When the Mexican police got around to a minute scrutiny of the raped castle, ruined El Mirador, they would find some baffling matters. They would also find a vault full of money, good U.S. money, which Nick had no doubt they would confiscate. Let the CIA worry about all that. He, Nick Carter, had gotten out in time. There was nothing to tie AXE in with this operation. That would please Hawk.
He tried to remember just how he came to be back aboard Homer. Pancho had left him on the beach, lying there in the sand, with a soft-voiced adiós. He could dimly remember them saying something about a submarine, el submarino, and then the sound of their horses going off at a tearing gallop.
But he could not have summoned Homer! He had lost the hunting knife with the beeper in the hilt. Had left it sticking in the shark that had attacked him in the lagoon. How, then, had the sub happened to be there?
Nick was remembering more clearly now. He could recall the rubber boat, the gentle hands, the hurry and the whispers as they took him back out to Homer. Then the needle and blessed sleep.
The lieutenant in command of Homer came into the sick bay and grinned at Nick. “Feeling better, sir?” There was, Nick noticed with the beginnings of curiosity, something about the lieutenant that was new. A kind of excitement. A subdued intensity. And that grin — the kid looked like a cat that had just worked out a foolproof scheme for getting the canary!
“At least I can feel,” Nick answered. “Nothing broken, the medic tells me. I lost a little blood, it seems. Nothing a couple weeks of sleep won’t fix.” To himself he added: plus a few birds and bottles, and a beautiful girl. For a moment he thought with regret of Angelita Dolores Rita Inez Delgado. How nice to see her again with a little time at his disposal. Then he shrugged the thought away. Too young for him, really. And going back might spoil the memory. He would find someone else. No problem, ever, for him.
“How come you people picked me up when you did?” he asked. “I didn’t send the beeper signal. I couldn’t. I lost the damned thing.”
The lieutenant sat on the edge of the bed. He took off his cap and smoothed his hair. He was balding at the peak.
“We caught your message, sir, and then we took a fix on the signal you sent out.” He looked at Nick quizzically. “Frankly, sir, none of it made much sense to me. But San Diego was getting the fix, too, and they signaled me to go in after you, to keep the rendezvous at once — just in case. I guess it’s a good thing we did.”
“I guess it is.” Someone had used his head, Nick thought. Probably it had been Hawk, who would have been in on everything, and knew that when his boy sent a distress signal things were really bad.
“Speaking of San Diego,” said Nick, “aren’t we taking a long time to get there?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Afraid so, sir. We have to run on the surface. We, ah, we had a little accident at sea. Sustained some damage and we’re just sort of limping back home.”
“Yeah?” Nick raised himself on an elbow. “What happened?”
An odd look came over the lieutenant’s face. He was dying to talk about it, to zero this rugged-looking character in on the truth — he had a feeling there was a connection — but he remembered his orders.
“I... I’m sorry, sir. I can’t talk about it. Classified.” He got up to leave. “We’ll be in San Diego in a few hours, sir. Good luck.”
At the door he glanced back at Nick. “We had a collision at sea, sir. That’s all I can tell you.” Nick was never sure whether the lieutenant winked, or had something in his eye.
He lay back, lit a cigarette from a pack from sea stores and went back to staring at the ceiling. So Homer had rammed Sea Dragon. Had stumbled on the Chinese sub at night and rammed her. It would be classified information — forever! Let Peking wonder about the sub that never came back.
In spite of all the hell he raised they took him to the Naval Hospital in San Diego. In vain Killmaster tugged and pulled at every string he could find — the doctors were adamant. He was in for at least a week of shots, vitamins, X-rays and the sumptuous Navy food.
There was a ray of sunshine. Her name was Barbara Holt, as petite and lovely a Naval nurse as Nick had ever seen. She had red hair. Nick could not understand how Hollywood had overlooked her.
He sweet-talked her into letting him use an official phone. She smuggled him into the private office of some High Brass, at night, and he called Hawk. At home, at first, and when that phone did not answer he called the office in Washington proper. Hawk must be working around the clock, as he so often did.
When his boss came on Nick said, “Better scramble, sir.”
“I am.”
Nick talked for ten minutes. When he had finished Hawk cleared his throat and said, “Well done, N3. Very good job. Of course the CIA has already been in touch with me. The Director is very pleased, very pleased! You are up for a medal and a citation, I believe. Personally I don’t approve — your ego is quite large enough now, and besides there is the matter of security — but I’m afraid they are going to insist.”
Nick said: “Sir? Am I now officially released from loan to the CIA? I am now AXE again — and only AXE? Responsible only to you and the President?”
“You are. Why?”
When Hawk hung up there was a puzzled expression on his lined old face. He rang for his secretary. “Better have Technical check this scrambler, Miss Stokes. N3 couldn’t have said what I thought he said — something about spitting in the milk!”