Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

The pilot checked the gauges. “But the external tanks are full.” He switched the fuel supply from one external tank to the other, but it made no difference. The helicopter’s twin motors continued to sputter.

Pitt had chosen his target well, crimping the twin steel lines near the engine cowling labeled Combustible de aviación. Unfortunately for the pilot, they fed the motors fuel from both external tanks. Pitt had correctly guessed the internal tank had been emptied on the flight in, though its reserve contained enough to keep the motors running for a few minutes. With only seconds to react, the pilot couldn’t see past the fact that he knew the external tanks were still full.

The chopper’s motors coughed and sputtered, then died in quick tandem. Only the sound of the cockpit alarms and the dying whine of the rotors now cut the air.

The pilot pushed the nose forward and tried to coax out a glide, but the heavy armored craft would have none of it. The big chopper swooped a short distance, then dropped like a sack of concrete.

It struck the water nose-first, the cockpit instantly crumpling, while the main rotor sheared off and tumbled across the surf. The open fuselage bobbed for a second, then plunged under the waves, carrying all of its occupants to the depths below.

57

Jumping from the cargo door, Pitt nearly lost his grip on the rescue line. The ball hook dug into the back of his hands, painfully preventing him from sliding off. With his arms outstretched over his head, he dangled just beneath the skids as the helicopter began to convulse.

The winch gradually fed out more cable, but he cursed its slowness. He had hoped to drop quickly to a jumping point, but he was still too high. He had no choice but to wait for the line to descend—as the helicopter above him engaged in a slow dance of death. Fortunately, the guards were too preoccupied to throw the winch lever and halt his

descent.

The line jerked sharply as the helicopter stuttered and slowed. It was all Pitt could do to keep a grip on the steel hook and cable as he swung wildly beneath the chopper. Though he and the helicopter had both lost altitude, he was still dangerously high.

He glanced up, seeing the helicopter’s main rotor slow as the motors sputtered—and then quit altogether. When the pilot dipped the nose into a shallow dive, the rescue line fell slack. Pitt dropped almost twenty feet before the line snapped taut, nearly ripping his arms from their sockets.

He was dragged forward and down as the helicopter briefly accelerated under the force of its dive before losing all momentum. The motion caused Pitt to swing ahead of the chopper. Fearful of being crushed under it, he let go of the line and tucked into a ball.

Though now only thirty feet above the water, he was still propelled forward at a high speed. He smacked the ocean hard, tumbling underwater before fighting his way to the surface.

Pitt gasped. The impact knocked the wind from him. He tried to stretch and swim, but a pain shooting from his shoulder kept him from extending his left arm over his head. He kicked and clawed with his good right arm to keep afloat.

He looked in time to see the helicopter cartwheeling past just a few yards in front of him. He ignored the hissing from the helicopter as its remains sank. Instead, he set his sights on an empty sand beach in the distance. Easing into a sidestroke, he swam several yards before holding up in pain.

He paddled slowly, feeling a crosscurrent carrying him toward a wave-battered stretch of shoreline. With a determined breath, Pitt turned toward the sand beach and began kicking and stroking against the current. The pain surged through him, but he forged on until a ripple of white foam beckoned at the surf line. His feet touched bottom, and he staggered toward a thick stand of foliage up the beach. A warm trickle flowed down his neck and left shoulder and he realized the cable hook had gouged him when he jumped.

Pitt staggered exhausted to the bushes. Approaching a tall banyan tree, the exertion, pain, and loss of blood finally reached their zenith. He fell to his knees and collapsed in a heap on the soft sand.

58

Captain to the bridge, please. Captain to the bridge.”

Bill Stenseth retrieved the handheld radio that blared with the call and held it to his lips. “Aye, on my way.”

The veteran sea captain abandoned his morning inspection of the engine room and climbed to the Caroline’s bridge. As one of the newest research ships in the NUMA fleet, the Caroline was built with a central moon pool and a massive A-frame on its stern for deploying a myriad of underwater vehicles. Like all NUMA ships, the vessel’s hull was painted turquoise.

A young officer in a starched white uniform approached Stenseth the instant he stepped onto the bridge. “Sorry to bother you, Captain, but we received an odd message over the radio.”

“What is it, Roberts?”

“An incoming aircraft has requested we pick up three divers in the water off our port bow.”

Stenseth glanced out the bridge window. The Caroline was sitting at anchor in a gentle swell less than a quarter mile from a small Bimini island called South Cat Cay.

“There’s nobody in the water that we’ve been able to see,” Roberts said.

“Who made the call?”

“We don’t know. They wouldn’t identify themselves.”

A seaman on the far side of the bridge pointed toward the bow. “Incoming helicopter, sir.”

Stenseth stepped onto the bridge wing and watched as a white helicopter approached at low altitude. It was a commercial Bell 407 civil utility helicopter, commonly used by law enforcement and for offshore transport.