Summer’s head popped up from inside, a look of relief on her face when she saw that it was her father.
“Any luck?” he asked.
Summer nodded. “Three empty rum bottles, a coffee can, and a pair of rats that nearly gave me cardiac arrest.” She passed the containers to Pitt, then leaped out of the dumpster like an Olympic high jumper.
Pitt held up the empty rum bottles. “They didn’t even leave us a last shot.”
“I’d trade a case of rum for a hot shower.” Summer wiped her hands on the borrowed fatigues.
Pitt had Summer stand watch while he went to work. He opened the utility cart’s hood and located a rubber fuel line. Pulling it from the carburetor, he let the gas drain into the coffee can, then transferred it into the rum bottles, filling each half full. He reinstalled the fuel line, then sliced several lengths of cloth from his camouflage jacket. He stuffed these into the bottle tops, completing a trio of Molotov cocktails.
“Truck coming,” Summer whispered.
They ducked behind the cart as an empty truck rumbled to the pen for another load of explosives. Once it passed, Pitt stood and placed the bottles in the back of the cart.
“The dock’s clear,” he said. “Let’s get down there before the truck comes back.”
“How are we going to light the bottles?”
“Get behind the wheel and hit the starter for a second when I tell you.”
As Summer slid into the driver’s seat, Pitt gathered some dry leaves and sticks and placed them in the coffee can. A thin layer of gasoline sloshed at the bottom, ensuring fuel for the fire. Pitt picked up the can and carried it to the cart’s engine. He pulled a spark plug wire, dangled the end inside the coffee can, and motioned for Summer to turn the key.
A blue spark spit from the cable end and ignited the fuel in the bottom of the can. Pitt jammed the wire back onto the plug and jumped into the passenger seat with his canned campfire. Summer restarted the cart and drove down a short hill to the dock.
The barge was still tied up, with the tug astern. Summer drove onto the dock, thankful there were no soldiers nearby. Several men were working around a crane that was loading the barge with crated explosives. Others were positioned aboard the barge, securing the crates.
“See if you can get us past the crane without stopping.” Pitt hid the coffee can and bottles at his feet.
Keeping her head down, Summer maneuvered the cart past the stacked crates and around the crane. The soldiers were too busy loading the barge to pay any attention, save for the crane operator, who looked askance at Pitt’s ill-fitting uniform. When Summer had made it past two stacked crates of explosives, Pitt told her to pull over.
Partially concealed by the crates, he grabbed a bottle and lit the rag with his coffee can fire. Stepping to the edge of the dock, he hurled it toward the center of the barge.
The bottle shattered against the top of an open bin, sending a shower of flame over the top sack of ANFO.
Pitt had barely hopped into the cart when he heard someone yell, “Hey!” Just in front of them, two armed soldiers appeared.
“Go,” Pitt whispered.
Summer floored the accelerator, aiming the utility cart at the two men. The first jumped clear but the second hesitated. Summer clipped him in the thigh, sending him reeling to the side.
Pitt turned to see the first soldier regain his balance and raise his rifle. Quickly lighting the next rum bottle, he flung it to the ground in front of him. The glass exploded in a small fireball that engulfed the soldier’s legs. A short burst of gunfire riddled the back of the cart before the soldier dropped to the ground and rolled to douse the flames.
“Where did they come from?” Pitt asked.
“I think they were loafing on the other side of the crate. Tug’s just ahead.”
Pitt lit the final Molotov cocktail and flung it at the last stack of crates on the dock, engulfing it in flames.
Summer skidded to a stop in front of the tugboat and they both hopped out of the cart.
“Release the stern line,” Pitt said, “then go to the wheelhouse and see if you can start her.”
“What if someone’s aboard?”
“They probably won’t be armed.” He patted the AK-47 under his arm.
Pitt ran to free the bow and spring mooring lines, then jumped onto the tug’s narrow deck. He raced to the bow, where several towlines from the barge were wrapped around a trio of bollards. The lines had been drawn tight and Pitt worked feverishly to release them.
Ahead of him on the barge, he heard the cries of men trying to douse the flames, while others ran to quell the dock fire. It would be short order before the two injured soldiers would alert the others of their presence. He was relieved to hear the tug’s diesel engine churn to life behind him.
Freeing the last of the barge lines, he scrambled across the squat deck and dashed to the wheelhouse, clutching the AK-47. Bursting through an open side door, he stopped in his tracks.
The wheelhouse was cramped and dim, but he could clearly see Molina standing with an arm locked around Summer’s neck and a pistol held to her temple.
“Put down your weapon,” Molina said. “It is not time to leave just yet.”
Behind him, he heard the sound of additional men charging from the dock and boarding the tug. Pitt could only look at his daughter in anguish as he slowly dropped his weapon to the deck.
52
Rudi, you’re here early.”
Vice President James Sandecker burst into the foyer of his office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building like a rabid hyena. A fitness fanatic, he was dressed in a black jogging suit and followed by two out-of-breath Secret Service agents in similar attire.
“I wanted to catch you first thing.” Rudi Gunn was seated waiting on a sofa. “How was your morning run?”
The worst-kept secret in Washington was that the Vice President took a three-mile run around the Mall at five-thirty every morning, much to the chagrin of his security detail.
“A D.C. cab nearly T-boned one of my boys here, but otherwise it’s a glorious morning to be pounding the pavement.”
Sandecker opened the door to his office and waved Gunn in as the two agents waited outside for plainclothes replacements. The Vice President took his place behind a massive desk built from the timbers of a Confederate blockade runner. A retired admiral, Sandecker had been the founding head of NUMA, and Gunn had been one of the first he had hired. He still considered NUMA his baby, and kept close relations with Gunn and Pitt. “What brings you here so early?”
“It’s the Sargasso Sea. She was operating in the Florida Straits, about thirty miles northeast of Havana. Voice and data links have now been nonresponsive for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Any distress calls or emergency beacons?”
“No, sir.”
“She’s captained by Malcomb Smith, isn’t she?”
“That’s correct.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Pitt and Giordino are also aboard.”
Sandecker pulled out a thick cigar, his lone vice, and lit it up. “What were they doing off of Cuba? You weren’t helping the CIA, were you?”
“No, nothing like that. They were tracking a series of toxic mercury plumes that have cropped up in the Caribbean.” Gunn explained the sites they’d surveyed off the southern coast of Cuba. “Pitt believes the mercury plumes are the result of an underwater mining operation targeting hydrothermal vents. We’ve traced seismic events to each of the areas consistent with the signature of land mining explosions.”