The Saboteurs by Clive Cussler (top 10 best books of all time .TXT) 📗

feet from the end of the chamber wall. The boat was twenty feet below him and pulling away. The calculation was simple physics, though, when he committed himself, Bell didn’t run the numbers.

He reached the end and threw himself off the lock, hurtling through the air and plummeting toward the boat. It was a very long fall, long enough for him to regret it, before he hit the tent canopy and smashed down onto the trombonist, hard enough to break the musician’s collarbone, and then crashed to the deck, where Bell’s right leg broke below the knee in a sickening snap he heard over all the other sounds.

Pandemonium erupted as people fell or were pushed over in the wake of Bell’s landing in the middle of their party. A few of the ladies screamed in fear, while the men shouted. Bell found himself being trampled by a stampede that had nowhere to go. Someone kicked his broken leg, and he bellowed in agony. That pain jolted him. He managed to throw himself into a vacant chair and pull his .45. He changed out the empty magazine and fired three quick shots that stopped the crowd in their tracks.

“Back up the boat,” he shouted. “We are all in danger. There’s mines set in the lake. We have to turn back.”

“Do as that man says,” a high but commanding voice said. “On the jump.”

The two motormen responded immediately, and the boat came to a stop and started going backward again. It tucked itself behind the mouth of the lock chamber wall just as Tats Macalister realized he wasn’t going to kill two birds with one stone. Teddy Roosevelt wasn’t going to die when the dam blew but he’d at least be a witness to its destruction.

The explosion was huge, a guttural expulsion of force that sent water flying to the heavens and waves to rival tsunamis across the lake. The blast seemed to suck the very air from people’s lungs and topple them to the ground. It did all those things and more.

But it failed to accomplish what was intended. The spillway was impervious to the explosion because Macalister had only fused together two of the enormous explosive devices when Bell had opened fire and had then lacked the strength to add all the other wires to the detonator. With only two of the bombs exploding when he’d pushed down the plunger, the underwater pressure wave that beat against the dam was no more than a puff of wind to the solid structure.

It took several minutes for some semblance of order to return to the people on the pontoon boat. Most were shell-shocked—by the blast, and by their own deaths’ close call. One passenger, however, took it all in stride. He was polishing his eyeglasses when he made his way over to where Bell sat, panting with pain and exhaustion.

“Isaac, dear boy, what the devil are you doing here? And what was that business with the explosion? Reminded me of my Rough Rider days.”

Bell smiled up at his father’s best friend. “Hi, Uncle Ted.” Roosevelt hated being called Teddy. “It’s a long story, but if you find me a drink, I will tell it. But first we need to capture a German spy.”

39

Bell instructed the boatswains to beach the motorized raft close to where an unconscious Tats Macalister lay partially in the still-roiling waters of Lake Gatun. Workers from the lock lined its length, gesturing and pointing at the water and the prone figure. TR’s security people had taken control of the barge and had everyone positioned to exit it and head straight for the safety of the nearby lock. Bell had cautioned them that there were literally tons of unexploded ordnance in the lake.

While a doctor probed Bell’s leg and splinted it with a slat from a folding chair and strips torn from tablecloths as a temporary cast, Theodore Roosevelt loomed over him, his eyes alight with the prospect of more action. “German spy, you say? Never much cared for the Huns’ aggression. Mark my words, they’re spoiling for a fight.”

“I agree,” Bell said and sucked air through his teeth as the doctor cinched the cast tight. “This was a preemptive strike.”

“Timed for my visit?”

“Lucky coincidence for them. Gave them a second crack at you.”

“Wait, what? Do you mean . . .” TR’s voice trailed off, and he touched the spot on his right side where the bullet had become encysted against his rib cage.

The men at the motors had almost zero experience maneuvering their odd craft, so they approached the shore with an abundance of caution, edging in so slowly that when the hull made of barrels hit the shore, there was barely a bump, yet precious minutes had trickled by.

Bell was anxious about Macalister’s condition. He hadn’t moved since the explosion and hadn’t responded when Bell had shouted his name. Isaac kept his .45 caliber in hand but had to drape one arm around TR’s broad shoulders and the other around one of his security agents the Canal Authority had assigned. Bell’s leg couldn’t take even a tiny amount of weight. The three men approached Macalister while the rest of the luncheon party was led away. He lay facedown. There was a ragged hole punched through his shirt high on the left side of his back that was surrounded by a corona of blood. His chest moved. He was breathing.

The former President and the agent lowered Bell to the grass at Macalister’s side.

“Tats,” Bell called out. “We’re going to turn you over. Brace yourself.”

Covered by the black Colt, the guard rolled the German spy onto his back. Macalister moaned and opened his eyes. Bell tapped his hip with the toe of his shoe. Macalister turned his head. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus. There was bright, oxygen-rich blood at the corner of his mouth. He’d been hit through the lung.

Bell and TR exchanged a look. They