Sahara dpa-11 Page 17

  The elegantly furnished Airbus Industrie A300 was only one of several gifts Yves Massarde had presented to Kazim in return for allowing the Frenchman industrialist to conduct his vast operations in Mali without wasting time on such trifling details as government laws and restrictions. Whatever Massarde wanted, Kazim gave, so long as the General's foreign bank accounts became fat and he was kept in expensive toys.

  Besides acting as a private means of transportation for the General and his cronies, the Airbus was electronically fitted out as a military communications command center, mostly to divert any accusations of corruption from the small but vocal opposition party members of President Tahir's parliament.

  Kazim listened silently while his Chief-of-Staff, Colonel Sghir Cheik, explained in detail the reports of the destruction of the Benin gunboats and helicopter. He then passed Kazim two photographs taken of the super yacht on her passage up the river from the sea. "In the first photo," Cheik pointed out, "the yacht is flying the French tricolor. But since entering our country, she is sailing under a pirate flag."

  "What nonsense is this?" demanded Kazim.

  "We don't know," Cheik confessed. "The French ambassador swears the boat is unknown to his government and is not documented under French ownership. As to the pirate flag, it is an enigma."

  "You must know where the boat came from."

  "Our intelligence sources have been unable to trace its manufacturer or the country of origin. Its lines and style are unfamiliar to the major boat yards in America and Europe."

  "Japanese or Chinese perhaps," suggested Mali's Foreign Minister, Messaoud Djerma.

  Cheik pulled the hairs of his wedge-shaped beard and adjusted his tinted, designer glasses. "Our agents have also canvassed boat builders in Japan, Hong Kong, and Taiwan who design premier yachts with speeds exceeding 50 kilometers an hour. None had any record or knowledge of such a boat."

  "You have no information about this intrusion at all?" Kazim asked unbelievingly.

  "Nothing." Cheik held up his hands. "It's as though Allah dropped her from the heavens."

  "An innocent-looking yacht that changes flags like a woman changes dresses sails up the Niger River," Kazim snarled coldly, "destroys half the Benin navy and its commanding Admiral, calmly enters our water without bothering to stop for customs and immigration inspection, and you sit there and tell me my intelligence network can't identify the nationality of the builder or the owner?"

  "I'm sorry, my General," said Cheik nervously. His myopic eyes avoided Kazim's icy stare. "Perhaps if I had been permitted to send an agent on board at the dock in Niamey. . ."

  "It cost enough as it was to bribe Niger officials to look the other way when the boat docked for refueling. The last thing I needed was a bumbling agent causing an incident."

  "Have they replied to radio contact?" asked Djerma.

  Cheik shook his head. "Our warnings have gone unanswered. They have ignored all communications."

  "What in Allah's sacred name do they want?" questioned Seyni Gashi. The Chief of Kazim's Military Council looked far more like a camel trader than a soldier. "What is their mission?"

  "It seems the mystery is beyond my intelligence people's mentality to solve," said Kazim irritably.

  "Now that it's entered our territory," said Foreign Minister Djerma, "why not merely board and take possession?"

  "Admiral Matabu tried it, and now he lies at the bottom of the river."

  "The boat is armed with missile launchers," Cheik pointed out. "Highly effective judging from the results."

  "Surely, we have the necessary firepower-"

  "The crew and their boat are trapped on the Niger with nowhere to go," interrupted Kazim. "There is no turning back and running 1000 kilometers to the sea. They must realize any attempt to flee will be cause for our fighter aircraft and land artillery to destroy them. We wait and watch. And when they run out of fuel, their only hope of survival will be to surrender. Then our questions will be answered."

  "Can we safely assume the crew will be persuaded to reveal their mission?" inquired Djerma.

  "Yes, yes," Cheik quickly answered. "And much more."

  The copilot stepped from the cockpit and snapped to attention. "We have the boat in visual sight, sir."

  "So at last we can see this enigma for ourselves," said Kazim. "Tell the pilot to give us a good view."

  The weariness of the punishing grind and the disappointment of not pinpointing the actual source of the toxin had dulled Pitt's vigilance. His usually sharp powers of perception lagged and his mind sidetracked any vision of the steel pincers that were slowly snapping shut on the Calliope.

  It was Giordino who heard the distant whine of jet engines, looked up, and saw ii first-an aircraft flying less than 200 meters above the river, running lights blinking in the blue dusk. It visibly swelled into a large passenger jet with Malian national colors striped along the side of its fuselage. Two or three fighters as escorts would have been enough. This plane was surrounded by twenty. It seemed at first the pilot intended to fly straight down the river and buzz the Calliope, but 2 kilometers away it banked and began to circle, drawing closer in a slow spiral. The fighter escort spun off upward and launched into a series of figure eights overhead.

  When the jet-- Pitt by now had spotted the huge radar dome on the nose and recognized it as a command center aircraft-- came within 100 meters, faces could be distinguished through the ports staring down, taking in every detail of the super yacht.

  Pitt exhaled a long, silent sigh and waved. Then he made a theatrical bow. "Step right up, folks, and see the pirate ship with its merry band of river rats. Enjoy the show, but do not damage the merchandise. You could get hurt."

  "Ain't it the truth?" Crouched on the ladder to the engine room, poised to leap at his missile launcher, Giordino stared warily at the circling plane. "If he so much as waggles his wings I'll divide, demolish, and disperse him."

  Gunn leisurely sat in a deck chair and doffed his cap at the aerial spectators. "Unless you have a method for making us invisible, I suggest we humor them. It's one thing to be an underdog, but it's quite another to be easy pickings."

  "We're overmatched all right," Pitt said, shaking off any trace of weariness. "Nothing we do will make any difference. They've got enough firepower to blow the Calliope into toothpicks."

  Gunn scanned the low banks of the river and the barren landscapes beyond. "No use in grounding on shore and making a run for it. The countryside is wide open. We wouldn't get 50 meters."

  "So what do we do?" asked Giordino.

  "Surrender and take our chances," Gunn offered lamely.

  "Even chased rats slash and run," said Pitt. "I'm for the last defiant gesture, a wasted gesture maybe, but what the hell. We give them a nasty sign with our fists, shove the throttles to the wall, and run like hell. If they get downright belligerent, we make cemetery fodder out of them."

  "More likely they'll do it to us," complained Giordino.

  "You really mean that?" Gunn demanded incredulously.

  "Not on your life," Pitt said emphatically. "Mrs. Pitt's boy has no death wish. I'm gambling Kazim wants this boat so bad, he paid off Niger officials to let it pass into Mali so he could grab it. If I win, he won't want even the slightest scratch or dent in the hull."

  "You're putting all your eggs in the wrong basket," argued Gunn. "Shoot down one plane and you'll stir up a hornet's nest. Kazim will send everything he's got after us."

  "I certainly hope so."

  "You're talking like a crazy man," said Giordino suspiciously.

  "The contamination data," Pitt said patiently. "That's why we're here. Remember?"

  "We don't have to be reminded," said Gunn, beginning to see a slip of light in Pitt's seeming loss of reality. "So what's boiling in your evil caldron of a brain?"

  "As much as I hate to ruin a beautiful and perfectly good boat, a diversion may be the only way one of us can escape and carry the results of our operation out of Africa and into th
e hands of Sandecker and Chapman."

  "There's method to his madness after all," Giordino admitted. "Keep talking."

  "Nothing complicated," explained Pitt. "In another hour it will be dark. We reverse course and get as close to Gao as we can before Kazim gets tired of the game. Rudi goes over the side and swims for shore. Then you and I start the fireworks show and take off downriver like a vestal virgin chased by barbarian hordes."

  "That gunboat might have something to say about that, don't you think?" Gunn reminded him.

  "A mere trifle. If my timing is on key, we'll flash past the Malian navy before they know we've come and gone."

  Giordino peered over his sunglasses. "Sounds remotely possible. Once the good times roll, the Malians' attention won't be focused on a body in the water."

  "Why me?" Gunn demanded. "Why not one of you?"

  "Because you're the best qualified," Pitt justified. "You're sly, cunning, and slippery. If anyone can grease their way into the airport at Gao and onto an airplane out of the country, it's you. You're also the only bona fide chemist among us. That alone entitles you to lay bare the toxic substance and its entry point into the river."

  "We could make a run for our embassy in the capital city of Bamako."

  "Fat chance. Bamako is 600 kilometers away."

  "Dirk makes good sense," Giordino agreed. "His gray matter and mine put together couldn't give you the formula for bathroom soap."

  "I'll not run out and allow the two of you to sacrifice your lives for me," Gunn insisted.

  "Don't talk stupid," Giordino said stonily. "You know damn well Dirk and I don't have a mutual suicide pact." He turned to Pitt. "Do we?"

  "Perish the thought," Pitt said loftily. "After we cover Rudi's getaway, we fix the Calliope so Kazim never enjoys its luxury. After that, we abandon ship ourselves and then mount a safari across the desert to discover the true source of the toxin."

  "We what?" Giordino looked aghast. "A safari . . ."

  "You have an incredible knack for simplicity," said Gunn.

  "Across the desert," Giordino mumbled.

  "A little hike never hurt anybody," Pitt said with a jovial air.

  "I was wrong," Giordino moaned. "He wants us to self-destruct."

  "Self-destruct?" Pitt repeated. "My friend, you just said the magic words."

  Pitt took one final look at the aircraft overhead. They still circled aimlessly. They had shown no inclination to attack and obviously had no intention of making any now. Once the Calliope began her dash downriver Pitt could not afford the time to keep them under observation. Running wide open over a strange waterway in the black of night at 70 knots would take every shred of his concentration.

  He shifted his gaze from the aircraft to the huge flag he'd run up the mast that supported the shattered satellite antenna. He had removed the small Jolly Roger from the stern jackstaff after finding a United States ensign folded away in a flag locker. It was large, stretching almost 2 meters, but with no breeze to lift it in the dry night air, it hung curled and flaccid around the antenna.

  He glanced at the dome on the stern. The shutters were closed. Giordino was not preparing to launch the remaining six rockets. He was attaching them around the fuel tanks before wiring them to a timer/detonator. Gunn, Pitt knew, was below, stuffing the analysis data tapes and water sample records in a plastic cover that he tightly bound and stuffed in a small backpack along with food and survival gear.

  Pitt turned his attention to the radar, fixing the position of the Malian gunboat in his mind. He found it surprisingly easy to shake off the tentacles of fatigue. His adrenaline was pumping now that their course was irrevocably set.

  He took a deep breath and jammed the triple throttles wide open and crammed the wheel to the starboard stop.

  To the men watching from the command aircraft it was as though the Calliope had suddenly leaped from the water and twisted around in midair. She carved a sharp arc in the center of the river, and hurtled downriver under full power, sheeted in a great curtain of foam and spray. Her bow came out of the water like an uplifted sword as her stern plunged deep under a great rooster tail that exploded in the air behind her transom.

  The stars and stripes jerked taut and streamed out under the sudden onslaught of wind. Pitt well knew he was going against all government policy, defiantly flying the national emblem on foreign soil during an illegal intrusion. The State Department would scream bloody murder when the enraged Malians beat their breasts and lodged a flaming protest. God only knew the hell that would erupt inside the White House. But he flat didn't give a damn.

  The dice were rolling. The black ribbon of water beckoned. Only the dim light of the stars reflected on the smooth surface, and Pitt did not trust his night vision to keep him in the deep part of the channel. If he ran the boat aground at its maximum speed it would disintegrate. His eyes constantly darted from the radar screen to the depth sounder to the dark watercourse ahead before repeating the routine.

  He did not waste a glance at the speedometer as the needle hung at the 70-knot mark and then quivered beyond it. Nor did he have to look at the tachometers to know they were creeping past their red lines. The Calliope was giving it everything she had for her final voyage, like a thoroughbred running a race beyond her limits. It was almost as if she knew she would never make home port.

  When the Malian gunboat moved almost to the center of the radar screen, Pitt squinted into the darkness. He just discerned the low silhouette of the vessel turning broadside to the channel in an effort to block his passage. It ran no lights, but he didn't doubt for an instant that the crew had their guns aimed down his throat.

  He decided to feint to starboard and then cut port to throw off the gunners before skirting the shallows and charging under the gunboat's bow. The Malians had the initiative, but Pitt was banking on Kazim's unwillingness to ruin one of the world's finest speed yachts. The General would be in no hurry. He still had a comfortable margin of several hundred kilometers of river to stop the fleeing boat.

  Pitt planted his feet squarely on the deck and positioned his hands on the wheel in preparation for the fast turns. For some unearthly reason the roar from the flat-out turbo diesels and the crescendo of wind pounding in his ears reminded him of the last act of Wagner's Twilight of the Gods. All that was missing was the thunder and lightning.

  And then that struck too.

  The gunboat let loose, and a whole mass of shrieking fire burst through the night, ear-piercing, a nightmare bedlam of shells that found and slammed into the Calliope.

  Aboard the command plane, Kazim stared in shock at the unexpected attack. Then he flew into a rage.

  "Who told the Captain of that gunboat to open fire?" he demanded.

  Cheik looked stunned. "He must have taken it upon himself."

  "Order him to cease fire, immediately. I want that boat intact and undamaged."

  "Yes, sir," Cheik acknowledged, jumping from his chair and rushing to the communications cabin of the aircraft.

  "Idiot!" Kazim snapped, his face twisted in anger. "My orders were explicit. No battle unless I so ordered. I want the Captain and his ship's officers executed for disobeying my command."

  Foreign Minister Messaoud Djerma stared at Kazim in disapproval. "Those are harsh measures--"

  Kazim cut Djerma off with a withering stare. "Not for those who are disloyal."

  Djerma shrank from the murderous gaze of his superior. No man with a wife and family dared face up to Kazim. Those who questioned the General's demands disappeared as though they never existed.

  Very slowly Kazim's eyes turned from Djerma and refocused on the action taking place on the river.

  The vicious tracers, glowing weirdly in the desert blackness, streaked across the water, at first swinging wildly to the port of the Calliope. It sounded as if a dozen guns were blazing at once. Waterspouts thrashed the water like hail.

  Then the aim of the gunners steadied and became deadly as the fiery shells walked across the river a
nd began thudding into the now defenseless boat at almost point-blank range. Jagged holes appeared in the bow and foredeck; the shells would have traveled the interior length of the unarmored boat if they hadn't been absorbed by spare coils of nylon line and deflected by the anchor chain in the forecastle.

  There was no time to avoid the initial barrage, barely time to react. Caught totally off balance, Pitt instinctively crouched and in the same movement desperately spun the wheel to avert the devastating fire. The Calliope responded and shot clear for a few moments until the gunners corrected and the orange, searing flashes skipped across the river and found the high-speed craft again, ripping the steel hull and shattering the fiberglass superstructure. The thud of the impacts sounded like the tire of a speeding car thumping over highway centerline reflectors.

  Smoke and flame leaped from the holes torn in the forecastle where the tracers had fired the coils of line. The instrument panel shattered and exploded around Pitt. Miraculously, he wasn't hit by the shell, but he faintly felt a trickle of liquid down his cheek. He cursed his stupidity in thinking the Malians wouldn't destroy the Calliope. He deeply regretted having Giordino remove the missiles from their launchers and secure them to the fuel tanks. One shell into the engine room and they would all be blown into unidentifiable morsels for the fish.

  He was so close to the gunboat now, if he had looked, he could have read the orange dial of his old Doxa dive watch from the muzzle flashes.

  He cranked the wheel savagely, swerving the riddled yacht around the gunboat's bow with less than 2 meters to spare. And then he was past, the avalanching slab of water from the sport yacht's wash pitching the gunboat into a rolling motion that threw off the aim of the gunners and sent their shells whistling harmlessly into the night.

  And then, quite suddenly, the continuous blast from the gunboat's cannon stopped. Pitt did not bother to fathom the reason for the reprieve. He maintained a zigzag course until the gunboat was left far behind in the darkness. Only when he was sure they were in the clear and the still functioning radar unit showed no indication of attacking aircraft did he relax and exhale his breath in welcome relief.