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"Oh I'll sift the stuff out." Gunn pulled off his glasses and wiped the lenses. "It may still be unknown, ungodly, and unnatural, but I'll sift it out. That's a promise."
Their luck ran out the following afternoon, only an hour after they crossed the Nigerian border onto the stretch of river separating Benin and Niger. Pitt was gazing silently over the bow of the Calliope at the river walled by thick green jungle, a dank and forbidding jungle. Gray clouds had turned the water to a leaden color. The river ahead curved slightly and seemed to beckon, like the bony finger of death.
Giordino was at the helm, the first faint edges of fatigue wrinkling the sides of his eyes. Pitt stood at his shoulder, attention shifting to a lone cormorant soaring delicately on an updraft above the water ahead. Suddenly, it flapped its wings and dipped into the trees along the bank.
Pitt lifted a pair of binoculars from the counter and glimpsed the bow of a vessel barely showing around a bend in the river. "The locals are about to pay us a social call," he announced.
"I see it." Giordino raised out of the chair and shielded his eyes against the sun with one hand. "Correction, them. There are two."
"Heading straight toward us, guns tracking and looking for trouble."
"What flag are they flying?"
"Benin," Pitt answered. "Russian-built, judging by their lines." Pitt laid down the binoculars and spread out a recognition chart on West African air force and navy units. "Riverine attack craft, armed with two twin, 30-millimeter guns with a rate of fire around five hundred rounds per minute."
"Not good," Giordino muttered briefly. He glanced down at the chart of the river. "Another 40 kilometers and we'll be out of Benin territory and into Niger waters. With luck, and the engines pushed to the hilt, we could make the border by lunch."
"Forget luck. These guys are not about to wave us a cheery bon voyage as we pass merrily on our way. This doesn't have the look of a routine inspection. Not with all their weapons aimed down our throats."
Giordino looked back and pointed skyward over the stern. "The plot thickens. They've called in a vulture."
Pitt swung and spotted a helicopter angling around the last bend, no more than 10 meters above the water surface. "All doubts of a friendly encounter have just evaporated."
"Smells like a setup," Giordino said calmly.
Pitt alerted Gunn, who came up out of his electronic cabin and was briefed on the situation.
"I half expected it," was all he said.
"They've been waiting for us," said Pitt. "This is no chance encounter. If they only mean to lock us up and confiscate the boat, they'll damned well execute us as spies when they find out we're as French as a backup trio for Bruce Springsteen. We can't allow that. Whatever data we've accumulated since entering the river must get into the hands of Sandecker and Chapman. These guys are primed for trouble. No innocent, naive cooperation on our part. It's a case of they go under, or we do."
"I might take out the helicopter, and if I'm lucky, the nearest boat," said Giordino. "But I can't take all three before one of them hammers us into scrap."
"Okay, here's the drill," Pitt spoke quietly, gazing at the approaching gunboats. He explained his game plan as Giordino and Gunn listened thoughtfully. When he concluded, he looked at them. "Any remarks?"
"They speak French hereabout," commented Gunn. "How's your vocabulary?"
Pitt shrugged. "I'll fake it."
"Then let's do it," Giordino said, his voice edged with icy anticipation.
His friends were head of the class, Pitt thought. Gunn and Giordino weren't professionally trained members of a Special Forces Team, perhaps, but brave and competent men to have standing at his side during a fight. He couldn't have felt more confident if he was commanding a missile destroyer manned by a crew of two hundred.
"Right," he s
aid with a grim smile. "Wear your headsets and stay on the air. Good luck."
Admiral Pierre Matabu stood on the bridge of the lead gunboat and peered through a pair of glasses at the sport yacht skimming up the river. He had the air about him of a con man eyeing an easy mark. Matabu was short, squat, in his mid-thirties, and dressed in an ostentatious, braid embellished uniform of his own design. As Chief of the Benin navy, a position granted him by his brother, President Tougouri, he commanded a fleet consisting of four hundred men, two river gunboats, and three ocean-going patrol craft. His prior experience before achieving flag rank was three years as a deck hand on a river ferry.
Commander Behanzin Ketou, skipper of the vessel, stood slightly to his side and behind. "It was wise of you to fly from the capital and take command, Admiral."
"Yes," beamed Matabu. "My brother will be most happy when I present him with a fine, new pleasure craft."
"The Frenchmen have arrived within the time you predicted." Ketou was tall, slender, with a proud bearing. "Your foresight is truly inspiring."
"Very considerate of them to do as my thought waves demand," Matabu gloated. He did not mention that his paid agents had reported on the passage of the Calliope every two hours since it entered the delta in Nigeria. The happy fact that it cruised into Benin waters was a wish come true.
"They must be very important people to own such an expensive boat."
