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  He pushed a fourth switch. "Gettysburg. Gettysburg, please respond," Pitt implored. "Do you read me? Over."

  Silence, and then "This is Gettysburg. Who the hell are you? Over."

  The sudden reply, so clear and distinct, surprised Pitt, and he took nearly three seconds to answer.

  "Not that it matters, the name is Dirk Pitt. For the love of God, Gettysburg, sheer off. I repeat, sheer off. You are on a glide path for Cuba."

  "So what else is new?" said Jurgens. "I can only keep this bird in the air a few more minutes and must make a touchdown attempt at the nearest landing strip. We've run out of options."

  Pitt did not reply immediately. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Suddenly something clicked in his mind.

  "Gettysburg, can you possibly make Miami?"

  "Negative. Over."

  "Try for the Key West Naval Air Station. It lies at the tip of the Keys."

  "We copy. Our computers show it one hundred ten miles north and slightly east of us. Very doubtful.

  Over."

  "Better to pile it up in the water than hand it to the Russians."

  "That's easy for you to say. We've got over a dozen people on board. Over."

  Pitt wrestled with his conscience for a moment, struggling whether or not to play God. Then he said urgently, "Gettysburg, go for it! Go for the Keys."

  He couldn't have known it but Jurgens was about to make the same decision. "Why not? What have we got to lose but a billion-dollar airplane and our lives. Keep your fingers crossed."

  "When I go off the air you should be able to reestablish communications with Houston," said Pitt.

  "Good luck, Gettysburg. Come home safe. Out."

  Pitt sat there, drained. There was a strange silence in the devastated room, a silence only intensified by the low moans of the wounded. He looked up at Quintana and smiled thinly. His part in the act was over, he thought vaguely, all that was left was to gather up his friends and return home.

  But then his mind recalled the La Dorada.

  <<58>>

  The Gettysburg made a fat target as she glided quietly through the night. There was no glow from the exhaust pods of her dead engines, but she was lit from bow to tail by flashing navigation lights. She was only a quarter of a mile ahead and slightly below Hollyman's attack fighter. He knew now that nothing could save the shuttle and the men inside. Her fiery end was only seconds away.

  Hollyman went through the mechanical motions of planning his attack. The visual displays on his forward panel and windshield showed the necessary speed and navigation data along with the status and firing cues of his missile delivery systems. A digital computer automatically tracked the space shuttle, and he had little to do except press a button.

  "Colorado Control, I am locked on target."

  "Roger, Fox Leader. Four minutes to touchdown. Begin your attack."

  Hollyman was torn by indecision. He felt such a wave of revulsion that he was temporarily incapable of movement, his mind sick with the realization of the terrible act he was about to commit. He had nurtured a forlorn hope the whole thing was some horrible mistake and the Gettysburg, like a condemned convict about to be executed in an old movie, would be saved by a last-minute reprieve from the President.

  Hollyman's distinguished career in the Air Force was finished. Despite the fact he was carrying out orders, he would forever be branded as the man who blasted the Gettysburg and her crew out of the sky. He experienced a fear and an anger he had never known before.

  He could not accept his lot as hard luck, or that fate chose him to play executioner. He softly cursed the politicians who made the military decisions, and who had brought him to this moment.

  "Repeat, Fox Leader. Your transmission was garbled."

  "Nothing, Control. It was nothing."

  "What is your delay?" asked General Post. "Begin your attack immediately."

  Hollyman's fingers hovered over the fire button. "God forgive me," he whispered.

  Suddenly the digits on his tracking display began to change. He studied them briefly, drawn by curiosity. Then he stared at the space shuttle. It appeared to be rolling.

  "Colorado Control!" he shouted into his microphone. "This is Fox Leader. Gettysburg has broken off her approach heading. Do you copy? Gettysburg is banking left and turning north."

  "We copy, Fox Leader," replied Post, relief evident in his voice. "We have the course change on our tracking display. Take up position and stay with shuttle. Those guys are going to need all the moral support they can get."

  "With pleasure," said Hollyman gleefully. "With pleasure."

  A pall of silence hung over the Johnson Space Center control room. Unaware of the near-fatal drama played out by the Air Force, the ground team of four controllers and a growing crowd of NASA scientists and administrators hung in a purgatory of gloom. Their tracking network displayed the sudden turn to the north by the shuttle, but it could have merely indicated a roll or an S-turn in preparation for landing.

  Then with startling abruptness, Jurgens' voice cracked the silence. "Houston, this is Gettysburg. Do you read? Over."

  The control room erupted in a pandemonium of cheering and applause. Merv Foley reacted swiftly and replied. "Roger, Gettysburg. Welcome back to the fold."

  "Am I talking to the real Merv Foley?"

  "If there are two of us, I hope they catch the other guy quick before he signs our names to a lot of checks."

  "You're Foley, all right."

  "What is your status, Dave? Over."

  "Are you tracking?"

  "All systems have been go except communications and guidance control since you departed the space station."

  "Then you know our altitude is 44,000 feet, speed 1,100. We're going to try for a touchdown at Key West Naval Air Station, over.

  Foley looked up at Irwin Mitchell, his face strained.

  Mitchell nodded and lightly tapped Foley's shoulder. "Let's pull out all the stops and bring those guys home."

  "She's a good four hundred miles outside the cross-range," said Foley dejectedly. "We've got a hundred-ton aircraft with a descent rate of 10,000 feet a minute on a glide slope seven times steeper than a commercial airliner's. We'll never do it."

  "Never say never," Mitchell replied. "Now tell them we're getting on it. And try to sound cheerful."

  "Cheerful?" Foley took a few seconds to brace himself, and then he pressed the Transmit switch.

  "Okay, Dave, we're going to work on the problem and get you to Key West. Are you on TAEM?

  Over."

  "Affirmative. We're pulling every trick in the book to conserve altitude. Our normal pattern approach will have to be deleted to extend our reach, over."

  "Understood. All air and sea rescue units in the area are being alerted."

  "Might not be a bad idea to let the Navy know we're dropping in for breakfast."

  "Will do," Foley said. "Stand by."

  He punched in tracking data on the display screen of his console. The Gettysburg was dropping past 39,500 feet, and she still had eighty miles to go.

  Mitchell walked over, his eyes staring at the trajectory display on the giant wall screen. He adjusted his headset and called Jurgens.

  "Dave, this is Irwin Mitchell. Go back to auto. Do you copy? Over."

  "I copy, Irv, but I don't like it."

  "Better the computers handle this stage of the approach. You can go back to manual ten miles from touchdown."

  "Roger, out."

  Foley looked up at Mitchell expectantly. "How close?" was all he asked.

  Mitchell took a deep breath. "Paper thin."

  "They can do it?"

  "If the wind doesn't get temperamental, they stand a hairline chance. But if it veers into a five-knot crosswind, they buy the farm."

  There was no fear in the cockpit of the Gettysburg. There was no time for it. Jurgens followed the descent trajectory on the computer display screens very closely. He flexed his fingers like a piano player before a concert,
anxiously awaiting the moment he took over manual control for the final landing maneuvers.

  "We've got an escort," said Burkhart.

  For the first time, Jurgens turned his eyes from the instruments and gazed out the windows. He could just make out an F-15 fighter flying alongside about two hundred yards away. As he watched, the pilot switched on his navigation lights and waggled his wings. Two other aircraft in formation followed suit.

  Jurgens reset his radio to a military frequency.

  "Where did you guys come from?"

  "Just cruising the neighborhood for girls and spotted your flying machine," answered Hollyman.

  "Anything we can do to assist? Over."

  "Got a towrope? Over."

  "Fresh out."

  "Thanks for hanging around, out."

  Jurgens felt a small measure of comfort. If they fell short of Key West and had to ditch, at least the fighters could stand by and guide rescuers to their position. He turned his attention back to the flight indicators and idly wondered why Houston hadn't put him in communication with the Key West Naval Air Station.

  "What in hell do you mean Key West is shut down?" Mitchell shouted at a white-faced engineer standing at his side, who was holding a phone. Without waiting for an answer, Mitchell grabbed the receiver. "Who am I talking to?" he demanded.

  "This is Lieutenant Commander Redfern."

  "Are you fully aware of the seriousness of this situation?"

  "It has been explained, sir, but there is nothing we can do. A fuel tanker crashed into our power lines earlier this evening and blacked out the field."

  "What about your emergency generators?"

  "The diesel-engine power source ran fine for about six hours and then failed from a mechanical problem. They're working on it now and should have it back in service in an hour."

  "That's too damned late," Mitchell snapped. "The Gettysburg is two minutes away. How can you guide them in on the final approach?"

  "We can't," answered the commander. "All our equipment is shut down."

  "Then line the runway with car and truck headlights, anything that will illuminate the surface."

  "We'll do our best, sir, but with only four men on flight line duty this time of the morning it won't be much. I'm sorry."

  "You're not the only one who's sorry" Mitchell grunted, and slammed down the phone.

  "We should have the runway on visual by now," said Burkhart uneasily. "I see the city lights of Key West but no sign of the air station."

  For the first time, a faint gleam of sweat appeared on Jurgens' brow. "Damned odd we haven't heard from their control tower."

  At that moment, Mitchell's strained voice broke in. "Gettysburg, Key West station has a power outage. They are making an effort to light the runway with vehicles. We are directing your approach from the east to land on a westerly heading. Your runway is seven thousand feet. If you overshoot you wind up in a recreation park. Do you copy? Over."

  "Roger, Control. We copy."

  "We show you at 11,300 feet, Dave. Speed 410. One minute, ten seconds and six miles to touchdown. You are go for full manual, over."

  "Roger, going to manual."

  "Do you have the runway on visual?"

  "Nothing yet."

  "Excuse the interruption, Gettysburg." It was Hollyman cutting in on the NASA frequency. "But I think my boys and I can play Rudolph to your sleigh. We'll go ahead and light the way, over."

  "Much obliged, little buddy," said Jurgens gratefully.

  He watched as the F-15s accelerated past, dropped their noses, and pointed them toward Key West.

  They fell into line as if playing follow the leader and switched on their landing lights. At first the brilliant rays only reflected on water, and then they lit up a salt flat before sweeping up the naval air station runway.

  The effort of concentration showed on Jurgens' face. The shuttle went right where he aimed it, but it was never meant to soar through the air like a paper glider. Burkhart read out the airspeed and altitude so Jurgens could center his attention on flying.

  "Gettysburg, you are three hundred feet under minimum," said Foley.

  "If I pull up another inch, she'll stall."

  The runway seemed to take forever to grow larger. The shuttle was only four miles out, but it looked like a hundred. Jurgens believed he could make it. He had to make it. Every brain cell in his skull willed the Gettysburg to hang in the air.

  "Speed 320, altitude 1,600, three miles to runway," reported Burkhart. His voice had a trace of hoarseness.

  Jurgens could see the flashing lights from the fire and rescue equipment now. The fighters were hovering above him, shining their landing lights on the concrete ribbon 1.5 miles long by 200 feet wide.

  The shuttle was eating up her glide slope. Jurgens flared her out as much as he dared. The landing lights glinted on the shoreline no more than ninety feet below. He held on to the last possible second before he pushed the switch and deployed the landing gear. Normal landing procedure required the wheels to touch 2,760 feet down the runway, but Jurgens held his breath, hoping against hope that they would even reach the concrete.

  The salt flat flashed past under the blinding beams and was lost in the darkness behind. Burkhart gripped his seat rests and droned off the diminishing numbers.

  "Speed 205. Main gear at ten feet. . . five feet. . . three feet. . . two feet. . . one, contact."

  The four huge tires of the main landing gear thumped on the hard surface and protested at the sudden friction with a puff of smoke. A later measurement would show that Jurgens touched the shuttle down only forty-seven feet from the end of the runway. Jurgens gently pitched the bow down until the nose wheel made contact and then pushed both brake pedals. He rolled the spacecraft to a stop with a thousand feet to spare.

  "They made it!" Hollyman whooped over his radio.

  "Gettysburg to Houston Control," said Jurgens with an audible sigh. "The wheels have stopped."

  "Magnificent! Magnificent!" shouted Foley.

  "Congratulations, Dave," added Mitchell. "Nobody could have done it better."

  Burkhart looked over at Jurgens and said nothing, simply gave a thumbs-up sign.

  Jurgens sat there, his adrenaline still flowing, basking in his triumph over the odds. His weary mind began to wander and he found himself wondering who Dirk Pitt was. Then he pressed the intercom switch.

  "Mr. Steinmetz."

  "Yes, Commander?"

  "Welcome back to earth. We're home."

  <<59>>

  Pitt tool one quick comprehensive look as he stepped back into Velikov's study. Everyone was kneeling, clustered around Raymond LeBaron, who was stretched out on the floor. Jessie was holding his hand and murmuring to him. Gunn looked up at Pitt's approach and shook his head.

  "What happened?" Pitt asked blankly.

  "He jumped to his feet to help you and caught the bullet that cut your ear," Giordino replied.

  Before kneeling, Pitt stared down a moment at the mortally wounded millionaire. The clothing that covered the upper abdomen bloomed in a spreading stain of crimson. The eyes still had life and were focused on Jessie's face. His breath came in rapid and shallow pants. He tried to raise his head and say something to her, but the effort was too great and he fell back.

  Slowly Pitt sank on one knee beside Jessie. She turned and looked at him with tears trickling down her discolored cheeks. He stared back at her briefly without speaking. He could think of nothing to say to her, his mind was played out.

  "Raymond tried to save you," she said huskily. "I knew they could never completely turn him inside out. In the end he came back."

  LeBaron coughed, a strange rasping kind of cough. He gazed up at Jessie, his eyes dulled, face white and drained of blood. "Take care of Hilda," he whispered. "I leave everything in your hands."

  Before he could say more, the room trembled as the rumble of explosives came from deep below.

  Quintana's team had begun destroying the electronic equipment
inside the compound. They would have to leave soon, and there would be no taking Raymond LeBaron with them.

  Pitt thought of all the newspaper stories and magazine articles glorifying the dying man on the carpet as a steel-blooded power merchant who could make or break executive officers of giant corporations or high-level politicians in government, a wizard at manipulating the financial markets of the world, a vindictive and cold man whose trail was littered with the bones of competing businesses he had crushed and their thousands of employees who were cast out on the streets. Pitt had read all that, but all he saw was a dying old man, a paradox of human frailty, who had stolen his best friend's wife and then killed him for a fortune in treasure. Pitt could feel no pity for such a man, no flicker of emotion.

  Now the slender thread holding LeBaron on to life was about to break. He leaned over and placed his lips close to the old power broker's ear.

  "La Dorada," Pitt whispered. "What did you do with her?"

  LeBaron looked up, and his eyes glistened for an instant as his clouding mind took a final look at the past. His voice was faint as he summoned up the strength to answer. The words came almost as he died.

  "What did he say?" asked Giordino.

  "I'm not sure," replied Pitt, his expression bewildered. "It sounded likèLook on the main sight.' "

  To the Cubans across the bay on the main island the detonations sounded like distant thunder and they paid no attention. No spouting volcano of red and orange lit the horizon, no fiery column of flame reaching hundreds of feet through the black sky attracted their curiosity. The sounds came strangely muffled as the compound was destroyed from within. Even the belated destruction of the great antenna went without notice.

  Pitt helped Jessie to the staging area on the beach, followed by Giordino and Gunn, who was carried on a stretcher by the Cubans. Quintana joined them and dropped all caution as he shined a pencil thin flashlight in Pitt's face.

  "You'd better get a patch on that ear."

  "I'll survive until we reach the SPUT."