Slade picked up a cutlass and felt the sharp edge of the blade. “Warfare was a personal thing back then, wasn't it?”
“Unless you know how to use that thing, this might be more practical,” Austin said, hefting a boarding pike, basically a long wooden shaft with a sharp metal spearhead on one end.
The crew split up into two parties, one for each side, and nervously kept watch. A party was dispatched to the fighting platform halfway up the main mast where Marines and sharpshooters used to rain death down on attackers. Austin paced restlessly back and forth, a belaying pin in his hand.
They didn't have to wait long. The first sign of the renewed attack was the loud rapping against the ship's side. The attackers were trying to soften them up with automatic gunfire. The bullets chipped the black and white paint, but hardly put a dent in the two-foot- thick oak hull. The doughty old ship plowed through the water, brushing off the bullets as if they were a swarm of pesky mosquitoes. Like the Barbary pirates and the British navy, the attackers learned Old lronsides was no pushover.
The attackers saw that their bullets were having no effect and stopped firing, instead switching on their spotlights, revving their motors and closing on their slow-moving target. Austin heard the boats thump against the hull. He had figured that the attackers would try to climb up the standing rigging that ran from the masts down the side of the ship like rope ladders, and when he saw a hand grab onto the bottom ledge of a gun port, Austin brought the belaying pin down on the attacker's knuckles.
There was a shriek of pain. The hand let go, and the attacker fell into the harbor with a loud splash. A face appeared on the other side of the gun port. Austin set aside the belaying pin and picked up a boarding pike. He tucked the spearhead under the man's chin. Austin was practically invisible on the darkened deck. The attacker felt the sharp point tickling his Adam's apple and froze, afraid to move.
Austin pushed the pike forward slightly, and the face disappeared. This time there was a loud thud, as the attacker fell into a boat. Seeing his gun port clear for the time being, Austin strode down the line of cannon. The ship's crewmen were using their boarding pikes with similar effect. Working in pairs, some of them tossed cannonballs over the side. Judging by the yells and crunching sounds, they were finding their mark.
Slade came running up, still wearing his cocked hat. “Not one of those jerks has set foot on deck.” His sweaty face beamed with pride.
“Guess they're getting the point,” Austin said. A face appeared over the bulwark behind Slade. Before Austin could warn Slade, the attacker had hooked a leg over the side and was bringing his assault rifle to bear.
Austin threw the boarding pike like a Masai warrior taking on a lion. The pike struck the attacker in the chest, and he let out a cry of surprise and toppled back, his weapon firing uselessly in the air.
Austin grabbed a cutlass and leaped onto the nearest cannon, intending to cut the rigging to prevent it from being used as a ladder. As he brought the sword back, he heard someone yell:
“Starboard!”
The shout came from the fighting platform. The assault had moved around to the other side of the ship.
Two of Razov's men had climbed onto the bulwark and were unslinging their weapons, preparing to spray the defenders concentrated on the deck.
Acting on pure instinct, Austin slashed the line nearest to him, grabbed onto the loose end like Tarzan swinging through the trees and launched himself across the deck, his legs extended in front of him. The attackers looked up and saw a dark Batman-like apparition flying their way. They tried to get their guns around, but Austin's feet struck them with the full force of his weight, and they pitched over backward. Austin reached the end of his arc and swung back, then dropped onto the deck amid loud cheers from the astounded crew.
“Wow!” Slade said. “Where did you learn that trick?”
“Watching old Errol Flynn movies in my misspent youth. Is everybody okay?”
“Couple of cuts and bruises, but Old lronsides's deck has not been violated.”
Austin grinned and clamped the sailor on the shoulder, then looked around.
“What's that?”
“Boat motors,” Slade said. They ran to the side of the ship and peered over. They could see three wakes. A cheer went up from the crew, but it faded when the boats came to a stop a few hundred feet away and the pinpoints marking muzzle fire began. But instead of aiming for the nearly impregnable sides of the ship, they were concentrating on the rigging. The sails were being shredded. Bits of rope and splinters of wood began to rain down on the deck. The observers scrambled down from their platforms.
“Those cowards!” Slade yelled. “They can't board her, so they're going to rip her to shreds.” Tatters of sail fell on his head. “We've got to do something!”
Austin grabbed the sailor's arms. “You mentioned a twenty-one-gun cannon salute.”
“What? Oh, yeah, the two cannon on the foredeck. We fire them every morning and sunset. They're old breechloaders. We've jerry-rigged them to fire three-hundred-and-eighty-millimeter shells. But they shoot blanks, except for the time when someone forgot to remove a cap and we hit a police boat.”
“Our friends out there don't know they're blanks.”
“That's right.”
Austin quickly outlined his plan. Slade ran back and ordered the helmsman to steer a new course. The helmsman swung the wheel over, and the Constitution slowly came about so that its bow was pointed at the attack boats.
Slade rounded up his gun crew and they climbed down to the gun deck and hurried forward. Within moments, the forward cannon were loaded. Austin peered through the gun port and saw the attack boats lined up. They had been readying for another assault when the ship turned and came at them. With Old lronsides taking the offensive, they seemed to be confused. Austin wanted them as close together as possible. The gap was closing. The boats started to move apart.
“Now!” Austin ordered. He stepped away and covered his ears.
Slade pulled the lanyards. There was a double roar, the foredeck was enveloped in smoke and the cannons leaped back, their recoil held in check by thick cordage. The gun crew had purposely left the caps in.
The bluff worked. The attackers saw the big black ship bearing down on them behind a cloud of purple smoke, heard the twin projectiles whistle though the air and saw the geysers of water. The boats sprinted out of the way like startled jackrabbits, then headed at full throttle toward the mouth of the harbor where they disappeared in the darkness.
The cannons roared again, with blanks this time, as the ship gave chase.
Even as the echoes faded, a mighty roar went up from the crew.
“Party's over,” Austin said. Slade was grinning from ear to ear. The comment that followed might not have been in the same class of immortal words as “Don't give up the ship” or “Damn the torpedoes!”... but as Austin watched the departing wakes of the attack boats, he couldn't argue with the young sailor when he said, “Old lronsides still knows how to kick ass!”
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-33- WASHINGTON, D.C.
SANDECKER GLANCED AROUND the Oval Office and reflected on the life-and-death decisions that had been made in the famous room. It was hard to believe that the political currents that swirled around Washington had their center within these quiet walls. On his last visit to the White House, he'd been treated as a pariah and warned to butt out of national security matters, but after NUMA had rescued the NR-1's captain and crew and saved the White House major embarrassment, Sandecker had become the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla. He lost no time throwing his weight around.
The White House's formidable appointments secretary hadn't hesitated when he called and asked to meet with the president on an urgent matter. The secretary bumped an ambassador and a congressional delegation from the president's busy schedule, and she never blinked when Sandecker asked that only the president and vice president attend.
Sandecker had politely refused the of
fer of a White House limousine and made the trip in a Jeep Cherokee from the NUMA motor pool. The receptionist had ushered the admiral, Rudi Gunn and Austin into the Oval Office and saw to it that a steward served them coffee on White House china.
As they waited, Sandecker turned to Austin. “I've been meaning to ask you, Kurt. How did it feel to commandeer a national monument?”
“Quite the rush, Admiral. Unfortunately, with only two cannon in the bow, I couldn't yell, 'Give 'em a broadside!' ”
“From what I've heard, you and the Constitution's crew acquitted yourselves with undeniable valor. Old lronsides lived up to her glorious name.”
Gunn said with a twinkle in his eye, “The scuttlebutt among the top navy brass has it that Old lronsides is being commissioned as part of the Seventh Fleet. After she's patched up, of course.”
“I understand that the navy plans to retire an aircraft carrier in her favor,” Austin said, with a poker face. “The Pentagon sees great cost-cutting opportunities in the use of sail and belaying pins.”
“Cost cutting would be a new one for the Pentagon,” Sandecker mused. “What happened to the men who attacked you?”
“The Coast Guard and police scoured the harbor. They found three boats scuttled in the marshes on a harbor island, the hulls shot full of holes.”
“I understand there were some injuries.”
“The tugboat crewmen were wounded, but they had the presence of mind to play dead.”
“What of the Russian, the man you call Ivan?”
“He was only grazed by the bullet and is doing fine.”
“What did Razov have to say about these pirates?”
“Nothing. He cut his party short, kicked his guests off the yacht and sailed out of the harbor before anyone could ask him questions.”
“This Razov is a shifty character,” Sandecker said with a j knitted brow. “We've got our work cut out for us. We've been keeping an eye on him since he left Boston?”
Gunn nodded. “Satellite surveillance had him heading at a leisurely pace along the Maine coast.”
“Just a gentleman yachtsman out for a cruise,” Sandecker said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I've asked the satellite department to run the latest results over here for this meeting,” Gunn said.
The door opened, and a Secret Service man stepped inside. “The boss is on his way,” he said.
A bustle of activity could be heard in the hall and President Wallace came through the door, wearing his trademark smile, his outstretched hand cocked for action. The towering figure of Vice President Sid Sparkman was a step behind. After a round of handshakes, the president settled behind his desk, and as usual the vice president drew up a chair close at his right elbow, emphasizing his place in the executive hierarchy.
“Glad you asked for this meeting,” the president said. “Gives me the chance to thank you personally for saving the folks from the NR-1.”
Sandecker acknowledged the thank-you and added, “Kurt and the others in the NUMA Special Assignments Team deserve the real credit.”
The president's eyes narrowed. “I heard about that business in Boston, Kurt. What sort of a lunatic would shoot up Old lronsides?”
“The same type of lunatic who would order the massacre of a NUMA crew, Mr. President. Mikhail Razov.”
The vice president leaned forward in his chair as if he were using his body mass to intimidate. “Mikhail Razov is a prominent figure in his country,” he said, his smile belied by the fierce expression in his eyes. “You're talking about the man who might be the next leader of Russia. What evidence do you have that he's involved in any of this business?”
Austin leaned forward as well, emphasizing his broad shoulders. “The best kind of evidence. An eyewitness.”
“I read the report on the Sea Hunter attack. The ravings of a hysterical woman,” Sparkman said, with a snort.
Austin felt the bile rising in his throat. “Hysterical, yes; ravings, no. Razov's man Boris made sure we knew the attack was retribution for trespassing on the old Soviet sub pens.”
“I'm glad you used the word trespass, because that's what it was, an illegal violation of another country's national sovereignty.”
Austin's mouth widened in a grin, but his gaze had the look of a lion regarding a wounded wildebeest. Sandecker saw Kurt ready himself to unsheathe his claws and deflected the attack. “What's done is done, I'm afraid. We've got more to worry about now, gentlemen. The prospect of a plot against the United States. With all due respect, Mr. Vice President, we believe that the man behind this threat is Mikhail Razov.”
“That's ridiculous - ” the vice president said. The president silenced him with his hand.
“Razov expects to rise on the crest of a neo-Cossack revolution,” explained Austin. “Claiming to be descended from the Romanovs gives him legitimacy in the eyes of his fanatical supporters, who will follow him to the death.”
“Any truth to his claims?”
“We don't know, Mr. President. We do have evidence that the Grand Duchess Maria, one of the tsar's daughters, survived the Russian Revolution and went on to marry and have children.”
“Maria? The only one I've ever heard of was Anastasia,” the president said. “Saw that Walt Disney picture.” He toyed with a pen on his desk. “Fascinating. Does Razov have any proof to back up his bloodline?”
“I wouldn't be surprised if he had a birth certificate. The Russians have decades of experience forging documents under communist rule. We believe he will buttress his claim with the crown of Ivan the Terrible. The crown is said to bestow mystical power upon its wearer. Razov will say that only the rightful ruler of Russia would have the crown. Once he's in power, I doubt if anyone would bother him for a DNA sample.”
“He has this crown?”
Unknown
“Maybe. We found a jewelry box containing a list of the tsarist treasures being carried on the Odessa Sta1: The crown was not included.”
“What about DNA?”
“Once Razov is in power, he could fabricate any DNA evidence he needed. It would be a simple thing.”
“The Russian people are pretty sophisticated, for all their problems,” the president said. “Do you really think they'll buy a cock-and-bull story like that?”
Sandecker's lips tightened in a smile. “As an elected official, you've had more experience than I have with the ability of politicians to bamboozle the public.”
The president cleared his throat. “Yes, I see what you mean. He wouldn't be the first tinhorn dictator to sell his people a bill of goods. We know Razov is furious at the United States for trying to paint him out of the political picture. Sounds like he intends to call our bluff, use this so-called threat as a little blackmail to get us to pull back. Well, I've got news for Mr. Razov. The United States won't be blackmailed. If we let Razov get away with this, there will be no end to the threats.”
“It may be more complicated than simple blackmail,” Austin said, recalling the story Petrov had told him about Razov's girlfriend. “Razov had a fiancée, a young woman who was going to be his tsarina. She was visiting Yugoslavia during the NATO air raids on Belgrade and was accidentally killed by a bomb from an American plane. It's given him a deep hatred of the United States.”
Sandecker rejoined the discussion. “What Kurt is saying is that Razov's animosity toward the United States goes beyond our efforts to frustrate his political career. My guess is that neutralizing the U.S. fits in with his nationalist ambitions, but that he intends to satisfy his thirst for vengeance as well.”
The president leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. “It's the last part that interests me, Admiral. How's he propose to knock us out of the game?”
“We think Razov has found a way to release the energy stored in pockets of methane hydrates under the continental shelf off the East Coast,” Sandecker said. “By destabilizing the shelf, he can cause massive underwater landslides that create tsunamis, giant waves th
at can be directed at specific targets.”
A look of pure astonishment crossed the president's face. He sat bolt upright. “Are you saying Razov plans to launch giant waves against the U.S.?”
“He already has. He sent that wave into Rocky Point.”
Turning to Sparkman, the president said, “Sid, I signed off on the federal disaster aid to Rocky Point. Did anyone say it was connected to terrorism?”
“No, Mr. President. Nobody I've talked to thinks the wave was anything other than a natural occurrence. In this case, caused by an undersea earthquake.”
“Well, Admiral?” the president said to Sandecker. “Perhaps if we heard from an authority on the subject, it might allay any doubts.”
“That seems like a good idea,” the president said. “When can you line up your expert?”
“As long as it takes to summon him from the reception room. Actually, I've brought along two experts, Dr. Leroy Jenkins, an oceanographer formerly with the University of Maine, and Dr. Hank Reed, a geochemist with NUMA.”
“You never go anywhere without backup, do you, James?” the president said, with a smile.
“It's my old academy training. Why fire one torpedo when you can launch a whole spread? I've also taken the liberty of inviting NUMA's chief computer programmer, Hiram Yaeger.”
The president murmured an order over the intercom. A few minutes later, the Secret Service agent ushered Yaeger, Reed and Jenkins into the office. Yaeger was no stranger to the corridors of power and was little impressed by anyone who did not speak in terms of megabytes. In deference to the president's title, he had donned a well-worn Madras-plaid cotton sports jacket over his jeans and T-shirt and wore a new pair of desert boots. Jenkins had on his tan poplin suit from his college days and a new blue oxford shirt bought for the occasion. Hank Reed had made a valiant effort to subdue his Lyle Lovett hair, but even his suit and tie couldn't prevent him from looking like a troll doll.