"Like standing on railroad tracks inside a tunnel watching an express train come at you."
"She's slowing down through the bend. We'll get one chance and one chance only before she picks up speed again."
"Just in time for the buffet, I hope," he said, still hungry after not eating since breakfast.
"I'm going to make a left turn and land on the open deck behind the aft funnel."
"Right behind you," Giordino said laconically. "Mind the ventilators and don't forget to step aside for me."
Giordino's
resolution conveyed the loyalty he felt toward his best friend. That he would have accompanied Pitt into the deepest reaches of hell went without saying. They acted as one, almost as if each read the other's mind. From now until they came down on the deck of the United States, no more conversation would pass between them. It wasn't necessary.
Not requiring power to land, Pitt and Giordino hit the kill switches to their little motors to cut off all sound of their final approach. Pitt set up for his circular course and firmly pulled on the left toggle in preparation for a sweeping hook turn. Under their canopies, like a pair of black flying reptiles out of the Mesozoic era about to attack a galloping Sphinx, they swung over the east levee and then made a tight corkscrew turn toward the approaching ship, timing their descent to come from astern for their landing, much like a hobo running from a field onto a railroad track to catch the last freight car of a train.
No gunfire erupted from the ship. No shells reached up and shredded their canopies. They were coming in unseen, undetected and unheard by the armed men defending the ship. With the helicopters down, the Chinese fighting force was no longer focusing on what it thought was an empty sky.
As the deck with its two rows of low ventilators came into view behind the huge funnel, Pitt expertly adjusted and buried both toggles, causing his canopy to stall as he gradually flared down in the clear space between the ventilators. His landing gear-his legs and feet- lightly touched down on the surface of the deck as his lifeless canopy collapsed with the barest of whispers behind him. Not waiting to congratulate himself for landing uninjured, he quickly pulled the canopy and caged motor off to one side. Three seconds later, Giordino dropped out of the sky and made a picture-perfect landing less than six feet away.
"Is this where one of us is supposed to say, 'So far, so good'?" said Giordino softly as he released his harness and engine pack.
"No gunshot holes and no broken bones," Pitt whispered. "Who could ask for anything more?"
They moved into the shadow of the funnel and, while Giordino searched the darkness for signs of life, Pitt set a new frequency on his helmet radio and hailed Rudi Gunn, who was with the sheriff's deputies and a team of Army demolition experts on the highway above the Mystic Canal.
"Rudi, this is Pitt. Do you read me?"
Before a reply came back, he stiffened as a blast from the Aserma Bulldog intermingled with the staccato fire of an automatic rifle. He spun around and saw Giordino crouched on one knee, aiming the shotgun at an unseen target on the aft end of the deck.
"The natives aren't at all friendly," Giordino said with glacial calm. "One of them must have heard our motors, and came to investigate."
"Rudi, please answer," Pitt said, an urgent tone in his voice. "Dammit, Rudi, talk to me."
"I hear you, Dirk." Gunn's voice came resonant and precise through the earphones inside Pitt's helmet. "Are you on the ship?"
Gunn's words ended just as Giordino unleashed another two rounds from his shotgun. "It's getting a bit warm," he said. "I don't think we should hang around."
"On board, safe and sound for the moment," Pitt answered Gunn.
"Is that gunfire?" the unmistakable voice of Admiral Sandecker came over the radio.
" Al is celebrating the Fourth of July early. Did you find and cut the detonators on the explosives?"
"Bad news on this end," replied Sandecker soberly. "The army used a small charge to blow the doors to the tunnel at the end of the canal. We gained entrance and found an empty chamber."
"You've lost me, Admiral."
"I hate to be the bearer of sad tidings, but there are no explosives. If Qin Shang means to blast a hole in the levee, it's not anywhere around here."
43
THERE WAS FAR MORE LIGHT on the highway levee above the Mystic Canal. Portable floodlights and flashing red and blue lights lit up the river and surrounding countryside. Eight Army vehicles in their camouflage paint schemes mingled with a dozen sheriff's cars from Iberville Parish. Highway barricades had north and southbound traffic backed up for nearly a mile.
The group of men standing beside an Army command vehicle wore expressions of grave concern. Admiral Sandecker, Rudi Gunn, Sheriff Louis Marchand of Iberville Parish and General Olson looked like men who had wandered into a maze with no exit. General Olson was especially exasperated.
"A fool's errand," he snarled angrily. After being informed his helicopters were shot down and a dozen of his men feared dead, he no longer put up a cocky front. "We were sent on a fool's errand. All this talk about blowing up the levee is a myth. We're dealing with a gang of international terrorists. That's our real problem."
"I'm forced to agree with the general," said Sheriff Marchand. No redneck, this man. He was trim and smartly dressed in a tailored uniform. He was polished, urbane and extremely street-smart. "The plan to blow up the levee to divert the river seems most implausible. The terrorists who stole the United States have a different goal in mind."