Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

He replaced the cap and spoke into the microphone again. "Angus Two, come in, please."

"Gotcha, big Angus One."

"Range?"

"Eighty yards short but right on the money. Just compensate for elevation and you got her, man."

"Your job is finished, Angus Two. Take care."

"Too late. I think the dudes in the khaki suits are about to take me away. So long, man. It's been a heavy date."

Fawkes stared at the receiving end of the microphone, wanting to speak words of appreciation to the man he'd never met, to thank him for jeopardizing his life even if it was for a price. Whoever Angus Two was, it would be a long time before he could spend the money placed in a foreign bank account by the South African Defence Ministry.

"A street sweeper," snorted Higgins. " Fawkes's spotter drove a god-damned city street sweeper.The city police are booking him now."

"That explains how he moved through the roadblocks without arous-ing suspicion," said March.

The President seemed not to hear. His attention was trained on the Iowa. He could clearly make out small forms in black wet suits darting from cover to cover, pausing only to fire their weapons before moving ever closer to the machine guns that dwindled their numbers. The President counted ten inert SEALs sprawled on the decks.

"Can't we do something to help those men?"

Higgins gave a helpless shrug. "If we open up from shore, we'd probably kill more SEALs than we'd save. I'm afraid there is little we can do for the moment."

"Why not send in the Marine assault teams?"

87

"Those copters are sitting ducks once they land on thelowa 's aft deck. They each carry fifty troops. It would be mass slaughter. We'd accomplish nothing."

"I agree with the general," said Kemper. "The Satans bought us a breather. Number-two turret appears to be knocked out. We can afford to give the SEALs more time to clear the decks of terrorist opposition."

The President sat back and stared at the men surrounding him. "Then we wait-is that what you're saying? We wait and watch while men die in living color before our eyes on that damned TV screen?"

"Yes, sir." Higgins answered. "We wait."

62

Consulting his diagram of the ship while on the run, Pitt unerringly led Lusana down a series of darkened passages and alleyways, past dank empty rooms, until he finally paused at a bulkhead door. Then he wadded the diagram in a ball and tossed it to the deck. Lusana stopped obediently and waited for an explanation.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Outside the projectile-storage area," Pitt answered. He leaned his weight against the door, which grudgingly creaked three quarters open. Pitt peered into a dimly lit room and listened. They both heard men shouting against the metallic clash of heavy machinery, the rattle of chains, and the hum of electric motors. The sounds seemed to come from above. Cautiously, Pitt stepped over the sill.

The tall armor-piercing shells were neatly stacked on their bases around the hoist tube, their conical heads gleaming menacingly under two yellow light bulbs. Pitt eased past the shells and looked upward.

On the deck overhead two black men were leaning in the hoist-tube access doors and hammering and cursing at the elevator cradle. The explosions that rocked the ship had jammed the mechanism. Pitt pulled back from the opening and began examining the shells. There was a total of thirty-one, and only one shell had a rounded head.

The second QD warhead was not present.

Pitt took a tool kit from his belt and handed the flashlight to Lusana. "Hold this steady while I operate."

"What are you going to do?"

"Deactivate a shell."

"If I am to be blown to smithereens," said Lusana, "may I know why?"

"No!" Pitt snapped. He hunched down and motioned for the light. His hands circled the cone of the shell as lightly as those of a safecracker fingering a tumbler dial. Locating the locking screws, he carefully undid them with a screwdriver. The threads were frozen with age and they fought his every twist. Time, Pitt thought desperately; he needed time before Fawkes's crew repaired the hoist and returned to the projectile-storage compartment.