Mercer looked out into the storm. He could just see the darker shadow of a cargo ship approaching the locks. “I agree.” He dialed Lauren. “It’s me. Victor just called. Our friend is already at the Miraflores Lock.”
“Passengers are beginning to come through now. No sign of the guys in the green hats yet.”
“We might not be able to wait for them,” Mercer told her.
“I hear you, but I don’t like it.”
“Neither do we.”
“As soon as we’re on the road, I’ll call.”
“Roger. And Lauren, be careful.”
“You too.”
Her call came fifteen minutes later. “We’re coming. Should be with you in twenty minutes. The storm’s keeping traffic down to a dull snarl.”
“Good. Hey, let me talk with the commanding officer.”
“This is Jim Patke.” The voice was mild, not the nail-eating fire-spitter Mercer expected. “You’re Mercer?”
“Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to go over some details about the assault.”
“Forget it. The plan you discussed with General Vanik isn’t going to happen. Delta Force and SEALs go for those kinds of attacks. Not us. I’ve seen pictures of the lock area. What you’re going to do is take us by boat to the other side of the canal. We’ll make our way onto the retaining wall and jump to the target while it’s in the chamber.”
“Doesn’t give much time to secure the ship,” Mercer said.
“Won’t know ’til we get there since no one has intel on the target’s complement.” Patke’s voice was filled with bitter complaint.
Mercer could understand the commando’s frustration. He was leading his team against an unknown force without any time to properly plan or train for the attack. For all Patke knew there were a hundred Chinese soldiers on the Mario diCastorelli. “I hear you,” Mercer replied at last. “If you think you’ll need it, there are seven of us ready to help.” He counted Lauren in his tally but not Roddy or Harry. Roddy’s orders were to drive the boat for the Special Forces and remain out of the way until events had been played out. Mercer could not risk the family man.
“No way,” Patke answered. “It’ll be hairy enough without having to worry about civilians.”
There was no point explaining that the Foreign Legion veterans weren’t civilians or that he himself had probably seen more combat than Patke or any of his men. Besides which Mercer had already determined a fallback position he wanted to use while the Green Berets took over the bomb ship. Roddy had mentioned it when they’d arrived at the marina.
“Okay,” Mercer said. “We’ll be waiting.” He clicked off the cell phone.
Bruneseau cleared his throat. “Well?”
“They’re going to take the ship in the lock. Roddy will take them to the other side of the canal in the boat. I think the rest of us should move to where the pilot boats are stored on the upper end of the lock chamber.” There was a small marina used exclusively by the Canal Authority a half mile up the road from the Balboa Yacht Club. It was this boatyard where the launch that had chased Mercer from the Pedro Miguel Lock came from after Lauren’s ill-fated dive. If necessary Mercer and his team could commandeer one of the thirty-foot pilot boats and stage their own last-ditch attack on the Mario diCastorelli.
“We’ll leave now,” Foch announced. “Monsieur Herrara, are you certain that they won’t question us if we park the truck near that marina?”
“Just as long as you park in the lot reserved for tourists who watch ships going through the lock. There’s a chain-link fence separating it from the employee lot. The pickup can smash through it no problem.”
Harry slid open the door and stepped into the salon. His coat was shiny with rain, and when he pulled off his hood, water cascaded to the floor. He’d been up on the flying bridge keeping watch for the Mario diCastorelli. “I think I saw her.” He set down a pair of binoculars and dried his hands on his pants so he could pull a cigarette from its crumpled pack. “I also saw a couple other freighters behind her and a ship with a huge white superstructure just coming out of the Miraflores Locks. Must be a PANAMAX cruise ship.”
Roddy consulted the manifest he’d gotten from Essie Vega. “The freighters will be the Robert T. Change, the Englander Rose and the Sultana. The cruise ship is the Rylander Sea.”
Harry seemed to lose focus for a moment when he heard the names. He said nothing, just silently smoked his Chesterfield.
Roddy added, “The Rylander Sea carries about five thousand passengers and crew. Transit cruises are some of the most popular so she’ll be full. Also, she’s considered to be a luxury ship with cabin prices about twice most other liners. Her passengers are going to be elderly since they have the money and the time to take a twenty-five-day cruise from Alaska to Puerto Rico.”
Mercer’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this information. “Unless the Green Berets need you to wait at the lock, I want you to go across the lake and be prepared to warn that ship off if it looks like we won’t stop the explosion.”
“With any luck I’ll know the pilot.”
Foch got to his feet. “We should leave.”
“Take the truck. I’ll join you when Lauren arrives,” Mercer said.
“D’accord.”
“Harry, I think you should stay with Roddy.”
“I’m sure you do,” the octogenarian replied. “And I would, except for one small problem. None of you know how to handle a ship the size of the diCastorelli. If Patke or you run into trouble, you’re going to need me. I’ve got twenty-some years of experience on freighters, many of them as master. I’m the only one here who can maneuver her if the Chinese attach that submersible to her hull and try to crash her in the Gaillard Cut.”
Mercer watched Harry’s blue eyes, struggling with his feelings of loyalty and duty. “Can you walk me through the procedures over the radio?” he asked.
“No. I need to be on her to feel how she responds.” They continued to study each other. “Hey, don’t think I wouldn’t rather be on my bar stool at Tiny’s,” Harry added.
Mercer finally broke eye contact and glanced at Foch. His meaning was clear.
“Do not worry, my friend,” the Legionnaire said in French. “My debt to you for saving my life will be protecting his at all cost.”
“All right. Lauren and I will be with you in a few minutes.”
The men tucked their weapons back in their bags and climbed over the gunwale for the dock. Bruneseau led them and Foch stayed at Harry’s side. Harry didn’t bother using his walking stick and as far as Mercer could tell his gait was even. His prosthesis wasn’t bothering him because he was in the grip of the same adrenaline surge coursing through Mercer’s veins.
Ten minutes later, multiple pairs of feet leapt to the deck of the fishing boat. Lauren opened the door and twisted rain from her hair when she stepped inside. Behind her were the six Green Berets. Mercer stood to shake Patke’s hand. “Philip Mercer.”
“Captain Jim Patke.” The soldier was about thirty, with blue eyes and blondish hair kept longer than army regulations. He was a bit shorter than Mercer but appeared well proportioned. His grip was firm. His stance bespoke a selfassuredness that came from years of training. Mercer introduced Roddy Herrara. “For operational security,” the team leader said, “forgive me if I don’t present my men.”
The five other soldiers were cut from a similar mold—athletic without the steroid bulk of movie heroes. Mercer could see intelligence in their eyes and just a hint that being called into action, no matter how ill-planned, gave them a thrill.