hill. The whine of revving engines and squealing tires grew closer,
punctuated by a popping sound Hatala recognized from his Navy days as
gunfire. Finally, the cars broke free of the trees as they neared the
terminal, and Hatala stared in astonishment.
The big green Chrysler looked like a galloping dragon, complete with
fire-breathing smoke and steam belching out of its grille. A
black-haired man, hunched low in the seat, deftly kept the smoking
behemoth on the road at speeds clearly too high for its means. Thirty
feet behind, a sleek black Cadillac sedan followed in hot pursuit, a
young Asian man dangling out the passenger window wildly firing an
automatic weapon that did more damage to the trees bordering the road
than to his intended target. To Hatala's complete horror, the green
convertible spun into the ferry landing entrance and headed onto the
pier.
By all rights, the old Chrysler should have up and died long before. A
withering rain of fire had plastered the car in lead, cutting through
wires, hoses, and belts, in addition to pasting the body and interior
with myriad holes. Burning oil mixed with radiator fluid spewed from
the red-hot motor that was nearly drained of fluids. But with an
apparent heart of its own, the old Chrysler was not quite ready to give
up, offering one last gasp of power.
"Dirk, where are we now?" Sarah asked, unable to see from her spot on
the floor. A rackety sound of tires on wood told her they were no
longer traveling on the highway.
"We have a boat to catch," Dirk grimaced. "Hang on tight."
He could see a man waving his arms wildly at the end of the pier, some
fifty yards ahead. Beyond the pier's edge, he could detect a churning
in the water from the ferry's propellers as the boat began to pull away
from the dock. It was going to be close.
Behind him, the Cadillac lost ground briefly, having nearly missed the turn when Dirk whipped onto the pier. The driver was doggedly"
determined to stay on Dirk's tail and accelerated hard, oblivious to
the shortening pier and departure of the ferry. The gunman, too, was
engrossed with the chase, intent on putting a bullet into the obstinate
driver who had somehow avoided his previous blasts.
Dirk also kept his foot down hard on the accelerator, but for a
different reason. He held his breath, hoping the Chrysler would hold
together for just a few more seconds. Though the end of the pier was
now just a few yards away, it seemed to take an eternity to reach it.
Meanwhile, the ferry continued to inch farther into the sound.
A pair of boys bound for a fishing excursion at the end of the pier ran
scrambling behind a piling as the two cars tore by, their poles
sacrificed to the speeding machines when they jumped for cover. To
Dirk's surprise, the man at the end of the pier stopped waving and
raised the orange-and-white traffic barrier, apparently realizing the
futility of trying to stop the barreling mass of Detroit iron that was
charging his way. As he roared by, Dirk nodded thanks at Hatala and
threw him a jaunty wave. Hatala simply stared back, dumbfounded.
The Chrysler's hefty V-8 engine was now knocking like a pounding
sledgehammer, but the old beast hung on and gave Dirk every last ounce
of energy it could muster. The big convertible stormed up the ramp at
the end of the pier and burst into the air like a cannon shot. Dirk
gripped the steering wheel hard and braced for the impact as he watched
a forty-foot ribbon of blue water pass beneath the car. Screams filled
the air as shocked passengers on the rear of the ferry scrambled to
avoid the path of the green monstrosity hurtling through space toward
them. The momentum of the car and the angle of the ramp sent the
Chrysler sailing through the air in an almost picture-perfect arc
before gravity took hold and pulled the nose of the car down fast. But
they had cleared the open water and would plunge down onto the ferry.
Just a few feet inboard on the open stern, the Chrysler's front wheels slammed down onto the deck, the tires immediately bursting from
the force with a bang. A split second later, the rear wheels dropped
down, smashing through a low railing just inches from the stern edge. A
section of the handrail kicked up into a wheel well, where it became
wedged as the full weight of the car crashed down. It proved to be a
lifesaver. Rather than skidding wildly into the rows of cars parked on
the auto deck, the wedged railing dug into the wooden deck like an
anchor. The massive old car bounded twice, then skidded slowly to a
stop just twenty feet from where it struck the deck, lightly smacking
the pea green Volkswagen bus.
The black Cadillac did not fare as well. Just a few seconds behind,
its driver saw too late that the ferry had left the dock. Too panicked
to try to stop, the driver kept his foot down on the accelerator and
soared off the pier in tandem with the Chrysler. Only by now, the
ferry had moved beyond its path.
With the gunman screaming a bloodcurdling cry, the Cadillac soared
gracefully into the sky before nosing hard into the stern of the
ferryboat with a thunderous crash. The front bumper kissed the painted
letters of the ferryboat's name, Issaquah, just above the waterline
before the entire car crumpled like an accordion. A large spray of
water flew up as the mangled wreckage of the car plopped into the water
and sank to forty feet, carrying its crushed occupants to a watery
grave.
In the Chrysler, Dirk shook off the daze of the impact and assessed
their injuries. He felt a sprained knee and sore hip on himself as he
wiped away a flow of blood from his lower lip, gashed open on the
steering wheel. But otherwise all parts seemed to be working. Sarah
looked up from the floor in a twisted angle, where she forced a smile
through a painful grimace.
"I think my right leg is broken," she said calmly, " but otherwise I'm
okay."
Dirk lifted her out of the car and gently set her on the deck as a
crowd of passengers crept in to offer assistance. In front of them,
a
door flung open on the VW bus and out popped its overage hippie driver,
complete with ponytail and beer belly half-hidden under a tie-dyed
Grateful Dead T-shirt. His eyes bulged as he surveyed the scene behind
him. Smoke oozed from the smoldering wreckage of the Chrysler,
tainting the air with the odor of burned oil and rubber. The car's
metal skin was festooned with bullet holes from front to back, while
broken glass and shreds of leather upholstery littered the interior.
The front tires were splayed out from bursting on impact, while a metal
guardrail poked out oddly from one of the rear wheel wells. A deep
gash in the deck tailed back from the wreck like some sort of violent
bread crumb trail. Dirk smiled weakly at the man as he wandered closer
while surveying the scene.
Shaking his head, the old hippie finally quipped, "Far out, man. I
sure hope you have insurance."
It took only a few hours for the authorities to commandeer a n
earby
work barge and position it off the ferry landing. Its twenty-ton crane
easily hoisted the crushed Cadillac from the bottom and dumped it on
the greasy deck of the old barge. A paramedic crew carefully
extricated the mashed bodies from the vehicle and transferred them to
the county morgue. Their cause of death was cited simply as blunt
injury from motor vehicle accident.
At NUMA's request, the FBI interceded and opened a federal
investigation into the incident. Initial attempts to identify the
gunmen came up empty when no forms of ID were found on the bodies, and
the Cadillac was discovered to be a stolen rental car. Immigration
finally ascertained that the men were Japanese nationals who had
entered the country illegally through Canada.
At the Seattle/ King County morgue, the chief coroner shook his head in
irritation as yet another investigator arrived to examine the bodies.
"Can't get any work done around here as long as we're holding these
so-called Japanese gangsters," he grumbled to an underling, as yet
another pair of Feds left the storage facility.
The assistant medical examiner, an ex-Army doctor who had once been
stationed in Seoul for a year, nodded in agreement.
"We might as well install a revolving door on the ice room," he
joked.
"I'll just be happy when the paperwork arrives to release them for
transport back to Japan."
"I hope that's their right home," the assistant pathologist said,
slowly sliding the bodies back into a refrigerated locker. "If you ask
me, I still say they look like a couple of Koreans."
After twelve hours at Sarah's hospital bedside, Dirk finally convinced the doctors at Seattle's Swedish Providence Medical Center to
release Sarah the following morning. Though a broken leg didn't
normally warrant an overnight stay, the cautious medical staff was
concerned about trauma from the accident and kept her there for
observation. She was fortunate in that the break to her tibia, or
shin-bone, did not require any rods or screws to align. The doctors
wrapped her leg in a heavy plaster cast and pumped her full of
painkillers, then signed her release.
"Guess I can't take you dancing anytime soon," Dirk joked as he pushed
her out the hospital exit in a wheelchair.
"Not unless you want a black-and-blue foot," she replied, grimacing at
the heavy cast around her lower leg.
Despite insisting that she was well enough to work, Dirk took Sarah
home to her stylish apartment in Seattle's Capitol Hill district.
Gently assisting her to a leather couch, he propped her broken leg up on
a large pillow.
"Afraid I've been called back to Washington," he said, stroking her
silky hair as she adjusted the pillows behind her back. "Have to leave
tonight. I'll make sure Sandy checks in on you."
"I probably won't be able to keep her away," she grinned. "But what
about the sick crew members of the Deep Endeavor? We need to find out
if they are all right," she said, struggling to rise from the couch.
The drugs made her feel as if her mind and body were enshrouded in a
coat of honey and she fought to remain lucid against the overwhelming
desire to sleep.
"Okay," he said, gently pushing her back down and bringing a portable
phone to her. "You get one phone call, then it's lights out for
you."
As she called the Public Health Lab, he checked to see that her kitchen
was stocked with groceries. Peering into a scantly filled
refrigerator, he idly wondered why unmarried women always seemed to
have less food in the house than the single men he knew.
"Great news," she called in a slurred voice after hanging up the phone.
"The tests on the sick crewmen all came back negative. No sign of the
smallpox virus."
"That is great news," Dirk said, returning to her side. "I'll let
Captain Burch know before I leave for the airport."
"When will I see you again?" she asked, squeezing his hand.
"Just a quick trip to headquarters. I'll be back before you know
it."
"You better," she replied, her eyelids drooping low. Dirk leaned over
and brushed her hair aside, then kissed her gently on the forehead. As
he stood up, he could see that she had already fallen asleep.
He slept soundly on his cross-country red-eye flight, popping awake well
rested as the wheels of the NUMA jet touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport just after eight in the
morning. An agency car was left waiting for him at the government
terminal, and he drove himself out of the parking lot under a light
drizzle. As he exited the airport, he cast a long glance toward a
dilapidated-looking hangar situated off one of the runways. Though his
father was out of the country, he still had the urge to visit the old
man's hideout and tinker with one of his many antique autos stored
there. Business before pleasure, he told himself, and wheeled the
loaner car onto the highway.
Following the George Washington Memorial Parkway out of the airport, he
drove north, passing the Pentagon on his left as he followed the banks
of the Potomac River. A short distance later, he turned off the
highway and angled toward a towering green glass building that housed
the NUMA headquarters. Passing through an employee security gate, he
pulled into an underground garage and parked. Opening the car trunk,
he hoisted a large duffel bag over his shoulder, then rode the
employees' elevator to the tenth floor, where the doors opened onto an
elaborate maze of quietly humming computer hardware.
Established with a budget that would make a third world dictator
whimper, the NUMA Ocean Data Center computer network was a marvel of
state-of-the-art computer processing. Buried within its massive data
storage banks was the finest collection of oceanographic resources in
the world. Real-time inputs of weather, current, temperature, and bio
diversity measurements were collected via satellite from hundreds of
remote sea sites from around the world, giving a global snapshot of
ocean conditions and trends at any given moment. Links to the leading
research universities provided data on current investigations in
geology, marine biology, and undersea flora and fauna research, as well
as engineering and technology. NUMA's own historical reference library
contained literally millions of data sources and was a constant
reservoir of information for research institutes the world over.
Dirk found the maestro behind the vast computer network, sitting behind
a horseshoe console munching a bear claw with one hand while tapping a
keyboard with the other. To a stranger, Hiram Yaeger resembled a
groupie from a Bob Dylan concert. His lean body was clad in faded
Levi's and matching jeans jacket over a white T-shirt, complemented by
a pair of scuffed cowboy boots on his feet. With his long gray hair
tied in a ponytail, his appearance belied the fact that he lived in a
high-end Maryland suburb with an ex-model wife and drove a BMW 7
Series. He caught sight of Dirk over a pair of granny glasses
and
smiled in greeting.
"Well, the young Mr. Pitt," he grinned warmly.
"Hiram, how are you?"
"Not having smashed my car, nor destroyed an agency helicopter, I'd
have to say I'm doing quite well," he joked. "By the way, has our
esteemed director been advised of the loss of one of NUMA's flying
assets?"
"Yes. Fortunately, with Dad and Al still over in the Philippines the
bite was tempered somewhat."
"They've had their hands full with a toxic spill they ran across near
Mindanao, so your timing was good," Yaeger said. "So tell-me, to what
do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"Well," Dirk hesitated, "it's your daughters. I would like to go out
with them."
The color drained from Yaeger's thin boyish face for a moment as he
took Dirk's proposal seriously. Yaeger's twin daughters, finishing
their last year of private high school, were his pride and joy. For
seventeen years, he had successfully scared away any male suitors who
had the remotest inkling of touching his girls. God forbid the
giddiness they'd show over the rugged and charismatic Dirk.
"You so much as mention their names around me and I'll have you off the
payroll with a ruined credit rating that will take five lifetimes to
fix' Yaeger threatened.
It was Dirk's turn to laugh, chuckling loudly at Yaeger's vulnerable
soft spot. The computer genius softened and grinned as well at Dirk's
idle ploy.
"Okay, the girls are off-limits. But what I really want is a little
time with you and Max before my meeting with Rudi later this
morning."
"Now, that I can approve," Yaeger replied with a firm nod of the head.
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 18