Clive Cussler - Vixen 03

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.

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."