Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

Gunn, a scientist from toes to his thinning hairline, was oblivious to any danger outside the bulkheads of the elegant boat. He poured himself into his task with total commitment, trusting Pitt and Giordino to shield him from distraction or interruption.

The engines and weapon systems were Giordino's department. To muffle the roar of the engines he wore a headset that was plugged to a tape player and listened to Harry Connick, Jr., play the piano and sing old jazz favorites. He was sitting on a padded bench seat in the engine room, his hands busy unpacking several cases of portable rocket launchers and their missiles. The Rapier was a new all-purpose weapon designed to engage subsonic aircraft, seagoing vessels, tanks, and concrete bunkers. It could be fired from the shoulder or mounted in quad to a central firing system. Giordino was fitting the completed assemblies in housings that allowed the missile clusters to fire through the armored ports of the domed turret above the engine room that looked to the casual eye like a skylight. The seemingly innocent superstructure protruded a good meter above the aft deck and could swivel on a 220-degree arc. After assembling the launcher and guidance units, and then inserting the missiles in their tubes, Giordino began concentrating on cleaning and loading a small arsenal of automatic rifles and handguns. Next, he unloaded a crate of incendiary/concussion grenades and carefully loaded four of them in a bulky clip that hung from a stubby automatic grenade launcher.

They all went about their respective jobs with cold efficiency and an unerring sense of dedication that would ensure the success of their mission and their individual survival. Admiral Sandecker had handpicked the best. He couldn't have found a better crew to tackle the near impossible if he'd canvassed the entire country. His faith in them bordered on fanatical.

The kilometers flowed under the hull. The Cameroon Highlands and the Yoruba Hills bounding the southern part of the river rose in a haze flattened by dense humidity. Rain forests alternated with groves of acacias and mangroves along the shore. Villages and small towns appeared and slipped past as the bow of the Calliope cut the water in a great V of foam.

The traffic on the river consisted of every known vessel from dugout canoes to old chugging ferryboats dangerously overloaded with waving passengers to small cargo ships stained with rust that plodded from one port to the next, their funnel smoke fanned by a gentle northern breeze. It was a scene of peaceful contentment that Pitt knew couldn't last. Around each bend in the river, an unknown threat might be waiting to send them to meet the devil.

About noon they passed under the great 1404-meter bridge that spanned the river from the port and market city of Onitsha to the agricultural town of Asaba. Roman Catholic cathedrals stood sentinel over the bustling Onitsha streets that were bounded by industrial plants. Docks along the water were heavy with ships and boats that transported food and trade goods downstream and imported commodities upstream from the Niger Delta.

Pitt concentrated on skirting the river traffic, smiling to himself at the shaking fists and angry curses thrown at the Calliope as she roared perilously close to small boats that rolled wickedly from the wash of her churning wake. Once free of the port, he relaxed and released his hands from the wheel and flexed his fingers. He had been at the helm for nearly six hours, but suffered little stiffness or fatigue. His chair at the controls was as comfortable as any enjoyed by a corporate executive and the steering as light as that of an expensive, luxury automobile.

Giordino appeared with a bottle of Coors beer and a tuna sandwich. "Thought you might need a little nutrition. You haven't eaten since we left the Sounder."

"Thanks, I couldn't hear my stomach grumbling above the noise of the engines." Pitt turned over the helm to his friend and nodded past the bow. "Be wary of that tug towing those barges as you come abeam to pass. He's fishtailing all over the channel."

"I'll keep a wide passage to port," Giordino acknowledged.

"Are we in shape to repel boarders?" Pitt grinned.

"As ready as we'll ever be. Any suspicious characters lurking about?"

Pitt shook his head. "A couple of flybys by the Nigerian air force, and friendly waves from passing patrol boats. Otherwise, a lazy, hazy day cruising up the river."

"The local bureaucrats must have bought the Admiral's scam."

"Let's hope the countries further upriver are as gullible."

Giordino tossed a thumb at the French tricolor flapping on the stern. "I'd feel a whole lot better if we had the Stars and Stripes, the State Department, Ralph Nader, the Denver Broncos, and a company of Marines behind us."

"The battleship Iowa would be nice too."

"Is the beer cold? I put a case in the galley fridge only an hour ago."

"Cold enough," Pitt answered between bites of the sandwich. "Any startling revelations from Rudi?"

Giordino gave a negative dip of his head. "He's wrapped up in a chemical never, never land. I tried to make conversation but he waved me off."

"I think I'll pay him a visit."

Giordino yawned. "Careful he doesn't bite your knee off."

Pitt laughed and went down the stairway into Gunn's lab. The little NUMA scientist was studying a computer printout, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. Giordino had misread Gunn's disposition. He was actually in a good mood.

"Having any luck?" asked Pitt.

"This damn river has every pollutant in it known to man and then some," replied Gunn. "It's far more contaminated than the bad old days on the Hudson, the James, and the Cuyahoga."

"Looks complicated," said Pitt as he stepped around the cabin, studying the sophisticated equipment that was packed together from deck to ceiling. "What function do these instruments serve?"

"Where did you get the brew?"

"Want one?"

"Sure."

"Giordino's got a case crammed in the galley refrigerator. Hold on a minute."