They set their luggage on the floor and quickly began to change into black fatigues. Patke spoke as he stripped out of jeans and a button-down shirt. “A spare radio is in my bag there.” He pointed with his chin. Lauren retrieved it from its hiding place. “You’re familiar with it, Captain?”
She flicked it on and settled the earpiece and throat mike. “Affirmative.”
“Pre-select channels one through four are me and my guys.” Patke showed no self-consciousness about stripping to his underwear in front of her. “We’ll call out as we change them. Your code name’s Angel. We’re Devil One through Six. The McCampbell’s Heaven. She’ll be on channels five, six, and seven. Give ’em a call and see if they’re listening.”
“Heaven, Heaven, this is Angel. Radio check. Over.”
“Angel, this is Heaven, reading you five by five. Over.” The comm officer aboard the McCampbell was a woman. “Sit rep?”
“Devils and Angel are ready to go. Target is—” she looked at Mercer, who told her “—fifteen minutes from entering the lock. It will take about thirty minutes for her to clear the chamber and proceed to the cut.”
“Understood, Angel. The UAV is flying just low enough to see through the overcast. We’ve got her under surveillance. Heaven is standing by with all the wrath you might need.”
Lauren knew that meant her VGAS cannon had already locked onto the Mario diCastorelli and that her Seahawk helicopter was ready to go. “Roger that, Heaven. Angel out.”
“Let’s see the weapons,” Patke said when he’d finished dressing. Mercer lifted the second nylon bag onto the table. The commandos descended on the guns. In seconds each had an M-16 stripped down to its component parts. After one of them checked the assault rifles thoroughly, they gave the pistols the same attention. “You haven’t fired these yourself?” Patke asked Lauren.
She shook her head. “I only got them last night.”
Patke made a disgusted face. “This just gets better and better.” He looked to the armorer who’d inspected the weapons. “How about it?”
“Can’t promise accuracy but they’re all in good shape, sir.” He looked at Lauren. “Government issue?”
She wasn’t surprised the soldier could deduce that from his brief examination. These men were all experts on the tools of their trade. “I got them from a contact in the police.”
“Good enough for me,” the armorer announced, and his teammates, though unhappy about going into combat with unfamiliar arms, seemed satisfied.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. We’re gonna need Mr. Herrara to stay with us,” Patke said absently.
“No way,” Mercer snapped. “He’s more of a civilian than any of us.”
“That may be, but he’s also the only one who can maneuver that ship. None of my guys have experience with anything over a thirty-foot assault boat. We can take the ship, but unless we can get her out of the way, the Chinese will likely just take it back again with a superior force.”
Mercer wanted to protest again, maybe volunteer himself. That’s what his instincts told him to do, but he had no idea how to control a ship the size of the Mario diCastorelli. Roddy was the only logical choice. Goddamnit.
Roddy forestalled any further argument. “I will do it.”
There was no need to mention what he was risking by going with the Americans. The love he felt for his family was reflected in his eyes and the proud set to his shoulders.
“Right.” Patke checked over his team. “Once we get control of her, we’ll determine how the explosives are triggered and render them inoperable. Two of my men are demolition experts. Mr. Herrara will keep the ship moving so the Chinese can’t board her from a launch.”
“We’ll be waiting at the upper side of the lock complex,” Mercer told him.
Roddy was at the window, looking through the storm for the Mario diCastorelli. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time. She’s just about at the lock.”
The others joined him. Through the woolly curtain of rain, the bulk carrier loomed over the waters like a rust-streaked cathedral. Her four-story superstructure was located at her stern, and was painted a murky blue, with a single funnel that belched black smoke. Three cranes rose from her low deck on spindly stalks, like enormous insects whose arms could pick at the carcass they were poised over. Her bows flared upward, and where her anchor dangled on a massive chain her name was stenciled in faded letters.
Nothing about her dilapidated appearance gave a hint to the deadly cargo in her holds.
“We’ve got to go,” Roddy said.
Patke fitted his earpiece and told Lauren they were starting on channel one. All the team members checked the comm link with each other and with the guided-missile destroyer standing off the coast.
Mercer shook Roddy’s hand and that of Captain Patke. Lauren gave Roddy a quick hug and saluted the Special Forces officer. “Good luck, Captain.”
Nothing further needed to be said. Roddy climbed up to the bridge and keyed the engines to life. Mercer and Lauren began jogging off the pier. In a minute they heard the timbre of the fishing boat’s engine change as Roddy pulled from the marina. It would take only a couple of minutes to dash across the shipping lines and deposit the commandos on the far bank of the canal. From there, Mercer estimated Patke would wait until the last minute before rushing the lock chamber and boarding the bomb ship. After that he had no idea how it would go.
He looked at Lauren as she ran at his side through the deluge. Her jaw was relaxed as her breathing came deep and even. Her hands were formed into loose fists. When she felt his stare upon her she turned to him, her eyes undiminished in the washed-out light.
He put aside his growing feelings toward her and turned his gaze back into the storm, his eyes slitted, his stomach a churning mess.
The Pedro Miguel Lock Panama Canal, Panama
The pickup was parked in the middle of the visitor’s lot, the lone vehicle there under the punishing rain. Harry sat alone in the front seat, something nagging at the back of his mind as he read the transit manifest for the fourth time. With the windows closed, the cab was blue with smoke. When Mercer and Lauren came jogging up, he stubbed out his cigarette and slid over so she was between the two men. “They on their way?”
“Yes,” Mercer replied. “They’re taking Roddy when they board the Mario diCastorelli.”
Harry didn’t seem surprised by this revelation. Come to think of it, Mercer realized, Roddy hadn’t been either. He began to see that the two of them had known the Green Berets were going to need a pilot and conveniently didn’t tell anyone about it.
He continued. “I think they’ll be all right. Patke and his team look pretty tough. I told him that we’ll be ready to help once the ship’s secure.” He leaned forward so he could look directly at his friend. “Harry, with Roddy acting as pilot, I don’t think we’re going to need you out there. I want you to wait in the truck.”
“And get captured by some of Liu’s guards, who I’m sure are lurking around someplace? Forget it.” He snorted. “Besides, if the commandos fail, chances are Roddy won’t be in too good a shape. If they need you, you’re going to need me.”
“You’re sure you can handle that ship?”
“It’s like falling off a bike,” Harry dismissed with a grand wave. “Do it once and you never forget how.”
Lauren smiled. “Your metaphors are a bit screwy.”
“So’s Mercer’s head if he thinks I can’t conn a ship like that.”
Lauren rubbed the windshield to smear away the fog. They were all breathing heavier than normal and felt the claustrophobia of being jammed into the tight cab. Mercer suspected it was even worse for the five men in the cargo bed.