They boarded the Air-Crane through a door in the back of the cockpit. To reach it one had to walk under the fuselage, which was like walking beneath a small bridge. Even standing straight up, the backbone of the craft was several feet above their heads.

Joe took the pilot’s seat in the surprisingly tight cockpit and began to go through the start-up checklist. He had almost a thousand hours in helicopters of various types, but this was the first time he’d flown one this size.

“Are you sure you know how to fly this thing?” Kurt asked.

“They’re all the same, more or less,” Joe replied.

“It’s the less part that I’m worried about.”

“Trust me,” Joe said. “Have I ever let you down?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Kurt said.

He sat down and strapped himself into the copilot’s seat while Emma took the third seat just behind them. As Joe finished his checklist, he turned on the navigation lights and a flashing red glow became visible out in the dark. He held the starter switch down and the rotors began to move slowly above their heads. Seconds later, the engines came to life with a throaty roar.

“Welcome aboard Zavala Flight 251 to nowhere,” he said. “Please put your tray tables in the upright and locked position.”

“Should we call the tower?” Kurt asked.

“They went home hours ago,” Joe replied.

“In that case, I’d say you’re cleared for takeoff.”

Joe ran the throttle up to full power and pulled steadily back on the collective, controlling lift. The weight came off the wheels and the helicopter began to roll forward. It lifted from the ground and turned into the wind.

Accelerating and climbing, Joe turned the Air-Crane toward the sea, and they crossed the beach and climbed out over the Pacific.

An hour later, they were nearing the spot where the Catalina had dropped off its submersible.

“I’ve got it,” Kurt said, looking through a set of night vision goggles. “Two miles ahead, ten degrees right, bobbing up and down on the surface, right where it should be.”

A low-intensity light on the Angler’s hatch—no brighter than a handheld flashlight—appeared like a magnesium flare through the goggles.

“I see it,” Joe replied. He brought the helicopter down to fifty feet and hovered directly above the submersible.

Kurt removed the night vision goggles and switched positions. He moved past Emma to an aft-facing seat at the back of the cockpit, surrounded by a clear Plexiglas bubble, reminiscent of a tail-gunner’s position in a World War II bomber.

The payload specialist’s station offered a clear view of everything behind and beneath the Air-Crane. With the flip of a switch, several floodlights came on, illuminating the scene below. The white submersible with the broad red stripe rode low in the water, surrounded by a spiraling pattern created by the downwash of the Air-Crane’s rotors.

“Back ten feet,” Kurt called out.

“Roger that,” Joe said, easing the helicopter backward.

Activating the winch controls on a panel in front of him, Kurt released a heavy steel hook and lowered it toward the Angler. His target was a prominent bar on top of the submersible’s hull that resembled the roll cage of an off-road vehicle. The thick red band painted across the top of the submersible marked the attachment point.

“Right five,” Kurt said. “Forward two.”

As Joe maneuvered the Air-Crane, Kurt made several attempts to hook the Angler, but the task wasn’t as easy as it looked. If the submersible rose on a swell at the wrong moment, the hook bounced off its hull. Other times, the hook swung and missed as the attachment point dropped beneath it like a boxer ducking a slow punch.

Kurt was seriously considering getting wet and placing the hook by hand when a solid click and tension on the line told him he’d nabbed his catch.

“Got it!” he said, reeling in the slack. “Dropping second cable.”

The second cable didn’t attach to the submersible; it was already connected to the first cable, and also to a hardpoint near the nose gear. Its purpose was to act as a guide and keep the payload from twisting in the swirling downwash from the main rotor.

“Second cable locked.”

“Pull it up,” Joe said. “Can’t have NUMA getting fined for littering.”

Tags: Clive Cussler NUMA Files Thriller
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