Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

by Cussler, Clive

  sound. After ordering a local Chardonnay, they admired the view across

  Quartermaster Harbor to a smaller island named Maury. To the

  southeast, they could see Mt. Rainier standing majestically in the

  distance.

  "Reminds me a little of the Grand Tetons," Sarah said, fondly recalling

  the craggy peaks of northwest Wyoming. "I used to ride horses for

  miles around Lake Jackson at the base of the Tetons."

  "I bet you're a pretty fair downhill skier as well," Dirk ventured.

  "I banged up a few sets of skis growing up," she laughed. "How'd you

  know?"

  "Jackson Hole is right around the corner. Skied it once a few years ago. Terrific snow."

  "I love it there," Sarah gushed, her hazel eyes glistening. "But I am

  surprised to hear that you have been to Jackson. I didn't think that a

  NUMA special projects director was allowed to leave sight of the

  ocean."

  It was Dirk's turn to laugh. "Only on my annual vacation. The Gobi

  Desert happened to be booked that year," he grinned. "So tell me, how

  did a nice girl from Wyoming end up working at the Centers for Disease

  Control?"

  "It's because I am a nice girl from Wyoming," she cooed. "Growing up

  on my parents' ranch, I was always nursing a sick calf or mending a

  lame horse. My dad always said I was a softie, but I just loved being

  around animals and trying to help them. So I studied veterinary

  medicine in school, and, after bouncing around a few jobs, was able to

  snag the field epidemiologist job with the CDC. Now I travel the world

  preventing disease outbreaks and helping sick animals, and I even get

  paid for it," she smiled.

  Dirk could tell her compassion was genuine. Sarah had a warm heart

  that seemed to resonate through her. If not employed by the rDC she

  would probably be off running a dog shelter or helping a wildlife

  rescue, with or without a paycheck. With her gazing at Dirk ith tender

  eyes, he was glad she was here with him now.

  A waiter appeared to spoil their intimacy, but brought a gourmet meal

  to the table. Dirk enjoyed a mesquite-grilled king salmon filet, while

  Sarah dined on Alaskan weathervane scallops she deemed so tender they

  melted in her mouth. After sharing a fresh raspberry cheesecake for

  dessert, they took a short stroll hand in hand along the water's edge.

  Dirk kept an eye out for the two men in the Cadillac, whom he finally

  observed parked a few blocks away in Burton.

  "It's gorgeous here, but I guess we should be getting back," Sarah said

  with disappointment. "We should have the blood test results on your

  sick crewmen by now, and Hal probably has your bomb canister analysis

  completed."

  As they approached the car, she turned and hugged Dirk.

  "Thanks for a lovely lunch," she whispered.

  ""Kidnapping beautiful women in the afternoon is a specialty of mine,"

  he smiled, then took her in his arms and gave her a long passionate

  kiss. She responded by wrapping her arms around him, squeezing the

  back of his waist tightly.

  Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dirk meandered slowly down the

  one-lane thoroughfare of Burton. He glared as he drove by the Cadillac

  parked in a side alley, the two men waiting for them to pass. As he

  watched in the rearview mirror, he was somewhat surprised to see the

  black sedan turn and follow immediately behind him. There was no more

  pretense of an invisible tail, Dirk thought, which was not a good

  sign.

  The Cadillac followed behind until they reached the intersection of the

  Vashon Highway. As he stopped to turn, Dirk glanced again in his

  mirror. He could see the passenger with the goatee reaching down at

  "is feet and pulling something out of the leather case.

  A sick feeling hit him in his stomach and, without an instant's hesitation, he mashed down on the accelerator. With tires squealing, the

  Chrysler whipped onto the highway and sped north.

  "Dirk, what are you doing?" Sarah asked with a bewildered look as

  she was pushed back into the seat.

  In an instant, the Cadillac screeched onto the highway behind them,

  sending a spray of gravel flying through the air. This time, the

  Cadillac was not intent on following behind the old Chrysler but nosed

  into the vacant oncoming traffic lane in order to pull alongside.

  "Get down on the floor!" Dirk yelled at Sarah as he watched the':

  black car approach in his side mirror. Confused but comprehendin| the

  tone in his voice, Sarah slipped down into the cavernous footwej of the

  Chrysler and rolled into a ball. Dirk eased off the accelerater and

  looked to his left as the Cadillac pulled rapidly alongside. The

  passenger window was rolled down and the young tough grinned sardonically at Dirk. Then he raised an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun from

  his lap and leveled it at Dirk's head.

  The gunman may have been younger but Dirk's reflexes were faster. By

  the time the killer's finger pulled the trigger, Dirk was already

  standing on the brakes. A short burst of fire ricocheted harmlessly

  across the hood of the Chrysler as it suddenly fell back of the

  speeding Cadillac in a cloud of burned rubber. The Chrysler's narrow

  tires screeched in protest as the wheels locked up for a moment before

  Dirk eased off the brakes. He paused a second, waiting for the

  Cadillac to react, then saw what he was waiting for. As the brake

  lights of the Cadillac lit up, he punched the push-button automatic

  transmission into second gear and stomped the accelerator to the

  floorboard.

  A flood of raw gas charged down the throats of the Chrysler's twin

  four-barrel carburetors, spraying a gush of combustible fuel to the

  hungry 392-cubic-inch hemi motor. Packing over 380 horsepower, the

  Chrysler 300-D was the fastest and most powerful production car in the

  country in 1958. Showing no signs of its age, the big Chrysler got up

  and roared off down the road like a charging rhinoceros.

  The would-be assassins were caught off guard by the suddenly accelerating Chrysler and swore at each other as the big green car shot by

  like an arrow. The gunman made an attempt to fire another burst but

  was too late with his aim, emptying the clip of the burp gun uselessly

  into the woods. With no oncoming traffic, Dirk cut to the left lane

  after passing the Cadillac, making it more difficult for the

  passenger-side gunman to aim his weapon.

  "What's happening? Why are they shooting at us?" Sarah cried from the

  floor.

  "Some relatives of our old pals in Alaska, I'm betting," Dirk yelled

  over the roar of the engine as he upshifted into third gear. "Been

  following us for some time now."

  "Can we escape?" Sarah asked with fear in her voice.

  "We can hold our own on the straight aways but they'll gain on us in

  the curves. If we can get close to the ferry landing and more people,

  they should back off," he replied, hoping his words would hold true.

  The Chrysler had opened a wide gap between the two cars, but the

  Cadillac was inching closer. A narrow bend in the road forced Dirk to

  ease off the gas slightly in order to keep the 4,500-pound colossus on
>
  the road, allowing the lighter and more nimble Cadillac to gain

  precious feet. The gunman, angry and undisciplined, began emptying a

  second clip in a rage, shooting wildly at the car. Most of the bullets

  zinged harmlessly into the Chrysler's trunk, creating a sieve like

  montage of small round holes. Dirk hunched low in the driver's seat

  and weaved the car randomly back and forth across the road to avoid

  presenting a stable target.

  "How much farther?" Sarah asked, still hugging the carpeted floor.

  "Just a couple of more miles. We'll make it," Dirk replied, throwing a

  confident wink toward her.

  But internally, Dirk cursed himself. He cursed that he had placed her in

  such a position of danger and had not called for help earlier he knew

  he was being followed. And he cursed that he was unarmed, having no weapon at his disposal to fight back with other than a

  nearly fifty-year-old car.

  Like a vulture stalking its prey, the black Cadillac mimicked every

  move of the Chrysler, trying desperately to close the gap between the

  two speeding vehicles. As the cars entered a long straight stretch of

  the Vashon Highway, Dirk looked down and saw the speedometer needle

  tickling 125 miles per hour. A blue pickup truck approached from the

  opposite direction and Dirk eased into the right lane, holding the

  accelerator firmly to the floor. The Cadillac's driver, unduly intent

  on overtaking the Chrysler, didn't notice the rapidly approaching

  truck at first and swerved harshly to the right at the last second,

  braking reflexively in the slight panic. The move allowed the

  Chrysler to gain a few more precious feet of pavement and elicited a

  stream of profanities from the frustrated gunman.

  But Dirk's temporary dominance was about to expire. The Vashon Highway

  began a series of curves and bends at the northern end of the island

  before it dropped down to the ferry terminal and the racing advantage

  turned from speed to road handling. Coming hard off the long

  straightaway, Dirk braked hard into a sweeping left curve, fighting

  vigorously to keep the big convertible on the road. The more agile

  Cadillac easily made up lost ground and was soon within a few yards of

  Dirk's bumper. Once more, he heard the sputter of machine-gun fire and

  ducked his head down low. A burst of fire shattered into the

  windshield in front of him, turning the glass into a maze of pockmarked

  cracks and holes. One round came in low and Dirk could feel it nearly

  graze his cheek as it whizzed by before smashing into the dashboard.

  "I already shaved once today, you bastards," he grumbled, his anger

  overcoming any feelings of fear. As he flung the Chrysler into the

  next turn, the old-fashioned bias-ply tires screeched loudly, leaving a

  smoking black trail along the roadway. The gunman, having already

  exhausted two clips, began firing more cautiously to conserve his

  remaining ammunition. Waiting until the Chrysler entered a right

  turn, then peppered the car with quick, point-blank bursts. Foolishly

  electing not to shoot out the tires, he maintained his aim on the car's

  cockpit.

  Inside, Dirk and Sarah were showered with a continuous deluge of broken

  glass, plastic, and metal shards as streams of bullets ripped into the

  interior. Dirk did his best to guide the car down the center of the

  road, glancing repeatedly at his side mirrors to ensure the Cadillac

  didn't accelerate alongside for a better kill shot. Several times he

  veered the Chrysler sharply to one side, nearly smashing the front end

  of the Cadillac before its driver backed down and maintained a

  five-foot buffer off his tail.

  Dirk felt like a boxer in the ring, ducking and weaving his head and

  body up, down, and side to side in order to see the road while avoiding

  a rain of lead. He cringed while sliding the car through a right turn

  he watched a ribbon of holes appear in a neat line down the hood.

  The burst punctured the radiator, sending a white plume of steam

  hissing out the grille and hood. Time was short now, he realized.

  Without coolant, the engine would overheat and seize up. He and Sarah

  would then be easy pickings.

  As they approached the northern tip of the island, he tried a last

  gambit. Approaching a narrow left turn ahead, Dirk eased into the

  center of the road and slowed slightly to pull the Cadillac in close.

  Then, with both feet on the pedal, he stomped on the brakes as hard as

  he could. Through the screaming tires and cloud of burned rubber, the

  Cadillac kissed the back of the Chrysler hard before its driver slammed

  on the brakes. But his gamble to decimate the front end of the

  Cadillac failed. The Chrysler's ancient drum brakes were no match for

  the Cadillac's four-wheel disc, anti lock braking system, and the newer

  car nearly came to a stop while the big Chrysler was still skidding

  down the road. The Cadillac's driver realized the ploy and kept a

  healthy separation distance now. Dirk let off the brakes and jammed on

  the

  accelerator, hoping to keep making ground. There was little left he

  could do now.

  The two cars had reached the top of the last rise on the northern

  section of the island. From there, the road gradually snaked downhill

  toward the water's edge, passing a few lanes of shops and houses before

  terminating at the ferry landing. Dirk noticed a small stream of cars

  beginning to dot the highway from the opposite direction, recent

  emigrants from a ferry stop, he surmised.

  Despite the additional traffic on the road, the machine gun firing from

  behind continued. The assassins had crossed the line and were bent on

  killing Dirk and Sarah regardless of who got in their way. Dirk gave

  Sarah a quick glance and forced a grin. Her soft eyes showed a mixture

  of both fear and trust. Trust that he would somehow find a way to save

  them. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, more determined than ever

  to shield her from harm.

  But there were only seconds to act. The old Chrysler, which now

  resembled the remains of a B-2 bomber target, was clearly on its last

  legs. Smoke billowed from under the hood, accompanied by a throbbing

  melody of knocks and groans from the nearly spent motor. Sparks flew

  from beneath the frame, where a broken exhaust pipe scraped the

  pavement with a torturous grind. Even the tires had generated flat

  spots from the hard braking and thumped out of round. The temperature

  gauge, Dirk noted, had been firmly pegged in the red for several

  minutes now.

  Above the roar, he could hear the blast of a ferry horn just ahead as

  they wound closer to the water. From behind, the squeal of the

  Cadillac's tires and the peppering sound of machine-gun fire rattled in

  his ears. The big Chrysler suddenly lurched as the hemi engine began

  to mortally overheat. Dirk's eyes raced over the landscape, searching

  for a sheriff's car, a bank that might employ an armed guard, any sort

  of help he might solicit as a last means of defense. But all he saw

  were quaint little bayside homes with small flower gardens.

  Then, l
ooking down the hill toward the approaching ferry terminal)

  he had a thought. Highly improbable, he figured, but at this point

  they had nothing to lose.

  Sarah looked up and noticed a look of confident resolve suddenly appear

  on his face.

  "What is it, Dirk?" she yelled above the din.

  "Sarah, my dear," he replied assuredly, "I think our ship has come

  in."

  Larry Hatala watched as the final car in line, a pea green 1968

  Volkswagen microbus, chugged up the ramp and onto the ferry. A

  thirty-year veteran of the Washington State Department of

  Transportation, the grizzled Vashon Island terminal attendant shook his

  head and smiled at the driver of the old hippie car, a bearded man in

  bandana and granny glasses. Once the VW was safely aboard the ferry,

  Hatala lowered a wooden orange-and-white signal arm that halted any

  pending traffic at the end of the pier. His work complete until the

  next boat arrived in thirty minutes, Hatala removed a weathered

  baseball cap and wiped his forehead with a sleeve, then threw a

  cheerful wave of the cap to a fellow employee on the departing ferry. A

  young man in a gray jumpsuit finished yanking a guardrail across the

  stern of the ferry, then returned Hatala's wave with a mock military

  salute. As the pilot let loose a deep blast from the air horn, Hatala

  untied a safety docking line and tossed the loose end across to the

  ferry, where his coworker neatly coiled it for the next stop.

  The blast from the ferry horn had barely ceased echoing across the peer

  when Hatala's ears detected an unusual sound. It was the wail of tires

  screeching violently on asphalt. Peering up the road, he could detect

  only a periodic flash through the trees of two cars roaring down The