“Just in from the State Department,” the President said, scanning the print. “A communique from Prime Minister Koertsmann, of South Africa. He urgently warns us of an imminent attack on the United States mainland by the AAR and apologizes for any indirect involvement by his cabinet.”

“It doesn’t figure that Koertsmann would suggest an involvement with his enemy,” March said. “I should think he’d categorically deny any connection.”

“Probably hedging his bets,” ventured Jarvis. “Koertsmann must suspect Operation Wild Rose has fallen into our hands.”

The President kept gazing at the wording on the paper as if unwilling to accept the frightening truth.

“It looks,” he said solemnly, “as if all hell is about to break loose.”

The bridge had been his only miscalculation. The Iowa’s superstructure was too high to pass under the one man-made obstacle that stood

228 VIXEN 03p>

between Fawkes and his target. The vertical clearance was three feet lower than he’d reckoned.

He heard, rather than saw, the plywood gun-director housing being torn off the forward gun-control platform as it smashed into the overhead span of the bridge.

Howard McDonald slammed on his brakes and skidded to a sideways stop, toppling stacked crates of milk bottles in his delivery van. To McDonald, who was crossing the Harry W. Nice Memorial Toll Bridge to begin his regular milk route, it appeared that an airplane had crashed through the supporting girders almost on top of his truck. He sat there for a few moments in shock, his headlights illuminating a huge pile of debris blocking the two narrow north-and southbound lanes. Fearfully, he stepped from the van and approached, expecting to find mangled pieces of human anatomy embedded in the wreckage.

Instead, all he discovered were splintered sheets of gray-painted wood. His initial reaction was to stare at a low overcast sky, but all he saw was a red aircraft-obstruction light flashing atop the main span. Then McDonald walked over to the railing and peered down.

Except for what seemed to be the running lights of a string of vessels disappearing around Mathias Point, to the north, the channel was empty.

57

Pitt, Steiger, and Admiral Sandecker stood around a drafting table in Pitt’s hangar at the Washington National Airport and examined a large-scale map of the area’s waterways. “Fawkes did a radical facelift on the Iowa for a damned good reason,” Pitt was saying. “Sixteen feet. That’s how much he raised her waterline.”

“You certain you have an accurate figure?” Sandecker asked. “That leaves a draft of only twenty-two feet.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem credible.”

“I got it from the man who should know,” answered Pitt. “While Dale Jarvis was on the phone to NSA headquarters, I questioned Metz, the shipyard boss. He swore to the measurements.”

“But for what purpose?” said Steiger. “By removing all the guns and

The Iowa 229p>

replacing them with wooden dummies, the ship is totally useless.”