Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

Hogan instantly realized what he was up to and banked the helicopter to give him a better angle of fire. Men fell around the deck, never knowing where the deadly barrage came from.

The gunners on the stern were more alert. They swung their Oerlikon from Griffin and his agents and began spewing its shells into the sky. Hogan made a game effort to dodge the fire that missed not by feet but inches. She kicked the helicopter around the ship as though it had a charmed life as the one-sided gun duel clattered over the river.

Then the trajectory from the Buras swayed through the air and hammered into the helicopter. Pitt threw up an arm to protect his eyes as the windshield disintegrated and blew into the cockpit.

Steel-nosed bullets punctured the thin aluminum fuselage and wreaked havoc with the engine.

"Ah can't see," Hogan announced in a surprisingly calm voice.

Her face ran crimson from several cuts, most of the blood streaming from a scalp wound into her eyes, blinding her.

Except for a few deep scratches on his arm, Pitt was untouched.

He passed the machine gun to Giordino, who was wrapping a sleeve torn from his shirt around a shell gash on his right calf. The helicopter was losing power and dipping sharply toward the middle of the river. Pitt reached out and took the controls from Hogan and banked away from a sudden murderous fire

that erupted from the towboat.

A dozen men appeared from the pilothouse and a hatch on top of the barge and wildly threw automatic weapons fire at the battered helicopter.

Oil was streaming out of the engine, and the rotor blades were madly vibrating. Pitt reduced the collective pitch to keep the rotor speed from falling too quickly. He saw the instrument panel break into fragments from a storm of bullets. He was fighting a hopeless battle; he couldn't hold on to the sky much longer. The forward motion dropped off and he was losing lateral control.

On the ground behind the levee, Griffin sat on his knees in helpless rage, holding a shattered wrist, watching the helicopter struggle like a great mortally wounded bird. The fuselage was so riddled by holes he couldn't believe anybody onboard was still alive.

He watched the craft slowly die, dragging a long trail of smoke as it faltered and limped upriver, barely clearing a grove of trees along the bank and disappearing from sight.

SANDECKER SAT IN EmmErr's PRIVATE OFFICE at FBI headquarters and chewed on a cigar stub, his thoughts depleted. Brogan nervously juggled a half-empty cup of coffee that had long since turned cold.

General Metcalf walked in and sat down. "You all look like pallbearers," he said with forced cheerfulness.

"Isn't that what we are?" said Brogan. "As soon as the Senate convicts, all that's left to do is hold the wake."

"I've just come from the Senate reception room," Metcalf said.

"Secretary Oates is buttonholing members of the President's party, trying to persuade them to hold off."

"What are his chances?" asked Sandecker.

"Nil. The Senate is only going through the formality of a trial.

Four hours from now, it will all be over."

Brogan shook his head disgustedly. "I hear Moran has Chief justice O'Brien standing by to administer the oath."

"The oily bastard won't waste a second," Emmett muttered.

"Any word from Louisiana?" Metcalf asked.

Emmett gave the general a negative look. "Not for an hour. The last report from my agent in charge of the field office said he was making a sweep of a promising dock site."

"Any concrete reason to believe Margolin is hidden in the delta?"

"Only a stab in the dark by my special projects director," replied Sandecker.

Metcalf looked at Emmett. "What are you doing about the Bougainvilles?"

"I've assigned nearly fifty agents to the case."

"Can you make an arrest?"