The next thing Perlmutter felt was Admiral Semmes’s tongue lapping his face. He slowly sat up and rubbed the bump on his head. After a few minutes, the throbbing pain eased enough for him to stand. He flicked on the lights to inventory the room.
A front window had been jimmied open, providing the burglar entry. Yet little in the study had been disturbed. Valuable antiques and ship artifacts were left untouched, as was his collection of rare books. Everything was in its place, except for the leather-bound copy of Moby-Dick that had been hurled at him.
He checked his desk drawers, but they had not been touched. As he examined the desktop, he realized there was something missing — his file on Ellsworth Boyd and the sinking of the Maine.
He sat down and was about to call the police when Admiral Semmes jumped in his lap.
“Well, Admiral, it would seem the Pitts have stirred up a bit of trouble with the Maine and the Aztec artifact. It’s a good thing I had already digested the complete file.”
The cat poked his head at Perlmutter’s hand and he obliged by stroking the cat’s back.
“I will say our tag team wrestling left a bit to be desired. But your early-warning system was superb. It’s extra milk for you in the morning, my good friend.”
Admiral Semmes looked at him and purred.
51
Pitt spied a flurry of activity around the dockside facility. The ore barge had been emptied of its original cargo and was now being loaded with small wooden crates and large bins filled with heavy canvas sacks.
He stopped in the shadows and watched a team of men in a guarded storage pen load the sacks, which resembled dry concrete mix. Red signs marked Explosivos hung nearby. The sacks likely contained ANFO, or ammonium nitrate/fuel oil, a common industrial bulk explosive, while the small crates contained TNT. The explosives would soon be on their way to the Sea Raker for blasting open the thermal vents.
Pitt made his way past the pen to the two-story building. He saw that the lower level was used for operations support. An equipment locker and a machine shop faced the water on the near side. At the far end was an open garage with a utility cart parked out front. The upper level looked to be barracks for the soldiers — a likely holding place for Summer.
He spotted a side stairway, crept to its base, and started climbing.
When he was halfway up, the door to the second level burst open and a soldier rushed out with a toolbox. There was little Pitt could do, so he simply lowered his head and picked up his pace. The soldier stormed past him without a glance.
At the top landing, Pitt took a deep breath and stepped inside. A dim corridor stretched before him, with multiple rooms on either side. All the doors were open except for one at the far end. Opposite the room, two soldiers leaned against the wall, smoking cigarettes.
Pitt walked toward them, trying to appear casual as he tightened his grip on the assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
Noting his approach, one of the soldiers spoke rapidly to his companion, then darted out an opposite exit, fearful he was about to be caught goldbricking. The other soldier extinguished his cigarette and stood at attention.
Pitt approached quickly, asking from a distance, “Cigarillo?”
The soldier reached into his pocket before realizing something was amiss. The approaching man was taller than any soldier he knew, his uniform was several sizes too short, and his craggy face was too mature for his rank.
Rather than extending a hand for the cigarette, the stranger jammed his rifle into the soldier’s chest. Before he had a chance to react, Pitt commanded him, “Drop your weapon.”
The guard nodded and let his rifle slip to the floor. Pitt nudged him toward the door and told him to open it. The door was unlocked. The guard twisted the knob and flung it open. Summer was seated on a bunk inside, visibly working to free her bound wrists. She froze, then did a double take as Pitt entered with the guard ahead of him.
She gave him a tired smile. “You join the Revolutionary Armed Forces?”
“The Boy Scouts wouldn’t have me.”
Keeping his gun leveled on the guard, Pitt handed Summer his penknife. “You okay?” He noted the light cut on her cheek.
She nodded. “Received some idle threats from our host but was otherwise stuck here counting flies all day.”
“I think you’ll need his cap and jacket.” Pitt motioned toward the guard.
Summer appropriated his attire. “What do we do with him?”
“Tie him up. You can use those bedsheets, but start with this.” Pitt handed her the shoulder strap off his rifle.
She wrapped the man’s wrists together behind his back, then stripped the sheets off the bed. She secured one around his elbows, then shoved him on the bed and tied his ankles together with the other. She finished the job by gagging him with a pillowcase.
“You did that very well,” Pitt said.
“I’ve had a bit of experience on the other end lately.”
Summer slipped on the guard’s jacket and hat. Before they exited the room, Pitt retrieved the man’s weapon from the floor and handed it to his daughter.
“I’ve never fired one of these.”
“You won’t need to. Just act like you know how.”
They exited the building by the rear stairwell and ducked behind a dumpster to reconnoiter the dock.
“How do we get out of here?” she asked.
“The tug.”
Summer looked at her father and shook her head. “Why don’t we just sneak down the coast and find another boat? They’ll be all over us here.”
“Because of the thermal vents. They’re loading explosives aboard the barge right now in preparation for blowing the next two vents. We can’t let that happen.”
Summer had heard that firm tone in her father’s voice before. She knew there would be no changing his mind. And, rationally, he was right. If the Cubans blew up the thermal vents, it would cause an environmental catastrophe of untold proportions. They had to be stopped and there was no time to spare.
She just wished the job could fall to someone else. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Try to ignite the explosives on the dock — or on the barge. If we’re lucky, maybe we can sink the barge with it. During the confusion, we’ll slip out on the tug.”
“And if we’re not lucky, we’ll be blown sky-high?”
Pitt smiled and shook his head. “The explosive they’re loading, ANFO, has a low volatility. Getting it to blow requires a secondary detonation. The best we can hope to do is ignite it and hope it burns like crazy.”
“‘Crazy’ is the operational word, all right.” She noticed her father’s calm demeanor and her fears fell away. “Okay, what can I do?”
Pitt rapped his knuckles against the trash bin. “I need you to do a little dumpster diving while I round up some transportation. We could use an empty bottle or two, and perhaps a small open container. I’ll be right back.”
Before she could answer, he rushed back to the barracks building and stepped to the front side. A short distance away, the storage garage was still open and the gas-powered utility cart parked in front. Pitt lingered near the side of the building as a truck loaded with explosives rumbled past on its way to the barge. Once it passed, he crept toward the open garage. Voices sounded from inside, where a pair of mechanics were overhauling a truck engine.
Pitt ignored the men and approached the cart. Releasing its emergency brake, he pushed it past the open garage door. The cart rolled easily, and the mechanics didn’t notice the sound of crunching gravel under its tires. Pitt pushed it past the building and up to the dumpster.