The Panama Canal itself was built like a liquid wedding cake. Its highest point was at its center, the large, man-made reservoir of Gatun Lake. The lake cascaded down three levels at either end. Due to a geographic quirk, the canal’s fresh water flowed to the Atlantic Ocean in the north and to the Pacific in the south. The elevated lake allowed for gravity to fill and drain the locks, raising or lowering ships, depending on their direction of travel.
But the Panama Canal was an uneven wedding cake, due to a separation between locks on the Pacific side. While the three chambers of the Atlantic’s Gatun were sequential, the Pacific’s were far apart, with a single-chamber lock called Pedro Miguel at the lake and a dual-chamber lock called Miraflores a mile beyond. It took a typical ship about eight hours to complete the fifty-mile journey from ocean to ocean.
The pilot inched the Portobelo close to the first chamber at Gatun, stopping just short of its huge open doors, which were called gates. Messenger lines attached to steel tow cables were hoisted aboard and secured, their opposite ends attached to tiny locomotives, called mules, which ran along the lock’s edge. Under the pilot’s guidance, the mules gently towed the freighter into the chamber and held it in place as the gates astern were closed. Once sealed, additional water was released into the mammoth chamber until the ship had been raised nearly thirty feet.
Armed guards, not usually seen around the locks, patrolled the area, giving the ship a careful once-over. When the water level matched the next chamber’s, the front gates were opened and the ship was pulled forward by the mules. The process was repeated twice more, until the Portobelo motored out of the last chamber and into Gatun Lake—eighty-five feet higher than when she started. Clearing the locks, the pilot ordered the helm to increase speed.
“Helm, belay that order,” the captain said. “All stop.”
The pilot’s face turned red. “I command the vessel through the canal!” His demeanor softened when he detected another presence on the bridge. He turned to find Pablo approaching him. “Pablo! I thought this tub was eerily familiar to the old Salzburg. When did you boys get into the container business?”
“About thirty-six hours ago,” Pablo said. “We’ll be taking her from here.”
“Sure, sure.” The pilot spotted the bag in Pablo’s hand that contained the usual cash bribe and a bottle of Chivas Regal.
“There’s an extra thousand for you,” Pablo said, handing him the bag. “No more mention of the Salzburg.”
“Whatever you say. The monkeys on the dock were looking for you, but I guess you fooled them. See you on the next run.”
The ship’s crew lowered a rubber boat and ran the pilot to shore, where he could hop in a taxi to the nearest bar. When the inflatable returned, the disguised Salzburg got under way.
“You sure he can be trusted?” the captain asked.
Pablo nodded. “We’ll have completed the transfer before he’s halfway through that bottle of scotch.”
Pablo allowed himself his own notion of relief. Since receiving the warning call from Bolcke two days earlier, he had feared every call on the radio and every passing ship. But the rush transformation of the Salzburg into the Portobelo, aided by a paint respray of the bridge and funnel, and a large load of empty containers, had fooled the canal authorities at the Gatun Locks. That meant one thing.
They were home free.
67
THE COLETTA SCREAMED THROUGH THE PANAMA Canal, passing the speed-restricted commercial ships like they were standing still. An Italian-built patrol boat of some forty meters, she sported a 20mm turreted cannon on her bow for muscle.
Below deck, thirty armed commandos were crammed into the wardroom, receiving a final briefing from Alvarez. They were well trained, having conducted numerous joint exercises with international forces in mock defense of the canal. Pitt tried to quell their obvious enthusiasm for the mission by detailing the strength of Bolcke’s forces.
Yet Pitt felt his own impatience. Showered, bandaged, and wearing a fresh set of borrowed fatigues, he was anxious to get into the facility and free Giordino. But a daylight raid was risky, and everything hinged on his brief encounter with Zhou. Pitt just hoped that his instincts were right.
Alvarez handed him a holstered SIG Sauer P228 automatic. “You know how to use it?”
Pitt nodded.
“We should arrive at the deployment zone in ten minutes. I’ll be leading boat 1 into the cove. We’ll secure the dock, knock out the generator, and release the prisoners. Boat 2 will land on the peninsula and secure the residence, hopefully with Bolcke inside. Boat 3 will follow as a reserve. You can join boat 3, but I must request that you act as an observer only.”
“I’ll help where I can. Good luck, Alvarez.”
Pitt looked for Dirk and Summer but didn’t see them in the emptying wardroom. He could hear the patrol boat’s motor slow, and he followed the others onto the deck.
The Coletta had followed the canal’s transit route around the eastern shore of Barro Colorado Island, a large nature preserve in the middle of Gatun Lake. The canal’s narrow channel was marked with lights and signs to prevent ships from running aground in the nearby shallows. The lightly drafted Coletta had no such concerns as she raced across the path of an approaching containership. She traveled east for a mile until she approached a narrow landmass covered with dense vegetation.
The Coletta drifted under the hot sun as three inflatable assault craft were lowered over the side, each loaded with ten commandos. Pitt sensed his boat had some extra passengers as he squeezed between two unarmed commandos with bush hats pulled low over their faces.
“A little room for the old man?” he said.
Dirk looked up from beneath his hat. “We wanted to be here to help.”
“I’d rather you both stayed on the boat.” Pitt unhooked his holster and passed the SIG Sauer to Dirk. “Keep an eye on your sister.”
“No worries,” Summer whispered beside him.