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Ndebele said nothing for a few moments as he looked into Cabrillo’s eyes.
“I will take this to an indaba, a council of my men.” He waved at the closed bedroom door. “And I will let them decide.”
“I can ask for nothing more,” Juan said and shook Ndebele’s hand again. He withdrew a pouch from his pocket and turned Ndebele’s hand flat. Onto his open palm he poured the rough diamonds they had received in exchange for the weapons. “Consider this a good-faith gesture. They’re yours no matter the dec
ision. There’s an intercom on the desk. The communications officer who answers will be able to find me.”
Out in the hall Sloane grabbed Juan’s hand. “Is that all true? And where did you get those diamonds.”
“Unfortunately, it is. Daniel Singer has had years to plan this and we only have a couple of days to stop it. As to where those diamonds come from, it’s a rather long story that brings this whole mess full circle.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait to hear that one, too.”
“Sorry, yes. I have to get back to the meeting. There’s a lot we have to go over.”
Sloane released his hand. “I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can.”
“Good, because once we find the Rove you’re going to help me blackmail your bosses into buying those diamonds.”
“That,” she said with a grin, “will be my pleasure.”
Before returning to the boardroom Cabrillo went back to his cabin to place a ship-to-shore call. It was early morning on the East Coast, but he suspected the man he wanted to reach would be in his office.
Juan had the direct number and when the phone was picked up he said without preamble, “You owe me a leg but I’ll call us even if you lend me a hand.”
“It’s been awhile, Chairman Cabrillo,” Dirk Pitt replied from his office high atop the NUMA building overlooking Washington, D.C. “What can I do for you?”
25
THE Oregon coursed northward like a greyhound, driven by her phenomenal engines and the impatience of her crew. There was activity in nearly every section of the ship. There were five men in the armory unpacking the weapons that would be carried by Moses Ndebele’s men, cleaning them of Cosmoline and loading hundreds of magazines. Other armorers were checking over the vessel’s defensive systems, making certain that ammunition bins were fully stocked and that the salt air hadn’t corroded the machine guns, Gatlings, and autocannons.
Down in the moon pool technicians were inspecting the Oregon’s two submersibles. Gear was being stripped out of both and extra CO2 scrubbers installed to increase the number of people each could carry. They also touched up the anechoic coating that made the two craft almost undetectable when submerged. Over the sound of their work roared an air compressor filling dozens of scuba tanks in case they were needed.
In the kitchen every chef and assistant was on duty preparing combat rations while the dining staff sealed the food in airtight packages as soon as it came out of the galley. In medical, Julia Huxley and her staff were setting up the OR for an influx of casualties.
Juan Cabrillo was in his customary seat in the op center while around him his staff worked at a dizzying pace prepping the vessel, and themselves, for the upcoming battle. He read over every report as it came in concerning the vessel’s status; no detail was too trivial to overlook.
“Max,” he called without looking up from his computer monitor, “I’ve got something here that says the pressure in the fire suppression system is down by fifteen pounds.”
“I ordered a test trip in the hold. The system should be back up to full pressure in about an hour.”
“Okay. Hali, what’s George’s ETA?”
Hali Kasim pulled down one side of his headphones. “He just took off from Cabinda, Angola, with Eric and Murph. We should be able to rendezvous in about two and a half hours. He’ll call ten minutes out so we can slow the ship and prep the hangar.”
“And Tiny? Where’s he?”
“Thirty thousand feet over Zambia.”
Juan was relieved. The plan, like so many recently, had been hastily put together. One of the biggest obstacles was getting a hundred of Moses’ best men out of their refugee camp near the industrial town of Francistown, Botswana. Unlike a lot of sub-Saharan Africa, there was very little corruption in Botswana, so getting the men onto a plane without passports had been more expensive than Cabrillo would have liked. Tiny’s bush pilot friend had cleared the way for them on the other end, and ensured that they would have no difficulty landing in Cabinda. The Oregon would tie up to the city’s main pier about five hours after they landed and would stay just long enough to get them aboard.
From there they would proceed north to the oil fields off the coast where Murph and Eric had detected three of the ten AK-47s with the Corporation’s radio tags. The weapons were grouped in a swamp less than five miles from a massive new tanker terminal and within a ten-minute boat ride of a dozen offshore oil rigs.
Juan had contacted Langston Overholt as soon as Murph had reported in. Lang had then alerted the State Department so they could issue a warning to Angola’s government. However, the wheels of diplomacy turn slowly and so far Juan’s information was languishing in Foggy Bottom while the policy wonks hashed out a statement.
Because of the low-grade civil war being waged all across Cabinda Province, the petroleum companies who leased the oil fields had their own security apparatus in place. The tanker terminal and workers’ compounds were fenced off and patrolled by armed guards. Cabrillo had considered calling the companies directly but knew he would be ignored. He also knew that whatever force they had in place was a deterrent for theft and trespassing and wasn’t capable of holding off an army. Any warning he did issue would likely only get more of their guards killed.
Also, he had learned from Murph’s aerial reconnaissance that there were hundreds of people living in shantytowns around the oil concessions. There would be far fewer civilian casualties if the fighting took place well inside the facilities.
