Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

Fifty yards behind, Dirk heard a similar appeal from Summer. “Don’t lose them, I still haven’t gotten the full plate number.”

Dirk turned onto the road in pursuit, but had to slow for a trio of coeds crossing the street to a tennis court. Behind him, the campus police had nearly caught up.

The road curved past another residence hall before descending a landscaped hill out of campus. Dirk saw the van accelerate sharply down the hill and he tried to keep pace. At the bottom of the hill, a stoplight marked the intersection with Canal Road, a busy thoroughfare that fed into suburban Maryland.

The light was green, and Dirk feared it would change before he drew close. Then it flashed to yellow, and he knew the van would have to stop.

Only it didn’t.

With the van’s passenger urging him on, the driver floored the gas when the light turned yellow. The van was still fifty feet from the intersection when the light turned red. Remarkably, the stopped cross traffic hesitated, perhaps detecting the bouncing rays of the van’s headlights as it roared down the hill.

Charging into the intersection at better than seventy miles an hour, the van crossed the near lanes of traffic and attempted to turn left into the far lanes. But its speed was far too great, and the panicked driver slammed on the brakes, sending the van into a skid. It slid across the asphalt until its right front tire kissed the curb. The tire burst, but the van kept moving, hopping the curb and plowing into a low retaining wall, the front fender buckling as the rear wheels bounded into and over the curb. The combined forces flipped the van onto its side atop the retaining wall. It slid a few feet, then tumbled over the wall, splashing roof first into the road’s namesake, the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, flowing just beyond.

Dirk skidded the Packard to a halt before the stoplight and raced across the street, with Summer running a step behind. They reached the retaining wall and peered over. The canal had swallowed most of the van, leaving only a portion of its still-spinning tires protruding. A dull glow brightened the murky water at one end, where the van’s headlights had yet to short out.

Dirk slipped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. “I’ll try and get them out,” he said. “See if you can get the campus police to help.”

He jumped into the canal and swam to the van, diving along the passenger door. The glowing headlights turned the water’s visibility from zero to next to nothing, and he had to find the open window frame by touch. The frame height was barely a foot high, telling him the roof had collapsed at impact. It didn’t bode well for the occupants.

Reaching inside the open window, he felt a lifeless body strapped in the seat. Groping blindly, he found the buckle release and freed the seat belt. The body dropped loosely, and he pulled on the victim’s shoulders, dragging him through the narrow window.

Dirk shot to the surface, gasping for air, as he pulled the head and torso free of the water. A bright flashlight beam, aimed by the campus policeman, shined on the victim, and Dirk knew he had wasted his time. The passenger’s head tilted at a grotesque angle, his neck broken.

Dirk pulled the body to the bank and called up to the policeman. “Give me your light.”

He passed Dirk the light as he reached out to help pull the body ashore. Dirk swam to the van’s other side and dove once more. With the flashlight, he could now see the driver was also dead, his torso pinned between the crushed roof and the steering wheel. Unlike his partner, he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt.

Though running short of breath, Dirk shined the light past the driver and into the rear compartment. A row of electronic processing devices was mounted on a shelf. Sitting nearby was a large acrylic parabolic dish used for eavesdropping.

Pushing off from the door, he swam to the back of the van and checked its license plate before popping to the surface. He stroked to the bank, where Summer helped him up the incline.

“No luck with the other one?”

“No, he’s dead, too.”

“I’ve got paramedics on the way,” the policeman said. His inexperience with fatalities was betrayed by a pale face. He regained his composure but spoke with a forced tone of authority. “Who are those people? And why were you chasing them?”

“I don’t know who they are, but they stole something from us.”

“They get your money? Or was it jewelry or electronics?”

“No,” Dirk replied, looking at the dead man. “It was our words.”

55

IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN DIRK AND SUMMER staggered back into the NUMA computer center. Gunn and Yaeger were still examining images on the large viewing screen.

“I didn’t realize you were taking time for a seven-course meal,” Gunn said. Then he noticed their appearance. Dirk’s hair was disheveled and his clothes damp, while Summer’s outfit sported a large stain, and she reeked of stale beer. “What on earth happened to you two?”

Summer related the series of events, including a two-hour interrogation by the District of Columbia police.

“Any idea who would have tailed you?” Yaeger asked.

“None,” Dirk said. “I suspect it may have something to do with Dad.”

“Could be,” Gunn said, “especially if they saw you leave his hangar this morning. From a distance, there is a strong resemblance between the two of you.”

Summer handed Yaeger a slip of paper. “Here’s the van’s license number. The police wouldn’t tell us, but maybe you can identify the owner.”