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

waves. Now that he’d landed, he realized it was his imagination that made the swells appear tsunamic in size.

Checking that his .45 was secure in its holster, Bell slid into the canoe and started rowing for the ship, the sea surging placidly under his near-invisible little craft.

36

The Cologne slowed dramatically, barely making any headway against the wind, as she inched closer and closer to her mooring mast. When the tip of the nose passed over the Dagna’s stern rail, a rope was tossed down to the waiting deckhands. Like handlers guiding a reluctant elephant at the circus, the men coaxed the airship to the mast. For his part, Captain Grosse feathered the engines with the mastery of an orchestra conductor.

Additional lines were dropped from the airship, and soon the first rope was fed into the electric winch at the top of the spindly mooring mast. The huge dirigible then was drawn in those last few feet so that a locking pin could be rammed home inside the coupling between mast and ship. The engines were cut. The Cologne was so large that barely a tenth of her length was above the tender’s deck. The rest extended out over the Caribbean.

Swiftly approaching the tender, Bell could hear the men cheering at the end of another successful mission.

He paddled next to the German ship and found she’d dropped anchor. He quickly tied the canoe to the anchor chain and wedged it against the hull. He was hidden from above by the flaring of the ship’s bow. He figured an hour was enough time for the crew to finish performing their duties and settle in for the night.

During his wait, the wind shifted, and the airship pivoted around the mooring mast like the world’s largest weathervane.

When the hour had passed, and Bell couldn’t recall hearing anyone stirring on deck for at least thirty minutes, he climbed the chain as carefully as he could to prevent it from rattling. At the top, he paused, listening. All he heard was the lapping of the water against the hull and the background rumble of machinery deep within it. He shinnied up a little higher. While his thighs burned clamped around the chain, he refused to hurry.

The landing beacon had been long extinguished, and other than the red navigation light on the ship’s stubby bridge wing, the ship was only illuminated by the milky glow of the moon and stars. Bell spied a lone sailor with a rifle slung over his shoulder meandering by, then heading toward the stern. Once he was out of sight, Bell legged over the railing and crouched in the darkness for a minute.

He reached the main deck without incident. He walked aft, finding cover wherever he could—winch windlasses, air funnels, the tarp-covered lifeboats. At a pair of glass and metal doors, he successfully worked the handle of one and stepped inside the superstructure. The ship had electric lighting, but the bulbs were dim and spaced far apart.

Logic dictated that Marion was likely being held on a lower deck. He found a stairwell and climbed down. At the end of a hall, bright light spilled from the galley’s doorway. He heard someone working in there, scouring pans after a late meal served to the Zeppelin’s crew. He passed a dozen closed doors—cabins, no doubt—and came to another flight of stairs. The next deck down, the lighting was even dimmer. It was warmer too, closer to the engine room. He passed more closed doors and almost missed the one with a lock hastily welded to the latch to prevent it from being opened from the inside.

He tapped on the door—shave and a haircut, but only the first part—tap-tap-taptaptap-tap. He did it again. On the third try, the room’s occupant tapped the final bit. Marion hated it when Bell did that, so of course he made it one more of the secret codes and language they shared.

He gently lifted the latch and opened the door. Her lips were hot on his, and her arms around his neck felt like they would never release and let him go.

“Are you okay?” he asked her when she came up for air. Her hair was lank from the heat and humidity, but her eyes were clear as always.

“I’m fine. The Huns didn’t dare touch me. I owe you an apology, though.”

“Me? What on earth for?”

She gave him her most impish grin. “I didn’t expect you’d rescue me for at least another twenty-four hours. Sorry I underestimated you.”

“Quite all right,” he said breezily. “You couldn’t have possibly known there was an airplane I could borrow.”

She turned serious and earnest. “You know about the great big balloon of theirs, right? That’s how they nicked me from the Spatminster. They boarded from a rowboat that they lowered from the balloon. I was blindfolded but could still tell what was going on.”

“The balloon is called a dirigible, or rigid airship, and you and I are going to hijack it.”

Marion looked dubious. “With just your pistol?”

“And my charm.” Bell smirked. He then explained. “The airship is filled to the gills with hydrogen, a very explosive gas. They won’t risk me firing the gun, so hijacking it when they take off in the morning should be a snap.”

When they reached the deck, Bell noticed immediately that the wind had picked up. He saw too that lights were shining at the top of the mooring mast, when before they had been out. If bad weather was brewing, it made sense that they would take off and try to fly around the storm.

“Are we too late?” Marion asked when her husband went quiet.

“Not sure.” They would be discovered if he tried to launch a lifeboat. The airship was their only ticket to safety. “Come on.”

There was no one at the base mooring mast, so they climbed up it. The higher they went, the more noticeable it became that the Dagna was rolling in