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As a safety precaution the computer automatically took the engines offline the instant the huge ship grounded. Max studied his computer screen, his frown deepening by the second. He worked the keyboard a moment longer.
“Max?” Juan said, drawing out his old friend’s name.
“Port tube is jammed solid with mud. I can get twenty percent through the starboard, but only in reverse. We try to go forward and we’ll block up that one, too.”
“Eric,” Juan said, “I have the helm.”
“Chairman has the helm, aye.”
The pulse jet tubes were milled as smooth as rifle barrels from an exotic alloy to exacting standards, eliminating the possibility of cavitation, the formation of microscopic bubbles that induce drag. Juan knew that the mud and silt had likely pitted the tubes already and to force any more muck through them might make them inoperable. He would take the responsibility for further damaging his ship himself.
He set the port tube on standby and slowly fed reverse power to the starboard jet, his eyes darting between the outside cameras showing water boiling under the ship’s bow and the indicators monitoring the jet’s status. He edged the controls higher, up to twenty-five percent, knowing he was scouring the tubes as surely as if he’d gone into them himself with an impact wrench.
The Oregon refused to move, held tight by the grip of the mud and her own tremendous weight.
“Juan,” Max said in a cautionary tone.
Cabrillo was already shutting down the pumps. At his command were cutting-edge recourses, but few viable alternatives. He had maybe fifteen seconds to come up with a plan before the choppers swooped in to disgorge the rebels they carried. A pair of five-second bursts from the 20 mm Gatling gun would blow the helicopters from the sky, but would also kill the civilian pilots and expose the deadly potential of his ship. Then they would still have to deal with the Swift boats plus any number of other vessels Abala commandeered when he realized the Oregon was aground. The idea of surrendering the stones or jeopardizing the mission never entered his mind.
“Max, the wind’s at our back, lay down a smoke screen thick enough to hide the ship, then activate the fire suppression cannons.” There were four water cannons mounted on the corners of the superstructure and each was rated for a thousand gallons per minute, the pumps powered by their own dedicated diesel engine. “They can throw water more than two hundred feet. That ought to keep the choppers from landing.” He keyed his microphone. “Eddie, I’m hitting the water guns, so be prepared. If that doesn’t hold off the helos your boys have permission to use shotguns and pistols only. That would be a believable arsenal on a ship in these waters.”
“Roger.”
“And, Eddie, I want you and Linc to meet me in the boat garage. I have a mission for you. Full kit to be on the safe side.”
Cabrillo was out of his chair and halfway to the elevator that would take him down two decks to the boat garage located along the Oregon’s waterline when Hanley stopped him with a gesture. “I can understand the smoke and using the water cannons is a master stroke, but what the hell do you have planned for Linc and Eddie?”
“I’m going to have this old girl refloated in about thirty minutes.”
Max had learned over their years together to never doubt the chairman when he made such proclamations; he just didn’t know how Juan was going to pull off the impossible. “You have a plan to lighten us by a couple thousand tons?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’m going to raise the river by ten feet.”
4
SOUTH OF WALVIS BAY
NAMIBIA
THE sand floating across the road was as fine as dust and swirled in eddies that formed whenever the cooling desert air met the still-warm asphalt. It looked like wisps of smoke or drifting snow. The sun had long since set, so the inland dunes showed pale white in the glow of the moon.
The solitary vehicle on the road was the only thing moving save the wind and the gentle surf lapping at the beach. The four-by-four pickup was only about twenty miles south of Swakopmund and its adjoining harbor town of Walvis Bay, but it was as if this was the last car on earth.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Sloane Macintyre shivered.
“Could you grab the wheel?” she asked her companion. He did, and she shrugged into a hooded sweatshirt, needing both hands to pull her long hair from under the collar and settle it over her shoulders. It was as coppery red as the dunes at dusk and set off her luminous gray eyes.
“I still say we should have waited until morning and gotten a permit to enter Sandwich Bay,” complained Tony Reardon for the third time since leaving their hotel. “You know how touchy the local authorities are about tourists entering secured areas.”
“We’re headed to a bird sanctuary, Tony, not one of the mining concessions leased by the diamond companies,” Sloane retorted.
“It’s still against the law.”
“Besides, I don’t like the way Luka tried to warn us off from looking for Papa Heinrick. It was almost as if he has something to hide.”
“Who, Papa Heinrick?”
“No, our illustrious guide, Tuamanguluka.”
