Piranha Assignment (13 page)

“Ah, the voice of the novice,” Franciscus said, spinning toward them on his stool. “Yes, my dear, you are in the heart of a nuclear submarine. However, it isn't like plugging in a battery, you know. All the reactor can do is produce heat. The reactor boils water, which creates steam, which pushes the revolutionary pump jets. Mechanically, we haven't progressed much past your Robert Fulton in the last hundred years. We've simply created progressively more efficient ways to build the fire that boils the water.”

Felicity smiled and thanked the odd little man as she rolled the drawing up to carry away. Morgan said good-bye, but the navigation expert was already back into his writing.

Not until Morgan flipped the hatch open again did Felicity realize how dim the fluorescent lighting inside the submarine was. The sun was blinding. She inhaled a lungful of salt air and zeroed in on a single gull diving toward them. He seemed carefree and quite bored, much like Felicity herself.

“You got a look at whatever navigator-boy was doing,” she said. “Where is it he's taking the sub?”

“It looks to me like he's planning a trip out to the mid-Atlantic,” Morgan said, helping Felicity onto the gangway toward shore.

“Ahhh. The Piranha's maiden voyage.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “Sure hope it's more successful than the maiden flight of the B2 bomber.”

At eleven forty-five Morgan was driving their Land Rover toward the main house for lunch. A whistle blew, not really loud but clear. Workers approached from the submarine, from the security fence, and from the beached patrol boats. At the same time, replacements scrambled from the barracks building, heading to the security areas.

“They're mighty disciplined for a bunch of civilians, don't you think?” Felicity asked as they glided into their designated parking area.

“That Bastidas. He has really inspired them with the drive for mission accomplishment.”

The main house had no air conditioning, but its high ceilings and the fans mounted into them served to keep it cooler than the outside air. The usual cast was present, except for Barton. They received the usual food, with Margaritas added after lunch. When everyone was almost finished eating, Bastidas stood and raised his glass.

“My friends, I want to take this opportunity to thank you for all your hard work and dedication. We have done an exhaustive amount of testing, I know, checking and rechecking every system and function. But I want you to know the time for worry and tension is past. Everything is moving along exactly as planned and on schedule. And now that we are no close to the culmination of our dream, I want you all to take some time to relax, in anticipation of the first sea voyage to truly make history since 1941.”

Felicity wondered if Bastidas was referring to the American Navy or the Japanese fleet making history.

After lunch, Morgan and Felicity returned to their vehicle. Felicity moved more slowly than usual, lost in thought.

“I don't know, Morgan,” she said as he started the engine. “Bastidas looks to be the most confident man alive, running on about relaxing, and being in the home stretch and all. But I saw some definite nervousness among our fellow diners today. Still don't feel completely safe.”

“That reminds me,” Morgan said, shutting the vehicle off. “Wait here a minute, would you?”

While Morgan headed back to his room, Felicity rolled up her sleeves. The tan line at her wrist prompted her to examine herself in the rear-view mirror. Her fair skin was already browned to the color of an almond shell. Despite her use of sun screen, she would burn soon and then start peeling. Her bright green eyes were highlighted against her darker than usual face. She hated Morgan for his luscious brown skin that just got darker in the sun, but never reddened or burned or peeled. She knew this was not universal among black people, he was just lucky in that regard.

Her hair was bleaching, but not in an unattractive way. The golden highlights gave her the look of a Valkyrie for some reason. Her lips were drying and she wished she had had sense enough to bring her gloss.

Then her head snapped up and she spun in her seat toward the Victorian house. It was not her danger signal, but the remote, general frisson that meant Morgan was the object of a threat. He was walking into something, and he was already in the house, beyond her call. She considered running to him, but decided preparing for escape might be a better precaution. She slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. If he needed to get away quickly she would be ready.

Padding down the carpeted third floor hall, Morgan followed a sudden urge to be very quiet. He didn't really know why. He expected the building to be empty in the afternoon except for a few domestics. Everyone in the compound seemed very busy, and they only stopped for meals. But something or someone was setting off his old familiar danger alarm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and it worsened as he neared his room.

It wouldn't have surprised Morgan to find someone inside. Perhaps maids came to make the beds and such. But no maid would make his instincts go crazy. He moved to the door in total silence and pressed an ear to it. He heard movement within, stealthy movement. A search in progress, Morgan would bet, and here he was wandering around unarmed except for a knife in each boot for emergencies. Well, they would have to do. Them, and the element of surprise. One good thing about having a danger sense like his was never facing an enemy without warning.

To the intruder's disadvantage, the entire house was very well maintained. Morgan turned the doorknob and opened the door an inch without the slightest sound. He held his four inch double edged dagger in his right hand. One eye scanned the room, settling on the man within. His old pal Varilla was crouching before the bed, facing away from the door. Morgan's steamer trunk was on it, with Varilla worrying the lock. Too bad. The locks were dummies. The fake hinges on the other side of the trunk were made to flip up, revealing the real locks. Meanwhile, Varilla was trying to pick a hinge.

Morgan took three quick steps into the room before Varilla turned. Strong brown hands grasped the edge of the
oval rug just as Varilla stood to his full height. A hard yank, and the intruder's feet flew. His head made a dull crack as it hit the wooden floor. Morgan was on him in an instant, his blade's tip making a slight indentation on Varilla's throat. His eyes blazed above a humorless smile.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Morgan asked. He could smell Varilla's fear, but to his credit, Varilla swallowed hard and remained silent.

“Who sent you?”

“No one,” Varilla said. Possibly true. Morgan thought Bastidas may have sent him to check out the new security chiefs, but it was just as possible that Varilla was acting on his own. Was he trying to protect his boss from outsiders? Or, was he an inside saboteur, spying for some other nation? Maybe he knew they had a schematic of the Piranha and planned a little industrial espionage.

In any case, Morgan wouldn't kill him. So soon after CIA agent Chris Matthews' death, and then the apparent murder of his killer, one more death could disrupt the project too much, maybe even end it, so near completion. If Varilla was a spy, turning him over to Bastidas could have the same result.

While Morgan thought, Varilla sweated at knife point. There was only one thing to do. Concoct a lie that covered all the bases and let him go.

“My partner and I are security experts,” Morgan said, withdrawing the knife. “That's why we're here. Entering this room set off my proximity alarm. I might have killed you, thinking you were a thief or a spy. There's nothing here of any use to a spy anyway.” This much was true. No paperwork or other evidence of CIA connections existed. No tangible evidence existed to indicate that they were anything other than what they said they were.

“In the interest of getting the project to completion, I'm
going to let you leave and say no more about this. But get this straight.” Morgan hefted Varilla by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. “If you get in my way one more time, You'll disappear mysteriously. Understand? And no one will hear from you again. Get it? Now, get out.”

With a grunt, Morgan tossed Varilla out the door. He hit the wall across the hall, fell, stood, and sprinted down the hall. Morgan hoped that would do it.

With a slight chuckle, Morgan closed the door and went to the trunk. He turned it, flipped up the false hinges, and opened it with a small key from his wallet. He lifted a layer of foam padding and withdrew his double shoulder rig. No more traveling unarmed. After strapping on the holsters, he slid his Browning nine millimeter into the left holster. The narrower sheath on the other side accepted his Randall number one fighting knife, handle down. A spare pistol magazine clipped onto each shoulder strap.

He looked at the Desert Eagle forty-four magnum pistol in the case, but decided to leave it. He had brought it hoping to do some handgun hunting while in Central America, but its weight made it impractical for regular carry. Then his attention turned to the reason he had gone back to the room, a breakdown twenty-two caliber rifle in a leatherette case. Not a powerful weapon but perfect for teaching someone to shoot, something he had put off with Felicity for far too long.

When Morgan returned to the vehicle, Felicity knew something had happened upstairs that affected him. His whole demeanor had changed. Instead of the relaxed man who had left minutes ago, this was a warrior in combat mode. His shoulders were squared, his eyes alert, his ears
pricked. His invisible antennae were out and she did not need to see the armament he wore to know he was ready to kill at a moment's notice.

“I'm thinking you just had some excitement,” she said. Since she was already at the wheel, Morgan got into the passenger seat and Felicity pulled out of the parking area while he related the events since he left her. When he finished he gave her a few seconds to digest his story.

“Well, you did the right thing letting Varilla go,” she said, “and I have to admit, my suspicions match yours. But what can we do about it?”

“Not much I guess. We'll just have to watch him real close, and wait for more proof of what he's up to.”

Felicity shifted and picked up speed on the trail so the breeze would cool her scalp. “That shouldn't be any problem. Once we've checked out the motor pool's security, we won't have much useful to occupy us. We can just dedicate ourselves to keeping an eye on the shady characters.”

Sticking to the shoreline, Felicity drove eastward, hating the rough clutch all the way. At the far end of the compound from The Piranha, guards move out in the open, patrolling a fenced in area. Inside, Morgan and Felicity found an efficient motor pool lorded over by a motor sergeant whose type Morgan recognized. Thick around the middle, he had a jolly face below long straight hair. But when he gave his visitors the grand tour, his sharp eyes noted every step in the repair or maintenance of “his” vehicles. Aside from a tanker designed to carry radioactive materials, the motor pool held nothing unusual, except perhaps in terms of quantity.

“I get the Jeeps mounted with machine guns,” Morgan said as they walked. “But what's with all the trucks? I'm looking at deuce-and-a-halfs, five tons, ten tons. I counted
twenty-five in all. Motor sergeant, what the hell do need all this towing capacity for?”

The motor sergeant stopped to inspect the tool box under the door of one of the trucks. “We've got quite a bit of cargo to load on The Piranha when the time came to set sail. Everything's got to be ready to move when the Captain gives the word. And you can bet that if anybody threatens my motor pool or moves on the convoy in transit, well, they'll get a hell of a fight.”

They thanked the motor sergeant for the tour and got back in their four wheel drive vehicle, this time with Morgan at the wheel. As soon as they were past the motor pool fence and onto another narrow trail, Felicity elbowed him.

“Well, I think they're as ready for trouble as they come.”