“Really?”
“From what I have read, there is nothing in the drugs that can force you to be truthful. You will be relaxed and open to suggestion, but you can still withhold information if you truly want to.”
“Hmmm, I wonder if I did.”
Interesting that he was concentrating on that fact. Had he told them everything he knew? Or only everything they wanted to know? It all depended on asking the right questions. He was beginning to recall the faces gathered around him, enquiring, but not their exact words — and certainly not his.
That could be a significant difference. Erich considered this. “That fact that we are still alive tells me that we did not yet tell them what they wanted to know, or that we remain of some use to them.”
Tommy grinned without humor. “Yeah, I gotta feelin’ you’re on the money with that one.”
Erich nodded. “I think so. Even though our captors did not have the look of totally ruthless men, I fear they nevertheless possessed that trait.”
“So what do we do when they come for us? Do we see what they want? Or should I try somethin’?”
Again, he was reminded of his early days with Manny. It was almost unthinkable to accept, but they were so young for what had been heaped on them. Men in their twenties with no understanding of how fragile life could be. He remembered acting so often on impulse, rather than reason or information. “We need to know more of our situation before we can act with any chance of success. Or we jump from the pot to the fire, yes?”
Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Besides… I am a very old man.”
Tommy looked at him and smiled. “You might be as old as you say you are, but I gotta tell you — you look way younger. Maybe sixty, but that’s it.”
“I have been told that ever since the end of the war — that I never looked my age. And I think I know why…”
“What do you mean?”
“The metal bar — the intermatter — the scientist told me about radiation they were working with. Tau-rays, he called it. I have often wondered if keeping that object in my bedstand all those years, if the radiation did something to me.”
Tommy chuckled softly. “Yeah, you mean like keeping you from aging, huh?”
“Something like that, yes. When I think about my age, I can hardly believe I am still alive. But I can tell you truly, Mr. Chipiarelli, I will do whatever I can to defeat these people.”
Tommy grinned. “Hey, c’mon, Captain. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
Erich grinned, said nothing. He could hear a low-frequency vibration, a rhythmic beating in the air that grew ever stronger, louder. Tommy moved to the porthole, gestured for Erich to join him.
“I hear a helicopter,” he said. “You think it’s for us?”
Erich took a breath slowly and exhaled with equal measure. He remained on the edge of the bed because, at the moment, the idea of walking across the room seemed a little adventurous. Ever since awakening, he’d been feeling a hint of arrhythmia, which — radiation or not — his doctor had told him could be the harbinger of something worse. While he fully understood the tension and anticipation in Chipiarelli, he knew he was not physically able to keep up.
The sound of the approaching aircraft grew louder and more insistent. The air above the boat vibrated and shook, telling Erich that something large and powerful lumbered above them. “Do you see it?”
Tommy kept his attention on the sky. “Yeah, it’s one of those big ones. Like a flyin’ crane. Big. Propellers on both ends. It’s carryin’ some kind of little boat, looks like a sub or somethin’.”
Erich nodded. That made sense. Things were flowing into place, and he felt himself warming to the confluence of events. He felt flashes of memory from his days on the command deck, and he relished the chance to be in that position one final time.
After twenty years of dealing with choices no more important than Cheerios or a poached egg, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to make a decision that actually mattered.
Chapter Forty-Four
Logistics had never been his strong suit. The strings he’d been pulling for the last eight hours — just to get things into motion — had pushed him to the edge. Much of it involved justifying his needs to superiors he either didn’t know or didn’t like. Sometimes, he wondered if his involvement with the amorphous Guild was worth it. It made him feel as if his entire life had been a waste of time.
Right now, he stood on the bridge of the Isabel Marie, a merchant freighter sailing under the flag of Panama, even though it belonged to an entity ultimately controlled by Guild chieftains. Such an arrangement was called a “flag of convenience” because the cost of personnel and supplies was economically favorable in countries like Panama, Liberia, Bahamas, and Madagascar.
However, you get what you pay for, the ship’s First Mate had warned him, and the lowlife crew on the Isabel Marie had questionable skills and absolutely no loyalty. The boat’s availability and proximity to the Northeast coast of North America made it the only viable choice, but nothing could disguise it as anything but a worn-out, rusted wreck hardly fit to transport its own bilge much less anything of value. But also because of this, it provided a perfect cover for the operation.
The freighter was headed northeast toward the coordinates found in Bruckner’s papers, but would not reach them for several days. By that time, Sinclair planned to have the initial phase of the operation well over. He watched with apprehension as the slipshod crew secured the Dragonfish to the foredeck with enough tie-downs to make the submersible look like a bug in a spider’s lair. The Erickson Aircrane which had transported the small submarine had already lifted off to rendezvous for an in-flight refueling.
Now, Sinclair awaited a second, smaller Bell Long Ranger which had plucked a nuclear technician named Hawthorne from his retirement cabin on Presque Isle Lake. The man had not been happy to be interrupted from the rest of his life, but he had no choice. When you sell yourself to the Guild, it’s a non-refundable transaction, there’s no such thing as a gold watch or a retirement dinner.
Sinclair hadn’t liked the idea of trusting the outcome of the mission to such an older, out-of-the-loop character, not even an expert in fissionable materials and weapons. Hawthorne had been in charge of arming nuclear warheads on cruise missiles launched from Ticonderoga-class ships. The man was probably competent, but if time were not of the essence, Sinclair would have held out for a scientist with credentials worthy of the Oak Ridge National Lab.
As he watched the lackadaisical crew finish securing the submersible, he checked his watch. Hawthorne was due any minute now.
Time. Was it working for or against him? He needed satellite surveillance reports on the progress of any forces marshalling against them, but they were very hard to hack from the NAVSAT scramblers. Most assuredly, McCauley had used his connections in the Navy to get them interested. And there was no readily reliable data on locations of Virginia-class attack subs — unquestionably the most deadly, unstoppable weapon he could encounter. Going balls-out against the superior forces of the USN was a great risk, he knew, but the David-and-Goliath scenario was a classic for a reason.
The Guild had survived a long time working under that model.
A larger lumbering adversary often moved slowly, and when you add in a layer of bureaucracy, mortared with incredulity, the advantage could easily belong to the smaller, less encumbered party. If he could move with speed and confidence.