"May I make a suggestion?" asked Neilsen.

"Be my guest."

"In combat flight training, when we hit ma.s.sive cloud cover we go as low as possible, just above the carpeting clouds, where our instruments are at sighting maximum. Why dont we reverse the procedure? We go as high in the water as possible, utilizing the wide-angle periscope, and at minimum speed wed merely bounce off the reefs or rocks if we made contact."

"Stripped of the fancy lingo," said Poole, "its really very simple. Like computers, you go gradual. Half into em and half out of em; part eyes-on-the-objective, ten fingers on the b.u.t.tons."

"What b.u.t.tons?"

"Can you get me a simple laptop and a dozen sensor disks I can instant glue to this subs exterior?"

"Of course not, theres no time."

"Then strike the b.u.t.tons. Cathys theory still holds."

"I hope to h.e.l.l it does."

9.

The run-down motel in West Palm Beach was merely a temporary stopover for the barone-cadetto di Ravello, who was registered as a construction worker, in the company of his middle-aged aunt, a domestic from Lake Worth, who was sponsoring her nephew in these "greata United States, you know watta I mean? A fine boy who works hard!"

However, by nine-thirty in the morning, both "aunt" and "nephew" were on Palm Beachs Worth Avenue, selecting and paying in cash for the finest clothes in the most exclusive shops on that very exclusive strip. And the rumors began to fly: Hes an Italian baron, from Ravello they say, but shhh! n.o.body must know! Hes called a barone-cadetto, thats a first son in training for the t.i.tle, and his aunt is a contessa, a real countess. I tell you, theyre buying up the street, everything the finest! All his luggage was lost on Alitalia, can you believe that? Naturally, everyone on Worth Avenue believed it as their cash registers rang and the owners called their favorite newspaper columnists in Palm Beach and Miami, willing to break their silence as long as their establishments were prominently mentioned.

At nine oclock in the evening the motel room filled with boxes of clothing and Louis Vuitton luggage, Bajaratt removed the slightly padded dress from her body, exhaled audibly, and fell into the double bed. "Im exhausted!" she cried.

"Im not!" Nicolo was exuberant. "Ive never been treated like this. It is magnifico!"

"Save it, Nico. Tomorrow we move into a grand hotel across the bridge; everythings been arranged. Now, leave me alone, no impetuous adolescent advances, if you please. I must think, then sleep."

"You think, signora. Im going to have a gla.s.s of wine."

"Dont overdo it. We have a busy day tomorrow."

"Naturalmente," agreed the dock boy. "Then I shall study some more. Il batone-cadetto di Ravello must be prepared, no?"

"Yes."

Ten minutes later the Baj was asleep, and across the room, under the spill of a floor lamp beside the sofa, Nicolo raised his gla.s.s above the pages of his new ident.i.ty. "To you, Saint Cabrini," he said silently, mouthing the words. "And to me, the baron-to-be."

It was eleven-fifteen, the night sky clear, the Caribbean moon bright, its rays bouncing off the dark waters. The seaplane had rendezvoused with the hovercraft from Virgin Gorda at 10:05. In the time since, the three Americans had exchanged their clothes for the black wet suits provided by the British, along with small, silenced pistols holstered to their belts and Velcroed waterproof pouches for flares, night vision binoculars and their hand-held radios. Also, as it was essential to the scouting mission, they had instructed Major Neilsen in the operation of the miniature submarine; she would a.s.sume the controls once her companions left the craft to search the islands. This instruction was left to a recalcitrant young British commando who felt strongly that he should be part of the scouting patrol and not-definitely not-an American female pilot. His opposition weakened after the major took him aside at the stern of the ship and held a very private conversation. Although a certain reluctance remained, he became a formidable teacher; within the hour he was proud of his student.

"I hate to think what you promised him," said Tyrell as the pilot climbed up on deck after completing her final maneuvering exercises over a square mile of ocean.

"Is this pig time?"

"Come on, Im trying to lighten the moment; were going to have a long night."

"I told him the truth-about Charlie. That I really felt I owed it to him. I guess I was convincing."

"Of that Im sure."

"I also made it clear that if I couldnt hack it, Id bow out. I wouldnt risk two other lives.... That Brit really wants to go with you, and he could have loused me up, but he didnt. He knows where Im at and he put me through the paces."

"I believe you, Major," said Hawthorne sincerely. "Were weighing anchor for the first island in a few minutes. Anything you want to tell the pilot from Gorda whos going to take over the seaplane you flew here? About the plane itself, I mean."

"Hes quarantined below. Hes not supposed to see us or we him. I was going to leave him a short note."

"Thats what I meant. Write it now."

"Actually, its so short, the skipper can tell him. Its the left rudder; theres a drag on it, so hes got to compensate. Hed find out in a couple of minutes anyway."

"Ill relay it. If youve got any plumbing to take care of, do it now. You may not get another chance until morning."

"Everythings taken care of, thank you, but I dont thank the people who designed these d.a.m.ned suits. To say the least, theyre male chauvinists."

"No problems from where I stand," said Tyrell, glancing briefly at the black-encased figure in front of him in the moonlight.

"Thats the problem. You stand."

"Were on!" Jackson Poole approached the two of them on the aft deck. "The captain says theyre hauling up the sub and were supposed to practice positioning ourselves in case of any storage adjustments."

"So soon?" asked Neilsen.

"Its not so soon, Cathy. The man says that the way this thing travels, well reach our jump point in twenty minutes or less."

"Sir!" Major Neilsens instructor rushed forward out of the shadows, standing rigid, and rendering Hawthorne a British flat-handed salute.

"Yes, we just got the word, Sergeant. The subs being hoisted; were ready."

"Not that, sir," barked the soldier. "May I ask how long its been since youve operated this equipment, sir?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l, five or six years."

"British manufactured?"

"Predominantly ours, but Ive used yours. Theres very little difference."

"Not adequate, sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I cannot permit you to get behind the controls of our equipment."

"You what?"

"The lady here has demonstrated excellent capability with regard to its operation, quite remarkable, actually."

"Well, I had some experience in Pensacola, Sergeant," said Neilsen demurely.

"Extremely well absorbed, maam."

"You mean shes driving when we first leash off?"

"Thats correct, sir."

"Cut the sir c.r.a.p. I know those islands, she doesnt!"

"Then youre not aware of the technological developments. There is a television screen that clearly shows the driver whatever is seen by the periscope in the second personnel seat. If youre not aware of that, you may not be aware of other advances. No, Im sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you the first position."

"This is crazy ...!"

"No, sir. This machine cost the British government a minimum of four hundred thousand pounds, and I cannot permit first position to someone who hasnt skippered one in years. Now, if youll step to the bow, the pilot is waiting to come up here and be transferred to the plane."

"Inform him that theres a drag on the left rudder," said Catherine. "Everything else is normal."

"Very well, maam. Ill summon you as soon as we pull the aircraft alongside and the pilot is cast off." The sergeant stood erect, nodded at no one specifically, avoiding Hawthornes stare, and walked away.

"Ive been sandbagged!" said Tyrell angrily as they walked forward on the deck.

"Youll see, Tye," said Catherine when they reached the bow of the strangely contoured patrol boat. "Itll be better this way. I wouldnt have tried to do it if I thought otherwise, and I meant what I said: If I couldnt do it, Id have bowed out."

"Why is it better this way?" asked Hawthorne.

"Because you can concentrate on what youre looking for and not worry about driving."

Tyrell looked at her, seeing in the moonlight the guarded plea in her large gray-green eyes, a little girls eyes in the attractive face of a very accomplished woman. "You may be right, Major, I wont deny that. I just wish youd done it another way."

"I couldnt because I didnt know whether I could."

Hawthorne smiled, his anger receding. "Do you always have an answer for everything?"

"Does the bayou get wet?" said the tall, slender Poole, who had been leaning over the gunwale, pretending not to hear the conversation.

"Dont say it," ordered Tyrell, holding up his hands in front of Neilsens face. "Dont say 'Be quiet, my darling!"

"Oh, that," said Catherine, laughing. "Someday well tell you how it happened, and you may just start calling him that yourself." Suddenly Neilsens eyes grew distant and sad. "It was Sals and Charlies idea, they came up with it."

"With what?"

"Forget it," replied Cathy, blinking, her eyes bright again. "If you havent got a patent on the phrase."

"Sir!" announced the sergeant-commando as he emerged from the shadows of the starboard rail. "Weve secured the submarine for immersible procedures."

"Lets go."

The first island was volcanic garbage, nothing more and nothing less. They had penetrated the inner reef, surfaced, and saw nothing but jagged rock and rotted foliage barely kept alive by the intermittent rains absorbed by the sun-dried ground of earth and sand.

"Forget it," Tyrell ordered his skipper in the forward seat. "Head out for number two, its less than a mile from here, due east-southeast, as I remember."

"You remember correctly," Catherine said from behind the controls. "Ive got the chart and Ive programmed our reentry out. Close hatches and prepare to submerge."

The second island, less than a mile northeast, was, if possible, a lesser candidate for Pooles electronic alarms. It was a barren rock formation devoid of greenery or sand-filled beaches, a volcanic aberration that held no worth for human or animal habitation. The three-man minisub headed for the third island, four miles directly north of the second. There was erratic greenery, but it had been whipped by the recent storms, untended by man. What palm trees there were had been battered, bent, many broken to the ground, an isolated land ma.s.s left to the elements. They were about to proceed to the east to the next island when Hawthorne, studying the television screen in front of Neilsen, spoke.

"Hold it, Cathy," he said quietly. "Reverse engines and then turn ninety degrees from your position."

"Why?"

"Somethings wrong. The topside radars beaming back. Submerge."

"Why?"

"Do as I say."

"Sure, but Id like to know why."

"So would I," said Poole from the rear compartment.

"Be quiet." Hawthorne stared alternately at the television screen and the radar grid in front of him. "Keep the periscope above water."

"Its there," said Neilsen.

"Thats it," said Tyrell. "Your machines were right, Basin Street. Weve got it."

"What have we got?" asked Neilsen.

"A wall. A G.o.dd.a.m.ned man-made wall that bounces back the radar. Steel-encased is my guess; its concealed but it repulses the beams."

"What do we do now?"

"Circle the island, then come back here if we dont find any surprises."

They slowly rounded the small island, barely breaking the surface, the undetectable radar beams scanning every foot of the coastline. For visual sighting, Poole squeezed up into Tyrells open hatch, a pair of night-vision binoculars at his eyes.

"Oh, boy," said the lieutenant, angling his head down to be heard. "Theyve got detectors all over the place, every twenty or thirty feet, I figure, and definitely in series sequence."

"Describe what you see," said Hawthorne.

"They look like small gla.s.s reflectors, some on the palms, others on poles deep in the ground. Those on the tree trunks have single black or green wires going up through the leaves, the ones on the poles-lucite or plastic sticks-dont seem to have any wires, not that I can tell."

"Theyre threaded," explained Hawthorne, "buried four to six feet under; you couldnt see them unless you were ten inches in front of them in broad daylight, and maybe not even then."