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Fulco Rodriguez sat at the presidential desk, frowning over a brief report. It told him little---only that Cidd Menendez had left his villa early that morning, boarded a chartered boat, and ostensibly set out for a day of fishing.
Well, Rodriguez thought grimly, the fishing was excellent---if one were really going after the finny creatures. Men who could afford the time and cost of taking a record-breaking marlin or sail had long avoided the poverty-ridden South American trouble spot. The fish had plenty of time to multiply and grow.
Rodriguez dropped the report and picked up a second memorandum. It mentioned that a 200-foot black submarine, nationality unknown, had been sighted 85 nautical miles, northwest by west, off the San Gonzalan coast earlier in the day. She was on course for La Junares, the squalid port city hard by the capital, and would likely drop anchor by sundown.
The memorandum was a result of instructions Rodriguez had given the APSanG or the port authority of San Gonazlo. The request was explicit. The movement of all foreign ships of oceangoing size in San Gonzalan waters were to be reported directly to the presidential office.
The motive behind the request was simple. Cidd Menendez had to have outside help to return to this office as its master. Outside help had to come in by way of the sea. Thus, along with the multitude of other problems, the president of San Gonzalo had to cast an eye seaward now and then, just as the lowliest commercial fisherman, out in his scabby skiff, had to scan the horizon during the storm season for the appearance of sudden squalls.
Rodriguez rocked back in his leather chair and mused at the ceiling. He didn't like the ceiling very much. It was too high, too vaulted, too ornate. It seemed to be frosted with pale pink cake icing. Far overhead, in its curved middle, it boasted an enormous imported crystal chandelier suspended by a trio of twisted golden chains.
What a country, Rodriguez thought with a little shake of his head. We own one of the largest chandeliers in the world, while thousands of acres of good land lies fallow for lack of tractors.
The President rocked forward and with a fingertip pushed the two reports together so that they touched. Menendez goes fishing, and a strange submarine is sighted.
It didn't necessarily follow that Menendez had gone out to meet someone aboard the sub, a research sub, they said. It was true that oceanographers were becoming increasingly interested in the San Gonzalan waters, the Ybytecto Trench in particular, now that they could put in without having their ships searched stem to stern and then running the risk of being hauled off for rigorous questioning.
The two events of today might be as innocent and unconnected as they seemed. And yet---The cutting edge of instincts tempered in hot fires of danger worked beneath Rodriguez's placid, broad face. He knew that Menendez had never quit hoping, and, in men of that kind, hope was the cunning godfather of sinister schemes.
The President pushed back his chair on its silent casters and rose to his feet. The bigness of the office bothered him. He'd never felt more alone than he did here, where the long, polished floor echoed a man's footsteps as if he were walking through a mausoleum. When he was a boy, Rodriguez reflected, three small rooms with mud broke walls had sufficed for the whole family. The entire hut could have been placed in the far end of this office. The hut had been quite crowded, but it had held a warmth that many finer places sorely lacked.
He shook his head, clamping his stubborn jaw against the negative train of thought. He was feeling the weight of his office---but what had he expected? He hadn't reached a goal, but this was a start. Rodriguez and his people had just now won the chance to start winning, to start doing for themselves.
He did a slow about-face from the desk and walked to the nearby French doors. The glass portals were 15 feet tall, with elegantly made draperies of purple linen.
He stepped onto a balcony, eyes squinting against the vast, fiery redness of the sinking South American sun. Two stories below, the formal gardens looked cool and serene. Their effect was spoiled by the silhouettes of two guard towers, where men stood on duty like shadows behind the snouts of wicked machine guns.
Rodriguez's brown, stubby hands ached to go out and pull the towers down piece by piece. Of a truth, that would be a day! A day that could not come soon enough to suit him.
Far to his left, the ruins of a centuries-old-fort were piled on a promontory that overlooked the stretches of Bahia La Junares, The first of the despots, gold-greedy Spanish viceroys, had ruled the country from there. It was some small comfort to see the fort overgrown with weeds, a jumble of useless stone.
Rodriguez swung his gaze easterly, brooding over La Junares. The city formed a cluttered arc far along the bay. Wharves and dogs stuck like fingers from warehouses and sidings. The buildings downtown, the most impressive encompassing Tocutal Square, caught the fading sunlight like low cliffs of dirty chalk. Crowding close upon them were the hovels of the poor, some of them little more than rusty tin shacks or lean-tos clinging to mud brick walls.
Rodriguez's chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. He knew what daily life was like out there. And he fought off a sense of depressing futility, knowing how much needed to be done and how long it would take. Even in the best of circumstances, it took time to erase the scars of centuries.
The President rested his palms on the fat stone railing of the balcony balustrade. It was a vantage point from which he could see palm-lined avenues and the modern, functional faces of other government buildings here in the federal district. A small city complete unto itself, the capital was called Chiguanada, the city from which flowed the invisible river of peace and plenty, or so the ancient Indians said.
Rodriguez, personally, thought the ancient Indians must have been crazy. There was no river, and barely any peace or plenty. Privately, he likened Chiguanada to a carefully groomed suburb which was an elegant tail hung onto a mangy dog---the squalor of La Junares.
The offices in most of the buildings were vacated at this late afternoon hour. But here and there he saw evidences of continued activity, cars in the parking areas scattered throughout the complex of buildings, lights flicking on behind windows near his office. Rodriguez nodded to himself. Many of his new administrators and junior officials rivaled even him in the length of their hard working day. It was a very good sign.
For the 6th or 7th time, the President's eyes probed the harbor. A row of shiny cabin cruisers bobbed in a marina maintained by the handful of wealthy merchants and professional men of La Junares. A Venezuelan trawler stood off the long, low silhouette of the west breakwater. An American freighter was anchored near the main dock. A small fleet of San Gonzalan fishing boats returned to base, a pilot boat, a tug, and two charter boats made up the sparse harbor traffic.
Of the 200-foot black submarine there was no sign. Rodriguez frowned. The stranger had had plenty of time to make a landfall. She should be standing to in the harbor by now, with customs men preparing a report for the presidential desk.
Rodriguez's earthy, stolid exterior shielded an imagination that had sometimes had to check. Now, in his mind's eye, he saw the sub standing somewhere offshore, Menendez and some stranger shaking hands over some hellish agreement.
The President pinched the bridge of his nose. He gave his head a shake, telling himself not to jump at shadows and let his imagination run amok.
But he had to admit that in this instance his imagination had some solid material to subsist on.
Almost 3 weeks ago, he had quietly dispatched an official courier into the hills. The personal emissary had carried a message to the guerillas, stamped with the presidential seal. The document guaranteed amnesty to all---including Angela and Pau Saldaña---who would lay down their arms, return to their homes, and go to work. The mass pardon had ended with a plea for an end to strife and the beginning of a new day for the country. Rodriguez had added the paragraph in moving terms, from his heart.
He might as well have dropped the document into one of the extinct volcano craters in the barren northern end of the country. Not a single Menendez diehard had responded.
The meaning was clear. They had been convinced that Menendez had one last trick up his sleeve and would deliver the country to them for the looting.
Rodriguez started, pressed his midriff against the balustrade. The intensity of his thoughts had kept him from noticing, until just now, the appearance of a black conning tower against the sky.
He stood waiting for the submarine to come into view. He had a strange, psychic feeling that it would prove to be a 200-footer. Clean. Black paint. Polished metal. A scientist's pride and joy---maybe.601Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtrXuyrYcG1
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In the luxurious apartment of Law Zongxian, aboard the Hangui, Cidd Menendez would not have been amused by the President's hunch.
Menendez cast a final appreciative glance about him. It had been an agreeable and rewarding few hours. Now it was time for him to leave the Hangui---before eyes ashore could spot his movement---and return to the nondescript fishing boat half a mile away in San Gonzalan coastal waters.
Menendez had transferred from the fisherman without incident. A skiff had been lowered; two burly seamen had rowed him to the Hangui; he had mounted a Jacob's ladder to the main deck, where Law had recieved him with the courtesy due a head of state.
Lunch had been pleasant. Menendez suspected that the menu had been carefully planned in deference to his occasional attacks of acute dyspepsia. It was a clue to the care with with Law no doubt briefed himself for every mission.
Menendez hadn't been distracted for a moment Law's youthful, innocent facade. If the younger man's superiors said he was the man for the job, Menendez had no questions on that score. The coral was the most innocent-looking of all snakes, Menendez had reminded himself, but there was no known antidote for its deadly bite.
They had exchanged a few oblique remarks to reassure one another that everything was ready for the destruction of the Rodriguez government. Then, after lunching with the captain, they whiled away a pleasant afternoon, Menendez reluctant to leave the Hangui for the comparative crudeness of the charter boat.
Menendez was warmly satisfied at the way they had hit it off. He smiled as he shook hands with Law. "I have enjoyed your submarine's hospitality very much, Zongxian"
"The pleasure has been mine, Comrade." Law permitted a brief, wolfish smile to mar his boyish face. I think you and I are going to make quite a team."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Menendez laughed. Despite the differences in years and background, they were cut from the same cloth, Menendez reflected. Neither was what a stranger might have judged him to be, and each of them had known it right away. Menendez had a moment of sardonic delight as he imagined the picture they must present right now---a cultivated aristocrat and a dedicated scientist standing in the heart of the world's biggest submarine.
The handshake broke. Smiling, Menendez took a step back. "See you in San Gonzalo, Law."
"In Chiguanada, San Gonzalo," Law amended.
"Yes," Menendez chuckled. "The capital. The presidential office."
No sooner had Menendez and Law stepped into the dark corridor than a crewman in spotless white hurried up.
"Comrade Law!"
"Yes? What is it?"
Menendez stopped, watching. The ruddy young sub's officer had snapped to attention before Law. He flicked his eyes toward Menendez.
"It's all right," Law instructed. "If something has happened, you may speak in front of Comrade Menendez. We don't keep secrets from our allies."
"Our sonar has detected a suspicious underwater object," the crewman reported.
A stiffness jerked through Mendendez's spine. He snapped a look at Law, a faint flare going off in his eyes. "Another submarine?" he asked, his voice a half tone higher than usual. "If we've been spied upon---if Rodriguez can prove I'm here......"
Law remained cool. The first hint of something less than respect touched his lips as he replied, "Does San Gonzalo have submarines, Comrade?"
"Submarines?!" Menendez chuckled. "My God, we don't even have a navy!"
"Then it doesn't mean you've been suspected. We've experienced this kind of thing before, and we're equipped to deal with the contingency."
The Hangui slowed down, and already her wake was curving as she turned to search.
Law motioned with a snap of his fingers. "Come. Let us see what the situation looks like."
Menendez didn't like anyone snapping his fingers at him, but he fell in step beside Law without speaking.
They went to the Hangui's massive control room. The radio shack, if it could be properly termed that, was larger than most. Despite the size, it imparted to Menendez a sense of smallness, crowded as it was with electronic equipment, banks of control panels, miniature computers, and various glowing detection screens.
The sub's nerve center already had two occupants. A stoop-shouldered technician perched on a swivel chair, a headset bulbous on his ears, his eyes on the glowing screen before him. Beside him stood the captain, small, neat, briskly rocking on his toes. Hearing Law and Menendez enter, the captain flicked a glance over his shoulder.
"What is it, Captain?" Law asked.
"We don't know yet."
The technician clipped orders into the curved microphone harnessed to his chest.
"He's running the boat for the time being," the captain explained to Menendez. "We've asked your craft to stand off and give us room to maneuver, to submerge, if necessary. You'll have to be our guest a little longer, Comrade. We can't break off this operation just now."
Menendez nodded, trying to manage a cooperative smile. His stomach started stirring. He slipped a snowy linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed uncertainly at his chin and jawline.
The round shoulders of the technician hunched lower. He murmured a command.
The Hangui's powerful engines reversed, and beneath the cylindrical hull of the giant submarine the sea churned.
The technician spoke calmly. "I think I've nailed it, Captain."
The captain shouldered in beside him. "Damn NATO submarines," he snarled, "always dogging us, spying on us!"
"I'm not sure it's a sub, Captain."
"What is it, then?"
The technician shrugged, eyes nailed to the screen, watching for movement.
"Maybe a coral reef," Menendez suggested, desperate in the hope that nothing was really down there to complicate their plans.
"Hardly," the technician murmured with the tolerance of the expert for the layman.
"We'll watch a bit," the captain decided. "Has she moved at all?"
"Not yet, Captain," the technician said.
Menendez caught himself crashing his now wet handkerchief in his palms. He crammed the bit of cloth into his pocket.
He was itching to be off the Hangui now. Anyone, from fishing trawler to tramp steamer, would investigate the becalmed submarine. It was, after all, one of the rules of the sea.
San Gonzalo had little sea power in the accepted sense. But the Hangui, with the fishermen lying astern, would look frightfully suspicious to any patrol boat cruising into visual range. Menendez shied from the unpleasant thought. The silence pulsed in his ears. He craned a look past the captain's shoulder at the screen. Even his untrained eye could make out the outlines of the thing lying in the depths below.
Menendez breathed in and out, rueful of a technology that counted hostile subs among its creations. At least, in the old days of wooden ships and sail, when the contending European powers were banging away....
Suddenly, his eyes opened wide. "The galleon!" he burst out.
The technician grimaced with annoyance. The captain and Law turned to stare at Menendez.
"Of course," Menendez said, partly to himself. "The wreck was out just about here."
"What are you talking about, Comrade?" Law asked.
Menendez eyes reflected a spirit beginning to swing back. "A relic of a long-ago era," he explained. "Obviously you have spotted a galleon that foundered and went down in a sea battle generations ago."
Law and the captain exchanged a tolerant glance.
Menendez's lips tightened a little. "Don't you think I know every inch of my island and the waters about her? The wreck is as well known as the trench. There are families in my country descended from the survivors. If your charts of the harbor and approaches are sufficiently detailed, you'll likely find the exact location marked!"
"Our charts haven't yet run us aground!" The captain's voice was unruffled by Menendez's reaction to their unspoken doubts.
The captain excused himself, returning a few moments later.
"Well?" Menendez said.
The captain nodded. "You seem to be correct, Comrade. The charts pinpoint the old wreck as our precise location in the harbor."
"Then shouldn't we get on?" Menendez suggested smugly. "Without wasting more time on a useless detail on the screen?"
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