He was studying the guns mounted onto the engine cowling when a man in old flying togs walked up to him. "What do you think of her?" he asked.
Pitt turned his head and looked into the olive eyes of a dark-skinned man, who had the sharp features of an Egyptian. There was an almost imperious look about him. He stood tall and straight, with what looked to Pitt to be a military bearing. His eyes were strange, with a hard quality that seemed focused straight ahead without orbiting left or right.
Both men studied each other for a moment, noting that they were of equal height and weight. Finally, Pitt said, "I'm always surprised at how small the old fighters look in pictures, but become quite large when you stand next to them." He pointed at the twin guns mounted behind the propeller. "They look like the genuine articles."
The man nodded. "Original Spandau 7.92 millimeters."
"And the ammunition belts? They're loaded with rounds."
"Purely to impress the onlookers," said the dark-skinned man. "She was an excellent killing machine for her time. I like to retain the image." He removed a gauntlet-style flying glove and offered his hand. "I'm Conger Rand, the owner of the plane. You're the pilot of the trimotor?"
"Yes." Pitt had the strange feeling that the man knew him. "My name is Dirk Pitt."
"I know" said Rand. "You're with NUMA."
"Have we met?"
"No, but we have a mutual acquaintance."
Before Pitt could reply, Kelly called out. "We're ready to load for the last flight."
Pitt turned and was about to say "Well, I guess I have to go," but the pilot of the Fokker had swiftly spun away and stepped out of view behind his aircraft.
The fuel tanks were capped, and as soon as the fuel truck had driven away, the trimotor was loaded with children for the final flight over the city. Pitt let Mary handle the controls while he went back and talked with the children, pointing out the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as they circled them at a thousand feet. He returned to the cockpit and took over, heading the plane over the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge.
With the outside temperature in the high eighties, Pitt slid open his side window and let the air rush into the cockpit. If he hadn't had children on board, he might have been tempted to fly under the venerable old bridge, but that would have cost him his license. Not a wise move, he decided rationally.
He was distracted by a shadow that appeared alongside and slightly above the trimotor.
"We have a visitor," said Mary, as he heard the children begin squealing in delight in the passenger's cabin.
&n
bsp; Pitt looked up to see a bright splash of red against the dazzling blue sky. The pilot of the Red Fokker triplane waved from his cockpit no more than fifty yards away. He was wearing a leather flight helmet and goggles with a silk ribbon streaming from the top of his head. The old Fokker was so close Pitt saw the pilot's teeth flash in a wide grin, an almost evil grin. He was about to wave back when the antique plane suddenly veered away.
Pitt watched as the red triplane performed a loop and then abruptly swooped back toward the Ford trimotor, angling in from the forward port side.
"What is that crazy nut doing?" asked Mary. "He can't perform acrobatics over the city."
Her question was answered when twin bursts of laserlike light flashed from the muzzles of the twin Spandau machine guns. For a brief instant, Mary thought it was part of a staged aerial stunt. But then the glass in the windshield burst into fragments, quickly followed by a spray of oil and an eruption of smoke from the engine in front of the cockpit.
24
Pitt sensed the peril before the hail of bullets struck. He threw the trimotor into a steep 360-degree bank until he could see the Fokker moving below and to his left before it banked and returned for another attack. He shoved the throttles to their stops and followed, in the vain hope of staying on its tail. But it was a losing proposition. With three healthy engines, Pitt might have given the Fokker and its insane pilot a run for the money. The trimotor's top speed was more than thirty miles an hour faster than the ancient fighter plane. But now, with the loss of one engine, his advantage in speed was canceled by the Fokker's agile maneuverability.
Smoke poured out of the exhaust stacks of the center engine, and it was only a matter of seconds before it caught fire. He reached down between his legs and turned off the fuel selector switch and then the ignition on a panel below the throttles, watching the propeller on the center engine come to a stop in the horizontal position.
Mary's face was flushed in confusion. "He's shooting at us!" she gasped.
"Don't bother asking me why," Pitt fired back.
Kelly appeared in the doorway of the cockpit. "Why are you throwing us all over the sky?" she demanded furiously. "You're frightening the children." Then she caught sight of the smoking engine, the shattered windshield, and felt the rush of air. "What is happening?"
"We're under attack by a lunatic."
"He's shooting at us with real bullets," Mary said loudly, holding up a hand and shielding her face from the onrush of air.
"But we have children on board," argued Kelly.