sound. After ordering a local Chardonnay, they admired the view across
Quartermaster Harbor to a smaller island named Maury. To the
southeast, they could see Mt. Rainier standing majestically in the
distance.
"Reminds me a little of the Grand Tetons," Sarah said, fondly recalling
the craggy peaks of northwest Wyoming. "I used to ride horses for
miles around Lake Jackson at the base of the Tetons."
"I bet you're a pretty fair downhill skier as well," Dirk ventured.
"I banged up a few sets of skis growing up," she laughed. "How'd you
know?"
"Jackson Hole is right around the corner. Skied it once a few years ago. Terrific snow."
"I love it there," Sarah gushed, her hazel eyes glistening. "But I am
surprised to hear that you have been to Jackson. I didn't think that a
NUMA special projects director was allowed to leave sight of the
ocean."
It was Dirk's turn to laugh. "Only on my annual vacation. The Gobi
Desert happened to be booked that year," he grinned. "So tell me, how
did a nice girl from Wyoming end up working at the Centers for Disease
Control?"
"It's because I am a nice girl from Wyoming," she cooed. "Growing up
on my parents' ranch, I was always nursing a sick calf or mending a
lame horse. My dad always said I was a softie, but I just loved being
around animals and trying to help them. So I studied veterinary
medicine in school, and, after bouncing around a few jobs, was able to
snag the field epidemiologist job with the CDC. Now I travel the world
preventing disease outbreaks and helping sick animals, and I even get
paid for it," she smiled.
Dirk could tell her compassion was genuine. Sarah had a warm heart
that seemed to resonate through her. If not employed by the rDC she
would probably be off running a dog shelter or helping a wildlife
rescue, with or without a paycheck. With her gazing at Dirk ith tender
eyes, he was glad she was here with him now.
A waiter appeared to spoil their intimacy, but brought a gourmet meal
to the table. Dirk enjoyed a mesquite-grilled king salmon filet, while
Sarah dined on Alaskan weathervane scallops she deemed so tender they
melted in her mouth. After sharing a fresh raspberry cheesecake for
dessert, they took a short stroll hand in hand along the water's edge.
Dirk kept an eye out for the two men in the Cadillac, whom he finally
observed parked a few blocks away in Burton.
"It's gorgeous here, but I guess we should be getting back," Sarah said
with disappointment. "We should have the blood test results on your
sick crewmen by now, and Hal probably has your bomb canister analysis
completed."
As they approached the car, she turned and hugged Dirk.
"Thanks for a lovely lunch," she whispered.
""Kidnapping beautiful women in the afternoon is a specialty of mine,"
he smiled, then took her in his arms and gave her a long passionate
kiss. She responded by wrapping her arms around him, squeezing the
back of his waist tightly.
Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dirk meandered slowly down the
one-lane thoroughfare of Burton. He glared as he drove by the Cadillac
parked in a side alley, the two men waiting for them to pass. As he
watched in the rearview mirror, he was somewhat surprised to see the
black sedan turn and follow immediately behind him. There was no more
pretense of an invisible tail, Dirk thought, which was not a good
sign.
The Cadillac followed behind until they reached the intersection of the
Vashon Highway. As he stopped to turn, Dirk glanced again in his
mirror. He could see the passenger with the goatee reaching down at
"is feet and pulling something out of the leather case.
A sick feeling hit him in his stomach and, without an instant's hesitation, he mashed down on the accelerator. With tires squealing, the
Chrysler whipped onto the highway and sped north.
"Dirk, what are you doing?" Sarah asked with a bewildered look as
she was pushed back into the seat.
In an instant, the Cadillac screeched onto the highway behind them,
sending a spray of gravel flying through the air. This time, the
Cadillac was not intent on following behind the old Chrysler but nosed
into the vacant oncoming traffic lane in order to pull alongside.
"Get down on the floor!" Dirk yelled at Sarah as he watched the':
black car approach in his side mirror. Confused but comprehendin| the
tone in his voice, Sarah slipped down into the cavernous footwej of the
Chrysler and rolled into a ball. Dirk eased off the accelerater and
looked to his left as the Cadillac pulled rapidly alongside. The
passenger window was rolled down and the young tough grinned sardonically at Dirk. Then he raised an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun from
his lap and leveled it at Dirk's head.
The gunman may have been younger but Dirk's reflexes were faster. By
the time the killer's finger pulled the trigger, Dirk was already
standing on the brakes. A short burst of fire ricocheted harmlessly
across the hood of the Chrysler as it suddenly fell back of the
speeding Cadillac in a cloud of burned rubber. The Chrysler's narrow
tires screeched in protest as the wheels locked up for a moment before
Dirk eased off the brakes. He paused a second, waiting for the
Cadillac to react, then saw what he was waiting for. As the brake
lights of the Cadillac lit up, he punched the push-button automatic
transmission into second gear and stomped the accelerator to the
floorboard.
A flood of raw gas charged down the throats of the Chrysler's twin
four-barrel carburetors, spraying a gush of combustible fuel to the
hungry 392-cubic-inch hemi motor. Packing over 380 horsepower, the
Chrysler 300-D was the fastest and most powerful production car in the
country in 1958. Showing no signs of its age, the big Chrysler got up
and roared off down the road like a charging rhinoceros.
The would-be assassins were caught off guard by the suddenly accelerating Chrysler and swore at each other as the big green car shot by
like an arrow. The gunman made an attempt to fire another burst but
was too late with his aim, emptying the clip of the burp gun uselessly
into the woods. With no oncoming traffic, Dirk cut to the left lane
after passing the Cadillac, making it more difficult for the
passenger-side gunman to aim his weapon.
"What's happening? Why are they shooting at us?" Sarah cried from the
floor.
"Some relatives of our old pals in Alaska, I'm betting," Dirk yelled
over the roar of the engine as he upshifted into third gear. "Been
following us for some time now."
"Can we escape?" Sarah asked with fear in her voice.
"We can hold our own on the straight aways but they'll gain on us in
the curves. If we can get close to the ferry landing and more people,
they should back off," he replied, hoping his words would hold true.
The Chrysler had opened a wide gap between the two cars, but the
Cadillac was inching closer. A narrow bend in the road forced Dirk to
ease off the gas slightly in order to keep the 4,500-pound colossus on
>
the road, allowing the lighter and more nimble Cadillac to gain
precious feet. The gunman, angry and undisciplined, began emptying a
second clip in a rage, shooting wildly at the car. Most of the bullets
zinged harmlessly into the Chrysler's trunk, creating a sieve like
montage of small round holes. Dirk hunched low in the driver's seat
and weaved the car randomly back and forth across the road to avoid
presenting a stable target.
"How much farther?" Sarah asked, still hugging the carpeted floor.
"Just a couple of more miles. We'll make it," Dirk replied, throwing a
confident wink toward her.
But internally, Dirk cursed himself. He cursed that he had placed her in
such a position of danger and had not called for help earlier he knew
he was being followed. And he cursed that he was unarmed, having no weapon at his disposal to fight back with other than a
nearly fifty-year-old car.
Like a vulture stalking its prey, the black Cadillac mimicked every
move of the Chrysler, trying desperately to close the gap between the
two speeding vehicles. As the cars entered a long straight stretch of
the Vashon Highway, Dirk looked down and saw the speedometer needle
tickling 125 miles per hour. A blue pickup truck approached from the
opposite direction and Dirk eased into the right lane, holding the
accelerator firmly to the floor. The Cadillac's driver, unduly intent
on overtaking the Chrysler, didn't notice the rapidly approaching
truck at first and swerved harshly to the right at the last second,
braking reflexively in the slight panic. The move allowed the
Chrysler to gain a few more precious feet of pavement and elicited a
stream of profanities from the frustrated gunman.
But Dirk's temporary dominance was about to expire. The Vashon Highway
began a series of curves and bends at the northern end of the island
before it dropped down to the ferry terminal and the racing advantage
turned from speed to road handling. Coming hard off the long
straightaway, Dirk braked hard into a sweeping left curve, fighting
vigorously to keep the big convertible on the road. The more agile
Cadillac easily made up lost ground and was soon within a few yards of
Dirk's bumper. Once more, he heard the sputter of machine-gun fire and
ducked his head down low. A burst of fire shattered into the
windshield in front of him, turning the glass into a maze of pockmarked
cracks and holes. One round came in low and Dirk could feel it nearly
graze his cheek as it whizzed by before smashing into the dashboard.
"I already shaved once today, you bastards," he grumbled, his anger
overcoming any feelings of fear. As he flung the Chrysler into the
next turn, the old-fashioned bias-ply tires screeched loudly, leaving a
smoking black trail along the roadway. The gunman, having already
exhausted two clips, began firing more cautiously to conserve his
remaining ammunition. Waiting until the Chrysler entered a right
turn, then peppered the car with quick, point-blank bursts. Foolishly
electing not to shoot out the tires, he maintained his aim on the car's
cockpit.
Inside, Dirk and Sarah were showered with a continuous deluge of broken
glass, plastic, and metal shards as streams of bullets ripped into the
interior. Dirk did his best to guide the car down the center of the
road, glancing repeatedly at his side mirrors to ensure the Cadillac
didn't accelerate alongside for a better kill shot. Several times he
veered the Chrysler sharply to one side, nearly smashing the front end
of the Cadillac before its driver backed down and maintained a
five-foot buffer off his tail.
Dirk felt like a boxer in the ring, ducking and weaving his head and
body up, down, and side to side in order to see the road while avoiding
a rain of lead. He cringed while sliding the car through a right turn
he watched a ribbon of holes appear in a neat line down the hood.
The burst punctured the radiator, sending a white plume of steam
hissing out the grille and hood. Time was short now, he realized.
Without coolant, the engine would overheat and seize up. He and Sarah
would then be easy pickings.
As they approached the northern tip of the island, he tried a last
gambit. Approaching a narrow left turn ahead, Dirk eased into the
center of the road and slowed slightly to pull the Cadillac in close.
Then, with both feet on the pedal, he stomped on the brakes as hard as
he could. Through the screaming tires and cloud of burned rubber, the
Cadillac kissed the back of the Chrysler hard before its driver slammed
on the brakes. But his gamble to decimate the front end of the
Cadillac failed. The Chrysler's ancient drum brakes were no match for
the Cadillac's four-wheel disc, anti lock braking system, and the newer
car nearly came to a stop while the big Chrysler was still skidding
down the road. The Cadillac's driver realized the ploy and kept a
healthy separation distance now. Dirk let off the brakes and jammed on
the
accelerator, hoping to keep making ground. There was little left he
could do now.
The two cars had reached the top of the last rise on the northern
section of the island. From there, the road gradually snaked downhill
toward the water's edge, passing a few lanes of shops and houses before
terminating at the ferry landing. Dirk noticed a small stream of cars
beginning to dot the highway from the opposite direction, recent
emigrants from a ferry stop, he surmised.
Despite the additional traffic on the road, the machine gun firing from
behind continued. The assassins had crossed the line and were bent on
killing Dirk and Sarah regardless of who got in their way. Dirk gave
Sarah a quick glance and forced a grin. Her soft eyes showed a mixture
of both fear and trust. Trust that he would somehow find a way to save
them. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, more determined than ever
to shield her from harm.
But there were only seconds to act. The old Chrysler, which now
resembled the remains of a B-2 bomber target, was clearly on its last
legs. Smoke billowed from under the hood, accompanied by a throbbing
melody of knocks and groans from the nearly spent motor. Sparks flew
from beneath the frame, where a broken exhaust pipe scraped the
pavement with a torturous grind. Even the tires had generated flat
spots from the hard braking and thumped out of round. The temperature
gauge, Dirk noted, had been firmly pegged in the red for several
minutes now.
Above the roar, he could hear the blast of a ferry horn just ahead as
they wound closer to the water. From behind, the squeal of the
Cadillac's tires and the peppering sound of machine-gun fire rattled in
his ears. The big Chrysler suddenly lurched as the hemi engine began
to mortally overheat. Dirk's eyes raced over the landscape, searching
for a sheriff's car, a bank that might employ an armed guard, any sort
of help he might solicit as a last means of defense. But all he saw
were quaint little bayside homes with small flower gardens.
Then, l
ooking down the hill toward the approaching ferry terminal)
he had a thought. Highly improbable, he figured, but at this point
they had nothing to lose.
Sarah looked up and noticed a look of confident resolve suddenly appear
on his face.
"What is it, Dirk?" she yelled above the din.
"Sarah, my dear," he replied assuredly, "I think our ship has come
in."
Larry Hatala watched as the final car in line, a pea green 1968
Volkswagen microbus, chugged up the ramp and onto the ferry. A
thirty-year veteran of the Washington State Department of
Transportation, the grizzled Vashon Island terminal attendant shook his
head and smiled at the driver of the old hippie car, a bearded man in
bandana and granny glasses. Once the VW was safely aboard the ferry,
Hatala lowered a wooden orange-and-white signal arm that halted any
pending traffic at the end of the pier. His work complete until the
next boat arrived in thirty minutes, Hatala removed a weathered
baseball cap and wiped his forehead with a sleeve, then threw a
cheerful wave of the cap to a fellow employee on the departing ferry. A
young man in a gray jumpsuit finished yanking a guardrail across the
stern of the ferry, then returned Hatala's wave with a mock military
salute. As the pilot let loose a deep blast from the air horn, Hatala
untied a safety docking line and tossed the loose end across to the
ferry, where his coworker neatly coiled it for the next stop.
The blast from the ferry horn had barely ceased echoing across the peer
when Hatala's ears detected an unusual sound. It was the wail of tires
screeching violently on asphalt. Peering up the road, he could detect
only a periodic flash through the trees of two cars roaring down The
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 17