with holstered automatic pistols. None held automatic rifles. They looked as if they were waiting their turn on a shooting range. Pitt gazed innocently up at Matabu.

"Bon jour!"

Matabu leaned over, the counter and shouted back in French for Pitt to stop his boat and take on boarders.

Pitt didn't understand a word. He called back. "Pouvez vous me recommander un bon restaurant?"

"`What did Dirk say?" Giordino asked Gunn.

"Good Lord!" Gunn moaned. "He just asked the head honcho to recommend a good restaurant."

The gunboats were slowly drifting past on both sides as Pitt kept the sport craft idling in gear against the current. Matabu again ordered Pitt to stop and prepare to be boarded.

Pitt stiffened and tried to look suave and disarming.

"J'aimerais une bouteille de Martin Ray Chardonnay."

"Now what's he saying?" demanded Giordino.

Gunn sounded lost. "I think he ordered a bottle of California wine."

"Next, he'll ask to borrow a jar of Grey Poupon Mustard," Giordino muttered.

"He must be trying to stall them until they drift past us."

On board the gunboat, Matabu and Ketou's faces registered a total lack of comprehension as Pitt called out, this time in his native tongue.

"I do not understand Swahili. Can you try English?"

Matabu pounded on the bridge counter in exasperation and growing anger. He was not used to humored indifference. He replied in broken English that Pitt could barely decipher. "I am Admiral Pierre Matabu, Chief of the National Benin Navy," he announced pompously. "Stop your engines and heave-to for inspection. Heave-to or I will give the order to fire."

Pitt nodded furiously and waved both hands in a gesture of compliance. "Yes, yes, don't shoot. Please don't shoot."

The cockpit of the Calliope was slowly coming even with the stern of Matabu's gunboat. Pitt kept just enough distance between the two boats to make it impossible for anyone but an Olympic broadjumper to leap across the gap. Two crewmen threw lines on Pitt's bow and stern decks, but he made no move toward them.

"Tie the lines," Ketou ordered.

"Too far away," Pitt shrugged. He held up a hand and made a half arc. "Hold on. I'll come around."

Not waiting for a reply, he eased the throttles forward and swung the helm so that the sport yacht slowly slipped into a 180-degree turn around the stern of the gunboat before straightening out and pulling up along the opposite side of the hull. Now both vessels were on a parallel course, bows pointed downriver. Pitt noted with no small amount of satisfaction that the 30-millimeter guns could not depress low enough to strike the Calliope's cockpit.