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

A powerful searchlight aboard the cruiser Maryland suddenly snapped on, and it was as if dawn had broken around the massive battlewagon. They were close enough that Bell had to shield his eyes for a moment. Doubtlessly, the sailors had heard the staccato blasts from the Lewis gun and were under orders to investigate. And just as certain, there were other sailors scrambling to man the ship’s complement of machine guns and defensive rapid-fire cannons.

Bell glanced back. The gunmen were in pursuit once again, but they’d taken on a lot of water, and their closing speed wasn’t what it had been just moments before.

He spotted what he’d been looking for in the water and allowed himself a thin grin. He looked back again. It was going to be tight. He raced parallel to the huge cruiser, running close enough to see sailors on deck in their summer whites pointing at the hurtling runabout with its belching exhaust.

The engine coughed but didn’t lose speed. The pursuing boat was bearing down on Bell’s craft and seemed to be accelerating. Bell reached the Maryland’s knife-edged prow, but rather than cut around it and put the anchored cruiser between him and his pursuers, he kept straight for another fifty yards before smoothly turning the wheel and crossing the bow.

“You’ve killed us both,” Densmore yelled. “They’ll be on us in seconds.”

The Panamanian at the helm of the other boat must have thought he’d been given a gift. Rather than follow Bell on his unnecessary dogleg maneuver, he sharpened his angle of attack so he’d fly right past the cruiser’s anchor chain and catch the runabout before it could race away.

Even with the ship lit up and the searchlight casting its beam, the string of large corks was almost impossible to see. Bell had only spotted them because he’d seen them deployed earlier that evening and knew approximately where to look. The Panamanians had no idea a protective curtain had been strung around both U.S. warships.

The corks bobbed easily as the big cabin cruiser ran over them, but the inch-thick steel cable supporting the anti-torpedo nets sliced into the wooden hull as easily as a cheese cutter through a wedge of brie. Everything below the waterline, and that included the men’s legs at the knees, was severed from the upper part of the motor yacht. Fuel lines and, ultimately, the main fuel tank were sliced cleanly. The gush of volatile gasoline hit the open ignition spark before it could be diluted by the flood of seawater. The explosion was as intense as any Bell had ever seen, and the boat’s speed made it look like a meteor from darkest space was skimming like a skipping stone across the water. The flaming wreck finally slowed and then sank, a hissing pile of charred wood and dead men.

Bell killed his launch’s dying engine and slumped over the wheel. There was silence for a moment before rescue alarms started sounding on the Maryland and her accompanying destroyer, the Whipple.

Over the din, Bell said, “Now, Senator Densmore, would be the appropriate time to thank me for saving your life.”

5

A pinnace sent from the Maryland towed the runabout through a narrow gap in the leeward side of the torpedo netting, and the commandeered boat was tied to the stairs that had been lowered from the battlewagon’s main deck. Bell had voluntarily surrendered his pistol to the jumpy ensign in charge of the towboat, confident that he’d get it back once this affair was sorted out.

Densmore wisely held his tongue until they reached the ship and were confronted by the captain and first officer. Other members of the crew crowded around the deck in the shadow of the forward turret, with its enormous eight-inch guns.

The ensign handed Bell’s .45 to the first mate butt-first. “This was on ’im. The fat bloke’s unarmed, Commander.”

Bell held out his hand to the taciturn skipper. The man was unusually tall, with a hatchet face and a prominent Adam’s apple. The captain made no move to shake the proffered hand.

Bell withdrew it with an awkward smile. “My name is Isaac Bell. I’m a detective with the Van Dorn Agency. This gentleman is Senator William Densmore of California, and we just escaped an assassination attempt at the Hotel del Coronado.”

The captain’s gaze remained unmoved. He finally drew air through his nostrils. “What you did is put my ship and crew in jeopardy and for that I will see you arrested and sent to the Navy brig in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

“See here,” Densmore said. He reached for his wallet. “It’s true. I am Senator Densmore, and those men were trying to kill us.”

He withdrew his congressional identification card from his billfold and held it up for the captain. The man’s eyes widened slightly. He asked, “And what were you doing out in the harbor so late?”

Bell spoke for them. “We were ambushed at the Hotel del Coronado, and once we fled the grounds, I commandeered a boat, not realizing the assassins had one of their own. It was how they planned to escape. They were faster than us, so outrunning them wasn’t an option. I recalled seeing your nets being deployed earlier this evening, a detail our pursuers didn’t know about, so I lured them into hitting them.”

“That’s how it happened, Captain,” Densmore said.

“And for the record,” Bell added, “I set my trap so their boat would tear itself apart in front of your ship, rather than straight into your side, to minimize any risk to vessel or crew.”

A sailor approached the party but stopped a respectful distance away. The first officer turned, and the two spoke for a second, while the captain continued to look from Bell to Densmore and back again. Bell thought he’d make a formidable poker opponent.

“What is it?” the captain asked when the mate returned to his side.

“Wireless message from the San Diego police requesting our assistance. There