Fergus cupped his ears and turned, facing the patrol boat's wake. "Sounds like a helicopter."
"Coming like a bat out of hell without lights," Kiebel added.
"My God!" Fergus exclaimed. "The Marines have jumped the gun. They're going in ahead of schedule."
An instant later every head on the patrol boat turned upward as a helicopter roared past at two hundred feet, a dim shadow against a gray sky. All were so engrossed in the mysterious, darkened craft they didn't notice the vague shape trailing below and slightly to the rear of the copter until it swept over the decks and carried away the radio antennae.
"What in hell was that?" blurted Kiebel in genuine astonishment.
Pitt would have been only too glad to supply the answer if he'd had the time. Strapped in the harness, dangling under the NUMA helicopter only thirty feet above the river, he barely managed to extend his legs forward as he crashed into the patrol boat's antennae. His feet took most of the shock, and foftunately-damned fortunately, he thought later-none of the wiring had entangled his body, sectioning him like a lettuce slicer. As it was, he would carry a nice welt across his buttocks where a piece of thin tubing had made brief contact.
The rising sun cooperated by hiding behind a low range of dark clouds, its filtered light obscuring any detail of the surrounding countryside. The air was keen, barbed with the energy of its chill, a polar frigidity that stabbed through Pitt's heavy clothing. His eyes were watering like faucets and his cheeks and forehead smarted with the intensity of overloaded pincushions.
Pitt was on a ride no amusement park in the country could equal. The Potomac was a blur as he soared over its lazy current at nearly two hundred miles an hour. Trees edging the banks hurtled by like cars on a Los Angeles freeway. He looked skyward and made out a small pale oval against the black doorway of the helicopter and recognized it as the anxious face of Admiral Sandecker.
He felt a sideways motion as Steiger banked the craft around a wide bend in the river. The long umbilical cable that held him to a winch in the cargo compartment arched in the opposite direction, swinging him outward, like the end child in a playground game of crack the whip. The momentum twisted him sideways and he found himself looking at the grounds of Mount Vernon. Then the cable straightened and the huge mass of the Iowa swung into view, her forward guns trained ominously upstream.
Overhead, Steiger eased back on the throttle and slowed the flight of the helicopter. Pitt felt the harness straps pressing into his chest at the deceleration and braced himself for the drop. The superstructure of the ship filled up the windshield in front of the control cabin when Steiger gently eased the helicopter into a hovering position above the starboard side of the ship, behind the main bridge.
"Too fast! Too fast!" Steiger muttered over and over, fearful that Pitt would be swinging ahead of the hovering helicopter like a weight on the bottom of a pendulum.
Steiger's fears were justified. Pitt was indeed pitching forward on an uncontrollable course, high above the main deck, where he'd planned to land. Narrowly missing an empty five-inch-gun turret, he came to the end of his arc. It was now or never. He made his decision and hit the quick-release buckle and dropped clear of the harness.
From the doorway of the helicopter Sandecker's eyes strained in the early-morning gloom, his insides knotted, his breath halted, as Pitt's huddled figure fell behind the forward superstructure and vanished. Then the Iowa was gone, too, as Steiger snapped the helicopter into a steep angle, the rotor blades biting the air, dipping over the forested shore and out of sight. As soon as the craft leveled, Sandecker released his safety strap and made his way back into the cockpit.
"Is he away?" Steiger asked anxiously.
"Yes, he's down," answered Sandecker.
"In one piece?"
"We can but hope," Sandecker said, so quietly that Steiger hardly heard him above the roar of the engine. "That's all any of us has left."
59
Fawkes was not overly concerned with the helicopter so long as it continued on its way. He did not see a human form drop out of the twilight, as his attention was directed to the boat that was approaching downriver at high speed. There was no doubt in his mind that it was a welcoming committee, courtesy of the United States government. He spoke into a microphone.
"Mr. Shaba."
"Sir?" Shaba's voice crackled back.
"Please see to it the machine-gun crews man their stations and prepare to repel boarders." Repel boarders. My God, Fawkes thought. When was the last time a captain of a capital ship gave that command?
"Is this a drill, sir?"
"No, Mr. Shaba, this is no drill. I fear American extremists who support the enemies of our country may attempt to take the ship.
You will instruct your men to fire at any person, vessel, or aircraft that endangers the welfare of this ship and her crew. Your men may begin by driving off a terrorist boat that is approaching from the west."
"Aye, Captain." The radio could not hide the excitement in Shaba's voice.
Fawkes felt a growing urge to order his unsuspecting crew off the Iowa, but he could not bring himself to admit he was murdering sixty-eight innocent men, men who had been deceived into believing they were serving a country that treated them little better than cattle. Fawkes had a method of casting off any cold tentacles of guilt. He forced an image of a burned-out farm and the charred bodies of his wife and children into his mind and his resolve for the task at hand quickly hardened.
He picked up the mike again. "Main battery."
"Main battery ready, Captain."
83