The men in the chopper watched helplessly as the cargo section hit the deckhouse and shifted it several feet, then in grateful amazement as the water compacted the mass. Water gushed through in a dozen places and ran over the top inches deep on either side of the deckhouse, but the debris was damming the flood more effectively than before.
“Gracias a Dios,” Rojas whispered. “It holds.”
“Y Jesus y Jose y Maria,” Calderon added as he crossed himself.
“Move over Miraflores,” Rojas ordered the pilot, and in moments they were there.
Water swirled over the locks and down the slope a foot deep, carrying pools of burning gasoline, the flames dancing over the new rapids and around overturned mules on the lock walls as if they were rocks in a river roaring out of Hell. The operations building and visitors center smoldered, and a blackened container ship bobbed in a lock, surging against the gates astern in great hollow booms. But even as they watched, the flow ebbed and soon barely overtopped the complex.
“Get men here by chopper,” Rojas ordered. “If we crack open the lock valves, we can drain off the water upstream from below the surface and contain floating gasoline north of Miraflores.”
As Calderon spoke into his radio, Rojas looked southward. Gasoline burned in places, and nearby was a burning hulk, her bow hard aground, the first ship to meet the flames south of Miraflores. Faced with certain death, the pilot had warned those behind and bought them time by swinging his ship across the canal like a gate, slowing the flames and preventing his ship from drifting down on Balboa like a flaming battering ram.
Nor was that pilot the only hero, Rojas thought, squinting downstream where the busy docks were unharmed. After the pilots had turned their ships, they released their tugs to speed seaward under ships’ power. The masters of the freed tugs had taken initiative, nosing into the bank at strategic points and using their propeller wash to divert the fire from the docks at Balboa, La Boca, and Rodman across the harbor.
“A crew is on the way, jefe,” Calderon said. “I should return to the operations center.”
“One stop more,” Rojas said. “Gatun Locks,” he said to the pilot.
“So, old friend,” Rojas said as they flew north, “how long will the miracle hold?”
Calderon shrugged. “An hour… or a year. It’s in God’s hands.”
Rojas nodded and fell silent until they hovered over Gatun Locks.
“I ordered everything out of the lake,” Calderon said. “Seven client vessels came up from Cristobal before the attack. We will send them back down to Cristobal, along with the one northbound vessel that reached the lake. Eight ships total.”
“Priorities?”
“Two tankers and three container ships all laden and with no way to reduce their drafts will go first. Then two passenger ships, with a tanker in ballast last. We’ll get the deep-loaded vessels over the sill of the upper lock while we still have water. We’ll lighten the others in the lake if necessary.”
“The ballasted tanker is the new American ship?”
“Si. Her maiden voyage.”
“Is that her?” Rojas pointed.
“Si,” Calderon said, and Rojas motioned the pilot to circle the anchorage.
“So, Pedro. Who, do you think, was El Señor Luther Hurd?”
“No idea, jefe,” Calderon said.
“Nor do I,” Rojas said, “but perhaps we can make him famous. Leave the yanqui in the lake. I have an idea.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The photos on Ward’s monitor seemed as unreal now as when they’d flashed on TV, prompting his return to work. Gardner had called to vent outrage Ward hadn’t notified him immediately, hanging up as soon as he learned what little Ward knew. Ward knew little more now, hours later. The focus now was on Panama, but the spotlight would swing his way soon enough; and the spotlight was a bad place for a spook with no answers. He lifted the phone.
“Carlucci.”
“Frank, Jesse Ward.”
“Well,” said Frank Carlucci, Panama Station Chief, “one of three people at HQ who hasn’t called, besides the janitor and the snack-bar lady. How may I disappoint you?”
“That bad, huh?”
Carlucci sighed. “You don’t wanna know.”
“Yeah, I do. Can you update me?”
“Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t that pompous asshole you work for fill you in? I spent twenty minutes answering his dumb-ass questions. Don’t you people talk?”
“Gardner? When?”
“Over two hours ago,” Carlucci said.
Ward stopped, embarrassed.
“Ah… I’m sorry, Frank. Could you…”
Carlucci relented. “OK, Jesse. The short version: Five ships toast, one a cruise ship, everyone dead. All three Pacific locks out of commission, with all ACP personnel dead. A hundred visitors at a visitors center, including a school group, all presumed dead. A bunch of American expats missing from a barbecue at Pedro Miguel Boat Club. Hospitals swamped with related casualties. The death toll is a guess. Pedro Miguel lock is breached but partially plugged by debris, and they’re losing the lake. A total disaster.”
“Shit,” Ward said. “OK. I’m on the way. Keep Dugan with you when he arrives.”
“Who?”
Christ. Gardner didn’t tell him. Ward summarized the operation.
Carlucci exploded. “You knew about this and didn’t warn us!”
“No, we didn’t know. Look, Frank, it’s a long story. I’ll explain when I arrive.”
“I hope you know what you’re doin’ here, Jesse.”
Yeah, me too, Ward thought.
Rodriguez awoke, savoring the silk sheets and Eva’s skin as she lay atop him, tense and unmoving. He slapped the teenager’s butt, laughing as she flinched.
“You let me oversleep. I should imprison you for treason.” He chuckled as she leaped up, trembling.
He was still smiling minutes later as he entered his spacious outer office, gesturing to his secretary for coffee before nodding to his waiting chief of staff, who followed Rodriguez into his private office.
“What news?” Rodriguez asked, thumbing the TV remote.
“Excellency, there have been… developments…”
Rodriguez shushed him and raised the volume as scenes of devastation filled the screen.
“…over five thousand dead, including passengers of a cruise ship. Photos obtained by CNN show the attacker moments before the blast.” A photo of a man with upraised arms appeared. “…unconfirmed reports of a link to a similar attempt yesterday near Singapore…”
“This is a disaster! Why was I not informed immediately?” Rodriguez screamed.
“Forgive me, Excellency. But I have strict orders not to disturb your… siestas.”
“Could you not see this was an exception, imbecile?”
“I was not sure—”
“Out! Everyone out!” Rodriguez screamed as his coffee arrived, and his terrified secretary fled with the chief of staff, clutching the undelivered coffee.