Paul and Gamay were standing at the rail, firing down at the incoming torpedo with the two AR-15 rifles. At a range of a hundred feet, one of them hit the warhead just right. A new shock wave erupted and a column of water exploded upward from the surface of the sea like a geyser. Heat and flame chased the water, burning some of it to steam in midair.
Up on Waratah’s deck, Paul and Gamay were thrown backward by the shock wave. They landed together amid a pile of weeds that the deck crew had yet to clear.
Paul opened his eyes as mist from the torpedo’s explosion drifted down on them. His ears were ringing. He glanced over at Gamay, saw that she was all right, and sighed with relief. “Pretty good shooting, if I do say so myself.”
Gamay propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him. “How do you know it wasn’t my shot that did the trick?”
“You were wide left,” he said. “I could tell from the start. Wind correction.”
“Those were your bullets going left,” she insisted.
Paul laughed and got to his feet. He looked around for the attacking helicopters, hoping they wouldn’t make another run. Thankfully, they were heading back to the north.
They left behind two patches of churning water, a smoking tug, and a bewildered group of people who wondered what could be so important about a derelict ship that someone would want to sink it.
Paul found the radio that had been knocked from his belt. He picked it up and made sure it was working. “Thanks for the help, Duke. You must be half crazy, but it’s much appre ciated.”
“You’re welcome, Paul, sorry I couldn’t get them both. Nice shooting, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Paul and Gamay said in unison and then glanced at each other.
Duke signaled that he was heading back to the Condor and Paul acknowledged the message before reaching out to the Condor.
“Condor, this is Paul,” he said. “I need a damage and casualty report.”
“Mostly cosmetic,” the voice replied. “Two crew were injured by shrapnel. Another seems to have a nasty bump from diving into a bulkhead. But no major injuries or fatalities.”
“Sounds like we got off lucky,” Paul replied. “Contact the tugs and get me a report. I see a lot of smoke coming from the Drakensberg.”
“Roger that,” the crewman said.
“And get in touch with HQ,” Paul added. “We need some protection out here. I haven’t the foggiest idea why someone would try to sink an old derelict like this, but there’s no denying that’s what they wanted to do. Until we figure out who they are and what they want, we can’t put it past them to try again.”
As the Condor signed off, the chief called in from down below. “What the heck is going on up there?”
“Believe or not, we almost got torpedoed,” Paul explained. “Torpedoed?”
“I realize it makes no sense,” Paul said. “Just trust me. It was close but we seem to have survived intact.”
There was a long pause before the chief radioed back. “Maybe not,” he said grimly. “The shock wave must have buckled the old plating. We’ve got water coming in down here.”
The chief’s message was grim news to Paul.
“We may have won the battle but lost the war,” Gamay said, giving words to Paul’s thoughts.
“I’m going down below,” Paul said, handing the radio to Gamay. “Get in touch with Condor and the tugs. We need pumps. We need divers with salvage gear. If there’s a buckled plate, they can weld a patch over it.”
“Are you crazy?” she said. “It’s a miracle this ship is still afloat as it is.”
“I can’t explain,” Paul said, “but I’ve grown attached to this ship and I’m not giving up on the old gal yet. Not after all she’s been through.”
“Who are you?” Gamay asked. “And what have you done with my sensible New England husband?”
Paul gave her a quick kiss, took her flashlight, and ran for the stairs. He heard her calling over to the Condor as he raced down into the dark.
Four flights down, he could already hear the sound of water coming in. It was a powerful rushing noise as if a fire hydrant had been busted wide open.
As he reached the bottom landing, Paul’s feet plunged calfdeep into water.
“Chief, where are you?” he shouted.
“Aft bulkhead!” a voice shouted from down the hall. “Hurry!” Paul charged toward the stern, past the boilers and coal bunkers, to the old engine room. He saw light coming from a ladder well that descended into the aft bilge, which was the lowest section of the ship where all the bilgewater collected. Beneath it lay only the cold sea.
As Paul played his light around, he spotted water blasting in through a ruptured seam in the hull plating. It coursed through the compartment in an angry, foaming stream, before swirling down the ladder like it was a gigantic drain. The water level was rising with alarming speed.
“We can’t stop this,” Paul said, suddenly shocked back to reality. “We have to get out of here.”
“I can’t,” the chief said. “I’m trapped.”
Paul saw nothing holding the chief in place. “What are you talking about?”
“My legs are stuck in the sediment,” the chief shouted. “The shock wave from the explosion liquefied the muck. When I dropped down here to take a look, I sunk knee-deep into it. It might as well be quicksand.”
Paul stepped onto the ladder, grabbed the chief’s hand, and pulled with all his might. The chief remained stuck right where he was. Paul aimed the flashlight down into the water. The chief was indeed sunk up to his knees.
Paul stepped down another rung as the water swirled around him and pounded his shoulders. Hanging on tight, he got into a position where he could use more leverage, grabbed under the chief’s arm, and pulled again. It was no use.
“Wiggle your feet.”
“I can’t,” the chief said. “It’s like they’re stuck in concrete.” By now the water was up to the chief’s waist and rising fast.
Paul stepped back. He needed something to dig the chief out with. Shining the light around, he caught sight of a metal pipe with a barbed end. It might have been a picker bar used by the firemen on the old ship to rake the coals with. It would have to do.
He grabbed the picker bar, came back to the well, handed the chief his flashlight, and jabbed the bar into the sediment near the chief’s legs. Shoveling at first and then stirring, he began to dislodge the muck.
“It’s working,” the chief said. “Keep going.”
Paul could hardly see. He worked vigorously as the water reached the chief’s chest and then his neck. The chief tilted his head to keep his nose and mouth above the water.
Paul kept digging and the chief began to come free, pulling on the rungs of the ladder and drawing himself up.
One leg came free and then the other, minus a boot. The chief went up the ladder and Paul followed. The last six inches of the bilge filled rapidly, and soon the main engine room began flooding.
Exhausted from the struggle, the two men stumbled for the bulkhead. By the time they reached it, water was pouring over the sill like a miniature version of Niagara Falls.
“Think it’ll hold?” Paul asked, looking at the hundred-year old version of a watertight door.
“Only one way to find out.”
Paul grabbed the door and tried to force it shut, but a century of corrosion prevented it from moving much. Putting his shoulder into it, Paul managed to move it halfway to a closed position before it seized once again.
Stepping back, he took the iron picker bar and banged on the hinges, trying to knock the corrosion off. A few flakes were all he managed to clear. Putting the bar down again, he and the chief got behind the door and leaned into. It closed threequarters and then almost flush, but the weight of the water pouring through was too much and it pushed them back. “It’s no use,” the chief said.
“One more try,” Paul said. From the corner of his eye he saw a figure come running down the stairs behind them. Some assis
tance at last. “Help us!”
With the water surging through waist-high at this point, Paul leaned into the door one more time. He felt the chief pushing with all his might and then felt a powerful shove from behind as the crewman who’d come to help reached them.
Between the three of them they overcame the force of the rushing water. The door clanged shut, and Paul wrenched the wheel over to lock it tight.
The seal was less than perfect, after all these years, and water sprayed through around the edges in several places, but it could be measured in gallons per minute. Pumps could handle that, at least as long as the door held.
Paul collapsed onto the floor and looked at the chief, who was smiling from ear to ear. “Just another day at the office,”
the chief said.
“Think I’m ready for a day off,” Paul replied. He turned to thank the crewman for coming to their aid but there was no one there. He looked around in all directions, but even after grabbing the flashlight from the chief he saw nothing but the dark hall. They were alone.
“Did you bring anyone else down here?” Paul asked. The chief shook his head. “Everyone else went topside before the attack. Why?”
Paul gazed down the hall to the stairwell. He now realized that in the dark it would have been impossible for him to see someone standing there. But he distinctly remembered a broadshouldered man with a mustache.
He decided his mind was playing tricks on him. “No reason,” he said finally. “Just making sure. Let’s get up top in case this door gives way.”
Paul grabbed the picker bar, climbed to his feet, and helped the chief up off the deck. Wearily, they slogged their way toward the stairwell and climbed up into the daylight. In the hour that followed, pumps from the Condor and one of the tugs were brought in. The watertight doors were braced and reinforced inside the ship, while the salvage divers quickly found the ruptured seam and welded a patch job over it. The ship was still leaking, and it was anyone’s guess if the hull would hold out, but as the tow got under way and the ships began to move they did so under the watchful eye of the South African Air Force, which sent fighter aircraft and armed helicopters overhead in a series of revolving sweeps.
As evening came on, the small flotilla met the first ship in what would prove to be a substantial honor guard. Within the hour, two additional warships joined it, followed by a dedicated repair vessel ready to lend a hand.
It seemed that having endured the Waratah’s loss once already, the South African government was determined not to let anything happen to her again.
With a protective force around them, Paul began to feel more at ease. He found Gamay on deck, placing samples of many different things into plastic baggies, labeling them, and zipping them shut.
She had her hair tied back, a pencil behind one ear, and her most studious look firmly in place.
Paul sat down beside her. “Almost done?”
“With the collection part,” she said, placing the samples into a plastic cooler. “I’m flying back to Durban to meet with a biologist regarding these samples. Want to come?”
“I’d love to,” Paul said, “but I want to make sure this ship reaches port.”
“I’d say you’ve done enough,” Gamay replied, “but I’ve seen that look before.”
“The job is not done until it’s done,” he said.
“I’ll be there to see you arrive,” she said, placing the lid on the container and locking it down.
He smiled, thinking back to all the times one of them had waited onshore for the other to come home. It was always an enjoyable reunion.
She stood and picked up the cooler. Paul grabbed a second cooler and they began walking to the stern, where a launch waited to whisk her over to the Condor and the military helicopter waiting to fly her to Durban.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.
She laughed at the question. “Not really. Why?”
“No reason,” he said. “Just checking.”
They’d reached the ladder, where a crewman helped lower down the containers.
“I’ll be ready for that candlelight dinner by the time I make port,” Paul said.
“I’ll make us a reservation,” she said.
Paul hugged and kissed her and then stood back as she climbed down the rope ladder to a waiting boat.
As the launch peeled off and made for the Condor, Paul decided he was a man with a lot to look forward to over the next few days—dinner with Gamay, bringing the Waratah into port after a hundred and five years, and, if Gamay was right, some new insight into where the ship had been hiding all these years. At the Brèvard lair, the family mourned the passing of Egan with a somber ceremony, counterbalanced by the fact that Acosta the traitor had been killed and the hackers returned to their rightful owners.
Without delay, Sebastian put them to work. Using their own skills and the offensive capabilities of Phalanx, they were soon hacking into the American Department of Defense, the European air traffic control system, and various other entities, with the intention of wreaking havoc.
“Is all this really necessary?” Calista asked.
“We need a smoke screen for our true plans,” he said. “A little carnage will do nicely.”
Calista nodded and walked to the front of the control room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Olympic-sized swimming pool. A pool where she’d learned to dive. Where she and the others had trained for the mission to attack the Ethernet.
Thinking about that moment, her mind wandered to Kurt Austin. Since encountering him there, she’d hacked into the medical files NUMA was keeping on him and learned of his relationship with Sienna.
She wondered what would possess a man to risk life and limb for a woman he could never have. A woman whose rescue would only result in him losing her again, as he delivered her back to another man’s arms.
Either Sienna was the type of woman who inspired such love or she was fortunate enough to have encountered a man whose sense of duty was more important than his own selfpreservation. In either case, Calista found herself jealous. She had never known such a man and probably never would. “Get Laurent up here,” Sebastian said, breaking her train of thought. “We need to make sure all his men are brought back to the compound and ready to fight. Even the ones we’ve simply hired for local jobs.”
“Expecting company?”
“Not right away,” Sebastian said, “but soon enough. When they do come, we must be certain that they bleed. They must find it as difficult as possible to overcome our defenses or they won’t truly believe they’ve won.”
She understood. It was all part of the game.
Durban, South Africa
Gamay arrived in Durban and found herself something of a local attraction. The discovery of the Waratah was being kept secret until the ship was brought safely into South African waters. But the rumor had begun to spread. And hearing that a member of the NUMA team had been flown in with samples of something that she needed examined, she was met with an excited response.
Several experts flew in on their own dime and convened with her at the University of Durban-Westville campus. They quickly set up shop, examining the samples of the insects, dead rodents, and various seeds and plants discovered on the Waratah.
While they worked, Gamay took the opportunity to visit the library and found a microfilm machine, where she could peruse the old newspapers printed at the time of the Waratah’s disappearance.
“Are you sure you don’t want to use a computer?” one of the librarians asked. “All of this is online.”
“Thank you but no,” Gamay said. “I’ve had quite enough of computers for a while.”
Left alone, she read article after article. It was an education into a different time. She’d grown so used to today’s world, where plane crashes and mishaps of any kind were covered live and the information distributed and verified almost instantly, that it was odd reading about the disappearance. Initially, the ship was just thought to be overd
ue, a common occurrence. Even days and weeks later, there were articles suggesting that the Waratah might yet arrive or that the search vessels would encounter her and tow her in. Estimates of how long her food supplies would hold out were offered as reason not to panic.
But then hope faded and the reality set in. Speculation and rumor began to run rampant. The storm of July 27th was considered the likely culprit. The statements of a man named Claude Sawyer became a focal point. He was the sole passenger bound for Cape Town who decided to disembark the ship in Durban. He sent a telegram to his wife that read, in part, “Thought Waratah top-heavy. Landed Durban.”
Mr. Sawyer also claimed to have had a dream shortly before the ship reached Durban in which a knight crying the ship’s name came charging through the waves with a sword raised high. After getting off in Durban, he claimed to have had another dream in which the Waratah was swamped by a massive wave, capsized, and vanished from sight.
A different theory was espoused by Captain Firth of the steamer Marere. He believed the Waratah too big and strong to be taken by a rogue wave and thought it more likely that she’d lost a propeller or rudder and was adrift in the current, being slowly hauled past the Cape of Good Hope and out into the Atlantic Ocean.
Firth was certain the Waratah would be found, much like a similar vessel, the SS Waikato, which broke a propeller shaft on the way to Auckland and drifted for six full weeks before eventually being discovered. Some speculated she would drift all the way to South America.
As Gamay read the newspapers over, she found her attention turning to other stories of the day: news of the storm, political arguments, and ads for products, including one that touted smoking as a cure for the common cold.
Most striking, she read a long dispatch about the Durban police battling a group of criminals known as the Klaar River Gang. After an explosion and a conflagration that burned up a fortune in paper currency, it was finally determined that the notes were actually near-perfect forgeries. While most of the Klaar River Gang had indeed perished, Robert Swan, chief inspector of the Durban police, feared the leaders had escaped and would resurface.