Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

The men left their chairs and clustered around the screen, watching helplessly as the intruding craft beat its way toward the grounded battleship. The observers tensed, their eyes betraying helpless frustration. "If Fawkes panics and opens fire before our forces are in position," said Kemper tonelessly, "a lot of people are going to get hurt."

The Iowa lay dead in the middle of the Potomac, her engines quiet, the telegraph turned to "all stop." Fawkes looked about him with guarded optimism. The crew was unlike any he'd ever commanded. Several of its members looked to be mere boys, and all were dressed in the camouflage jungle uniforms popularized by the AAR. And, except for the efficient manner in which they carried out their assigned duties, there was nothing about them that remotely suggested South African naval personnel.

Charles Shaba's job as chief engineer was terminated by the idle engines, and according to his orders, he now became the gunnery officer. When he climbed to the bridge, he found Fawkes leaning over a small radio set. He threw a smart salute.

"Pardon me, Cap'n, but can we talk?"

Fawkes turned around and placed a loglike arm on Shaba's shoulder. "What's on your mind?" he said, smiling.

Pleased to catch the captain in a good mood, Shaba stood at attention and shot the question that was burning in the minds of the 81

crew. "Sir, where in hell are we?"

"The Aberdeen proving grounds. Are you familiar with it, lad?"

"No, sir."

"It's a sprawling piece of land where the Americans test their weapons."

"I thought . . . that is, the men thought we were going to sea."

Fawkes looked out the window. "No, lad, the Yanks have kindly allowed us to hold gunnery practice on their target grounds."

"But how do we get out of here?" Shaba asked. "The ship is stuck on the bottom."

Fawkes gave him a fatherly expression. "Don't fret. We'll float her off at high tide as easy as you please. You'll see."

Shaba looked noticeably relieved. "The men will be glad to hear that, Cap'n."

"Good, lad." Fawkes patted him on the back. "Now get back to your station and see to the loading of the guns."

Shaba saluted and left. Fawkes watched the young black man fade into the darkness beyond the passageway, and for the first time he felt a great wave of sorrow for what he was about to do.

His reverie was diverted by the sound of an aircraft. He looked into the brightening sky and saw the blinking multicolored lights of a helicopter flying upriver from the east. He grabbed a pair of night glasses and aimed them at the craft as it passed overhead.

The letters numa were vaguely distinguishable through the lenses.

National Underwater and Marine Agency, Fawkes translated silently. No danger there. Probably returning to the Capital from some oceano-graphic expedition. He nodded at his reflection in the glass, a feeling of security growing within him.

He replaced the binoculars on the bridge counter and turned his attention once again to the radio. He held the headset to one ear and pressed the microphone button.

"Black Angus One calling Black Angus Two. Over."

A slurred, unmistakably Southern drawl answered almost immediately. "Hey man, we don't need all that coded jive. You're comin' in cool as a White Christmas."

"I'd appreciate economy of speech," snapped Fawkes.

"As long as the bread I signed for is good, you're the boss, boss."

"Ready,target range?"

"Yeah, movin' into position now."

I "Good." Fawkes glanced at his watch. "Five minutes and ten seconds I till Hogmanay."

"Hog . . . what?"

"Scots for a smashing New Year's Eve."