Skeleton Coast - Cussler Clive - Страница 52
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Her copper hair was fanned against the white sheets and a wisp of it fell across her forehead. Her lips were slightly parted and as Juan brushed the cowlick aside her mouth pursed as if to receive a kiss and her eyelids fluttered for a moment before she slid deeper into unconsciousness.
He straightened her blankets and strode from the room. Ten minutes later, and despite the distraction of the upcoming rescue and the weight of the missing weapons preying on his mind Cabrillo was in a sleep as deep as Sloane’s.
His alarm sounded an hour before he was scheduled to fly to the Swakopmund airport to meet up with Tiny Gunderson. His eyes snapped open, clear and blue and ready to face anything. He rolled out of bed, contemplated another quick shower, and decided against it.
Juan turned on a couple of lights and hopped to his walk-in closet. Ranked like riding boots at the back of the closet were his artificial legs. Some were flesh-toned and hardly recognizable as prosthetics while others were industrial-looking affairs with titanium struts and visible actuators. He sat on a bench and fitted on what he called his combat leg, version 2.0. The original had been mangled a few months earlier at a shipbreakers yard in Indonesia.
Inside the round calf was a throwing knife and a .380-caliber Kel-Tec automatic pistol, one of the smallest handguns in the world. There was also enough room for a small survival kit and a diamond dusted garrote wire. Kevin Nixon, who’d modified the leg for Juan, had also placed a flat packet of C-4
explosives in the foot and hidden the timer/detonator in the ankle. Plus there were a few other tricks built into the limb.
He made sure the leg was snug and as an added precaution put on a belt with straps to tie so the prosthesis wouldn’t come off no matter what Cabrillo did. He dressed in desert camouflage fatigues and a pair of rugged boots. He retrieved another Glock and an H&K MP5 submachine gun from his gun safe. The armorer would have loaded magazines waiting for him at the helipad. He placed the weapons and a spare combat harness into a cheap nylon bag.
Maurice knocked gently on the cabin door and let himself in. As per Cabrillo’s earlier instructions he carried a breakfast tray that was heavy on fruit and carbohydrates. And while he would have loved some of his steward’s powerful coffee, Juan settled for several glasses of orange juice. They were going into the desert, and while everything had been well planned, he wanted to be as hydrated as possible just in case something did go wrong.
“You do the Royal Navy proud,” Juan said wiping his lips and tossing the napkin on the tray when he’d finished.
“Please, Captain Cabrillo,” Maurice said in that reserved voice of his. He was the only member of the Corporation to call Juan captain rather than chairman. “I oversaw the serving of high tea for twenty officers in a force seven storm off the Falkland Islands during that little flare-up. If you would permit me to be frank, sir, you have yet to tax my abilities.”
“All right then,” Juan said with a fiendish glint. “Next time we hit a hurricane I would like a Gruyere cheese and lobster souffle with a baked Alaska for dessert.”
“Very well, Captain,” Maurice intoned and retreated from the room.
On his way to the hangar Juan ducked into the infirmary again. Julia Huxley was just closing up a pair of red plastic medical cases. She wore scrubs, but her ubiquitous lab coat was slung over the back of her chair.
“I take it by your packing that you’re coming with us and our patient is doing well?” he asked by way of greeting.
“She woke up about an hour ago,” Julia said. “Her vital signs are all stable and I see no sign of infection so she’ll be fine for as long as I’m away. Besides, my orderlies are better trained than most ER nurses.”
“All right then. Give me a minute to say hi and I’ll help you with your cases.”
Sloane was lying back against a bank of pillows. Her face was pale and her eyes were somewhat sunken, but when she saw Juan leaning against the doorjamb her mouth split into a radiant smile.
“Hello there, sunshine. How are you feeling?” Juan crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“A little groggy from the meds but okay, I think.”
“Hux says you’re going to be fine.”
“I was surprised that your doctor is a woman.”
“There are eleven women on my crew,” Juan told her, “including my second officer, Linda Ross.”
“Have I been hearing a helicopter?”
“Yeah, just ferrying some men to shore.”
She eyed his fatigues and gave him a dubious look. “You said you’d tell me who and what you really are.”
“And I will,” he promised, “as soon as I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To do the job we came to Namibia for and hopefully find who was behind the attacks on you and who built the wave-powered generators.”
“Are you with the CIA or something?”
“No. But I used to be. And that’s all I’m going to tell you until tomorrow. How about I come by at eight and we can have breakfast together?”
“It’s a date.”
Juan bent and grazed her cheek with his lips. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
She held on to his hand as he stood. “I want to apologize to you again for getting you mixed up in my problems.” Her voice was solemn.
“It turns out your problem is related to my own so there’s no need to apologize. And besides, I should be the one to say he’s sorry.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t find your ship full of diamonds.”
“Fool’s errand,” she said wanly.
“Hey, even fools win the lottery.” With that he left her bedside and, with a medical case in one hand and his bag of weapons in the other, headed for the hangar with Julia.
19
THEhold in the antique de Havilland C-7 Caribou was roomy enough for the men to sprawl on the bench seats with their gear set around them. The four small motorcycles sat aft in front of the loading ramp and were held in place with bungee cords. While at some point during the plane’s long career her interior had been modified so it could be pressurized, thus saving the men from dealing with the frigid temperatures at that altitude or having to breathe off a supplemental oxygen system, the drone of the two Pratt & Whitney radial engines made conversation next to impossible.
Cabrillo studied the faces of his men as he leaned against a bulkhead to take some of his parachute pack’s weight off his shoulders. Eddie Seng noted Juan’s scrutiny and shot him a cocky grin. Mike Trono and his teammate, Jerry Pulaski, sat side by side playing rock, paper, scissors. It was a ritual of theirs, but not a competition. They played until they each picked the same thing for five throws in a row. He’d seen them do it with the first five throws on more than one occasion.
Because of his size and the parachutes’ weight limits only Linc wouldn’t be burdened with one of the dirt bikes. He was crammed into a canvas seat, his head resting on his shoulder and his mouth slack, a sure sign he’d drifted to sleep.
“Hey, Chairman,” Tiny Gunderson shouted. Juan looked toward the front of the plane. The door to the cockpit was open and he could see the big, blond Swede strapped into his seat, a meaty hand resting on the yoke. Julia was in the copilot’s chair, her medical cases sitting between the two seats.
“Yeah, Tiny?”
“Just a heads-up. We’re fifteen minutes out.” He lowered the dim cabin lights even further and turned on a red battle lamp.
“Roger that,” Cabrillo replied. He then shouted over the din of the turboprops, “Fifteen minutes, gentlemen.”
Linc startled awake with an exaggerated yawn.
There was no need to recheck equipment for that had already been done a dozen times over and there was no need to tighten already taut straps and harnesses, but the men did it all again anyway. You had just one chance to get a parachute drop right. They readied the bikes, unsnapping the bungee hooks and getting them into jump positions.
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