Vixen 03 Part 59

O'Shea unhooked the barrier cable and dropped it to the wet ground. He motioned to Pitt to hold while he leaned in the window. "If you see that bus driver, Mr. Metz, ask him what's delaying his departure."

Metz looked puzzled. "Bus driver?"

"Came through about seven o'clock this evening carrying a load of about seventy black guys. They were headed for the Iowa."

"You let them through?" Metz asked incredulously.

"They all had proper pa.s.ses, including the driver of the truck, who followed them in."

"Fawkes!" Metz snapped angrily. "What's that crazy Scot up to now?"

Pitt s.h.i.+fted into drive and steered the car into the yard. "Who's Fawkes?" he asked.

"Captain Patrick McKenzie Fawkes," Metz said. "Royal Navy retired. He made no secret of the fact that some black terrorist bunch hired him to refit the s.h.i.+p. The man is nuttier than a cashew factory."

Jarvis turned and faced Metz. "How so?"

"Fawkes has driven me and my crew up the bulkheads giving the entire vessel a major face-lift. He's made us strip her down next to nothing and replace half the superstructure with wood."

"The/owa was never designed to float like a cork," said Pitt. "If her buoyancy and gravity centers are drastically altered, she could capsize in a heavy storm."

"Tell me about it," Metz grunted. "I've argued with that stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d for months. I might as well have farted at a hurricane for all the good it did me. He even demanded we remove two perfectly good General Electric geared turbine engines and seal their shafts." He paused and tapped Pitt on the shoulder. "Turn right at the next pile of steel plating and then swing a left at the derrick's rail tracks."

The temperature had dropped and the rain was becoming an icy sheet. Two large boxlike shadows materialized under the headlights. "The bus and truck," announced Pitt. He parked the car but left the motor running and the lights on.

"No sign of the drivers," said Jarvis.

Pitt took a flashlight from the car's door pocket and got out. Jarvis followed, but Metz hurried off into the night without saying a word. Pitt aimed the beam through the bus windows and into the back of the truck. They were both empty.

Pitt and Jarvis skirted the deserted vehicles and found Metz standing stock still, hands clenched at his sides. His evening jacket was soaked and his hair plastered to his scalp. He looked like a resurrected drowning victim.

"The Iowa?" Jarvis asked.

Metz spastically waved his arms at the dark. "s.h.a.gged a.s.s."

"s.h.a.gged ... what?"

"That d.a.m.ned Scot has sailed her away!"

"Jesus, are you sure?"

Metz's face and his voice were alive with a desperate kind of urgency. "I don't misplace battles.h.i.+ps. This is where she's been moored during the refit." Suddenly he spotted something and ran over to the edge of the dock. "My G.o.d, look at that! The mooring lines are still tied to the dock bollards. The crazy idiots cast off their lines from the s.h.i.+p. It's as though they never intend to moor her again."

Jarvis leaned over and stared down at where the heavy lines disappeared into the inky water. "My fault. Criminal negligence not to have

believed the handwriting on the wall."

"We still can't be certain they're actually going through with an attack," Pitt said.

Jarvis shook his head. "They're going to do it; you can count on that." Tiredly, he rested his weight against a piling. "If only they'd given us a date and a target."

"The date was there all the time," said Pitt.

Jarvis looked at him questioningly and waited.

"You said the idea behind the attack was to motivate sympathy for the South African whites and provoke American anger against the black revolutionaries," Pitt continued. "What more perfect day than today?"

"It is now five minutes past twelve on Wednesday morning." Jarvis's voice was tense. "I make nothing eventful out of that."

"The originators of Operation Wild Rose have a superb sense of timing," said Pitt in a dry, ironic tone. "Today is also December the seventh, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor."

Part 5

The Iowa

Pretoria, South Africa-December 7, 1988

Pieter De Vaal sat alone and read a book in his office at the Defence Ministry. It was early evening and the summer light filtered through the arched windows. A soft rap came at the door.

De Vaal spoke without looking up from his reading.

"Yes?"

Zeegler entered. "We've been alerted that Fawkes has launched the operation."

De Vaal's face showed no trace of interest as he laid aside the book and handed Zeegler a piece of paper. "See that the communications officer on duty personally sends this message to the American State Department."

It is my duty to warn your government of an impending attack on your sh.o.r.e by African Army of Revolution terrorists under the command of Captain Patrick Fawkes, Royal Navy retired. I deeply regret any inadvertent rdle my cabinet has played in this grave infamy.

ERIC KOERTSMANN Prime Minister

"You have admitted guilt in the name of our Prime Minister, who is totally ignorant of Operation Wild Rose," said an astonished Zeegler. "May I ask why?"

De Vaal clasped his hands in front of him and peered at Zeegler. "I see no reason to discuss the details."

"Then may I ask why you have thrown Fawkes to the wolves?"

The Minister went back to his book with a dismissive gesture. "See to it that the message is sent. Your questions will be answered at the appropriate moment."