Pitt planted his feet squarely on the deck and positioned his hands on the wheel in preparation for the fast turns. For some unearthly reason the roar from the flat-out turbo diesels and the crescendo of wind pounding in his ears reminded him of the last act of Wagner's Twilight of the Gods. All that was missing was the thunder and lightning.
And then that struck too.
The gunboat let loose, and a whole mass of shrieking fire burst through the night, ear-piercing, a nightmare bedlam of shells that found and slammed into the Calliope.
Aboard the command plane, Kazim stared in shock at the unexpected attack. Then he flew into a rage.
"Who told the Captain of that gunboat to open fire?" he demanded.
Cheik looked stunned. "He must have taken it upon himself."
"Order him to cease fire, immediately. I want that boat intact and undamaged."
"Yes, sir," Cheik acknowledged, jumping from his chair and rushing to the communications cabin of the aircraft.
"Idiot!" Kazim snapped, his face twisted in anger. "My orders were explicit. No battle unless I so ordered. I want the Captain and his ship's officers executed for disobeying my command."
Foreign Minister Messaoud Djerma stared at Kazim in disapproval. "Those are harsh measures—"
Kazim cut Djerma off with a withering stare. "Not for those who are disloyal."
Djerma shrank from the murderous gaze of his superior. No man with a wife and family dared face up to Kazim. Those who questioned the General's demands disappeared as though they never existed.
Very slowly Kazim's eyes turned from Djerma and refocused on the action taking place on the river.
The vicious tracers, glowing weirdly in the desert blackness, streaked across the water, at first swinging wildly to the port of the Calliope. It sounded as if a dozen guns were blazing at once. Waterspouts thrashed the water like hail.
Then the aim of the gunners steadied and became deadly as the fiery shells walked across the river and began thudding into the now defenseless boat at almost point-blank range. Jagged holes appeared in the bow and foredeck; the shells would have traveled the interior length of the unarmored boat if they hadn't been absorbed by spare coils of nylon line and deflected by the anchor chain in the forecastle.
There was no time to avoid the initial barrage, barely time to react. Caught totally off balance, Pitt instinctively crouched and in the same movement desperately spun the wheel to avert the devastating fire. The Calliope responded and shot clear for a few moments until the gunners corrected and the orange, searing flashes skipped across the river and found the high-speed craft again, ripping the steel hull and shattering the fiberglass superstructure. The thud of the impacts sounded like the tire of a speeding car thumping over highway centerline reflectors.
Smoke and flame leaped from the holes torn in the forecastle where the tracers had fired the coils of line. The instrument panel shattered and exploded around Pitt. Miraculously, he wasn't hit by the shell, but he faintly felt a trickle of liquid down his cheek. He cursed his stupidity in thinking the Malians wouldn't destroy the Calliope. He deeply regretted having Giordino remove the missiles from their launchers and secure them to the fuel tanks. One shell into the engine room and they would all be blown into unidentifiable morsels for the fish.
He was so close to the gunboat now, if he had looked, he could have read the orange dial of his old Doxa dive watch from the muzzle flashes.
He cranked the wheel savagely, swerving the riddled yacht around the gunboat's bow with less than 2 meters to spare. And then he was past, the avalanching slab of water from the sport yacht's wash pitching the gunboat into a rolling motion that threw off the aim of the gunners and sent their shells whistling harmlessly into the night.
And then, quite suddenly, the continuous blast from the gunboat's cannon stopped. Pitt did not bother to fathom the reason for the reprieve. He maintained a zigzag course until the gunboat was left far behind in the darkness. Only when he was sure they were in the clear and the still functioning radar unit showed no indication of attacking aircraft did he relax and exhale his breath in welcome relief.
Giordino appeared beside him, concern on his face. "You okay?"
"Mad at myself for playing a sucker. How about you and Rudi?"
"A few bruises from being thrown around by your lousy driving. Rudi received a nasty knot on his head when he was knocked flat during a hard turn, but it hasn't stopped him from fighting the fire in the bow."
"He's a tough little guy."
Giordino raised a flashlight and shined it on Pitt's face. "Did you know you have a piece of glass sticking out of your ugly mug?"
Pitt raised one hand from the wheel and tenderly touched a small piece of glass from a gauge that was embedded in his cheek. "You can see it better than I can. Pull it out."
Giordino slipped the butt end of the flashlight between his teeth, pointed the beam at Pitt's wound, and gently took hold of the glass shard between his forefinger and thumb. Then with a quick jerk, he yanked it free. "Bigger than I thought," he commented offhandedly. He threw the glass overboard and retrieved a first aid kit from a cockpit cabinet. Three stitches and a bandage later, while Pitt kept his eyes on the instruments and the river, Giordino stood back and admired his handiwork. "There you go. Another brilliant operation in the continuing saga of Dr. Albert Giordino, desert surgeon."
"What's your next great moment in medicine?" Pitt asked as he spied a dim yellow glow from a lantern and slewed the Calliope into a wide arc, just missing a pinnace sailing in the dark.
"Why, presenting the bill, of course."
"I'll mail you a check."
Gunn appeared from below, holding a cube of ice against a blossoming bump on the back of his head. "It's going to break the Admiral's heart when he hears what we did to his boat."
"Down deep, I don't think he ever expected to see her again," Giordino prophesied.
"Fire out?" Pitt asked Gunn.
"Still smoldering, but I'll give it another shot from an extinguisher after I breathe the smoke out of my lungs."
"Any leaks below?"
Gunn shook his head. "Most of the hits we took were topside. None below the waterline. The bilge is dry."
"Are the aircraft still in the neighborhood? The radar only shows one."
Giordino tilted his head at the sky. "The big one is still giving us the eye," he confirmed. "Too dark to make out the fighters, and they're out of earshot, but my old bones tell me they're hanging around."
"How far to Gao?" asked Gunn.
"About 75 or 80 kilometers," Pitt estimated. "Even at this speed we won't see the city's lights for another hour or more."
"Providing those characters up there leave us alone," Giordino said, his voice raised two octaves to overcome the wind and exhaust.
Gunn pointed to the portable radio that rested on a counter shelf. "Might help if we strung them along."
Pitt smiled in the darkness. "Yes, I think it's time we take calls."
"Why not?" Giordino went along. "I'm curious to hear what they have to say."
"Talking to them might buy us the time we need to reach Gao," advised Gunn. "We've a fair way to go."
Pitt turned the helm over to Giordino, tuned up the volume on the portable radio's speaker so they could all hear above the roar, and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Good evening," he answered pleasantly. "How may I help you?"
There was a short pause. Then a voice replied in French.
"I hate this," muttered Giordino.
Pitt stared up at the plane as he spoke. "Non parley vous francais."
Gunn wrinkled his brows. "Do you know what you said?"
Pitt looked at him innocently. "I informed him I can't speak French."