Vixen 03 Part 73

The warhead was looming through the windshield. Steiger noted that it was painted regulation-Navy blue. He pushed in the throttles to the twin turboshaft engines and at the same time pulled the pitch-control column back. The Minerva's forward speed was cut so abruptly that both men winced as they were thrown against their safety harnesses.

"Six seconds," said Sandecker.

The shadow of the huge parachute was falling over the helicopter when Steiger flipped the craft on its starboard side. The violent maneuver sent the pointed bow of the Minerva knifing between the shroud lines. Orange silk collapsed and covered the windshield, blotting out the sun. Three of the lines caught and wrapped around the rotor shaft before the tired old material gave way and shredded. The rest entwined around the fuselage and jerked the Minerva to a near stop as they tautened and took up the strain of the heavy projectile.

"Two seconds," Sandecker rasped through clenched teeth.

The Minerva was being pulled downward by the weight of the sh.e.l.l. Steiger returned the craft to an upright position with the pitch-control column, yanked the throttles back against their stops, and pulled up on the collective-pitch lever in a blur of hand movements.

The twin engines struggled under the load. Sandecker had stopped

counting. Time had run out. The altimeter needle was quivering at one

thousand feet. Sandecker leaned out an open window and stared past the

flapping silk at the warhead dangling beneath the fuselage, expecting to

see an explosion.

The Minerva's rotor blades slapped the air, causing a thumping sound that could be heard for miles above the sea of enthralled faces turned to the sky. Parachute, projectile, and helicopter hung together, suspended. Sandecker darted his attention back to the altimeter. It hadn't budged. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

Ten seconds pa.s.sed, which to Sandecker seemed ten years. Steiger, absorbed in his task, battled the controls. The admiral could do little but sit there. It was the first time he could remember feeling totally useless.

"Lift, d.a.m.n you, lift," Steiger said, pleading with the Minerva.

Sandecker watched the altimeter as though mesmerized. It seemed to him the needle made a fractional tic above the one-thousand-foot mark. Was it wishful thinking, or had the instrument really registered an upward reading? Then, slowly, almost infinitesimally, the needle appeared to move.

"Climbing," he reported. His voice had a tremor in it.

Steiger did not answer.

The rate of ascent began to increase. Sandecker remained quiet until he was sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on his brain. There was no more cause for uncertainty. The needle was slowly sweeping past the next indication.

The relief of the men in the emergency executive offices was impossible to describe. If polled, they would have unanimously agreed they had never seen any sight half so wonderful in their lives. Even dour General Higgins was grinning the widest grin on record. The suffocating cloud of doom had been suddenly swept away, and they began cheering as the

'v "

Minerva dragged its deadly cargo toward a safe alt.i.tude.

The President sagged in his chair and allowed himself the pleasure of lighting a cigar. He nodded down the table at Jarvis through a haze of smoke.

"It would appear, Dale, that you are clairvoyant."

"A calculated guess, Mr. President," said Jarvis.

Admiral Kemper lifted his phone. "Put me in communication with that NUMA chopper!" he ordered.

"We haven't weathered the storm yet," said Higgins. "Those people up there can't fly around forever."

"We are in voice contact." A crisp announcement came out of the speakers beside the viewing screen.

Kemper spoke into his desk phone while keeping both eyes locked on the progress of the Minerva. "This is Admiral Joseph Kemper of the Joint Chiefs, NUMA copter; please identify yourself."

A voice replied so calmly and clearly it could have come from across the room.

"Jim Sandecker, Joe. What's on your mind?"

The President sat up in his chair. "The director of NUMA?"

Kemper nodded. "You know d.a.m.n well what's on my mind!" he snapped into the receiver.

"Ah yes, the Quick Death warhead. I a.s.sume you're aware of its potential."

"I am." t i -

"And you want to know what I'm going to do with it."

"The thought had occurred to me."

"As soon as we reach five thousand feet," said Sandecker, "the pilot, Colonel Abe Steiger, and I are going to make a beeline for the sea and drop the son of a b.i.t.c.h as far from sh.o.r.e as our fuel will carry us."

"How far do you reckon?" asked Kemper.

There was a pause as Sandecker consulted with Steiger. "Approximately six hundred miles due east of the Delaware coastline."

"How secure is the projectile?"

"Seems snug enough. Might help if we didn't have to rely on instruments and could enjoy the scenery."

"Come again?"

"The parachute canopy is snagged across our windshield. We can only look straight down."

"Can we a.s.sist you?" asked Kemper.

"Yes," replied Sandecker. "By notifying all military and commercial

flight traffic to stay clear of our path to the sea."

"Consider it done," Kemper said. "I'll also arrange to have a rescue vessel standing by near your estimated splashdown point."

"Negative, Joe. Colonel Steiger and I appreciate the gesture, but it would be a foolish waste of men's lives. You understand."

Kemper did not answer immediately. His eyes took on a look of deep sorrow. Then he said, "Understood. Kemper out."

"Is there no way they can be saved?" Jarvis asked.