'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.'
