Gunn scanned the low banks of the river and the barren landscapes beyond. "No use in grounding on shore and making a run for it. The countryside is wide open. We wouldn't get 50 meters."
"So what do we do?" asked Giordino.
"Surrender and take our chances," Gunn offered lamely.
"Even chased rats slash and run," said Pitt. "I'm for the last defiant gesture, a wasted gesture maybe, but what the hell. We give them a nasty sign with our fists, shove the throttles to the wall, and run like hell. If they get downright belligerent, we make cemetery fodder out of them."
"More likely they'll do it to us," complained Giordino.
"You really mean that?" Gunn demanded incredulously.
"Not on your life," Pitt said emphatically. "Mrs. Pitt's boy has no death wish. I'm gambling Kazim wants this boat so bad, he paid off Niger officials to let it pass into Mali so he could grab it. If I win, he won't want even the slightest scratch or dent in the hull."
"You're putting all your eggs in the wrong basket," argued Gunn. "Shoot down one plane and you'll stir up a hornet's nest. Kazim will send everything he's got after us."
"I certainly hope so."
"You're talking like a crazy man," said Giordino suspiciously.
"The contamination data," Pitt said patiently. "That's why we're here. Remember?"
"We don't have to be reminded," said Gunn, beginning to see a slip of light in Pitt's seeming loss of reality. "So what's boiling in your evil caldron of a brain?"
"As much as I hate to ruin a beautiful and perfectly good boat, a diversion may be the only way one of us can escape and carry the results of our operation out of Africa and into the hands of Sandecker and Chapman."
"There's method to his madness after all," Giordino admitted. "Keep talking."
"Nothing complicated," explained Pitt. "In another hour it will be dark. We reverse course and get as close to Gao as we can before Kazim gets tired of the game. Rudi goes over the side and swims for shore. Then you and I start the fireworks show and take off downriver like a vestal virgin chased by barbarian hordes."
"That gunboat might have something to say about that, don't you think?" Gunn reminded him.
"A mere trifle. If my timing is on key, we'll flash past the Malian navy before they know we've come and gone."
Giordino peered over his sunglasses. "Sounds remotely possible. Once the good times roll, the Malians' attention won't be focused on a body in the water."
"Why me?" Gunn demanded. "Why not one of you?"
"Because you're the best qualified," Pitt justified. "You're sly, cunning, and slippery. If anyone can grease their way into the airport at Gao and onto an airplane out of the country, it's you. You're also the only bona fide chemist among us. That alone entitles you to lay bare the toxic substance and its entry point into the river."
"We could make a run for our embassy in the capital city of Bamako."
"Fat chance. Bamako is 600 kilometers away."
"Dirk makes good sense," Giordino agreed. "His gray matter and mine put together couldn't give you the formula for bathroom soap."
"I'll not run out and allow the two of you to sacrifice your lives for me," Gunn insisted.
"Don't talk stupid," Giordino said stonily. "You know damn well Dirk and I don't have a mutual suicide pact." He turned to Pitt. "Do we?"
"Perish the thought," Pitt said loftily. "After we cover Rudi's getaway, we fix the Calliope so Kazim never enjoys its luxury. After that, we abandon ship ourselves and then mount a safari across the desert to discover the true source of the toxin."
"We what?" Giordino looked aghast. "A safari…"
"You have an incredible knack for simplicity," said Gunn.
"Across the desert," Giordino mumbled.
"A little hike never hurt anybody," Pitt said with a jovial air.
"I was wrong," Giordino moaned. "He wants us to self-destruct."
"Self-destruct?" Pitt repeated. "My friend, you just said the magic words."
Pitt took one final look at the aircraft overhead. They still circled aimlessly. They had shown no inclination to attack and obviously had no intention of making any now. Once the Calliope began her dash downriver Pitt could not afford the time to keep them under observation. Running wide open over a strange waterway in the black of night at 70 knots would take every shred of his concentration.
He shifted his gaze from the aircraft to the huge flag he'd run up the mast that supported the shattered satellite antenna. He had removed the small Jolly Roger from the stern jackstaff after finding a United States ensign folded away in a flag locker. It was large, stretching almost 2 meters, but with no breeze to lift it in the dry night air, it hung curled and flaccid around the antenna.
He glanced at the dome on the stern. The shutters were closed. Giordino was not preparing to launch the remaining six rockets. He was attaching them around the fuel tanks before wiring them to a timer/detonator. Gunn, Pitt knew, was below, stuffing the analysis data tapes and water sample records in a plastic cover that he tightly bound and stuffed in a small backpack along with food and survival gear.
Pitt turned his attention to the radar, fixing the position of the Malian gunboat in his mind. He found it surprisingly easy to shake off the tentacles of fatigue. His adrenaline was pumping now that their course was irrevocably set.
He took a deep breath and jammed the triple throttles wide open and crammed the wheel to the starboard stop.
To the men watching from the command aircraft it was as though the Calliope had suddenly leaped from the water and twisted around in midair. She carved a sharp arc in the center of the river, and hurtled downriver under full power, sheeted in a great curtain of foam and spray. Her bow came out of the water like an uplifted sword as her stern plunged deep under a great rooster tail that exploded in the air behind her transom.
The stars and stripes jerked taut and streamed out under the sudden onslaught of wind. Pitt well knew he was going against all government policy, defiantly flying the national emblem on foreign soil during an illegal intrusion. The State Department would scream bloody murder when the enraged Malians beat their breasts and lodged a flaming protest. God only knew the hell that would erupt inside the White House. But he flat didn't give a damn.
The dice were rolling. The black ribbon of water beckoned. Only the dim light of the stars reflected on the smooth surface, and Pitt did not trust his night vision to keep him in the deep part of the channel. If he ran the boat aground at its maximum speed it would disintegrate. His eyes constantly darted from the radar screen to the depth sounder to the dark watercourse ahead before repeating the routine.
He did not waste a glance at the speedometer as the needle hung at the 70-knot mark and then quivered beyond it. Nor did he have to look at the tachometers to know they were creeping past their red lines. The Calliope was giving it everything she had for her final voyage, like a thoroughbred running a race beyond her limits. It was almost as if she knew she would never make home port.
When the Malian gunboat moved almost to the center of the radar screen, Pitt squinted into the darkness. He just discerned the low silhouette of the vessel turning broadside to the channel in an effort to block his passage. It ran no lights, but he didn't doubt for an instant that the crew had their guns aimed down his throat.
He decided to feint to starboard and then cut port to throw off the gunners before skirting the shallows and charging under the gunboat's bow. The Malians had the initiative, but Pitt was banking on Kazim's unwillingness to ruin one of the world's finest speed yachts. The General would be in no hurry. He still had a comfortable margin of several hundred kilometers of river to stop the fleeing boat.