Page 83 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Archie, James, and Hanna waited for the rendering explosion that never came, none of the trio breathing for many long seconds.
“A dud?” James asked at last.
“Looks to be,” Archie agreed.
Hundreds of people were rushing out the station’s multiple doors. Men in suits or work clothes, women in long coats and dresses, kids in school uniforms all fled from the building in a panicked rush. Archie could hear their screams of fear from a half block away. He saw a couple of cops give up trying to tame the chaos and instead allow the crowds to bear them along.
This was the critical moment. They had seconds to find Rath before he reported to his brother it was time to fire at will.
“Mr. Abbott,” Hanna squealed from the back seat, her arm shooting over his shoulder to point down an alley they were just passing. “There. That is Hanzi’s truck. I’d know it anywhere.”
Archie braked hard. The tuned brakes nearly stopped the car on a dime. The car behind them tried to brake in time but ended up smashing into their rear bumper. Archie ignored the accident, dropped the Ford into reverse, and pushed the other car backward enough for him to make the turn into the alley. The front of the Ford hadn’t been hardened like a couple of the agency’s pool cars so he couldn’t ramp up to a hefty ramming speed as he’d wished. As it was, he smashed into the rear of the covered cargo truck hard enough to throw whoever was in the bed up against the cab and break the hinge of one of the rear doors.
Hanzi had been watching through the wing mirror and had seen the black car racing down the alley with the look that it wasn’t goingto slow. He hadn’t been fast enough to get the truck moving to avoid being hit, but he had them rolling seconds later.
“Everyone all right?” Archie asked, his palms stinging from holding the wheel during the collision.
“Yeah, I mean yes, I’m unhurt,” Hanna said.
“James?”
He wiped a trace of blood from his forehead from where it had hit the dash. “It’s nothing.”
Archie saw that the van was already pulling away. He revved the engine to see if he’d damaged it. It sounded fine. He took off after his prey, mindful that he should drop Hanna off but not daring to lose the time.
“Mr. Abbott, my brother, please don’t hurt him.”
“That’ll be up to him,” Arch said as they burst from the alley onto Thirty-Third Street.
As long as he kept Hanzi driving as though his life depended on it, Balka couldn’t use his radio’s telegraph key to transmit a message. That equipment needed a flat, steady surface in the hands of an expert, which he doubted the anarchist was. Archie didn’t exactly back off but knowing they couldn’t broadcast to the battleship allowed him to relax into the chase.
—
Bell had to pull offhis pack and pass his gun through the hawsehole when he reached the top of the thick anchor chain. Only then could he slither through the gap and land inside theSaarland’s chain locker room. He took Marchetti’s gear and helped pull him through the hawsehole. They resettled their equipment and went to the room’s only door. There was no lock and so Bell easedit open, mindful that the hinges made the sound like nails down a chalkboard.
The hallway beyond was curved along the lines of the exterior plating and appeared to run the entire length of the ship. Overhead, the ceiling was a snake’s nest of wiring and conduits. There were lights in stout wire cages every five feet and shin-breaking coamings for watertight doors every twenty feet or so. The walls were rust-streaked and the deck dirty. Bell felt the interior of the ship had the sinister atmosphere of a haunted mansion, all the deep shadows and murky corners and the feeling of long abandonment. The distant thrum of the ship’s steam engine and generators made it feel like the whole ship was breathing a dark, malevolent breath.
Despite the winter chill, Bell’s flanks were slick with sweat, and he had to dry his palms against his thighs.
With such a small crew of anarchists, neither Bell nor Joe Marchetti expected there would be any guards posted but they lit out as silent and as vigilant as possible. They swept each open room they passed as they patrolled aft. Most were empty, save for old metal bunk frames or piles of trash the Brazilian caretakers had left behind back in the Azores. They heard a few rats foraging amid the piles of refuse.
As they neared midships, Bell slowed their pace even more. He knew time was his enemy as much as Karl Rath, but they had to be cautious until the bombs were planted. This was a must-win fight like no other, with hundreds of New Yorkers’ lives in the balance.
Joe pointed to a stairwell and jerked his thumb downward. Bell nodded and led them down the stairs, his trench-sweeping shotgun at the ready. He heard voices when they reached the next deck, orders shouted and acknowledged. He padded out of the vestibule,keeping low and slow until he reached an open watertight door that gave him a measure of concealment. He peered around.
A man in work clothes stood outside a room where the light spilling from it appeared diffused. He said something to a man or possibly men inside. To Bell, it sounded like the language Rath spoke back in occupied Belgium. A moment later two men emerged from the room pushing a cart that had rubber wheels. The cart was loaded with two dozen silk-wrapped objects that reminded Bell of Marion’s smallest hat box.
Bell didn’t need Joe’s naval experience to recognize propellent bags for theSaarland’s main battery. The men were wheeling enough explosives to level an office building. Apart from the rubber wheels, Bell noted the cart was coated in bronze so that even if it struck a bulkhead, it would produce no sparks. They moved about fifteen feet down the corridor before steering the cart into a waiting elevator. All three rode up together.
Bell rushed from his hiding spot and into the powder magazine, Joe on his heels. The storeroom reeked of strong acidic chemicals as there were thousands of propellent bags stored on row after row of open wooden shelves. Thick glass covered the few lights as a precaution against one of the bulbs exploding and igniting one of the bags. The glass gave the lights the diffused look Bell had noted moments ago.
He dropped to his knees so Joe could easily reach into his pack for a bomb. It was only a single half-stick of dynamite wired to a clock timer, but it didn’t need to be larger or more elaborate. Bell started shifting the propellant bags in a corner of the magazine as far as possible from where the anarchists were depleting the store. Joe placed the bomb against a bulkhead and set the timer.
They’d just completed burying it under the bags they’d just moved when a shadow crossed the room’s open hatch.
“Oi!” shouted a bearded crewman.
Bell whirled and brought the shotgun to his shoulder before realizing a discharge in here would blow the battleship in half. The crewman took off running.
