Charles Shaba's job as chief engineer was terminated by the idle engines, and according to his orders, he now became the gunnery officer. When he climbed to the bridge, he found Fawkes leaning over a small radio set. He threw a smart salute.
"Pardon me, Cap'n. but can we talk?"
Fawkes turned around and placed a loglike arm on Shaba's shoulder. "What's on your mind," he said, smiling.
Pleased to catch the captain in a good mood, Shaba stood at attention and shot the question that was burning in the minds of the crew. "Sir, where in hell are we?"
"The Aberdeen proving grounds. Are you familiar with it, lad?"
"No, sir."
"It's a sprawling piece of land where the Americans test their weapons."
"I thought… that is, the men thought we were going to sea."
Fawkes looked out the window. "No, lad, the Yanks have kindly allowed us to hold gunnery practice on their target grounds."
"But how do we get out of here?" Shaba asked. "The ship is stuck on the bottom."
Fawkes gave him a fatherly expression. "Don't fret. We'll float her off at high tide as easy as you please. You'll see."
Shaba looked noticeably relieved. "The men will be glad to hear that, Cap'n."
"Good, lad." Fawkes patted him on the back. "Now get back to your station and see to the loading of the guns."
Shaba saluted and left. Fawkes watched the young black man fade into the darkness beyond the passageway, and for the first time he felt a great wave of sorrow for what he was about to do.
His reverie was diverted by the sound of an aircraft. He looked into the brightening sky and saw the blinking multi-colored lights of a helicopter flying upriver from the east. He grabbed a pair of night glasses and aimed them at the craft as it passed overhead. The letters NUMA were vaguely distinguishable through the lenses.
National Underwater and Marine Agency, Fawkes translated silently. No danger there. Probably returning to the Capital from some oceanographic expedition. He nodded at his reflection in the glass, a feeling of security growing within him.
He replaced the binoculars on the bridge counter and turned his attention once again to the radio. He held the headset to one ear and pressed the microphone button.
"Black Angus One calling Black Angus Two. Over."
A slurred, unmistakably Southern drawl answered almost immediately. "Hey man, we don't need all that coded jive. You're comin'in cool as a White Christmas."
"I'd appreciate economy of speech," snapped Fawkes.
"As long as the bread I signed for is good, you're the boss, boss."
"Ready, target range?"
"Yeah, movin' into position now."
"Good." Fawkes glanced at his watch. "Five minutes and ten seconds till Hogmanay."
"Hog… what?"
"Scots for a smashing New Year's Eve."
Fawkes clicked off the mike and noted thankfully that the NUMA helicopter had continued on its leisurely course toward Washington and disappeared beyond the bluffs upriver.
At almost the same instant, Steiger altered the controls and banked the Minerva M-88 helicopter in a wide, sweeping turn over the Maryland countryside. He kept low, shaving the tops of the leafless trees, dodging an occasional water tower, grimacing at the words that came over his earphones.
"They're beginning to get nasty," he said casually. "General Somebody-or-other claims he's going to shoot us down if we don't get the hell out of the area."
"Acknowledge," said Pitt. "And tell him you're complying."
"Who should I say we are?"
Pitt thought a moment. "Tell him the truth. We're a NUMA copter on special assignment."
Steiger shrugged and began talking into his microphone.
"Old General Whosit bought it," said Steiger. He angled his head toward Pitt. "You'd better get ready. I judge it about eight minutes to the drop."
Pitt unclasped his seat belt and waited until Sandecker did the same, then moved into the helicopter's small cargo compartment. "Do it right the first time," Pitt said into Steiger's ear, "or you'll make an ugly red mess on the side of the Iowa."
"You're looking at a neatness nut," Steiger said with a diluted smile. "All you have to do is hang tight and leave the driving to old Abe. If you have to drop early, I'll make damn sure you've got a nice cushion of deep water under your ass."
"I'm counting on it."
"We'll come around and swing in from the west to cloak our outline against whatever darkness is left." Steiger's eyes never strayed from the windshield. "I'm flicking off the navigation lights now. Good luck!"
Pitt squeezed Steiger's arm, stepped into the cargo section of the Minerva, and closed the cockpit door. The compartment was ice cold. The loading hatch was open and the wintry morning air whistled into what seemed a vibrating aluminum tomb. Sandecker held the harness out to him and he strapped it on.
The admiral started to say something and then hesitated. At last, his cast-iron features taut with suppressed emotion, he said, "I'll expect you for breakfast."
"Make my eggs scrambled.," Pitt said.
Then he stepped into the frigid dawn.
Lieutenant Alan Fergus, leader of the SEAL combat units, zipped up his wet suit and cursed the vagaries of the high command. Not more than an hour ago he'd been rudely awakened from a dead sleep and hurriedly briefed on what he regarded as the dumbest exercise ever to come his way during seven years in the Navy. He pulled on his rubber hood and tucked his ears under the lining. Then he approached a tall, burly man who sat slouched in a nonregulation director's chair. His feet were propped on the bridge railing and he peered intently down the Potomac.
"What's it all about?" asked Fergus.
Lieutenant Commander Oscar Kiebel, the dour skipper of the Coast Guard patrol boat that was ferrying Fergus and his men, twisted the corners of his mouth in an expression of distaste and shrugged. "I'm as confused as you."
"Do you believe that bullshit about a battleship?"
"No," Kiebel said in a rumbling voice. "I've seen four-thousand-ton destroyers cruise upriver to the Washington Navy Yard, but a fifty-thousand-ton battleship? No way."
"Board and secure the stern for Marine helicopter-assault teams," Fergus said irritably. "Those orders are sheer crap, if you want my opinion."
"I'm not any happier about this outing than you," said Kiebel. "I take my picnics as they come." He grinned. "Maybe it's a surprise party with booze and wild women."
"At seven o'clock in the morning, neither holds much interest. Not out in the open, at any rate."
"We'll know soon. Two more miles till we round Sheridan Point. Then our objectives should be within — " Suddenly Kiebel broke off and cocked his head, listening. "You hear that?"
Fergus cupped his ears and turned, facing the patrol boat's wake. "Sounds like a helicopter."
"Coming like a bat out of hell without lights," Kiebel added.
"My God!" Fergus exclaimed. "The Marines have jumped the gun. They're going in ahead of schedule."
An instant later every head on the patrol boat turned upward as a helicopter roared past at two hundred feet, a dim shadow against a gray sky. All were so engrossed in the mysterious, darkened craft they didn't notice the vague shape trailing below and slightly to the rear of the copter until it swept over the decks and carried away the radio antennae.
"What in hell was that?" blurted Kiebel in genuine astonishment.
Pitt would have been only too glad to supply the answer if he'd had the time. Strapped in the harness, dangling under the NUMA helicopter only thirty feet above the river. he barely managed to extend his legs forward as he crashed into the patrol boat's antennae. His feet took most of the shock, and fortunately — damned fortunately, he thought later — none of the wiring had entangled his body, sectioning him like a lettuce slicer. As it was, he would carry a nice welt across his buttocks where a piece of thin tubing had made brief contact.