America (54 page)

People holding loaded guns on other people are rarely alert, convinced that people will be paralyzed at the mere sight of a muzzle pointed in their direction. It usually works; few things in life are more horrifying.

The third gunman, also a smoker, paid for his inattention. By the time he got his weapon into action, Flap was shooting at him. His bullets went high. Flap's didn't.

The third gunman took a burst right in the chest. By the time he hit the bulkhead and slid to the deck, he was dead.

Bobbing in the water, Willi Schlegel saw the third gunman go down. And he saw the grim visage of Flap Le Beau turn in his direction and point his weapon.

“No,” he screamed.

Flap fired a short burst. When the spray cleared, only the top of Schlegel's head was visible, rising and falling with the motion of the black seawater.

The general turned, ensured that the sailors didn't want any part of what he had in his hands, then motioned to the women marines. “Get these guns. Quickly now.” They collected the submachine guns, spare magazines, and three pistols. Flap took the time to reload his weapon. He stuck a pistol in his waistband.

As he herded his wife and Callie off the sponson, he said to Lizzy, “You stay here. If the minisub surfaces and that dude sticks his head out of the hatch, shoot him.”

“Yes, sir.”

*   *   *

The minisub made some noise as it swam down into the blackness, but not much. Jake Grafton thought he heard the hum of the electric motor that turned the prop, or perhaps it was the fan that circulated air inside the sub. The loudest noise, he decided, was the whisper of water moving past the hull, and even that was muted.

Less than a minute after he left the surface ship, Heydrich turned on the minisub's exterior lights. They penetrated the dark water for a short distance and created the illusion that visibility was better than it was. Consequently, when the hull of
America
appeared, an intensely black presence that the lights refused to illuminate, the appearance surprised the watchers.
America
had been in the field of view for several seconds before the watchers realized what they were seeing.

Heydrich approached from the port side, made the turn behind the island to match his course and speed to the monstrous black streamlined shape, and used the searchlights to find the attachment point over the airlock.

Down the minisub came, closer and closer, the movement finally almost stopping as the two craft drifted ever so slowly together. They touched with a metallic clang. Heydrich shot the hydraulic locks, then stopped his prop and centered his controls. He threw a few more switches—Jake didn't know what they were but surmised at least one of them would connect the minisub to the mother's electrical system—then turned to his passengers.

With the pistol in his hand, he set Killbuck to opening the hatch in the minisub's belly. When the hatch opened into the airlock, he gestured with the pistol.

Killbuck went first, then the men in the minisub handed Zelda down. In places her clothes were becoming sodden with blood. She groaned when they handled her, still in obvious pain.

She hadn't shown any signs of recognizing Tommy Carmellini. When he lifted her he whispered, “Hang tough, Sarah.”

She opened her eyes then. Whether she recognized him he didn't know. But she was conscious.

“What the hell is this?” Vladimir Kolnikov demanded of Heydrich. “Who are these people?”

“Americans. Looking for their submarine. And by God, they've found it!” He nudged Zelda with his foot. “This one, you know her. Zelda put the satellite in the water.”

Kolnikov bent down, checked her pulse, looked at one of her bleeding wounds. “What in hell have you done to her?”

“The bitch put the satellite on a seamount twenty miles west of the one we searched. She was going to hold up Schlegel for more money. He thought she might be trying a double cross, so he grabbed her in Newark and flew her here.”

Heydrich bent down and hissed at Zelda. “It had better be there. For your sake.”

He turned to two of his divers, who were cradling Uzis. “Into the mess hall with these people. Leave the doors open and watch them. Check the ties on their wrists. If anyone tries anything, kill them all.” He looked again at Zelda and smiled. “Except this one. I want her alive, just in case.”

He waited until the divers had led the Americans away before he said to Kolnikov, “There are some more of them. Women. I am going back for them.”

“What are you going to do with these people?”

“Don't play the fool. We'll leave them in the sub when we abandon it.”

“And the satellite?”

“It may be there, or it may not. The bitch begged me to believe her.”

He climbed back up the ladder, through the airlock into the waiting minisub.

*   *   *

Flap led the way up the ladders inside the cruise ship. He said to his wife, “You, Rita, and Callie go to the dining area. I want you to sit in the middle of the room, and if anyone approaches you with a weapon or demands that you go with him, scream. Make a hell of a scene.” They left him on the main deck.

With the two women marines behind him, he continued up the ladders toward the bridge.

The sign on the door to the bridge proclaimed, “Crew Only.” The door was locked. Flap shot out the lock and walked on through.

One of the ship's officers was at the top of the ladder when Flap reached the bridge. He saw the submachine gun hanging from a strap and took a step backward.

“The captain. Lead me to him.”

The captain was wearing a nice uniform with four gold rings around each sleeve and had a trimmed gray beard. He was about sixty, Flap guessed.

“Good morning, sir,” Flap said. “I am General Le Beau, United States Marine Corps.”

“Captain Henri Janvier.”

“Why is the ship stopped?”

“The owner has ordered it so.” The captain gestured at a man wearing a sports coat standing nearby. “Monsieur Crozet, his representative.”

“The owner, Willi Schlegel, was in the cargo sponson when a minisubmarine from USS
America,
a hijacked American warship, rendezvoused with this ship a few minutes ago. I assume that fact is news to you, Captain. I certainly hope so, because a conspiracy to steal a ship is considered piracy by most nations. Some of them still execute people for piracy, I believe.”

“
America?
The stolen American submarine?” Janvier looked stunned.

“Yes. I suggest you get your ship under way, proceed on your schedule, and allow me to use your radio.”

“But Monsieur Schlegel…”

“Is now deceased.”

“I talked to him just an hour ago,” the captain objected. “He seemed in excellent health.”

“It was quite sudden,” Flap told him, “An unforeseen tragedy. Alas, we are all mortal clay.”

The captain didn't know what to think or do. He looked at Crozet, who was holding a pistol pointed at Flap.

“Lay down the weapons,” Crozet ordered, his voice firm.

The ship's officers raised their hands. They were worried men and their faces showed it. The women marines looked at the general, waiting for orders.

Flap Le Beau removed the Uzi carrying strap from over his shoulder and, bending down, placed the weapon on the deck. He pulled the pistol from his belt and put it beside the submachine gun. He did all this in slow motion, then nodded at the women, who did likewise.

Crozet motioned for Flap to back up. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he stepped forward, crouched, reached for the guns. When he glanced down, Flap lashed out with his right foot. He caught Crozet under the chin and snapped his head back.

The first kick didn't break his neck, but the second one did.

Crozet's body came to rest wedged under a pedestal that held a radar repeater.

In the silence that followed, Flap bent down, snagged the submachine gun.

“I will tell you one more time, Captain. If you wish to avoid prosecution as an accomplice in piracy, get this ship under way now and proceed to your scheduled port of call.
S'il vous plaît.
”

Janvier erupted in a torrent of French. The ship's officers sprang into motion. One of them seized the telegraph and rang up all ahead two-thirds.

In the midst of this activity, Flap retrieved the pistol on the deck and tucked it into his trousers. In seconds he felt the vibration as the ship's screws bit into the sea.

Keeping his eyes on the ship's officers, he bent down and felt Crozet's neck for a pulse. None. Another unexpected, unforeseen tragedy.

*   *   *

Heydrich was making his approach in the minisub to the cargo sponson when
Sea Wind
began moving. The surge of water being pushed away from the hull was more than the minisub could handle. It bobbed away, the nose slewing away from the ship, quite out of control.

When Heydrich had the minisub under control he watched
Sea Wind
steam away.

He knew what it meant. Something unexpected had happened. He didn't know what the event might be, but the unexpected was always a possibility. He had decided long ago to continue with his mission. Find and recover the satellite. Everything hinged on that.

He turned the minisub back toward
America,
which was still lying just under the surface.

*   *   *

Kolnikov and Georgi Turchak also watched
Sea Wind
get under way. The churning of her screws just a hundred yards or so away looked like a fire on the Revelation displays, brilliant light bubbling and churning in unexpected ways. The usual control room crew was present, as well as several of the divers, who were mesmerized by the huge color displays.

“Uh-oh,” Turchak said under his breath, just loud enough for Kolnikov to hear.

“Eck, what else is in the area?” Kolnikov said over the whispers that had infected the watchers.

“Nothing in the water. Perhaps an aircraft, but there is too much noise just now. When
Sea Wind
is farther away I will be able to hear better.”

The minisub was visible on the display that showed the view in the aft port quarter. It was turning, coming back.

“He's going to kill those people he brought aboard,” Turchak whispered. “I don't know why he didn't shoot them when he got them here.”

“He doesn't want to spook the crew,” Kolnikov answered.

“The bastard has been sitting in the back of the control room for weeks watching everything.” Turchak caught Kolnikov's eye. “We both know he wanted to learn how to run the boat. He doesn't need us anymore.”

Kolnikov pretended he hadn't heard.

*   *   *

There was a first aid kit marked with a red cross on the mess hall bulkhead, so Jake Grafton got to his feet and reached for it. One of the gunmen in the door said, “No. Sit!”

Jake froze. He looked at the man, who looked wound banjo-string tight. “This woman is bleeding. We'll put bandages on.”

The man shook his head vigorously, gestured with the muzzle of his weapon.

“Were you hatched from an egg?” Jake asked and looked at the other man. “Did you have a mother, a sister, a girlfriend? Are you thugs or divers?”

The second man said something to the first in French, then said to Jake in English, “Put on bandages.”

Jake removed the first aid kit from its brackets, sat beside Zelda, and opened it. Tommy Carmellini was holding her head in his lap. They were half under the table in the little space, so they were hard to see from the doorways, where the guards stood.

Jake started on the wound that was bleeding the worst. He used tape to close the cut, then slapped a bandage over the wound and taped it in place.

“Who did this?” he whispered.

“Heydrich.”

When he got to the wound in her neck—Heydrich had sliced alongside her jugular vein—Jake whispered, “He thinks he knows where the satellite is. Did you tell him?”

Her eyes focused on him. He saw her eyebrows move.

“I'm Grafton. Rear Admiral Grafton.”

The tie around his wrists impeded his efforts. The man who had put it on pulled it too tight, so his fingers were swelling. He turned her head so that he could see the neck wound better. There was disinfectant in the kit; he squirted some on the wound, then taped it shut.

“They didn't kill Zip Vance,” he said. “He's in the hospital.”

It was then, with her head turned so that the guards at the doors could not see her face, that she said, “It isn't where he thinks.”

“Where then?”

He could barely hear her answer. “I told him and he didn't believe me. Cape Barbas. Ten miles out.”

“Does Peter Kerr know where it is?”

“I don't think so.”

“You there!” the first guard said loudly. “Stop talking!”

*   *   *

They heard the metallic clang as the minisub lowered itself onto the hull, then the solid thunks of the hydraulic locks going home. Both guards looked behind them, along the passageways. They hadn't been aboard long enough to become familiar with the sounds.

Jake used that moment to whisper to Carmellini, “Up my sleeve.”

Tommy reached and in one smooth motion had the knife in his hand, hidden by his arm. He waited, and soon Jake moved his hands out of sight of the guards.

Carmellini sliced the tie that bound the admiral's wrists, then passed him the knife.

Another minute passed, then another. They heard someone coming along the passageway. Sure enough, both guards craned to see who it was. Grafton sliced the tie from Carmellini's wrists and passed him the knife.

Heydrich appeared in the doorway.

“Where are the others?” Jake asked.

“I ask the questions,” Heydrich said, unwilling to give the prisoners any leverage. He nodded toward Zelda Hudson. “Is she still alive?”