Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

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 tighten-ing 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 look 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 bright-orange 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.

92

"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."