“Good God, man, what do you want? The case is purely hypothetical.”
“Such a weapon must be destroyed,” said Pitt. His green eyes seemed to burn into the back of Jarvis’s brain.
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There was a short silence. Then Jarvis said, “Does one truly exist?” “It does.”
The pieces were falling into place, and for the first time in all the years he could remember, Jarvis wished he hadn’t been so damned efficient. He looked at Pitt and smiled thinly.
“I’ll have that drink now,” he said quietly. “And then I think you and I should exchange some very disturbing news.”
It was past midnight when Phil Sawyer stopped the car in front of Loren’s apartment building. He was what most women thought a handsome man, with a solid face and a neatly styled mass of prematurely gray hair.
Loren flashed a provocative expression at him. “Would you like to open my apartment door for me? The lock always seems to stick.”
He smiled. “How can I refuse?”
They got out of the car and strolled through the garden entrance in silence. The sidewalk was wet and reflected the glow from the streetlights. Loren nestled against his body as the cold drizzle attacked their hair and clothes. The doorman greeted them and held the elevator open. At her door she fished in her purse and handed Sawyer the key. He turned the lock and they entered.
“Fix yourself a drink,” she said, shaking out her damp hair. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Loren slipped into the bedroom and Sawyer went over to a small portable bar and poured himself a cognac. He was on his second when Loren came back into the room. She was wearing pajamas with a silvery-gray wrap top and pants that were lace edged. As she came through the doorway, the light from the bedroom silhouetted her lithe figure through the vaporous nylon. The combination of the pajamas, her cinnamon hair, and her violet eyes suddenly made Sawyer feel like a confused adolescent.
“You look ravishing,” he managed to say.
“Thank you.” She poured a Galliano for herself and sat down next to him on the couch. “It was a lovely dinner, Phil.”
“My pleasure.”
She moved closer and lightly caressed his hand. “You seem different tonight. I’ve never known you to be so relaxed. Not once did you mention the President.”
“Six weeks and three days from now the new President-elect takes the oath and my eight-year battle with the gentlemen and ladies of the news
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media comes to an end. God, I never thought I would feel good about being part of a lame-duck administration.”
“What are your plans after the inauguration?”
“My boss has the right idea. As soon as he turns over the reins of office, he’s sailing a forty-foot ketch to the South Pacific, where he says he’s going to drink and screw himself to death.” Sawyer lowered his glass and stared into Loren’s eyes. “Now, me, I prefer the Caribbean, particularly for a honeymoon.”
An edge of anticipation began to form inside Loren. “Anyone special in mind?”
Sawyer set down their glasses and took Loren’s hands in his. “Congresswoman Smith,” he said with mock seriousness. “I respectfully implore you to cast your vote in favor of marriage to Phil Sawyer.”
Loren’s eyes grew somber and thoughtful. Though she’d been sure this moment would eventually come, she was still uncertain of her answer. Sawyer misread Loren’s hesitancy.
“I know what’s going through your mind,” he said gently. “You’re wondering what life would be like with an unemployed presidential press secretary, right? Well, rest your fears. I have it on good authority the party leaders want me to run for senator from my home state in the next election.”
“In that case,” she said resolutely, “the ayes have it.”
Sawyer did not see the uneasiness in Loren’s eyes. He took her head in his hands and gently kissed her on the lips. The room seemed to blur and the female scent that emanated from her body closed over him. He felt strangely at peace as he buried his face in her breasts.
Afterward, when Sawyer lay spent and asleep, Loren’s tears stained the pillow. She had tried desperately, with all her soul. She had loved hard; even forcing the expected animal sounds from her throat. But nothing worked. Throughout their violent lovemaking she found herself comparing Sawyer to Pitt. There was no way of logically explaining the difference. They both felt the same inside her, and yet Pitt turned her into a savage, demanding animal, whereas Sawyer left her empty and unfulfilled.
She pressed the pillow against her face to muffle the sobs. Damn you, Dirk Pitt, she said silently. Damn you to hell!
“I’m not sure whose story comes off the craziest, Pitt said, “yours or mine.”
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Jarvis shrugged. “Who can say. The horror is that it’s just possible your Quick Death warheads and my Operation Wild Rose might prove a match.”
“An attack on a major coastal city with a battleship by South African blacks posing as terrorists of the AAR. It’s lunacy.”
“Wrong,” said Jarvis. “The plan smacks of genius. A few bombs placed here or there, or another skyjacking, would hardly move an entire nation to see red. But an old battleship with flags flying, raining explosives on a helpless population, that’s sensationalism at its best.”
“What city?”
“None was specified. That part of the plan remains a mystery.”
“Fortunately, the prime ingredient is missing.”
“A battleship,” Jarvis said.
“You said they’ve all been removed from active status.”
“The last one was sold for scrap months ago. All the rest are nonopera-tional memorials.”
Pitt stared off into space for a moment. “I recall seeing a capital ship docked on an inlet in Chesapeake Bay only a few weeks ago.”
“More than likely a heavy-missile cruiser,” said Jarvis.
“No, I’m certain it had three massive gun turrets,” Pitt said firmly. “I was on a flight to Savannah and the plane flew right over it before turning south.”
Jarvis remained unconvinced. “I have no reason to doubt the accuracy of my information; however, in the interest of security, I’ll have your sighting checked out.”
“There is something else,” Pitt said, rising from the chair and searching a row of encyclopedias on a bookshelf. He pulled out a black-bound volume and flipped the pages.
“Did you trigger another memory?” asked Jarvis.
“Operation Wild Rose,” answered Pitt.
“What about it?”
“The name. Can it stand for anything?”
“Code names seldom have an ulterior meaning,” said Jarvis. “It might give them away.”
“I’ll bet you a vintage bottle of wine this one does.”
Pitt held out the book. The pages were open at a map. Jarvis slipped on his reading glasses and took a cursory glance at it.
“All right, so Iowa is the Hawkeye State. So what?”
Pitt pointed to a spot halfway down the right-hand page. “The state
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flower of Iowa,” he said softly, “is the wild rose.”
The color abruptly washed from Jarvis’s face. “But the battleship Iowa was scrapped.”
“Scrapped, or sold for scrap?” said Pitt. “There is a big difference.”
A series of worry lines grew on Jarvis’s forehead.
Pitt looked at Jarvis and let the worry lengthen. “If I were you, I’d run a check on all shipyards located on the western Chesapeake shoreline of Maryland.”
“Your phone.” It was more a command than a request.
Pitt silently pointed to one on an end table.
Jarvis dialed a number. Then, as he waited for an answer, he looked at Pitt. “Do you have a car that isn’t an antique?”
“I have a NUMA car parked outside.”
“I came in a taxi,” said Jarvis. “Will you do the honors?”
“Give me a minute to clean up,” Pitt replied.
When Pitt emerged from the bathroom, Jarvis was waiting at the door. “You were right,” he said evenly. “As of yesterday, the battleship Iowa was docked at the Forbes Marine Scrap and Salvage Yard, in Maryland.”
“I know the facility,” said Pitt. “It’s a few miles below the bay entrance to the Patuxent River.”
As Pitt drove through the rain, Jarvis seemed mesmerized by the flailing windshield wipers. Finally his eyes focused and he made a casual gesture at the road ahead. “I make the next town to be Lexington Park.”
“Another four miles,” Pitt said without turning.
“There is an all-night gas station on the outskirts,” Jarvis continued. “Pull up at the pay phone.”
Minutes later the headlights picked out the Lexington Park city-limits sign. In less than a mile, around a sweeping curve, a brightly lit service station beckoned through the soggy night. Pitt turned in the driveway and parked beside an outside phone booth.
The station attendant sat warm and dry inside the office, his feet propped up on an old oil-burning stove. He put down his magazine and for two or three minutes watched Pitt and Jarvis suspiciously through water-streaked windows. Then, satisfied they weren’t acting like holdup
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men, he returned to his reading. The pay phone’s light blinked out and Jarvis hurriedly ducked back into the passenger seat.
“Any late word?” Pitt asked.
Jarvis nodded. “My staff has uncovered a piece of discouraging information.”
“Bad news and dismal weather go hand in hand,” Pitt said.
“The Iowa was stricken from Navy rolls and auctioned as surplus. The winning bidder was an outfit called the Walvis Bay Investment Corporation.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“The corporation is a financial front for the African Army of Revolution.”
Pitt gave a slight twist of the wheel to avoid a deep puddle in the road. “Is it possible Lusana pulled the rug from under the South African Defence Ministry’s pipe dreams by outbidding them for the ship?”
“I doubt it.” Jarvis shivered from the damp cold and held his hands over the dashboard’s defroster vents. “I’m convinced the South African Defence Ministry bought the Iowa, handling the transaction under the guise of Walvis Bay Investment.”
“You don’t think Lusana is wise?”
“He has no way of knowing,” said Jarvis. “It’s common policy to keep the bidders’ names confidential upon request.”
“Christ,” Pitt muttered, “the sale of the warheads by Phalanx Arms to the AAR …”
“With a little more digging,” Jarvis said, his voice strained, “I’m afraid we’ll find that Lusana and the AAR had nothing to do with that deal either.”
“That’s the Forbes shipyard dead ahead,” Pitt said.
The high chain-link fence enclosing the shipyard met and began paralleling the road. At the main gate Pitt braked to a stop in front of a cable that stretched across the entrance. Nothing of the ship could be seen through the falling rain. Even the huge derricks were lost in the blackness. The guard was at Pitt’s door almost before he rolled the window down.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked courteously.
Jarvis leaned across Pitt and displayed his credentials. “We’d like to confirm the Iowa’s presence in the shipyard.”
“You can take it from me, sir, she’s down at the dock. Been there refitting close to six months.”
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“My orders are to admit no one without a pass or proper authority from company officials,” the guard continued. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until morning to take a tour of the ship.”
Jarvis’s face flushed with anger. But before he could launch an official tirade, another car pulled up and a man wearing a dinner jacket emerged.
“Problems, O’Shea?” he said.
“These gentlemen want to enter the yard,” answered the guard, “but they don’t have passes.”
Jarvis swung out of the car and met the stranger halfway. “My name is Jarvis, director of the National Security Agency. My friend is Dirk Pitt; he’s with NUMA. It’s a matter of highest priority that we inspect the Iowa.”
“At three o’clock in the morning?” muttered the confused man, studying Jarvis’s identification under the floodlights. Then he turned to the guard.
“They’re okay; let them through.” He faced Jarvis again. “The way to the dock is a bit tricky. I’d better come along. By the way, I’m Metz, Lou Metz, superintendent of the shipyard.”
Metz went back to his car and said something to a woman sitting on the passenger side. “My wife,” he explained, hunching into Pitt’s backseat. “Tonight is our anniversary. We were on our way home from celebrating and I happened to drop by the yard to pick up some blueprints.”
O’Shea unhooked the barrier cable and dropped it to the wet ground. He motioned to Pitt to hold while he leaned in the window. “If you see that bus driver, Mr. Metz, ask him what’s delaying his departure.”
Metz looked puzzled. “Bus driver?”
“Came through about seven o’clock this evening carrying a load of about seventy black guys. They were headed for the Iowa.”
“You let them through?” Metz asked incredulously.
“They all had proper passes, including the driver of the truck, who followed them in.”
“Fawkes!” Metz snapped angrily. “What’s that crazy Scot up to now?”
Pitt shifted into drive and steered the car into the yard. “Who’s Fawkes?” he asked.
“Captain Patrick McKenzie Fawkes,” Metz said. “Royal Navy retired. He made no secret of the fact that some black terrorist bunch hired him to refit the ship. The man is nuttier than a cashew factory.”
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Jarvis turned and faced Metz. “How so?”
“Fawkes has driven me and my crew up the bulkheads giving the entire vessel a major facelift. He’s made us strip her down next to nothing and replace half the superstructure with wood.”
“The/owa was never designed to float like a cork,” said Pitt. “If her buoyancy and gravity centers are drastically altered, she could capsize in a heavy storm.”
“Tell me about it,” Metz grunted. “I’ve argued with that stubborn bastard for months. I might as well have farted at a hurricane for all the good it did me. He even demanded we remove two perfectly good General Electric geared turbine engines and seal their shafts.” He paused and tapped Pitt on the shoulder. “Turn right at the next pile of steel plating and then swing a left at the derrick’s rail tracks.”