Deep Six (55 page)

Then the trajectory from the
Burns
swayed through the air and hammered into the helicopter. Pitt threw up an arm to protect his eyes as the windshield disintegrated and blew into the cockpit. Steel-nosed bullets punctured the thin aluminum fuselage and wreaked havoc with the engine.

“Ah can’t see,” Hogan announced in a surprisingly calm voice. Her face ran crimson from several cuts, most of the blood streaming from a scalp wound into her eyes, blinding her.

Except for a few deep scratches on his arm, Pitt was untouched. He passed the machine gun to Giordino, who was wrapping a sleeve torn from his shirt around a shell gash on his right calf. The helicopter was losing power and dipping sharply toward the middle of the river. Pitt reached out and took the controls from Hogan and banked away from a sudden murderous fire that erupted from the towboat. A dozen men appeared from the pilothouse and a hatch on top of the barge and wildly threw automatic weapons fire at the battered helicopter.

Oil was streaming out of the engine, and the rotor blades were madly vibrating. Pitt reduced the collective pitch to keep the rotor speed from falling too quickly. He saw the instrument panel break into fragments from a storm of bullets. He was fighting a hopeless battle; he couldn’t hold on to the sky much longer. The forward motion dropped off and he was losing lateral control.

On the ground behind the levee, Griffin sat on his knees in helpless rage, holding a shattered wrist, watching the helicopter struggle like a great mortally wounded bird. The fuselage was so riddled by holes he couldn’t believe anybody on board was still alive. He watched the craft slowly die, dragging a long trail of smoke as it faltered and limped upriver, barely clearing a grove of trees along the bank and disappearing from sight.

69

SANDECKER SAT IN
Emmett’s private office at FBI headquarters and chewed idly on a cigar stub, his thoughts depleted. Brogan nervously juggled a half-empty cup of coffee that had long since turned cold.

General Metcalf walked in and sat down. “You all look like pallbearers,” he said with forced cheerfulness.

“Isn’t that what we are?” said Brogan. “As soon as the Senate convicts, all that’s left to do is hold the wake.”

“I’ve just come from the Senate reception room,” Metcalf said. “Secretary Oates is buttonholing members of the President’s party, trying to persuade them to hold off.”

“What are his chances?” asked Sandecker.

“Nil. The Senate is only going through the formality of a trial. Four hours from now, it will all be over.”

Brogan shook his head disgustedly. “I hear Moran has Chief Justice O’Brien standing by to administer the oath.”

“The oily bastard won’t waste a second,” Emmett muttered.

“Any word from Louisiana?” Metcalf asked.

Emmett gave the general a negative look. “Not for an hour. The last report from my agent in charge of the field office said he was making a sweep of a promising dock site.”

“Any concrete reason to believe Margolin is hidden in the delta?”

“Only a stab in the dark by my special projects director,” replied Sandecker.

Metcalf looked at Emmett. “What are you doing about the Bougainvilles?”

“I’ve assigned nearly fifty agents to the case.”

“Can you make an arrest?”

“A waste of time. Min Koryo and Lee Tong would be back on the streets in an hour.”

“Surely there must be enough evidence.”

“Nothing the Attorney General can sink his teeth into. Most of their illegal operations are managed outside our borders in Third World nations that aren’t overly friendly toward the United States—”

The phone buzzed.

“Emmett.”

“Agent Goodman in communications, sir.”

“What is it, Goodman?”

“I have contact with agent Griffin in Louisiana.”

“About time,” Emmett snapped impatiently. “Put me through.”

“Hold on.” There was a pause broken by an audible click, and then Emmett heard the sound of labored breathing. He switched on the speaker amplifer so the others could hear.

“Griffin, this is Sam Emmett, can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir, very clearly.” The words seemed uttered in pain. “We ran . . . ran into trouble.”

“What happened?”

“We spotted a Bougainville cargo ship tied to a pier beside a barge and towboat about seventy miles below New Orleans. Before my team and I could gain entry for a search, we were fired upon by heavy weapons mounted on the ship. Everyone was hit . . . I have two killed and seven wounded, including myself. It was a massacre.” The voice choked and went quiet for a few moments. When it came back on the line the tone was noticeably weaker. “Sorry for not making contact sooner, but our communications gear was shot out and I had to walk two miles before I could find a telephone.”

Emmett’s face took on a compassionate look. The thought of a badly wounded man trailing blood for two miles in the scorching heat of summer stirred his normally rock-hard emotions.

Sandecker moved closer to the speaker. “What of Pitt and Giordino?”

“The NUMA people and one of my agents were flying surveillance in our helicopter,” Griffin answered. “They got the hell shot out of them and crashed somewhere upriver. I doubt there were any survivors.”

Sandecker stepped back, his expression gone lifeless.

Emmett leaned over the speaker. “Griffin?”

His only reply was a vague muttering.

“Griffin, listen to me. Can you go on?”

“Yes, sir . . . I’ll try.”

“The barge, what is the situation with the barge?”

“Tug . . . tug pushed it away.”

“Pushed it where?”

“Downriver . . . last seen going toward Head of Passes.”

“Head of Passes?”

“The bottom end of the Mississippi where the river splits into three main channels to the sea,” answered Sandecker. “South Pass, Southwest Pass, and Pass a Loutre. Most major shipping uses the first two.”

“Griffin, how long since the barge left your area?”

There was no answer, no buzzing of a broken connection, no sound at all.

“I think he’s passed out,” said Metcalf.

“Help is on the way. Do you understand, Griffin?”

Still no reply.

“Why move the barge out to sea?” Brogan wondered aloud.

“No reason I can think of,” said Sandecker.

Emmett’s phone buzzed on his interoffice line.

“There’s an urgent call for Admiral Sandecker,” said Don Miller, his deputy director.

Emmett looked up. “A call for you, Admiral. If you wish, you can take it in the outer office.”

Sandecker thanked him and stepped into the anteroom, where Emmett’s private secretary showed him to a telephone at an empty desk.

He punched the blinking white button. “This is Admiral Sandecker.”

“One moment, sir,” came the familiar voice of the NUMA headquarters’ chief operator.

“Hello?”

“Sandecker here. Who’s this?”

“You’re a tough nut to crack, Admiral. If I hadn’t said my call concerned Dirk Pitt, your secretary would never have arranged our connection.”

“Who is this?” Sandecker demanded again.

“My name is Sal Casio. I’m working on the Bougainville case with Dirk.”

Ten minutes later, when Sandecker walked back into Emmett’s office, he appeared stunned and shaken. Brogan instantly sensed something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked. “You look like you’ve rubbed shoulders with a banshee.”

“The barge,” Sandecker murmured quietly. “The Bougainvilles have struck a deal with Moran. They’re taking it out into the open sea to be scuttled.”

“What are you saying?”

“Loren Smith and Vince Margolin are sentenced to die so Alan Moran can be President. The barge is to be their tomb in a hundred fathoms of water.”

70

“ANY SIGN OF PURSUIT?”
the river pilot asked, synchronizing the control levers of the helm console with the finesse of a conductor leading an orchestra.

Lee Tong stepped back from the large open window at the rear of the pilothouse and lowered the binoculars. “Nothing except a strange cloud of black smoke about two or three miles astern.”

“Probably an oil fire.”

“Seems to be following.”

“An illusion. The river has a habit of doing weird things to the eyes. What looks to be a mile away is four. Lights where no lights are supposed to be. Ships approaching in a channel that fade away as you get closer. Yes, the river can fool you when she gets playful.”

Lee Tong gazed up the channel again. He had learned to tune out the pilot’s never-ending commentary on the Mississippi, but he admired his skill and experience.

Captain Kim Pujon was a longtime professional river pilot for Bougainville Maritime Lines, but he still retained his Asian superstitious nature. He seldom took his eyes off the channel and the barge ahead as he expertly balanced the speeds of the four engines generating 12,000 horsepower and delicately guided the towboat’s four forward rudders and six backing rudders. Under his feet the huge diesels pounded over at full power, driving the barge through the water at nearly sixteen miles an hour, straining the cables that held the two vessels together.

They hurtled past an inbound Swedish oil tanker, and Lee Tong braced himself as the barge and towboat swept up and over the wash. “How much further to deep water?”

“Our hull passed from fresh to salt about ten miles back. We should cross the coastal shallows in another fifty minutes.”

“Keep your eyes open for a research ship with a red hull and flying the British blue ensign.”

“We’re boarding a Royal Navy ship after we scuttle?” Pujon asked in surprise.

“A former Norwegian merchantman,” explained Lee Tong. “I purchased her seven years ago and refitted her out as a research and survey vessel—a handy disguise to fool customs authorities and the Coast Guard.”

“Let us hope it fools whoever chases after us.”

Lee Tong grunted. “Why not? Any American search force will be told we were picked up and are under lock and key by the finest English accent money can buy. Before the research ship docks in New Orleans, you, I and our crew will be long gone.”

Pujon pointed. “The Port Eads light coming up. We’ll be in open water soon.”

Lee Tong nodded in grim satisfaction. “If they couldn’t stop us by now, they’re too late, far too late.”

General Metcalf, laying his long and distinguished career on the line, ignored Moran’s threats and ordered a military alert throughout the Gulf Coast states. At Eglin Air Force Base and Hurlburt Field in Florida, tactical fighter wings and special operations gunships scrambled and thundered west while attack squadrons rose from Corpus Christi Naval Air Station in Texas and swept toward the east.

He and Sandecker raced by car to the Pentagon to direct the rescue operation from the war room. Once the vast machine was set into motion, they could do little but listen to reports and stare at an enormous satellite photomap thrown on the screen by a rear projector.

Metcalf failed to conceal his apprehension. He stood uneasily rubbing his palms together, peering at the lights on the map indicating the progress of the air strike as the planes converged on a circle lit in red.

“How soon before the first planes arrive?” asked Sandecker.

“Ten, no more than twelve minutes.”

“Surface craft?”

“Not less than an hour,” replied Metcalf bitterly. “We were caught short. No naval craft are in the immediate area except a nuclear sub sixty miles out in the gulf.”

“Coast Guard?”

“There’s an armed rescue-response cutter off Grand Island. It might make it in time.”

Sandecker studied the photomap. “Doubtful. It’s thirty miles away.”

Metcalf wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “The situation looks grim,” he said. “Except for scare tactics the air mission is useless. We can’t send in planes to strike the towboat without endangering the barge. One is practically on top of the other.”

“Bougainville would quickly scuttle the barge in any case.”

“If only we had a surface craft in the area. At least we might attempt a boarding.”

“And rescue Smith and Margolin alive.”

Metcalf sank into a chair. “We might pull it off yet. A Navy special warfare SEAL attachment is due to arrive by helicopter in a few minutes.”