"I'm surfing the w
aves now," Pitt snapped back.
"So are they. One above the other so you can't pull your flying saucer stunt again."
"They must be reading our minds," said Giordino calmly.
"Since you don't have a scrambler to encrypt voice transmissions, they listen to your every move,"
Simpson warned them.
"Now he tells us."
Pitt stared through the windshield at the Ralph R. Bennett. He felt as if he could reach out and touch its giant radar array. "The next play action is yours, Bennett. We've run out of surprises."
"The gate to the fort is open," came the voice of Harper suddenly. "Swing five degrees to port and don't forget to duck when the mail goes out."
"Missile away," Simpson called.
"I read," said Pitt, "but have nowhere to go."
Pitt and Giordino instinctively crouched in anticipation of the impact and explosion. They poised as helpless as homing pigeons under attack by a falcon. Suddenly their salvation erupted in a maelstrom of fire that flashed in front of the tilt-turbine's bow and roared overhead and to the rear.
The Bennett's thirty-millimeter Sea Vulcan had cut loose. The modern Gatling gun's seven barrels rotated and spat 4,200 rounds a minute in a swath of fire so thick the shells could be followed by the naked eye. The stream cut across the sky until it met the incoming missile, blasting it into a mushroom of flame less than two hundred meters behind the fleeing tilt-turbine aircraft.
Then it walked toward the lead aircraft, caught up with it, and chewed away one wing like teeth through a potato chip. The Mitsubishi Raven jet fighter flipped into a series of contorted rollovers and smacked the water with a great splash. The second jet went into a steep bank, barely staying ahead of the river of shells that raced relentlessly toward its exhaust, and whirled around on a course back to Japan. Only then did the Sea Vulcan fall silent as the last of its rounds swept the blue and fell, spraying the crests of the swells into white foam.
"Bring her on in, Mr. Pitt." Harper's vast relief could be clearly distinguished in his voice. "Wind is off the starboard beam at eight knots."
"Thank you, Commander." said Pitt. "And thank your crew. That was nice shooting."
"It's all in knowing how to make love to your electronics."
"Beginning final approach."
"Sorry we don't have a brass band and a proper reception committee."
"The Stars and Stripes flapping in the breeze will do nicely."
Four minutes later, Pitt set the tilt-turbine on the Bennett's helicopter pad. Only then did he take a deep breath, sag in his seat, and relax as Giordino shut down the engines.
For the first time in weeks he felt safe and secure. There was no more risk or danger in his immediate future. His part of the MAIT team operation was finished. He thought only of returning home, and then perhaps going on a dive trip to the warm waters and tropical sunshine of Puerto Rico or Haiti, hopefully with Loren at his side.
Pitt would have laughed in absolute disbelief if anyone had walked into the cockpit and predicted that within a few short weeks Admiral Sandecker would be delivering a eulogy at his memorial service.
MOTHER'S BREATH
October 20, 1993
Washington, D.C.
"They're out!" Jordan announced exuberantly as he slammed down a telephone in the National Security Council's Situation Room deep under the White House. "We've just received a signal that our MAIT team has escaped Soseki Island."
Dale Nichols stared at Jordan suspiciously. "Is that confirmed?"
Jordan nodded in tight confidence. "Solid information. They were attacked by Japanese Self-Defense fighters, but evaded and broke clear."