And so, sometime around 3pm, the Titans assembled on the island's highest hilltop, armed with binoculars — and not in their battlesuits, naturally — to observe the godly transit. This was Landesman's idea. "Know your enemy," was his reasoning. "Take the opportunity to see him in the flesh when you can." He himself was out there, as were Lillicrap, McCann, and all the technicians. There was only one absentee.
"Any of you guys seen Nigel?" Sparks wondered.
"He said he preferred to stay below," Tsang replied. "He has no wish to be here."
"Why not?"
"His family, as you may remember. It was Poseidon who…" The rest was left unsaid.
"Oh. Oh yeah."
Poseidon came into sight somewhat later than scheduled. His progress was attended by a swarm of news helicopters, flying flat out to keep up with him. Through her binoculars Sam beheld a powerful, muscular physique that was running to flab, like a retired wrestler's. Long aquamarine hair and a long aquamarine beard flowed backwards from his face. A necklace of clamshells nestled on his hairy chest, while shiny fish-scale longjohns clad his lower half. He brandished his trident in one hand like a royal sceptre. His feet were lost in the foam of the wave that was supporting him and bearing him along. The wave was four or five metres high at its peak, and cut a white chevron half a mile wide across the sea's surface.
"Look at that," McCann said. "How does he do that?"
"You mean you don't know?" said a colleague of his, Rajesh Patanjali, responsible for all things IT at Bleaney. "Didn't you read the New Scientist special on the Olympians?"
"Must've missed that one. I prefer my magazines to have pictures of nudie girls and articles about the Grand Prix in them. So what's the trick? Magic?"
Patanjali rolled his eyes, as though it was his greatest burden in life to have to be confronted with such childishness on a daily basis. "Aquakinesis. Poseidon manipulates water with his mind. Water or any other liquid. He can control it down the molecular level. Shape it, congeal it, turn it to vapour — I've seen him on TV doing all of those."
"Turn a man's blood to mud in his veins," said Eto'o. "I've seen him do that. And not on TV."
"A very dangerous creature," said Landesman. "Perhaps second only to Zeus in terms of threat level. We shan't be tackling him 'til we've a few lesser Olympians under our belt first."
"You're wrong there, Mr Landesman," said a voice from behind.
Everyone spun round to see Chisholm marching up to the hilltop from the direction of the bunker entrance. On his face was a look of implacable determination — and in his arms was a rocket launcher from the armoury.
"We're tackling him right now."
Cresting the hill, Chisholm swung the rocket launcher up onto his shoulder and put an eye to the sight.
"Round's already in. Laser-guided high-ex. I'm blowing the bastard out of the water."
"No!" Landesman barked. "I forbid it. Put that thing down, Nigel. This instant. You are not going to do this."
"Looks like I am, actually," said Chisholm.
"Shoot, and you jeopardise this entire operation."
"Not if I don't miss."
"Even if you don't. Attack Poseidon, and whether you kill him or not the Olympians will retaliate. They'll come down on us like a ton of bricks."
"Don't care. This is for Debs and Megan." Chisholm depressed the launch lever and curled his finger round the trigger.
Sam stepped in front of him.
"Mr Landesman's right, Nigel," she said. "Put the launcher down."
"Out of my way."
"No."
Chisholm moved to one side, re-sighting on Poseidon.
Sam sidestepped too, keeping her face level with the launcher's front opening.
"Get out of the bloody way," Chisholm growled.
"Or what?" said Sam. She kept her voice gentle but firm, as you did when talking to the deranged and the weapon-wielding. "You'll shoot me instead?"
"He'll be out of range in a couple of seconds. I need to do this. Move, Sam. Please."
"You'll get your chance, Nigel. But when the time's right. Not now."
"Sam…" The launcher trembled in Chisholm's grasp. She saw a tear roll down his cheek.
"Just wait. Poseidon is yours, I promise. You'll have first crack at him. But you need to be patient. Stow the launcher. There are cameras in those helicopters. If anyone zooms in you, we're sunk."
She laid a hand on the launcher and slowly pushed it down, getting no resistance from Chisholm. It was a relief not to be staring into that lethal hollow any more.
"Fuck," Chisholm breathed. His eyes were glassy, his expression one of crumpled, abject misery. "All right, you win. God, I was so furious, and there he is, parading by, arrogant as you please, and I… I just…" He shook his head like a man emerging from a trance. "I've made an utter tit of myself, haven't I?"
"Not at all."
"What was I thinking?"
"You were thinking about your wife and daughter. You were remembering them and how much you loved them. And there isn't one of us here who wouldn't at least have been tempted to do what you did, in your shoes."
"Rocket probably wouldn't even have got him. He'd have seen it coming and thrown up a wall of water to protect himself."
"And then would have conjured up a massive tsunami to swamp the entire island and drown the lot of us," Sam said. "Your motives were noble, Nigel. Your strategy, on the other hand…"
"…was atrocious. Mr Landesman — everyone — "
Chisholm found he couldn't look any of the assembled company in the eye. He couldn't even finish the sentence. Letting the launcher drop to the ground, he turned and walked off, shoulders slumped in shame.
Poseidon by now was a dwindling speck on the horizon, the helicopters too, the ruckus of their rotors reduced to a faint locust whirr.
Landesman came over to Sam. "Adroitly handled," he said. "Well done."
All of the Titans present were of the same opinion. They didn't have to say anything; Sam could see it in their faces. Ramsay gave her the merest ghost of a nod, and that seemed to sum it up. If any of them had been harbouring reservations about her, they weren't now. Like it or not — and for Sam it was still the latter — she was team leader. This incident had been her unofficial anointing. There could be no going back.
13. MISTAKES
Chisholm wanted to quit after that. "Damn near scuppered your ship," he said to Landesman, "before she'd even set out on her maiden voyage." He had his bag packed and was preparing to leave.
Landesman, however, over several balloons of Chivas Regal and a couple of plump Cohiba cigars, convinced him to unpack his bag and stay.
"I'm all for giving a fellow a second chance," Landesman told Sam privately in his office later. One of the bunker's larger rooms, the office was decked out like a clubland snug, with thick Axminster on the floor, oak panelling and reproduction Old Masters on the walls, and shelfloads of gilt-titled antique books. A sleek Apple PowerBook was its sole concession to the 21st century.
"But what if he does it again?" Sam said. "Goes off the rails at a crucial moment?"
"He won't. Man's learned his lesson."
"I'm not so sure. I don't know if I can trust him now."
"Nigel Chisholm was a captain in the RAF's Number 32 Squadron," Landesman said. "Meaning, among other things, he's piloted Tristars with members of government and the royal family on board. They don't let just anyone fly VIPs of that calibre around the world."