Clive Cussler - Cyclops

Velikov nodded, his face revealing more curiosity than fear. "You're an amazing man, Mr. Pitt."

Before Pitt could reply or take a step, the general lurched sideways through an open door and slammed it shut. Pitt threw himself against the door, but he was too late. The lock was on the inside and Velikov had snapped the latch. There would be no kicking this one in. The heavy bolt was firmly embedded in a metal frame. He raised his fist to punch the door, thought better of it, swung around and ran down a stairway to the floor below.

He crossed the room through the confusion, stepping over the bodies until he reached Quintana, who was emptying the magazine of his AK-74 into a bank of computers.

"Forget that!" Pitt shouted in Quintana's ear. He gestured to the radio console. "If your men haven't destroyed the antenna, let me try to make contact with the shuttle."

Quintana lowered his rifle and looked at him. "The controls are in Russian. Can you operate it?"

"Never know till I try," said Pitt. He sat at the radio console and quickly studied the confusing sea of lights and switches labeled in the Cyrillic alphabet.

Quintana leaned over Pitt's shoulder. "You'll never find the right frequency in time."

"You Catholic?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Then call up the saint who guides lost souls and pray this thing is already set on the shuttle's frequency."

Pitt placed the tiny headset over one ear and kept pressing switches until he received a tone. Then he adjusted the microphone and pressed what he guessed and fervently hoped was the Transmit switch.

"Hello, Gettysburg, do you read me? Over." Then he pushed what he was sure was the Receive switch.

Nothing.

He tried a second, and a third. "Gettysburg, do you read? Over."

He pushed a fourth switch. "Gettysburg. Gettysburg, please respond," Pitt implored. "Do you read me? Over."

Silence, and then "This is Gettysburg. Who the hell are you? Over."

The sudden reply, so clear and distinct, surprised Pitt, and he took nearly three seconds to answer.

"Not that it matters, the name is Dirk Pitt. For the love of God, Gettysburg, sheer off. I repeat, sheer off. You are on a glide path for Cuba."

"So what else is new?" said Jurgens. "I can only keep this bird in the air a few more minutes and must make a touchdown attempt at the nearest landing strip. We've run out of options."

Pitt did not reply immediately. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Suddenly something clicked in his mind.

"Gettysburg, can you possibly make Miami?"

"Negative. Over."

"Try for the Key West Naval Air Station. It lies at the tip of the Keys."

"We copy. Our computers show it one hundred ten miles north and slightly east of us. Very doubtful. Over."

"Better to pile it up in the water than hand it to the Russians."

"That's easy for you to say. We've got over a dozen people on board. Over."

Pitt wrestled with his conscience for a moment, struggling whether or not to play God. Then he said urgently, "Gettysburg, go for it! Go for the Keys."

He couldn't have known it but Jurgens was about to make the same decision. "Why not? What have we got to lose but a billion-dollar airplane and our lives. Keep your fingers crossed."

"When I go off the air you should be able to reestablish communications with Houston," said Pitt. "Good luck, Gettysburg. Come home safe. Out."

Pitt sat there, drained. There was a strange silence in the devastated room, a silence only intensified by the low moans of the wounded. He looked up at Quintana and smiled thinly. His part in the act was over, he thought vaguely, all that was left was to gather up his friends and return home.

But then his mind recalled the La Dorada.

<<58>>

The Gettysburg made a fat target as she glided quietly through the night. There was no glow from the exhaust pods of her dead engines, but she was lit from bow to tail by flashing navigation lights. She was only a quarter of a mile ahead and slightly below Hollyman's attack fighter. He knew now that nothing could save the shuttle and the men inside. Her fiery end was only seconds away.

Hollyman went through the mechanical motions of planning his attack. The visual displays on his forward panel and windshield showed the necessary speed and navigation data along with the status and firing cues of his missile delivery systems. A digital computer automatically tracked the space shuttle, and he had little to do except press a button.

"Colorado Control, I am locked on target."

"Roger, Fox Leader. Four minutes to touchdown. Begin your attack."

Hollyman was torn by indecision. He felt such a wave of revulsion that he was temporarily incapable of movement, his mind sick with the realization of the terrible act he was about to commit. He had nurtured a forlorn hope the whole thing was some horrible mistake and the Gettysburg, like a condemned convict about to be executed in an old movie, would be saved by a last-minute reprieve from the President.

Hollyman's distinguished career in the Air Force was finished. Despite the fact he was carrying out orders, he would forever be branded as the man who blasted the Gettysburg and her crew out of the sky. He experienced a fear and an anger he had never known before.

He could not accept his lot as hard luck, or that fate chose him to play executioner. He softly cursed the politicians who made the military decisions, and who had brought him to this moment.

"Repeat, Fox Leader. Your transmission was garbled."

"Nothing, Control. It was nothing."

"What is your delay?" asked General Post. "Begin your attack immediately."

Hollyman's fingers hovered over the fire button. "God forgive me," he whispered.

Suddenly the digits on his tracking display began to change. He studied them briefly, drawn by curiosity. Then he stared at the space shuttle. It appeared to be rolling.

"Colorado Control!" he shouted into his microphone. "This is Fox Leader. Gettysburg has broken off her approach heading. Do you copy? Gettysburg is banking left and turning north."

"We copy, Fox Leader," replied Post, relief evident in his voice. "We have the course change on our tracking display. Take up position and stay with shuttle. Those guys are going to need all the moral support they can get."

"With pleasure," said Hollyman gleefully. "With pleasure."

A pall of silence hung over the Johnson Space Center control room. Unaware of the near-fatal drama played out by the Air Force, the ground team of four controllers and a growing crowd of NASA scientists and administrators hung in a purgatory of gloom. Their tracking network displayed the sudden turn to the north by the shuttle, but it could have merely indicated a roll or an S-turn in preparation for landing.

Then with startling abruptness, Jurgens' voice cracked the silence. "Houston, this is Gettysburg. Do you read? Over."

The control room erupted in a pandemonium of cheering and applause. Merv Foley reacted swiftly and replied. "Roger, Gettysburg. Welcome back to the fold."

"Am I talking to the real Merv Foley?"

"If there are two of us, I hope they catch the other guy quick before he signs our names to a lot of checks."

"You're Foley, all right."

"What is your status, Dave? Over."

"Are you tracking?"

"All systems have been go except communications and guidance control since you departed the space station."

"Then you know our altitude is 44,000 feet, speed 1,100. We're going to try for a touchdown at Key West Naval Air Station, over.

Foley looked up at Irwin Mitchell, his face strained.

Mitchell nodded and lightly tapped Foley's shoulder. "Let's pull out all the stops and bring those guys home."

"She's a good four hundred miles outside the cross-range," said Foley dejectedly. "We've got a hundred-ton aircraft with a descent rate of 10,000 feet a minute on a glide slope seven times steeper than a commercial airliner's. We'll never do it."