Unseen hands dutifully did as they were told and the battleship’s outline grew smaller as the camera increased the image area. A set of aircraft-navigation lights approaching upriver immediately gripped everyone’s attention.

“What do you make of it?” demanded the President.

“A helicopter,” Higgins replied angrily. “Some damned civilian must

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VIXEN 03

have gotten curious and taken it into his head to buzz the ship.”

The men left their chairs and clustered around the screen, watching helplessly as the intruding craft beat its way toward the grounded battleship. The observers tensed, their eyes betraying helpless frustration. “If Fawkes panics and opens fire before our forces are in position,” said Kemper tonelessly, “a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

The Iowa lay dead in the middle of the Potomac, her engines quiet, the telegraph turned to “all stop.” Fawkes looked about him with guarded optimism. The crew was unlike any he’d ever commanded. Several of its members looked to be mere boys, and all were dressed in the camouflage jungle uniforms popularized by the AAR. And, except for the efficient manner in which they carried out their assigned duties, there was nothing about them that remotely suggested South African naval personnel.

Charles Shaba’s job as chief engineer was terminated by the idle engines, and according to his orders, he now became the gunnery officer. When he climbed to the bridge, he found Fawkes leaning over a small radio set. He threw a smart salute.

“Pardon me, Cap’n, but can we talk?”

Fawkes turned around and placed a loglike arm on Shaba’s shoulder. “What’s on your mind?” he said, smiling.

Pleased to catch the captain in a good mood, Shaba stood at attention and shot the question that was burning in the minds of the crew. “Sir, where in hell are we?”

“The Aberdeen proving grounds. Are you familiar with it, lad?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a sprawling piece of land where the Americans test their weapons.”

“I thought … that is, the men thought we were going to sea.”

Fawkes looked out the window. “No, lad, the Yanks have kindly allowed us to hold gunnery practice on their target grounds.”

“But how do we get out of here?” Shaba asked. “The ship is stuck on the bottom.”

Fawkes gave him a fatherly expression. “Don’t fret. We’ll float her off at high tide as easy as you please. You’ll see.”

Shaba looked noticeably relieved. “The men will be glad to hear that, Cap’n.”

“Good, lad.” Fawkes patted him on the back. “Now get back to your station and see to the loading of the guns.”

The Iowa 235p>

Shaba saluted and left. Fawkes watched the young black man fade into the darkness beyond the passageway, and for the first time he felt a great wave of sorrow for what he was about to do.