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red herring. It was a figure of speech. One that was exclusive to English, he
saw. There were no red herrings in the French language, real or figurative.
Thus, no French-named vessel would be called the Red Herring any more than a
French submarine would be christened Proud to be Frogs.
Smith got on the phone with Coast Guard Station Cape Cod just in time to hear
a follow-up report straight from the commander there.
"My people say it's releasing some kind of fish chasing torpedo. This is
definitely a hostile act," the base commander said.
"I am ordering the Hareng Saur be boarded, detained and searched," said
Smith.
"Will do, sir," said the commander, who thought he was talking to Coast Guard
area headquarters in Boston.
Smith hung up and returned to his system. A torpedo that herded fish. If such
a device existed, perhaps he could discover it on the World Wide Web.
WHEN LIEUTENANT HECKMAN received her orders she said, "What the hell? We can't
board a boat that size. They've got us outcrewed. Probably ten to one."
"Maybe we can fake them out," suggested her helmsman.
"How's that?"
"Call in a Coast Guard air strike."
"CG doesn't have air-strike capability."
"Maybe they don't know that."
"Good thinking." Taking up the mike, Sandy began chanting, "Attention, Hareng
Saur. This is the CGC Cayuga. You are in violation of the Magnunson Act and
are ordered to have to and submit to boarding or be sunk."
There was no answer from the Hareng Saur.
Then the factory ship launched a torpedo.
"What are the chances that a fish-chasing torpedo has a warhead?" Sandy
wondered aloud, her eyes on the incoming wake.
"The last one blew up on command," her helmsman reminded.
"That was only a self-destruct charge."
"TNT is TNT!"
"Evasive!" Sandy ordered, then grabbed something solid.
The Cayuga went into extreme evasive maneuvers, and the torpedo ran after it
like a hungry dog.
"It's gaining!" the helmsman roared.
"Then turn about and ride into its teeth," Sandy flung back.
"Are you crazy? Sir!"
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"Do it!"
As the Cayuga heeled into the teeth of the torpedo, Sandy Heckman manned the
sixteen-inch gun mounted on the foredeck and zeroed in on its bubbling nose.
Shells began heaving. The first one sent up a chopping uprush of water. That
gave her the range. Her second shot struck just ahead, and the torpedo flashed
through the turbulent water unscathed.
"Third time's the charm," muttered Sandy, who fired with careful precision,
one eye shut, her pink tongue nipped between her neat white teeth.
The torpedo blew up with a force and a roar that settled the question once and
for all. It was an antiship torpedo.
No more torpedoes came out of the Hareng Saur.
Twenty minutes later the skies were full of screaming white Falcon jets.
"Last chance, Hareng Saur!" Sandy warned. "Surrender or sink and swim for it.
Last I heard, the water temperature was a relaxing thirty-one degrees."
The white flag was run up, and the rails became packed with sailors with
lifted hands and blue faces.
"I'll bet my sea legs those are fleurs-de-lis on their damn faces," Sandy
murmured as the Cayuga came alongside the towering gray factory ship.
Chapter 40
Remo came to a door. It was like a frozen sheet of turquoise water. The
clicking was coming from the other side. He looked back. No sign of Chiun. But
he couldn't wait. The soft pad of sandals came. Chiun was not far behind.
Fine. He could catch up.
Remo moved to the door. He saw it was split down the center.
Touching it, he had expected the two panels to part for him like an electric
door. There were no handles or buttons. It had to be electrically operated.
But the doors remained firmly shut.
Remo pressed both hands to the panels. He tried to peer in. There was
something or someone on the other side. He could hear the unbroken keying.
Using his fingertips, he dug into the seam between the two door halves. He
found purchase, and exerted opposing pressure.
The doors came apart like stiff curtains. Remo jammed them into their wall
grooves and stepped in before whoever was on the other side could react.
The room was square with brick walls. There was a table. On the table sat two
computer monitors side by side. Nearby were other monitors, their screens
glowing.
Seated before them, her back to him, was a young woman whose visible hair was
a cloud of golden filaments.
Remo froze.
Whoever she was, she seemed oblivious to him. He could see her arms spread out
on either side of the oversize chair back. One went to a keyboard attached to
the right-hand monitor. The other expertly worked the keyboard of the
left-hand monitor.
Two monitors were being worked simultaneously.
Remo could read them both.
The left hand was typing in French.
The right typed something completely different in Cyrillic Russian. Two hands,
one mind, simultaneously typing in two languages. Remo felt the hair on his
suddenly chilly forearms lift.
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