Текст книги "Vixen 03"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

65

There was no way to reverse the process, no way to halt the firing sequence. The powder charges detonated and two projectiles spit out of the center and starboard muzzles, but inside the port barrel the warhead jammed tight at the fracture caused by the Satan missiles, trapped the exploding gases at its base, and blocked them from escaping.

A new gun might have withstood the tremendous blowback and the staggering pressures but the tired, rusty old breech had seen its day, and it shattered and burst. In a microsecond a volcanic eruption of flame compressed within the turret, flashed down the magazine elevator tubes, and set off the powder sacks stored far below.

The Iowa blew her guts out.

Patrick Fawkes, in the fleeting instant he was blasted through the outside hatch, saw the utter waste, the terrible stupidity, of his actions. He reached out to his beloved Myrna to beg her forgiveness as he smashed against the unyielding deck and was crushed to pulp.

The armor-p ercing shell from the starboard barrel reached its zenith and hurtled downward through the limestone dome of the National Archives building. By freakish chance it fell past the twenty-one tiers of books and records, crashed through the granite floor of the exhibition hall less than ten feet from the glass case containing the Declaration of Independence, and came to rest with half its length embedded in the concrete floor of the subbasement.

Shell number two was a dud.

Not so number three.

Activated by its tiny generator, the radar altimeter inside the Quick Death package began beaming signals to the ground and recording its downward trajectory. Lower and lower the warhead dropped until at fifteen hundred feet an electrical impulse popped the parachute release and an umbrella of fluorescent-orange silk blossomed against the blue sky. Amazingly, the thirty-plus-year-old material took the sudden strain without splitting at the seams.

Far below the streets of Washington, the President and his advisers sat motionlessly in their chairs, their eyes blinking as they followed the relentless descent of the projectile. At first, like passengers on the Titanic who refused to believe the huge ocean liner was sinking, they sat entranced, their minds unable to grasp the true scope of the events before them, feebly optimistic that somehow the mechanism inside the warhead would fail, causing it to fall harmlessly onto the grass of the mall.

Then, with a frightening momentum, they all began to feel the tightening pincers of despair.

A light breeze sprang up from the north and nudged the parachute toward the Smithsonian Institution buildings. Soldiers who had blocked off the streets around the Lincoln Memorial and the National Archives building and crowds of government employees caught in the morning traffic gazed sheeplike as a forest of hands pointed skyward.

Around the conference table the air was still with tension, a growing anxiety that reached insufferable proportions. Jarvis could watch no more. He placed his head in his hands. "Finished," he said, his voice hoarse. "We're finished."

"Isn't there something that can be done?" asked the President, his eyes locked on the floating object on the viewing screen.

Higgins shrugged in defeat. "Shooting that monster out of the sky would only disperse the bacteria. Beyond that, I'm afraid we can do nothing."

Jarvis saw a flash of realization flood the President's eyes, a sickening realization that they had come to the end of the road. The impossible could not happen, could not be accepted, but there it was. Death for millions was only seconds and a few hundred feet away.

So intently were they watching the scene that they did not notice the speck in the distance growing larger. Admiral Kemper was the first to distinguish it; he seldom missed a thing. He rose out of his chair and peered as though his eyes were laser beams. The others finally saw it too as the speck enlarged into a helicopter coming straight on the warhead.

"What in God's name…" Higgins muttered.

"It looks like the same crazy bastard who buzzed the Iowa," announced Kemper.

"This time we'll blast his ass," Higgins said, reaching for his communications phone.

The low sun bounced off the helicopter's canopy, making a bright momentary glint on the viewing screen. The craft grew, and soon, large black letters could be seen on its side.

"NUMA," said Kemper. "That's one of the National Underwater and Marine Agency copters."

Jarvis's hands fell from his face and he looked up as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep. "You did say 'NUMA.`

"See for yourself," Kemper said, pointing.

Jarvis looked. Then, like a man demented, he knocked over his chair and stretched across the table, slapping the phone out of Higgins's hand. "No!" he shouted.

Higgins looked stunned.

"Leave well enough alone!" Jarvis snapped. "The pilot knows what he's doing."

All that Jarvis was certain of was that Dirk Pitt was behind the drama being played out over the capital city. A NUMA helicopter and Pitt. The two had to be connected. A tiny glimmer of hope flickered within Jarvis as he watched the gap narrow between aircraft and warhead.

The Minerva bored in on the brightorange parachute like a bull charging a matador's cape. It was going to be a tight race. Steiger and Sandecker had overestimated the trajectory of the Quick Death warhead and were hovering near the National Archives building when they saw the chute open early, a quarter of a mile short of their position. Precious time was lost while Steiger feverishly swung the aircraft on a closing course in a desperate gamble conceived by Pitt a few hours previously.

"Twelve seconds gone," Sandecker announced impassively from the cabin door.

Eighteen seconds to detonation, Steiger thought to himself.

"Ready on the hook and winch," said Sandecker.

Steiger shook his head. "Too risky. One pass is all we'll get. Must take it through the shrouds bow-on."

"You'll foul the rotor blades."

"The only shot we've got," Steiger replied.

Sandecker did not argue the point. He hurriedly dropped into the copilot's seat and strapped himself in.

The warhead was looming through the windshield. Steiger noted that it was painted regulation Navy blue. He pushed in the throttles to the twin turboshaft engines and at the same time pulled the pitch-control column back. The Minerva's forward speed was cut so abruptly that both men winced as they were thrown against their safety harnesses.

"Six seconds," said Sandecker.

The shadow of the huge parachute was falling over the helicopter when Steiger flipped the craft on its starboard side. The violent maneuver sent the pointed bow of the Minerva knifing between the shroud lines. Orange silk collapsed and covered the windshield, blotting out the sun. Three of the lines caught and wrapped around the rotor shaft before the tired old material gave way and shredded. The rest entwined around the fuselage and jerked the Minerva to a near stop as they tautened and took up the strain of the heavy projectile.

"Two seconds," Sandecker rasped through clenched teeth.

The Minerva was being pulled downward by the weight of the shell. Steiger returned the craft to an upright position with the pitch-control column, yanked the throttles back against their stops, and pulled up on the collective-pitch lever in a blur of hand movements.

The twin engines struggled under the load. Sandecker had stopped counting. Time had run out. The altimeter needle was quivering at one thousand feet. Sandecker leaned out an open window and stared past the flapping silk at the warhead dangling beneath the fuselage expecting to see an explosion.

The Minerva's rotor blades slapped the air, causing a thumping sound that could be heard for miles above the sea of enthralled faces turned to the sky. Parachute, projectile, and helicopter hung together, suspended. Sandecker darted his attention back to the altimeter. It hadn't budged. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

Ten seconds passed, which to Sandecker seemed ten years. Steiger, absorbed in his task, battled the controls. The admiral could do little but sit there. It was the first time he could remember feeling totally useless.

"Lift, damn you, lift," Steiger said, pleading with the Minerva.

Sandecker watched the altimeter as though mesmerized. It seemed to him the needle made a fractional tic above the one-thousand-foot mark. Was it wishful thinking, or had the instrument really registered an upward reading? Then, slowly, almost infinitesimally, the needle appeared to move.

"Climbing," he reported. His voice had a tremor in it.

Steiger did not answer.

The rate of ascent began to increase. Sandecker remained quiet until he was sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on his brain. There was no more cause for uncertainty. The needle was slowly sweeping past the next indication.

66

The relief of the men in the emergency executive offices was impossible to describe. If polled, they would have unanimously agreed they had never seen any sight half so wonderful in their lives. Even dour General Higgins was grinning the widest grin on record. The suffocating cloud of doom had been suddenly swept away, and they began cheering as the Minerva dragged its deadly cargo toward a safe altitude.

The President sagged in his chair and allowed himself the pleasure of lighting a cigar. He nodded down the table at Jarvis through a haze of smoke.

"It would appear. Dale_, that you are clairvoyant."

"A calculated guess, Mr. President," said Jarvis.

Admiral Kemper lifted his phone. "Put me in communication with that NUMA chopper!" he ordered.

"We haven't weathered the storm yet," said Higgins. "Those people up there can't fly around forever."

"We are in voice contact." A crisp announcement came out of the speakers beside the viewing screen.

Kemper spoke into his desk phone while keeping both eyes locked on the progress of the Minerva. "This is Admiral Joseph Kemper of the Joint Chiefs, NUMA copter; please identify yourself."

A voice replied so calmly and clearly it could have come from across the room.

"Jim Sandecker, Joe. What's on your mind?"

The President sat up in his chair. "The director of NUMA?"

Kemper nodded. "You know damn well what's on my mind!" he snapped into the receiver.

"Ah yes, the Quick Death warhead. I assume you're aware of its potential."

"I am."

"And you want to know what I'm going to do with it."

"The thought hadoccurred to me."

"As soon as we reach five thousand feet," said Sandecker, "the pilot, Colonel Abe Steiger, and I are going to make a beeline for the sea and drop the son of a bitch as far from shore as our fuel will carry us."

"How far do you reckon?" asked Kemper.

There was a pause as Sandecker consulted with Steiger. "Approximately six hundred miles due east of the Delaware coastline."

"How secure is the projectile?"

"Seems snug enough. Might help if we didn't have to rely on instruments and could enjoy the scenery."

"Come again?"

"The parachute canopy is snagged across our windshield. We can only look straight down."

"Can we assist you?" asked Kemper.

"Yes," replied Sandecker. "By notifying all military and commercial flight traffic to stay clear of our path to the sea."

"Consider it done," Kemper said. "I'll also arrange to have a rescue vessel standing by near your estimated splashdown point."

"Negative, Joe. Colonel Steiger and I appreciate the gesture, but it would be a foolish waste of men's lives. You understand."

Kemper did not answer immediately. His eyes took on a look of deep sorrow. Then he said, "Understood. Kemper out."

"Is there no way they can be saved?" Jarvis asked.

Kemper shook his head. "The sad truth is that Admiral Sandecker and Colonel Steiger are committing suicide. When the helicopter runs out of fuel and drops toward the sea, the projectile goes with it. When they both reach one thousand feet, the warhead disperses the Quick Death organism. The rest goes without saying."

"But surely they can cut away the canopy and fly a safe distance before ditching," Jarvis persisted.

"I see Admiral Kemper's point," said Higgins. "The answer is on the viewing screen. The parachute is the helicopter's death shroud. The lines are woven around the base of the rotor and overhang the side opposite the cargo door. Even if the craft were hovering in a stationary position, it would be impossible for a man to climb out on that streamlined fairing far enough to reach the lines with a knife."

"Could they bail out of the helicopter before it goes down?" Jarvis inquired.

General Sayre shook his head. "Unlike conventional aircraft, whirlybirds do not have automatic control systems. They must be flown manually every second. If the crew were to ditch, the craft would fall on top of them."

"The same principle applies to a midair pickup," said Kemper. "We might snatch one of the men, but not both."

"There is nothing we can do?" There was a faint catch in Jarvis's voice.

The President gazed forlornly at the lacquered tabletop for several moments. At last he said, 'Just pray that they carry that vile abhorrence safely past our shores."

"And if they make it?"

"Then we sit helplessly by and watch two brave men die."

The icy water jabbed Pitt back to consciousness. The first minute, eyes blinking back the bright daylight, his mind tried to fathom his condition, to make sense out of why he was floating in a cold, dirty river. Then the pain began to bloom and his head felt like the receiving end of a carpenter's nail.

He felt a vibration in the water, heard a muffled popping sound, and soon a Coast Guard patrol boat slid out of the rising sun and idled in his direction. Two men in wet suits dropped over the side and expertly fitted Pitt into a hoist rig. The signal was given and he was gently hauled on board.

"A bit early in the morning for a swim," said a huge bear of a man with his arm in a sling. "Or are you practicing for the English Channel?"

Pitt looked around and saw the shattered glass and shredded wood on the boat's bridge. "Where did you come from? The battle of Midway?"

The bear grinned and replied, "We were headed for our dock when we were ordered back to pick you out of the drink. I'm Kiebel. Oscar Kiebel, commander of what was once the cleanest boat on the Inland Waterway."

"Dirk Pitt. I'm with NUMA."

Kiebel's eyes narrowed. "How did you come to be on the battleship?"

Pitt looked up at the boat's broken rigging. "I believe I owe you a new radio aerial."

"That was you?"

"Sorry about the hit and run, but there was no time to fill out an accident report."

Kiebel motioned toward a doorway. "Better come inside and get a bandage on your head. It looks as though you took a nasty crack."

It was then that Pitt saw a great pall of smoke rising around a bend in the Potomac. "The Iowa," he said. "What of the Iowa?"

"She blew herself up."

Pitt leaned heavily against the railing.

Kiebel gently put his good arm around Pitt as one of his men brought up a blanket. "Better take it easy and lie down. A doctor will be waiting when we dock."

"It doesn't matter," Pitt said. "Not anymore."

Kiebel steered him into the pilothouse and found Pitt a steaming cup of coffee. "Sorry there's no booze on board. Regulations and all that. A bit early for a shot anyway." Then he turned and spoke through an open doorway to his communications officer. "What's the latest on that helicopter?"

"She's over Chesapeake Bay, sir."

Pitt looked up. "What helicopter is that?"

"Why, one of yours," Kiebel said. "Damnedest thing. A shell from the Iowa's final salvo came down in a parachute and this idiot in a NUMA chopper nabbed it on the fly."

"Thank God!" Pitt said as the full implication hit him. "A radio. I need to borrow your radio."

Kiebel hesitated. He could read the urgency in Pitt's eyes. "Allowing civilians to use military communications gear is hardly kosher…. 55

Pitt held up a hand and cut him off. The feeling was returning to his cold-numbed skin and he sensed something pressing into his stomach under the shirt. His face went blank as he removed a small packet and stared at it speculatively.

"Now where in hell did that come from?"

Steiger warily regarded the temperature gauge as the needle crept toward the red.

The Atlantic coastline was still sixty miles away, and the last thing he wanted was a seized turbine bearing.

The call light on the radio blinked on and the admiral pressed the "transmit" button. "This is Sandecker. Go ahead."

"I'm ready for those scrambled eggs," Pitt said, his voice crackling over the head phones.

"Dirk!" Sandecker blurted. "Are you all right?"

"A trifle shopworn but still kicking."

"The other warhead?" Steiger asked anxiously.

"Disarmed," Pitt answered.

"And the Quick Death agent?"

Pitt's tone betrayed no uncertainty.

"Flushed down the drain."

Pitt could be only reasonably sure Hiram Lusana had disposed of the bomblets in the river, but he was not about to suggest to Steiger and the admiral that it was possible their efforts had been in vain.

Sandecker briefed Pitt on the grappling of the parachute and explained that the outlook was grim. Pitt listened without interrupting. When the admiral had finished, Pitt posed only one question.

"How long can you stay in the air?"

"I can stretch the fuel for another two, maybe two and a half hours," replied Steiger. "My immediate problem is the engines. They're running rough and getting hot under the collar."

"Sounds like the parachute's canopy is partially blocking the intake chambers."

"I'm open for brilliant ideas. Got any?"

"It so happens I do," Pitt responded. "Keep your ears up. I'll be back in touch two hours from now. In the meantime, dump every ounce you can. Seats, tools, any piece of the ship you can pry loose to lighten your weight. Do whatever has to be done, but claw the air till you hear from me. Pitt out."

He switched off the microphone and turned to Lieutenant Commander Kiebel. "I must get ashore as quickly as possible."

"We'll be dockside in eight minutes."

"I'll need transportation," said Pitt.

"I still don't know how you fit into this mess," said Kiebel. "For all I know, I should place you under arrest."

"This is no time to play vigilante games," snapped Pitt. "Christ, do I have to do everything myself?" He bent over the radio operator. "Patch me in to NUMA headquarters and the Stransky Instrument Company, in that order."

"A little free with my men and equipment, aren't you, mister?"

Pitt didn't doubt for a second that if Kiebel had had two good arms, he'd have mashed him to the deck. "What do I have to do to get your cooperation.

Kiebel fixed his cork-brown eyes on Pitt with a murderous stare; then, slowly, they took on a twinkle as his mouth etched into a smile. "Say 'please."'

Pitt complied, and exactly twelve minutes later he was in a Coast Guard helicopter, racing back to Washington.

67

The two hours came and went with agonizing slowness for Steiger and Sandecker. They had crossed the Delaware shoreline at Slaughter Beach and were now five hundred miles out over the Atlantic. The weather remained relatively calm, and the few thunder clouds obligingly floated free of their flight path.

Everything that wasn't bolted down, and some things that were, had been jettisoned out the cargo door. Sandecker estimated he had dumped in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds. That and the weight loss from the diminishing fuel had kept the protesting engines from overheating as they struggled to keep the overladen Minerva aloft.

Sandecker was lying with his back against the cockpit bulkhead. He had removed every seat except Steiger's. The physical efforts of the past two hours had exhausted him. His lungs heaved and his arms and legs were stiff with muscle fatigue.

"Any word… anything from Pitt?"

Steiger shook his head without taking his eyes off the instruments. "Dead silence," he said. "But then, what can we expect? The man isn't a card-carrying miracle worker."

"I've known him to pull off what others thought impossible."

"I know a pathetic attempt to instill false hope when I hear one." Steiger tilted his head toward the panel clock. "Two hours, eight minutes since the last contact. I guess he's written us off."

Sandecker was too exhausted to argue. As if through a heavy mist, he reached over, pulled a headset down over his ears, and closed his eyes. A gentle peace was settling over him when a loud voice abruptly blasted him to full wakefulness.

"Hey, Baldy, you fly like you screw."

"Giordino!" Steiger rasped.

Sandecker punched the "transmit" button. "AI, where are you calling from?"

"About a half mile back and two hundred feet below you."

Sandecker and Steiger exchanged stunned looks.

"You're supposed to be in the hospital," Sandecker said dumbly.

"Pitt arranged my parole."

"Where is Pitt?" Steiger demanded.

"Looking up your ass, Abe," Pitt replied.

"I'm at the controls of Giordino's Catlin M-two hundred."

"You're late," said Steiger.

"Sorry, these things take time. How's your fuel?"

"Sopping the bottom of the tank," answered Steiger. "I might squeeze another eighteen or twenty minutes if I'm lucky."

"A Norwegian cruise liner is standing by sixty miles, bearing two-seven-zero degrees. Her captain has cleared all passengers from the sun deck for your arrival. You should make it – "

"Are you crazy?" Steiger cut in. "Cruise ship, sun deck – what are you ranting about?"

Pitt continued quite unruffled. "As soon as we cut away the projectile, head for the cruise ship. You can't miss her."

"How I'll envy you guys," said Giordino. "Sitting around the poolside deck. sipping mai tais."

"Sipping mai tais!" repeated an awed Steiger. "My God, they're both crazy!"

Pitt turned to Giordino, ensconced in the copilot's seat, and nodded toward the plaster cast covering one leg. "You sure you' can work the controls wearing that thing?"

"The only function it won't let me perform," said Giordino, giving the cast a light thump, "is scratching an itch from within."'

"It's yours, then."

Pitt lifted his hands from the control column, climbed out of the seat, and moved back into the Catlin's cargo section. Intense cold whistled in from the open hatch.

A light-skinned man with Nordic features and dressed in multicolored skiing togs was huddled over a long black rectangular object that was mounted on a heavy legged tripod. Dr. Paul Weir was clearly not cut out to scramble around drafty airplanes in the dead of winter.

"We're in position," Pitt said.

"Almost ready," Weir replied through lips that were turning blue. "I'm hooking up the cooling tubes. If we don't have water circulating around the head and power supply, the unit will barbecue its anatomy."

"Somehow I expected a more exotic piece of equipment," said Pitt.

"Large-frame argon lasers are not spawned for science-fiction movies, Mr. Pitt." Dr. Weir went on talking as he made a final check of the wiring connector. "They are designed to emit a coherent beam of light for any number of practical applications."

"Has it the punch to do the job?"

Weir shrugged. "Eighteen watts concentrated in a tiny beam that releases a mere two kilowatts of energy doesn't sound like much, but I promise you it's ample."

"How close do you want us to the projectile?"

"The beam divergence makes it necessary to be as near as possible. Less than fifty feet."

Pitt pressed his mike button. "Al?"

"Come in."

" Close to within forty feet of the projectile."

"At that range we'll be buffeted by turbulence from the copter's rotor."

"Can't be helped."

Weir flicked the laser's main switch.

"Do you read me, Abe?" Pitt asked.

"I'm listening."

"The idea is for Giordino to maneuver close enough so we can sever the shroud lines attached to the projectile with a laser beam."

"So that's the angle," Sandecker said.

"That's the angle, Admiral." Pitt's voice was soft, almost casual. "We're moving into position now. Steady on course. Keep whatever fingers you have free crossed and let's do it."

Giordino eased the controls with the precision of a watchmaker and slipped the Catlin beside and slightly below the Minerva. He began to feel the chopping wind currents on the control surfaces and his hands tightened about the yoke. Back in the cargo section the violent shaking rattled everything that wasn't tied down. Pitt alternated his gaze between the projectile and Weir.

The head physicist from Stransky Instruments bent over the laser head. He showed no signs of fear or anxiety. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

"I don't see any beam," said Pitt. "Is it working?"

"Sorry to shatter your conceptions," answered Weir, "but the argon laser beam is invisible."

"How can you zero it in?"

"With this thirty-dollar telescopic rifle sight." He patted the round tube, which had been hastily screwed to the laser. "It won't win me the Nobel Prize, but it should suffice."

Pitt lay on his stomach and crawled until his head was past the threshold of the open hatch. The blasting cold tore at his head bandage, causing one end of the gauze to flap like a flag in a hurricane. The projectile was hanging below the helicopter, trailing at a slight angle toward the tail rotor. Staring at it. Pitt found it difficult to believe a universe of agony and death could be crammed into so small a package.

"Closer," Weir shouted. "I need another ten feet."

"Move in ten feet," Pitt said over the microphone.

"Any closer and we can use a pair of scissors," Giordino muttered. If he was tense with anxiety, he didn't show it. His face displayed the expression of one who was half dozing. Only the burning eyes gave any hint of the concentration required for precision flying. The sweat felt like it was exploding inside his cast and the nerve endings in his leg screamed at the irritation.

Pitt could make out something now – a blackening color in the twisted shroud lines above the projectile. The invisible beam had locked in and was melting the nylon strands. How many were there? he wondered; perhaps as many as fifty.

"She's overheating!" Two words and a skipped heartbeat. "Too cold in here with that hatch open," Weir yelled. "The coolant tubes have frozen up."

Weir's eyes returned to the telescopic sight. Pitt could see several lines parting, their charred ends snapping horizontally and lashing out in the airstream. The acrid smell of burning insulation began to invade the cabin.

"The tube won't take much more," said Weir.

Another half-dozen shroud lines burned free, but the rest remained taut and undamaged. Weir suddenly straightened up and tore off his smoldering gloves.

"God, I'm sorry!" he shouted. "The tube is gone!"

The Quick Death projectile still hung ominously beneath the Minerva.

Thirty seconds dragged by while Pitt lay there, staring at the deadly projectile swinging through the sky. There was no expression on his face, just a peculiar preoccupation. Then he broke the silence.

"We've lost the laser," he announced without elaboration.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Steiger snarled. "Where did our luck go?" His voice was almost savage in bitterness and frustration.

"So now?" Admiral Sandecker asked calmly.

"You break off and put that turkey in a dive," Pitt answered.

"A what?"

"The last card in the deck. Head into a dive. When you build up sufficient g-forces, pull up. Maybe Abe's luck will change and your unwanted passenger will drop free."

"It'll be sticky," said Steiger. "I'll have to do it on instruments. I can't see shit with the canopy covering the windshield."

"We'll stay with you," Giordino said.

"Don't come too close or you'll catch our cold," Steiger replied. He eased the helicopter clear of the chase plane. "Let's pray this baby isn't constipated." Then he pushed the control stick forward.

The Minerva tipped over and down on a seventy-degree angle. Sandecker braced his feet against the base of Steiger's seat and clawed for a handhold. To the men watching in rapt fascination from the Catlin, the helicopter's nose pointed straight at the sea.

"Ease your angle of descent." said Pitt. "The projectile is beginning to trail back toward your tail rotor."

"I read you," said Steiger, his words tense and strained. "It's like jumping off a building with your eyes closed."

"You're looking good," Pitt said reassuringly. "Not too fast. Pass seven g-factors and you lose your rotor blades."

"Wouldn't think of it."

Four thousand feet.

Giordino did not attempt to match Steiger foot for foot. He lagged behind – ' keeping the Catlin in a shallow banking dive, corkscrewing down behind the Minerva. Dr. Weir, his job finished. groped toward the warmth of the control cabin.

The sharp tilt to the helicopter's cabin floor made Admiral Sandecker feel as though he were standing with his back against a wall. Steiger's eyes danced from the altimeter to the air-speed indicator to the gauge showing the artificial horizon and back again.

Three thousand feet.

Pitt could see that the canopy of the parachute was flapping dangerously near the twirling rotor, but he remained silent. Steiger had enough on his mind, he reasoned, without hearing another dire warning. He watched as the sea rushed up to meet the Minerva.

Steiger began to experience a mounting vibration. The wind noise was picking up as his speed increased. For a fleeting second he considered holding the stick in position and ending the torment. But then, for the first time that day, he thought of his wife and children, and his desire to see them again stoked a fierce determination to live.

"Abe, now!" Pitt's command boomed over his earphone. "Pull out."

Steiger hauled back on the stick.

Two thousand feet.

The Minerva shuddered from the tremendous gravitational drag that attacked every rivet of her structure. She hung poised as the projectile, reacting to the force like a weight at the end of a giant pendulum, arched outward. The surviving shroud lines that had withstood the laser's beam tautened like banjo strings. In twos and threes they began to fray.

Just as the Quick Death projectile looked as though it was going to whip back and smash the helicopter, it tore free and dropped away.

"She's gone!" shouted Pitt.