"Clancy, Tom - Clear & Present Danger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

"Thanks, Chief," the captain said as he took the cup.

"I figure an hour."

" 'Bout right," Wegener agreed. "We'll go to battle stations at zero-seven-forty. Who's on the duty boat section?"

"Mr. Wilcox. Kramer, Abel, Dowd, and Obrecki."

"Obrecki done this yet?"

"Farm boy. He knows how to use a gun, sir. Riley checked him out."

"Have Riley replace Kramer."

"Anything wrong, sir?"

"Something feels funny about this one," Wegener said.

"Probably just a busted radio. There hasn't been one of those since - jeez, I don't even remember when that was, but, yeah. Call Riley up here?"

The captain nodded. Oreza made the call, and Riley appeared two minutes later. The two chiefs and the captain conferred out on the bridge wing. It only took a minute by Ensign O'Neil's watch. The young officer thought it very odd that his captain seemed to trust and confide in his chiefs more than his wardroom, but mustang officers had their own ways.

Panache rumbled through the waves at full speed. She was rated at twenty-three knots, and though she'd made just over twenty-five a few times, that was in light-ship conditions, with a newly painted bottom on flat seas. Even with the turbochargers pounding air into the diesels, top speed now was just over twenty-two knots. It made for a hard ride. The bridge crew compensated for this by standing with their feet a good distance apart, and in O'Neil's case by walking around as much as possible. Condensation from the fog cluttered up the bridge windows. The young officer flipped on the wipers. Back out on the bridge wing, he stared out into the fog. He didn't like traveling without radar. O'Neil listened, but heard nothing more than the muted rumblings of Panache's own engines. Fog did that. Like a wet shroud, it took away your vision and absorbed sound. He listened for another minute, but in addition to the diesels, there was only the whisper of the cutter's hull passing through the water. He looked aft just before going back into the wheelhouse. The cutter's white paint job would help her disappear from view.

"No foghorns out there. Sun's burning through," he announced. The captain nodded.

"Less than an hour until it's gone. Gonna be a warm one. Weather forecast in yet?"

"Storms tonight, sir. The line that went through Dallas around midnight. Did some damage. Couple of tornadoes clobbered a trailer park."

Wegener shook his head. "You know, there must be something about trailers that attract the damned things..." He stood and walked to the radar. "Ready, Chief?"

"Yes, sir."

Wegener flipped the set from standby to active, then bent his eyes down to the top of the rubber hood. "You called it close, Chief. Contact bearing one-six-zero, range six thousand. Mr. O'Neil, come right to one-eight-five. Oreza, give me a time to come left up behind him."

"Aye, Cap'n. Take a minute."

Wegener flipped the radar off and stood back up. "Battle stations."

As planned, the alarm got people moving after everyone had had a chance to eat breakfast. The word was already out, of course. There was a possible druggie out in the fog. The duty boat section assembled at the rubber Zodiac. Everyone had a weapon of some sort: one M-16 automatic rifle, one riot shotgun, and the rest Beretta 9mm automatics. Forward, a crew manned the 40mm gun on the bow. It was a Swedish-designed Bofors that had once sat on a Navy destroyer and was older than anyone aboard except the captain. Just aft of the bridge, a sailor pulled the plastic cover off an M-2.50-caliber machine gun that was almost as old.

"Recommend we come left now, sir," Chief Oreza said.

The captain flipped the radar on again. "Come left to zero-seven-zero. Range to target is now three-five-zero-zero. We'll want to approach from the target's port side."

The fog was thinning out. Visibility was now at about five hundred yards, a little more or a little less as the mist became visibly patchy. Chief Oreza got on the radar as the bridge filled up with the normal battle watch. There was a new target twenty miles out, probably a tanker inbound for Galveston. Its position was plotted as a matter of course.

"Range to our friend is now two thousand yards. Bearing constant at zero-seven-zero. Target course and speed are unchanged."