Sahara (17 page)

With no targets left standing at the guns or on the decks, Gunn fired his final rounds at the two figures on the bridge. Two slugs tore into Matabu’s chest. He rose to his feet, stood there for several moments, hands in a death grip on the bridge railing, staring dumbly at the blood staining his immaculate uniform. Then he slowly sagged to the deck in a fat, inert lump.

For several seconds a desperate silence fell over the river, broken by the soft crackling of burning surface oil. Then abruptly, like a shriek from the very pits of hell, an agonized voice screamed out over the water.

13

“Western filth!” Ketou cried. “You’ve murdered my crew.” He stood there against the gray sky, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder, dazed by the sheer physical shock of the disaster around him. Gunn stared up at him over the barrels of empty guns.

Ketou glared back at him for a moment, and then he focused on Pitt who was pushing himself off the deck and reaching for the wheel.

“Western filth,” Ketou repeated.

“Fair is fair!” Pitt shouted back above the crackle of the flames. “You lost the draw.” Then he added, “Abandon your ship. We’ll come around and pick you up—”

Fleetingly, almost like the blink of a camera shutter, Ketou leaped down the ladder and ran toward the stern. The gunboat had heeled sharply to port, her gunwales awash, as he struggled across the steeply angled deck.

“Get him, Rudi,” Pitt snapped into his mike. “He’s going for the stern gun.”

Gunn said nothing but cast aside his useless weapons, ducked into the forward compartment, and snatched a Remington TR870 automatic shotgun. Pitt shoved the throttles to their stops convulsively, spinning the wheel to port and skidding the
Calliope
around in a violent sheer that ended with the bow aimed upriver. The propellers bit and dug in, the water boiled under her stern, and the
Calliope
leaped like a race horse out of the gate.

There was only oil and floating debris drifting on the river now. Commander Ketou’s gunboat was starting its final slide to the river bottom. The river flowed into the shattered hull and hissed in clouds of steam. Water was swirling around Ketou’s knees when he reached the aft 30-millimeter guns, swung the muzzles toward the fleeing sport yacht, and pressed the fire control button.

“Al!” Pitt hailed.

His reply was the hissing blast of a missile that Giordino launched from his turret. A streak of orange flame and white smoke shot through the air toward the gunboat. But Pitt’s abrupt turn of the wheel and the thrust of sudden acceleration had thrown off Giordino’s aim. The missile swished over the sinking gunboat and exploded in the trees bordering the river.

Gunn appeared at Pitt’s side in the cockpit, took careful aim, and began blasting away with the Remington over the stern at Ketou. Time seemed to slow as the shot splattered around the gun mount and into the African boat commander. They were too far away to see the hate and frustration in his shiny black features. Nor could they see that he died over the gun sight, his lifeless hand doggedly forcing down the fire control button.

A burst of fire shrieked after the
Calliope.
Pitt swiftly cut a sharp bend to starboard, but the irony of battle had yet to take its fair share. Ironic because a dead man had fought back through catastrophic defeat with a precision he could never know. Jets of water skipped white and straddled the speeding boat as shells ripped away the airfoil above and behind the cockpit that held the parabolic satellite dish antenna and communications antenna and navigation transponder, blasting the remains into the river. The windshield in front of the cockpit shattered and was carried away. Gunn threw himself prone on the deck, but Pitt could only hunch over the wheel and ride out the deadly storm. They could not hear the impact of the shells over the thunderous roar of the flat-out turbo diesels. But they could see the bits and pieces of debris bursting all around them.

Then Giordino got in a clear shot and launched his last missile. The settling stern of the gunboat suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke and flame. And then the boat was gone, sliding under and leaving a large flutter of bubbles and a spreading slick of oil. The Commander-in-Chief of Benin’s navy and his river fleet were no more.

Pitt forced himself to turn his back on the flotsam-filled river astern and look to his own boat and friends. Gunn was coming shakily to his feet, bleeding from a cut across his balding head. Giordino appeared from the engine room looking like a man who had just stepped off a handball court, sweating and weary, but ready for a new game.

He pointed up the river. “We’re in for it now,” he shouted the words in Pitt’s ear.

“Maybe not,” Pitt shouted back. “At this speed we’ll cross into Niger in twenty minutes.”

“Hopefully, we didn’t leave any witnesses.”

“Don’t count on it. Even if there were no survivors, somebody must have caught the fight from shore.”

Gunn gripped Pitt’s arm and yelled. “As soon as we’re in Niger, back off and we’ll take up the survey again.”

“Affirmative,” Pitt agreed. He shot a quick look at the satellite dish and communications antenna. It was then he noticed they were gone along with the airfoil. “So much for contacting the Admiral and giving him a full report.”

“Nor can the labs at NUMA receive my data transmission,” said Gunn sadly.

“Too bad we can’t tell him the leisurely cruise up the river just turned into a bloody nightmare,” Giordino bellowed.

“We’re dead meat unless we can figure another way out of here,” Pitt said grimly.

“I wish I could see the Admiral’s face,” Giordino grinned at the thought, “when he hears we broke his boat.”

“You will,” Gunn shouted through cupped hands as he descended into the electronic compartment. “You will.”

What a stupid mess, Pitt thought. Only a day and a half into the project and they had killed at least thirty men, shot down a helicopter, and sunk two gunboats. All in the name of saving humanity, he mused sarcastically. There was no turning back now. They had to find the contaminant before the security forces of either Niger or Mali stopped them for good. Either way, their lives weren’t worth the paper on a devalued dollar.

He glanced at the small radar dish behind the cockpit. There was a saving grace after all. The dish was undamaged and still turning. It would have been hell running the river at night or through fog without it. The loss of the satellite navigation unit meant they would have to position the contamination entry into the river by spotting nearby landmarks. But they were unhurt and the boat was still seaworthy and pounding over the river at close to 70 knots. Pitt’s only worry now was striking a floating object or a submerged log. At this speed any collision would gouge out the bottom of the hull and send the boat cartwheeling and splintering into a shattered wreck.

Fortunately, the river flowed free of debris, and Pitt’s calculations were only slightly off. They crossed into the Republic of Niger within eighteen minutes under skies and waters empty of security forces. Four hours later they were moored to the refueling dock at the capital city of Niamey. After taking on fuel and enduring the traditional hassle from West African immigration officials, they were allowed to proceed on their way again.

As the buildings of Niamey and the bridge over the river named for John F. Kennedy receded in the
Calliope’s
wake, Giordino spoke in a brisk, cheerful voice.

“So far, so good. Things can’t get worse than they already are.”

“Not
good,” Pitt said at the wheel. “And things can get a whole lot worse.”

Giordino looked at him. “Why the gloom? The people in these parts don’t seem to have a beef with us.”

“It went too easy,” said Pitt slowly. “Things don’t work that way in this part of the world. Certainly not in Africa, not after our little altercation with the Benin gunboats. Did you notice while we were showing our passports and ship’s papers to the immigration officials there wasn’t a policeman or armed military guard in sight?”

“Coincidence?” Giordino shrugged. “Or maybe just lax procedure?”

“Neither,” Pitt shook his head solemnly. “I’ve a hunch somebody is playing games with us.”

“You think the Niger authorities knew about our run-in with the Benin navy?”

“Word travels fast here, and I’m willing to bet it’s traveled ahead of us. The Benin military most certainly alerted the Niger government.”

Giordino was not sold. “Then why didn’t the local bureaucrats arrest us?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Pitt pensively.

“Sandecker?” offered Giordino. “Maybe he intervened.”

Pitt shook his head. “The Admiral may be a big gun in Washington, but he has no sway here.”

“Then somebody wants something we’ve got.”

“Seems to be heading in that direction.”

“But what?” asked Giordino in exasperation. “Our data on the contaminant?”

“Except for the three of us, Sandecker, and Chapman, no one knows the purpose of our project. Unless there’s a leak, it has to be something else.”

“Like what?”

Pitt grinned. “Would you believe our boat?”

“The
Calliope!”
Giordino was frankly disbelieving. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“No,” stated Pitt flatly. “Think about it. A highly specialized craft, built in secrecy, capable of 70 knots, and with enough sting to take out a helicopter and two gunboats within three minutes. Any West African military leader would give his eyeteeth to get his hands on her.”

“Okay, I’ll accept that,” Giordino said grudgingly. “But answer me this. If the
Calliope
is so desirable, why wasn’t she grabbed by Niger goons while we were standing around the refueling dock in Niamey?”

“A shot in the dark? Okay, somebody cut a deal.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Can’t say.”

“So when does the axe fall?”

“They’ve let us get this far, so the answer must lie in Mali.”

Giordino looked at Pitt. “So we’re not returning the way we came.”

“We bought a one-way ticket when we sank the Benin navy.”

“I’m a firm believer of getting there is half the fun.”

“The fun is over, if you are morbid enough to call it that.” Pitt looked over the banks of the river. The green vegetation had given way to a barren landscape of scrub brush, gravel, and yellow dirt. “Judging from the terrain, we may have to trade the boat for camels if we expect to see home again.”

“Oh God!” Giordino groaned. “Can you picture
me
riding a freak of nature? A reasonable man who believes the only reason God put horses on earth is for background in western movies.”

“We’ll survive,” said Pitt. “The Admiral will move half of heaven and most of hell to get us out after we home in on the poison glop.”

Giordino turned and looked dolefully down the Niger. “So this is it,” he said slowly.

“This is what?”

“The legendary creek people go up and lose their paddles.”

Pitt’s lips curled in a crooked grin. “If that’s where we are, then pull down the French tricolor ensign, and by God we’ll fly our own.”

“We’re under orders to hide our nationality,” Giordino protested. “We can’t go about our sneaky business under the stars and stripes.”

“Who said anything about the stars and stripes?”

Giordino knew he was stepping into deep water. “Okay, dare I ask what flag you intend to raise?”

“This one.” He reached into a drawer of the bridge counter and tossed Giordino a folded black ensign. “I borrowed it at a costume party I attended a couple of months ago.”

Giordino made an expression of shocked dismay as he stared at the grinning skull in the center of the rectangular cloth. “The Jolly Roger, you intend to fly the Jolly Roger?”

“Why not?” Pitt’s surprise at Giordino’s anguish seemed genuine. “I think it only fitting and proper we make a big splash under the appropriate banner.”

14

“Fine bunch of international contamination detectives we are,” grumbled Hopper as he watched the sunset over the lakes and marshlands of the upper Niger River. “All we’ve come up with is typical third world indifference toward sanitation.”

Eva sat on a camp stool in front of a small oil stove to ward off the evening chill. “I tested for most of the known toxins and failed to find a trace of any of them. Whatever our phantom malady is, it’s proving very elusive.”

An older man sat beside her, tall, heavy, with iron-gray hair, light blue eyes, wise and thoughtful. A New Zealander, Dr. Warren Grimes was the chief epidemiologist of the project. He contemplated a glass of club soda. “Nothing on my end either. Every culture I’ve obtained within 500 kilometers showed free of disease-related microorganisms.”

“Is there anything we might have overlooked?” asked Hopper, dropping into a folding chair with padded cushions.

Grimes shrugged. “Without victims, I can’t conduct interviews or autopsies. Without victims I can’t obtain tissue samples or analyze results. I have to have observational data to compare symptoms or do a case control study.”

“If anyone is dying from toxic contamination,” said Eva, “they’re not dying around here.”

Hopper turned from the fading orange light on the horizon and picked up a pot from the stove and poured a cup of tea. “Can it be the evidence was false or exaggerated?”

“UN headquarters received only vague reports,” Grimes reminded him.

“Without hard data and exact locations to work with, it seems we jumped the gun.”

“I think it’s a cover-up,” said Eva suddenly.

There was silence. Hopper looked from Eva to Grimes.

“If it is, it’s a damned good one,” muttered Grimes finally.

“I’m not sure I’d disagree,” Hopper said, his curiosity aroused. “The teams in Niger, Chad, and the Sudan are reportedly coming up dry too.”

“All that suggests is that the contamination is in Mali and not the other nations,” said Eva.

“You can bury victims,” observed Grimes. “But you can’t hide trace amounts of contamination. If it’s around here, we would have found it. My personal opinion is that we’ve been on a wild goose chase.”