Clive cusslers dark vect.., p.33
Clive Cussler's Dark Vector, page 33
With the timer set, he glanced over to his right and back. The engine pod was there, maybe twenty feet behind him. The pylon was so stubby that the first engine in the bunch was right up against the fuselage. All he had to do was get the explosive outward about ten feet and the wind would do the rest.
Knowing he couldn’t extend his arm into the wind without being pulled from his perch, he tested a twisting motion, found that it worked acceptably and looked back at the explosive charge.
Blinking until he could see clearly for a second, Kurt pressed the start button.
The timer went from :04 to :03 to :02. Kurt twisted his body and flung the charge out at a forty-five-degree angle. The wind took it instantly and Kurt never saw it again. It flew backward and sideways as he buried his face against the fuselage and grabbed the base of the antenna with both hands.
He’d hoped to get the second or third engine in the multiengine pod—the farther out, the better—but the first engine gobbled it up before it got there.
His timing was near perfect though. The explosive went off as it hit the inside of the cowling, blowing the engine apart from within.
Shrapnel from the first engine tore into the second one while the shock wave twisted the entire pylon, causing the third engine to chew up its own fan blades. A hundred-foot trail of fire and molten sparks flared from the back end, lighting up the morning like the world’s largest Roman candle.
Kurt felt the blast wave but was insulated from most of the explosion by the rushing wind and the fact that the charge detonated inside the cowling.
Peeking under a raised elbow, he looked back to see a trail of smoke and fire marring the sky behind them.
With a twist and a groan, the number one engine tore away, flipping back along the fuselage and nearly hitting the tail before vanishing behind them and dropping into the sea.
The plane began to shudder, yawing to the right, pitching upward and slowing.
Kurt held on with a white-knuckled grip. He’d thrown his best punch and landed a knockout. The only question now was, would he survive the aftermath?
CHAPTER 73
All Emmerson felt was a muted thud, but the wall of red and yellow warning lights on the engineer’s panel concerned him and the plane starting to shake terrified him.
“What’s happening?” he demanded.
The pilots didn’t answer. They were too busy trying not to crash and die.
“Starboard engines are out,” the navigator said. “Fire detected. Cut the fuel. Shut down the port side.”
While the copilot shut off the fuel supply, the pilot manipulated the wheel and the rudders, exhibiting strong hands and quick feet. With no power and a fire burning on the starboard side of the plane, he had only the rudders to guide them now. He pushed and strained and twisted his body, deftly keeping the nose straight as the plane slowed down.
As the aircraft neared the water, he pulled back hard on the controls, flaring at the last second and carving a near-perfect landing on the sea.
Emmerson was stunned. “What are you doing? Get us airborne.”
“This plane isn’t going anywhere,” the pilot said. “Ever again.”
Eliminating the pirates in back was no longer an option. Escape wasn’t looking too likely either. Emmerson undid his seat belt, grabbed his pistol and prepared to fight to the death.
He was furious, but they still had some advantages. The first being that he and Guānchá were used to killing, while the holier-than-thou Water Rats were not.
“We have to kill them the old-fashioned way,” he told Guānchá. “Face-to-face.”
Guānchá nodded, reloaded his pistol and stepped through the cockpit door.
Emmerson was ready to follow him when a radio call came over the speaker. “This is Skimmer 1,” the voice announced. “We see the smoke. Are you all right?”
Maybe escape was possible after all. Emmerson grabbed the pilot. “Get the skimmer down here. Tell him to come and pick us up.”
CHAPTER 74
Yan-Li felt the explosion and dropped to the deck as tumbling engine parts and shrapnel punched a dozen holes in the fuselage. Though there was no major fire, the acrid smell of burning kerosene poured in.
A wave of euphoria surged through her body. Kurt had somehow done what he’d promised to do. She turned to Callum. “Get the boat in position.”
Callum and the others pushed the boat onto the rollers in the center of the ramp. Yan went back to the hand pump, working it as her arms and shoulders threatened to cramp up. Eventually, the doors opened wide enough for the ramp to fall with the aid of gravity.
It splashed into the blue water behind the aircraft and the boat slid down the rollers into the sea. Yan exhaled and let go of the lever and slumped over for a second.
Straightening up, she stepped toward the ramp, ready to run down it and into the beckoning water. She was ten feet from freedom when something sharp hit her in the back of her leg.
The echoing pop of the gunshot seemed to come afterward as she landed face-first on the metal decking. She was stunned by the impact, confused by the burning sensation in her thigh and very aware of the taste of blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue.
She heard heavy boots on the deck behind her. She lifted her hand and waved for the men to get out of there, to get away before anything else happened.
They refused. Callum swung the boat around but gunfire from above and behind her chased them off.
With great effort, Yan rolled over. Guānchá was standing there. Thirty feet behind her, half hidden by the nose of the submarine.
She glanced up at him, wanting to look him in the eye when he fired the last shot. She wanted him to know that even though he’d finished her, she’d likewise destroyed him and his boss.
And then something else caught her attention. A glowing LED just to Guānchá’s right. Exactly where Kurt had placed it.
She started to laugh at her would-be killer. Laughing so hard it unnerved him. He looked down just as the last of the NUMA explosives went off at his feet.
Guānchá vanished in the explosion. Yan was pushed toward the tail. Her clothes and hair were singed by the heat. She found herself at the edge of the ramp only yards from the embrace of the sea. Smoke and fire swirled around her. She got to her knees and began to crawl, but the deck started to tilt the wrong way. The aircraft, broken in the middle, was taking on water amidships, sinking in the center with both ends rising toward the sky.
CHAPTER 75
Kurt had managed to hold on as the Ekranoplan made its emergency landing. As it slowed and began to drift, he got to his feet and raced toward the nose of the aircraft. Finding his pistol, he pulled open the emergency egress hatch at the top of the cockpit and pointed the weapon down into the green and gray space.
He saw three empty seats, debris on the floor and an abandoned headset. There was no sign of Emmerson or the pilots.
Still on top of the plane, he moved to the port side, away from the smoldering engines. Looking down over the side of the plane, he noticed an open hatch. A rope ladder had been dropped from it, the bottom rung only six feet above the sea.
Kurt looked out through the swirling smoke to the ocean beyond. A hundred yards from the plane, he spied three figures clinging to flotation pillows and swimming for all they were worth.
He saw one of the skimmers touching down on the water nearby. The men swam toward it.
“Has to be Emmerson,” Kurt said to himself.
Planting his feet, he’d raised the pistol, but a buzzing, grinding noise racing toward him from behind set off alarm bells in his head. He spun around in time to see the other skimmer racing toward him, then dove to the side, landing flat on the rooftop just in time to avoid being decapitated.
As the noisy craft flashed over the top of him, Kurt opened fire, pulling the trigger as rapidly as he could.
Rolling onto his side, he tracked it as it flew off. A thin line of smoke was trailing from the aft. It darkened and thickened and then there was a burst of flames.
The craft turned back to the east, rolling slowly to one side and nosing over into the sea. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Just a small white splash and a growing circle of foam.
Getting to his feet and turning back toward the craft that had stopped to rescue Emmerson, Kurt raised the pistol. It was no use, he’d fired his last shot. “Emmerson,” he muttered in disgust. “I can’t believe you’re going to get away.”
“Did you say something, buddy?”
Kurt was shocked by the sound of a voice in his ear. He was shocked that the earpiece still worked and had somehow remained in place. He looked up to see the Air Truck racing in from the west.
“Joe?” he called out. “Can you actually hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Joe said. “Is that you on top of the airplane?”
“Who else would it be,” Kurt said. “How’d you find us?”
“I’d tell you it was the mile-long smoke trail you left me,” Joe said. “But I’ve actually been following these skimmers for the last hour. It’s been a fun ride, but the battery is getting low. Hang on, I’ll come in and pick you up.”
“Negative,” Kurt said. “Use whatever juice you’ve got left to stop Emmerson from escaping. He’s in that other skimmer.”
“Are you sure?” Joe asked. “I don’t really want to leave you on a burning plane.”
“Don’t worry,” Kurt said as the Air Truck sped past. “I’ll be fine.”
The very next instant, things became the opposite of fine as the explosive charge Kurt had planted inside the fuselage went off and the plane folded up like a broken straw.
Kurt was knocked off his feet. He landed flat on his back, lost his grip on the empty pistol and felt the angle of the world change drastically beneath him. As the plane bent in half, Kurt slid down the rapidly steepening grade, coming to a stop at the bend in the middle. The aluminum was hot and soft from the thermite.
Kurt knew that was a bad sign. He pushed himself up with his hands, attempting to get to the edge. But the skin of the aircraft split and a chasm opened up beneath him, swallowing him whole.
CHAPTER 76
Unaware of the explosion, Joe turned toward the skimmer to the north. The machine was already accelerating and lifted off the water before Joe could reach it. It quickly sped up to its maximum velocity. And though it couldn’t outrun the Air Truck, it still had several advantages.
For one thing, it was made of aluminum instead of plastic, making it unlikely that Joe would get the better of even a glancing impact if he tried to sideswipe the machine. Another advantage was that the skimmer had wings instead of fans. If Joe lost even one of the four fans, the Air Truck would become instantly unstable and probably flip over and crash.
Seeming to recognize this fact, the pilot of the skimmer swerved toward Joe as soon as he moved in close.
With quick fingers on the control panel, Joe turned the Air Truck away from the danger. It banked hard and all but jumped out of the way before leveling off.
The pilot of the skimmer pressed the attack, turning hard toward Joe once again.
The second attempt to knock him out of the sky was just as fruitless. But this time Joe went up over the top and dropped back down on the far side of the charging machine. He was tempted to shout Olé.
The Air Truck was so agile and maneuverable, Joe felt as if he was toying with the ponderous skimmer.
“This is like racing a minivan in a souped-up Corvette,” he said to himself.
* * *
—
Inside the skimmer, Emmerson wasn’t taking the situation so lightly. He shouted at the pilot, to no end. So when it became clear that the aircraft could go no faster, he turned to the mercenaries. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your lives in an American prison, you have to eliminate that aircraft.”
The armed men, three of whom had been injured in the fighting on Badger Island, looked less than pleased by the request. But they understood the gravity of the situation. They clicked off the safeties on their weapons and nodded.
* * *
—
As Joe maneuvered into position, the skimmer came at him again. But instead of trying to smash its nimble pursuer, it pulled up beside him with the side door thrown open.
Joe knew what was coming next. He peeled away to the right as a commando inside fired at him with an assault rifle.
“Dangerous minivan,” he said, revising his earlier assessment and reaching for the pistol on the passenger’s seat.
He managed to open the case and put his fingers on the semiautomatic weapon. But just as he got it in hand, another hail of bullets from Emmerson’s plane forced him to take evasive action.
He was thrown about inside the cockpit and almost dropped the gun. “If ever I needed this thing to fly itself,” he said, “now’s the time.”
A calm female voice replied from the control panel. “Please say course and destination.”
Joe was shocked. Stratton hadn’t told him about this feature.
“Aircraft detected in your vicinity,” the voice continued. “Please turn left forty-five degrees for collision avoidance or activate formation flying mode.”
“Formation flying?” Joe said.
“Formation flying mode activated,” the voice said. “Please state formation: side by side, echelon right or echelon left?”
Joe could hardly believe his ears. “Echelon right,” he said. “Put us in second position. Forty feet off the right wingtip.”
As the autopilot took over, the Air Truck slowed suddenly. It snapped to the right with a violent twist that had the seat belt digging into Joe’s lap. Straightening up, it sped forward, hitting full speed in seconds.
It was whiplash-inducing. But when Joe looked up, they were racing in just behind the skimmer’s tail and off its right wingtip, matching its speed and course in a tight echelon formation.
The skimmer turned hard, attempting to get away, but Joe’s computer reacted so fast the picture never changed.
“My apologies to the world of RC enthusiasts,” Joe said, gripping the pistol and switching off the safety. “This is fantastic.”
The skimmer turned hard again, this time cutting toward Joe, but the Air Truck adjusted instantly. The fans pivoted and the vehicle twisted and banked, punishing Joe with more whiplash but never breaking formation.
Reaching up, Joe grabbed the canopy’s emergency release bar. Pulling hard, he slid the canopy back. The wind roared in. The sound of the fans suddenly deafening.
With a two-handed grip, he leveled the pistol at the skimmer’s engine compartment and opened fire. He blasted away until smoke began to pour from the cowling.
The skimmer turned away and the Air Truck followed.
“End formation flying,” Joe said.
The computer didn’t respond. It was following the smoking aircraft, which looked like it was about to roll over and hit the drink.
“End formation flying.”
The wind was too loud. The microphone couldn’t pick him up.
The skimmer flipped on its back and nose-dived. Joe slapped his hand against the control panel, slamming every button he could find. The autopilot disengaged and Joe turned away from the impending crash site, pulling up and to the right.
He caught a glance of Emmerson in the small plane, his face a mask of rage and horror behind the cockpit plexiglass. Then the burning skimmer plunged nose-first into the sea.
“That was a close one,” he said. “Maybe automated flying is not that great after all.”
Joe got the craft under control and brought it back around. There was no sign of survivors below, no one bobbing in the sea waiting for rescue. Just wreckage, white foam and the nose of the small craft disappearing beneath the waves.
“No one could have survived that,” he told himself.
With the battery indicator critical, he turned back toward the Ekranoplan. As he grew close, he was shocked at the condition of the craft.
What had been a magnificent example of engineering and ingenuity was now a shattered hulk. It was broken into four pieces and sinking from the middle.
The tail slid under the waves first, dragging the right wing down through a spreading circle of unburned kerosene. The nose was pointed upward and sinking as dramatically, air and spray venting from the cockpit windows and open emergency hatches.
It disappeared from view, leaving only floating debris and several men on a ribbed inflatable boat poking around as if they were looking for survivors.
Circling the wreckage, Joe saw no one swimming for safety or clinging to any of the floating debris. Just small fires and slicks of kerosene.
The battery light went from solid red to flashing red. The fans dropped to half power and the computer voice returned. “Autoland sequence engaged.”
There was little Joe could do except sit there as the Air Truck settled onto the ocean. The body touched first and then the fans, which stopped the instant they slapped the water.
He sat there quietly as waves lapped at the side of the craft. The machine was now a very expensive canoe for which Joe didn’t have a paddle.
The men in the boat idled over toward him. “NUMA,” one of them said.
There was no way to deny it, the logo was plastered on the side of the vehicle in thousand-point font. Joe nodded. “And who are you?”
