airport—though there was no proof of any Iranian involvement or even suggestion of it, so far. As the admiral had said, anchored in about fifty feet of water.
Unladen then, almost certainly. Sitting high and hard to get aboard. Damned hard for armed men to board unsuspected…
He glanced up and found both of them watchinghim, gray eyes and brown eyes alike alive with speculation. Mississippi corkscrewed. Foam thundered back along her starboard foredeck. Spray splattered onto the porthole glass beside him and foam hissed away into the scuppers. “If we could get aboard Prometheus, then we could begin to find out what is really going on,” he said. His voice was flat. Level. The throb of his rage just held in check by an iron effort of will.
Richard was fiercely aware that they were actually discussing a kind of war. A small war against an unknown enemy, waged by himself and such warriors as he could summon, fought with such weapons as he and they could find, against such armaments as the terrorists might hold, and to be fought on the decks of the flagship of his tanker fleet with more at risk than he dared to calculate.
“My hands are tied,” warned Admiral Stark. “No men or matériel. Not a gun. Not a round.”
“Radio?” asked Robin. “Our first meeting off Rass al Hadd should prove to you what a danger to shipping we are in our present state.”
“Done!” Stark grinned. His eyes, the image of his godson’s, sparkled with fierce joy at being able to help after all. “And now you come to mention it…”
Half an hour later, Walter Stark’s desk was piled high with the sort of equipment the enthusiastic, safety-conscious admiral thought to be essential for the protection of Katapult in her present condition from the dangers of shipping in the Arabian Sea and the Gulf.
A powerful, reliable radio. A portable switchboard with several portable VHF radiotelephone handsets. A sextant, very nearly the work of art that Richard remembered John Higgins always kept aboard Prometheus, and the admiral’s own since boyhood. A full range of charts, notices to mariners, and updates.
Stark surveyed the pile, then looked up cheerfully, catching the eye of the President’s portrait on the wall above the desk. Richard and Robin followed his gaze. “You know,” said the admiral, “I’ve a feeling he’s watching us fairly closely. Maybe I should have turned his picture to the wall…”—he rubbed his great, hard hands gleefully—“…but I’ll be damned if I think he would mind!”
“So there are four of us,” Richard was summing up after two long days’ worth of arguments. “Although for the life of me I don’t see why you and Doc want in on this, Sam.”
Hood, down in the cabin, hunched over his new toys, simply shrugged. Doc pretended not to hear, his eyes on the far horizon, the helm easy in his great hands.
“We’ve enough equipment to navigate to the moon…”
“Mars, if’n we want,” interjected Hood happily.
“…and back. One experimental trimaran, almost fully functional…”
“We can fix the radar easy given the equipment and the time,” said Weary. “Rest of the stuff’s fine.”
“…and six Kalashnikhov AK-47 assault rifles, old but unused,” Richard persisted.
“Fine guns,” said Robin. “Tough. Reliable.”
“And with this we propose to engage an unnumbered quantity of armed terrorists, possibly the whole of the Palestine Liberation Organization and conceivably the Iranians to boot.”
“So what else do we need?” asked Weary.
Richard opened his mouth, but it was Robin who answered: “ Help! All the help we can get.”
It was thirty-six hours since Mississippi ’s helicopterhad dropped them back onto Katapult ’s lazarette. Thirtysix hours filled with an urgent drive to reach the Gulf as soon as possible. After one long, fast day’s sailing, they had anchored briefly in the anchorage area north of Muscat off the Omani coast. They had left on the dawn breeze
Unladen then, almost certainly. Sitting high and hard to get aboard. Damned hard for armed men to board unsuspected…
He glanced up and found both of them watchinghim, gray eyes and brown eyes alike alive with speculation. Mississippi corkscrewed. Foam thundered back along her starboard foredeck. Spray splattered onto the porthole glass beside him and foam hissed away into the scuppers. “If we could get aboard Prometheus, then we could begin to find out what is really going on,” he said. His voice was flat. Level. The throb of his rage just held in check by an iron effort of will.
Richard was fiercely aware that they were actually discussing a kind of war. A small war against an unknown enemy, waged by himself and such warriors as he could summon, fought with such weapons as he and they could find, against such armaments as the terrorists might hold, and to be fought on the decks of the flagship of his tanker fleet with more at risk than he dared to calculate.
“My hands are tied,” warned Admiral Stark. “No men or matériel. Not a gun. Not a round.”
“Radio?” asked Robin. “Our first meeting off Rass al Hadd should prove to you what a danger to shipping we are in our present state.”
“Done!” Stark grinned. His eyes, the image of his godson’s, sparkled with fierce joy at being able to help after all. “And now you come to mention it…”
Half an hour later, Walter Stark’s desk was piled high with the sort of equipment the enthusiastic, safety-conscious admiral thought to be essential for the protection of Katapult in her present condition from the dangers of shipping in the Arabian Sea and the Gulf.
A powerful, reliable radio. A portable switchboard with several portable VHF radiotelephone handsets. A sextant, very nearly the work of art that Richard remembered John Higgins always kept aboard Prometheus, and the admiral’s own since boyhood. A full range of charts, notices to mariners, and updates.
Stark surveyed the pile, then looked up cheerfully, catching the eye of the President’s portrait on the wall above the desk. Richard and Robin followed his gaze. “You know,” said the admiral, “I’ve a feeling he’s watching us fairly closely. Maybe I should have turned his picture to the wall…”—he rubbed his great, hard hands gleefully—“…but I’ll be damned if I think he would mind!”
“So there are four of us,” Richard was summing up after two long days’ worth of arguments. “Although for the life of me I don’t see why you and Doc want in on this, Sam.”
Hood, down in the cabin, hunched over his new toys, simply shrugged. Doc pretended not to hear, his eyes on the far horizon, the helm easy in his great hands.
“We’ve enough equipment to navigate to the moon…”
“Mars, if’n we want,” interjected Hood happily.
“…and back. One experimental trimaran, almost fully functional…”
“We can fix the radar easy given the equipment and the time,” said Weary. “Rest of the stuff’s fine.”
“…and six Kalashnikhov AK-47 assault rifles, old but unused,” Richard persisted.
“Fine guns,” said Robin. “Tough. Reliable.”
“And with this we propose to engage an unnumbered quantity of armed terrorists, possibly the whole of the Palestine Liberation Organization and conceivably the Iranians to boot.”
“So what else do we need?” asked Weary.
Richard opened his mouth, but it was Robin who answered: “ Help! All the help we can get.”
It was thirty-six hours since Mississippi ’s helicopterhad dropped them back onto Katapult ’s lazarette. Thirtysix hours filled with an urgent drive to reach the Gulf as soon as possible. After one long, fast day’s sailing, they had anchored briefly in the anchorage area north of Muscat off the Omani coast. They had left on the dawn breeze
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