"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."
"I'll need transportation," said Pitt.
"I still don't know how you fit into this mess," said Kiebel. "For all I know, I should place you under arrest."
"This is no time to play vigilante games," snapped Pitt. "Christ, do I have to do everything myself?" He bent over the radio operator. "Patch me in to NUMA headquarters and the Stransky Instrument Company, in that order."
"A little free with my men and equipment, aren't you, mister?"
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.
67
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 thunderclouds 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."