Vixen 03

Fergus became cut off from his command and was pi

Above the bluffs he could see the Marine helicopters hovering, waiting impatiently for his signal to land. Warily he poked his head around the crane mount and peered forward. The guns perched behind steel-armor plating atop the main bridge temporarily ignored Fergus and concentrated on his men, who had moved forward without him.

Cradling his automatic weapon in one arm, Fergus sprang to his feet and sprinted across the open deck, laying down a curtain fire. He'd nearly made it to cover beneath the aft turret when Fawkes's men repaid his attention, and a bullet tore through the calf of his left leg.

He stumbled a few steps, fell, and rolled under the bulk of the dummy turret. The new wound felt as though it were burning every nerve ending in his leg. He lay on the deck, listening to the gunfire forward, soaking up the pain as two Specter jets screamed out of the morning sun and expelled their lethal cargo.

If it weren't for the dull ache that clutched every inch of his body, Pitt would have sworn he was dead. Almost regretfully, he pushed the gray from his mind and forced his eyes opened.

Then he ran his hands over his legs and body. The worst he discovered, besides a horde of bruises, were two, possibly three cracked ribs. He probed his head and sighed gratefully when his fingers came back free of blood. The wooden splinters he found embedded in his right shoulder puzzled him.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and then rolled to his hands and knees. All muscles were responding to command. So far, so good. He took a deep breath and wove to his feet, no less elated at the accomplishment than if he'd climbed Mount Everest. A patch of daylight spilled through a jagged hole several feet away and he stumbled toward it.

His mind slowly began to hit on six of eight cylinders and analyzed why he hadn't been crushed to oatmeal when he smashed into the side of the ship's superstructure. The quarter-inch plywood panels installed to replace the steel bulkheads had broken his impact. He'd barreled through one outer partition like a ca

Through the haze he recalled a great booming sound and vibration. The sixteeninch guns, he figured. But how often had they fired? How long had he been out? Sounds of small-arms fire rattled from outside. Who was fighting whom? He dismissed the thoughts almost as they occurred: they really didn't matter. He had his own problems to solve.

He moved twenty feet down the passageway, stopped, and pulled a flashlight from one pocket and a folded paper containing the Iowa's deck plans from another. It took him nearly two full minutes to pinpoint his exact location. Looking at the maze that made up the internal arrangement of a battleship was like looking at a cutaway view of a skyscraper lying on its side.

Tracking out a path to the forward shell magazines, he moved soundlessly along the passageway. He had covered but a short distance when the ship rocked under a barrage of solid blows. Dust accumulated during the Iowa's long years in mothballs erupted in smothering clouds. Pitt flung out his arms to maintain his balance, lurched, and grabbed the frame of a door that had opportunely swung open. He stood there choking back the dust while the tremors subsided.

He almost missed it, would have missed it if an indefinable curiosity hadn't tugged at his mind. Not a curiosity, really; rather an incongruity caught within his peripheral vision. He beamed the flashlight on a brown shoe — an expensive, handcrafted brown shoe — and saw it was attached to the leg of a black man stylishly attired in a business suit with vest. His hands were tied wide apart by ropes wrapped to overhead pipes.

61

Hiram Lusana could not distinguish the features of the man standing in the doorway of his prison. He looked large, but not as large as Fawkes. That was all Lusana could tell; the flashlight in the stranger's hands blinded him.

"I take it you lost the ship's popularity contest." came a voice that sounded more friendly than hostile.

The dark form behind the light moved closer and Lusana felt his bonds being loosened. "Where are you taking me?"

"Nowhere. But if you value social security in your old age, I suggest you get the hell off this boat before it's blown to pieces."

"Who are you?"

"Not that it matters, the name's Pitt."

"Are you part of Captain Fawkes's crew?"

"No, I'm free-lance."

"I don't understand."

Pitt untied Lusana's left hand and started on the other without answering.

"You are an American," said Lusana, more confused than ever. "Have you taken the ship from the South Africans?"

"We're working on it," said Pitt, sorely wishing he'd brought along a knife.

"Then you don't know who I am."

"Should I?"

"My name is Hiram Lusana. I am the leader of the African Army of Revolution."

Pitt finished with the last knot and stood back, aiming the light at Lusana's face. "Yes, I see that now. What's your involvement? I thought this was a South African show."

"I was kidnapped boarding an airplane back to Africa." Lusana gently pushed the light aside. Then a thought flooded his mind. "You know about Operation Wild Rose?" he asked.

"Only since last night. My government, however, was aware of it months ago."

"Impossible," said Lusana.

"Suit yourself." Pitt turned and started for the doorway. "Like I said, you better jump ship before the party gets out of hand."

Lusana hesitated, but only for a second. "Wait! "

Pitt turned. "Sorry, I can't spare the time."

"Please hear me out." Lusana moved closer. "If your government and the news media discover my presence here, they will have no choice but to overlook the truth and hold me responsible."

"So?"

"Let me prove my i

Pitt read the sincerity in Lusana's eyes. He pulled an old Colt .45 automatic from his belt and passed it to the black man. "Take this and cover my ass. I need both hands to hold the flashlight and read a diagram."

Somewhat taken aback, Lusana accepted the gun. "You'd trust me with this?"

"Sure," Pitt said offhandedly. "What would you gain by shooting a total stranger in the back?"

And then he motioned for Lusana to follow and quickly darted down the passageway toward the forward part of the ship.

Turret number two had survived the onslaught from the Satan missiles. Her steel plating was gouged and sprung in eight places but never penetrated. The portoutside gun barrel was severely fractured at the recoil base of the turret.

Dazed, Fawkes saw all this through the shattered remains of the glass in the bridge windows. Magically, he was untouched. He had been standing behind one of the few remaining steel bulkheads when the Satans had unerringly zeroed in on number-two turret. He snatched the microphone.

"Shaba, this is the captain. Do you hear me?"

The only reply was a faint ripple of static.

"Shaba!" Fawkes shouted. "Speak up, man. Report your damage."