Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

Giordino had no time to study the controls as he took the man's place. Pulling at a lever with his right hand, he guessed right, and watched as the boom rose, elevating the container a few more inches. Testing the lateral controls with his left hand, he swung the boom amidships a foot or two before reversing directions and swinging the container out over the port side of the ship, the metal box just barely clearing the railing. Giordino held the crane steady for a minute, the container twisting back and forth perilously over the water. As he had hoped, Anatoly and the guard followed the path of the container and stood at the port rail to watch the impending drowning. Though the night temperature was cool, a bead of sweat trickled down Giordino's brow as he calmly waited with his hands on the controls until Anatoly waved at him to drop the boom. Giordino slowly swung the crane a few more feet away from the ship, then waited until the container had swayed to its farthest point in the pendulum, then reversed the controls and jammed the boom back over the stern deck as hard as he could.

The two men at the rail watched with a confused look as the boom swung overhead while the container hung in midair for a split second, then its momentum shifted and the two-ton steel box suddenly came barreling right toward them.

The unsteady guard managed to teeter back on his heels, cursing as the flying container skimmed by just inches from his face. Anatoly was not so lucky. Rather than duck, he tried to sidestep the hurling box in the other direction. But he had too far to jump and took only a short step before the swinging container was on top of him. A gurgled cry from his crushed lungs was the only sound he made as his body was tossed across the deck like a rag doll.

The dazed guard at the rail peered at the crane controls and cursed like a madman, then fell silent as he realized the man operating the boom was not his colleague. As he reached for his gun, Giordino whipped the lateral boom controls back to the right and the crane mechanism began marching again toward the port rail. Giordino ducked as the guard aimed and fired a shot, the bullet whizzing close over his head.

Even crouching low, he still kept his hands on the crane controls.

The swinging container had reached its shipside apex and now arced toward the port rail. Stepping into its path to fire his gun, the guard ducked low to let it pass over him. But as the flying container approached the gunman, Giordino yanked down on the elevation controls, lowering the boom to the deck. The container followed suit, plunging the short distance to the deck just ahead of the gunman.

A piercing shriek wailed across the stern as the container struck the deck, then rolled onto one side from the momentum. Careening over, the container clipped the left leg of the guard as he scrambled to get clear. Pinned under the massive container with a smashed leg, the guard howled in agony. Giordino sprinted over and stepped on the man's wrist, grabbing the pistol that fell out of his clenched grip. He then yanked off his borrowed wool cap and jammed it in the man's mouth, temporarily stemming the guard's cries.

"Beware of flying objects," Giordino grunted at the man, who stared back through glassy eyes that cringed with pain.

Taking aim at the padlock, Giordino ripped off two point-blank shots, then tore away the demolished device. Grasping the release lever, he threw open one of the doors, which fell flat to the deck from the tilted container. Pitt and Sarghov tumbled out like a pair of rolled dice, staggering to their feet, rubbing aching body parts.

"Don't tell me, you spent a previous life as a carnival ride operator?" Pitt said with a crooked smile.

"Naw, just practicing my bowling," Giordino replied. "If you boys are able, I suggest we vacate the premises posthaste."

On the forward part of the ship, a thunder of footfalls mixed with loud shouts could be heard storming up the gangplank. Pitt scanned the stern deck, noting the unconscious bodies lying there, before turning his gaze to Sarghov. The beat-up Russian scientist was moving slowly and appeared in no condition to be outrunning anyone that night.

"I'll get the boat. Take Alexander and get off down the stern line," Pitt directed.

Giordino barely nodded a reply when Pitt took off at a sprint toward the starboard rail. Climbing over the rail, he bent his knees and sprang toward the dock. Without a running start, he nearly missed the pier, managing to catch a foot and propel himself forward, landing in a self-cushioning ball on the dock.

More voices yelling aboard the ship, now moving closer following a spray of flashlight beams. Pitt abandoned any attempt at stealth and sprinted back to the Zodiac as a drumbeat of footsteps tailed him down the dock. When he leaped into the small boat, his prayers were answered when the worn outboard motor fired on the first pull of the rope. Gunning the motor, he aimed the Zodiac toward the freighter's stern, charging ahead until the rubber boat's bow bounced off the steel transom.

Pitt cut the throttle and looked up. Directly overhead, Sarghov plunged into view, clinging to the stern rope line with a tenuous grip.

"Let go, Alexander," he urged.

Pitt stood and half caught the heavy Russian as he dropped into the boat with all the finesse of a sack of flour. Above their heads, an automatic handgun suddenly barked, spraying a half dozen shots about the ship and dock. A second later, Giordino appeared on the stern line, quickly lowering himself hand over hand until he dangled a few feet above the boat. As the shout of voices resumed on the deck above them, Giordino dropped silently into the boat.

"Exit stage left," he urged.

Pitt was already gunning the throttle, steering under the ship's stern and around to the port beam before turning into the lake. The small boat quickly planed up on its fiberglass hull, raising the buoyancy tubes above the waterline, which provided an added surge of acceleration. For several seconds, they remained in clear view of the ship and dock and the three men ducked low in the boat to avoid gunfire.

Yet no one fired. Pitt glanced back to see nearly a half dozen men surge to the ship's port rail, but they just stood and watched as the little boat disappeared into the darkness.

"Odd, they went pacifist on us at the last minute," Giordino noted, observing the sight.

"Especially since you already woke up the neighborhood with your exhibition of quick-draw shooting,"

Pitt agreed.

He made no effort to disguise their course, running a direct path to the Vereshchagin. Approaching the research vessel a few minutes later, Pitt motored alongside a lowered stairwell on the starboard beam.

On shore, the police rookie suddenly noticed their arrival and shouted for them to stop. Sarghov stood up in the boat and yelled back in Russian. The policeman visibly shrank, then quickly turned and hightailed it into the village.

"I told him to go wake the chief," Sarghov explained. "We're going to need some muscle to search that freighter."

Rudi Gunn, who had nervously paced the deck during their absence, heard the shouts and ran from the bridge as the three men staggered aboard.

"Dr. Sarghov ... are you all right?" Gunn asked, staring at his swollen face and bloodied clothes.

"I am fine. Please find the captain for me, if you would be so kind."

Pitt shepherded Sarghov to the Vereshchagin's sick bay while Gunn roused the ship's doctor and Captain Kharitonov. Giordino located a bottle of vodka and poured a round of shots while the doctor examined Sarghov.

"That was a close call," the Russian scientist declared, regaining color and strength once the vodka surged through his bloodstream. "I am indebted to my friends from NUMA," he said, hoisting a second shot of vodka toward the Americans before downing it in a casual gulp.