“Where to?” It was the pilot’s voice in my earphones.
I pointed towards the fog bank. “That way. Towards Marin. How low can you get?”
“As low as you want, but I can’t fly in that fog.”
“Why not?”
“Because there could be a ship in there. We could hit it. In that fog, visibility’s zero.”
“Okay, then. Get up on top. Maybe we can see the water anyhow.”
The motor’s note deepened. The ’copter’s nose dropped as we rapidly accelerated forward. The fog seemed almost solid, yet became misty as we approached. We were—
“Who do we have up there?” asked a new voice in my earphones.
“Wh—” I looked at the pilot.
“The station,” he said. “You talk to him, back and forth. The only difference from regular broadcasting procedure, you have an open line both ways. Like a telephone. And you’ve got a directional mike. Very fancy. They can’t hear me, for instance. Or much of the engine noise, either.”
“Oh. Well—” I cleared my throat, craning my head for a better look at the small plastic microphone suspended on its slim silvery shaft four inches in front of my mouth, like a telephone operator’s. “Well, this is Detective Sergeant Frank Hastings. I’m—”
“Give us a run-down on the situation, Sergeant,” the brisk voice said. “Tell our K.T.G. radio audience what it’s like, chasing a fugitive in the K.T.G. helicopter.”
“Well, right now we can’t see much. I mean—”
“Can you tell us the identity of the fugitive, Sergeant?”
“Well, not—not at the moment. But—”
“Can you tell us what he’s wanted for?”
“Well, for questioning. He—”
“Can you give a description of him and his getaway boat, Sergeant?” the voice interrupted eagerly. “You’re on the air right this instant, you know. Live. So if you give us the description—give it to the half million K.T.G. radio listeners, you’ll have the biggest posse in the history of crime prevention.”
“Well, that—that’s a good idea. But, first, remember that this man is armed and dangerous. Very dangerous. He’s a Caucasian male, wearing a brown leather jacket, blue jeans, white sneakers. Blond hair, long. Twenty-four years old, good features, about a hundred sixty pounds. He walks with a limp in his right leg, and he’s driving—ah, piloting—a fast blue and white boat. It’s very fast. And, repeat, he’s armed and dangerous. So, if anyone sees him, keep him under long—repeat, long surveillance, and contact the nearest officer. But no one should—”
“What’s your position now, Sergeant?”
“We’re on top of the fog bank, about halfway across the bay, maybe more. We’re probably at about—” I looked at the pilot. “About five hundred feet high, I’d say.”
The pilot nodded.
“Can you see the water at all, Sergeant?”
“Negative.”
“How about the shoreline, Sergeant? What about the area where your suspect’s probably headed? Is the shoreline fog shrouded?”
“Well, not so much, that I can see.”
“No sign of the suspect yet, eh?”
“Negative.” Then, turning to the pilot, I asked, “Can’t we get down lower?”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Sergeant. We couldn’t see anything. Believe me.”
“All right, then, let’s—” I frowned, then finally reached forward to flick the orange switch up. “Let’s go over to the Marin shore, and start at Sausalito. Follow the shoreline. If we can once see him, we can—”
“Sergeant,” came the voice in my ear. “Sergeant, you’re out of contact. Come in, Sergeant Hastings.”
I sighed, flipping the switch down.
“Sorry. We were discussing our plans.”
“I see. Certainly, Sergeant. Pretty difficult to keep anything secret with a half million people listening, eh?” He laughed. “Can you tell us, though, what you plan to do when you finally spot your suspect?”
“Well, first, I’ll keep him under surveillance, while I call for help. There shouldn’t be any trouble apprehending him, once we find him.”
“But what if he shoots it out with you, Sergeant? What then?”
“Well, that’s happened before. It always ends up the same.”
“With the suspect’s death, you mean.”
“Usually.” We were swinging down over the Sausalito docks. Easily two hundred boats rode at anchor. In that first moment, I counted a half dozen blue and white craft.
“Hover around here for a couple of minutes,” I instructed the pilot.
Nodding, he moved the controls, allowing the ’copter to rotate slowly on its axis.
“What’s your position now, Sergeant?” the announcer’s voice asked.
I didn’t reply. After a moment’s silence the announcer’s voice said, “It’s obvious that the Sergeant is too busy right at the moment to answer. But whatever happens, you’ll be the first to know, you K.T.G. listeners. And now, while we pause for a commercial message, the staff here is going to attempt to contact the Communications Centre at downtown police headquarters. Since Sergeant Hastings can only communicate with K.T.G.,—hold on, please. We’re getting something now. We’re advised that—Yes, ladies and gentlemen, police communications is coming on the air, live, to communicate with Sergeant Hastings, in the K.T.G. traffic ’copter. And so, after this brief message we’ll be back on the air with this live, second-by-second, thrill-by-thrill trackdown of a dangerous armed fugitive from justice.”
I flipped up the orange switch. “See anything?” I asked the pilot.
“No.”
I pointed toward the Belvedere-Tiburon peninsula, jutting out in the bay toward San Francisco. “Let’s try there.”
“Roger.” The ’copter swung in a short, stomach-dropping arc, lowered its nose, and headed away. Now the fog was creeping up into the smaller valleys. And, pouring over the Sausalito hills from the ocean side, thick white clouds came tumbling down in the gusty wind to meet the slower creeping tendrils of the lower ocean fog.
“We’ll never find him,” I said. “All he’s got to do is stay in that fog until it’s dark, then coast in to shore.”
“Except,” the pilot answered, “that it doesn’t get dark until nine o’clock. He might run out of gas.”
“Not if he’s smart, and idles the boat.”
“Is he smart?”
I grunted. “We’ll know in a few hours.”
The pilot pointed to a large, heavily wooded island situated perhaps a half mile from Alcatraz. “Want to take a turn around Angel Island? If he wants to hide out, that’d be the perfect place. There’s only a government caretaker crew on the whole island, outside of maybe a few picnickers.”
“All right. Good. Then we can—”
“And now,” the announcer’s voice said abruptly, “we bring you the voice of Lieutenant Friedman, acting Chief of Homicide, San Francisco Police. Can you hear me, Sergeant Hastings?”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Fine, Sergeant. And now, here’s your superior officer, Lieutenant Friedman.”
A click, a pause, another click. Finally: “Hello, Sergeant Hastings?” It was Friedman’s voice. Momentarily forgetting that we were on the radio, I was wondering at his formal address.
“Yessir.”
“What’s your position?”
“We’re circling Angel Island now.”
“Any results?”
“Negative.”
I heard him sigh, finally saying, “I’m having Markham check the Marina Yacht Harbour and the, ah, suspect’s uncle, trying to find out how much gas the boat has. Meanwhile, the Army is sending a combat-type helicopter to the downtown heliport, and I’m taking a half dozen men and leaving right now to meet it. Understood?”
“Yes. Roger.”
“All right. Is your ’copter identified?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the announcer’s voice broke in. “There’s a big K.T.G. sign on t
he front. Big red letters.”
“All right, good. We should be with you in fifteen minutes, Frank. Are you staying up over the fog?”
“Yes. The pilot says it’s not safe to go down inside, because we might hit a ship.”
“All right, then, we’ll be able to see you. No problem. We’ll just have to pick up the suspect when he leaves the fog.”
“Roger.”
We were completing our circuit of Angel Island. Momentarily I’d taken my eyes from the shoreline, and was vainly trying to penetrate the fog. Where was he? At that moment, where was—
“Hey.” The pilot tapped my arm, then pointed down. “Look down there. Wait; I’ll swing us around, so you can see.”
The ’copter rotated, at the same time dropping at a sharp angle to the left.
“See it?”
Partially concealed beneath the branches of pine trees growing down to the water’s edge, a blue and white cabin cruiser was drawn up. It must be Harper’s boat. It was the same blue and white—the same cabin, the same approximate size.
The boat seemed empty, gently bobbing in the water.
“Drop down. Get closer. Let’s see if we can—”
“What is it, Sergeant?” came the announcer’s excited voice. “Have you spotted him?”
“Can you still contact Lieutenant Friedman?” I asked as calmly as possible.
“We’ll see, Sergeant. We’ll sure try. Have you—”
“Just see if you can get him on the air, please.”
We were slowly approaching the abandoned boat from a distance of perhaps twenty-five feet. Now I could set that the boat was tied to a tree trunk, not to a dock. No ordinary person—no boat owner—would ever—
“Hey,” the pilot shouted, at the same time jamming the throttle full forward, jerking back the controls. “Hey what the hell? He’s—”
Immediately in front of me, the plexiglass shattered ii a jagged sunburst of splintered safety glass, circling a small centre hole.
“Get away,” I shouted. “Fast. He’s a marksman. A sniper.”
The announcer’s voice in my earphones babbled excitedly. We were rising, banking, turning sharply to the left and swinging sharply around.
We were out of range.
“—making contact with the Army helicopter,” the announcer was saying. “Are you all right, Sergeant? Come in, please.”
“We’re all right.” Then, flipping up the switch, I said to the pilot, “Keep about this height, and fly over the boat, then hover. Can you do that?”
The helicopter turned, travelled a few hundred feet, then remained still. Fifty feet below, I could see the foliage wildly whipping in the rotor blast.
Nothing stirred.
“Are you returning your quarry’s fire?” the voice in my ear was excitedly asking. “Can you see him? Have you been hit, Sergeant? Is the helicopter damaged? Come in, please. Come in, if you’re—”
The pilot tapped my arm, then pointed to the fuel gauge. The needle touched the last mark, “R.”
“We can’t stay much longer, hovering. Takes too much fuel.”
“How much longer?”
“Five, ten minutes. No more. We’ve got a reserve, but we’ve still got to go home.”
I pointed to a clearing near the top of a large rise, perhaps at quarter mile away. “How about landing there, when the time comes?”
“Fine. What’re you going to do?”
“Wait for reinforcements, then spread out and take him.”
A roar of static came on the air, followed by Friedman’s indistinct voice, as if he were talking through a very bad connection. Hastily, I flicked the switch. “Lieutenant,” I broke in. “Can you hear me, Lieutenant?”
“Roger.”
“We’ve made contact with the suspect, Lieutenant. On Angel Island, west side, where he’s moored the boat. We’re going to land a quarter mile away; you can land there, too. Can you read me?”
“Roger. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
Slowly, I exhaled, flipping the switch for the last time, then taking off the headset and hanging it on the dashboard hook.
“Okay, let’s land.”
“Right,” the pilot said. And, in less than a minute, we were down.
“Shall I shut her off?”
“You might as well. We’ll stay here, until they come. Let’s get out, though, and take cover. No telling what that creep’ll do.” I opened the door, then stepped out, holding the riot gun ready as I scanned the clearing.
“In that case,” the pilot was saying, “I may as well take the keys.” He smiled, joining me. “Bad enough, your boy escapes in a boat. We’d all look pretty bad if he did it again. In a ’copter.”
He was tall and lean, with a weather-seamed face and sparse sandy hair. He looked in his middle thirties, and had a quick, friendly smile.
As we stood back in the shadows of a huge oak I asked, “How long’ve you been flying?”
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Always helicopters?”
“God, no. I hate them. I’m about ready to quit this job, in fact, and go back to crop dusting.”
“Don’t you use helicopters for crop dusting?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, though, we use biplanes. ’Copters are too expensive. Especially compared to bipes.”
“Isn’t crop dusting dangerous?”
He grinned. “This is the first time I ever got shot at, Sergeant. I sure wouldn’t trade you jobs.”
The roar of a motor was coming, fast.
“There’s your friends, Sergeant. That’s a ’copter.”
And, a moment later, a huge olive-drab helicopter appeared overhead, hovered for perhaps fifteen seconds, then quickly landed. Two detectives, two uniformed men and finally Friedman jumped to the ground, bending double as they trotted to join us.
“Well,” said Friedman, puffing from the short run, “you’re quite a radio star.”
“Thanks.” I turned to the pilot. “Maybe you should go over and stay with those Army men. Are they armed?” I asked Pete.
“Yes. Besides, they’re going right up again. They’re going to spot for us.” He nodded to the pilot and then jerked his head towards the waiting ’copter. The pilot moved away, seemingly reluctant.
“Where’s Harper?” Friedman asked as the others clustered around us.
I pointed to a nearby path. “I think he’s holed up down by his boat. That path leads to the area. I checked it from the air.”
“Okay. Good.”
He thought a moment, studying the terrain. He was still puffing.
Finally he said, “Frank, you’d better take these guys—” He swept the two uniformed men with a gesture, “—and spread out on the left side of the path. We’ll do the same on the right. Let’s try to keep each other in sight, with about twenty feet in between. No shooting across the path; no shooting except down towards the water.” He paused, “Everybody got it?” he asked. “If we don’t flush him out, we’ll go right down to the water, then try it again. Clear?”
Williams, a uniformed man, carried a tear gas gun; one of the detectives had a Tommy gun. The others had shotguns—except for Friedman, who never carried anything except a service revolver. Many years ago he’d accidentally discharged a Tommy gun, wounding a ten-year-old bystander.
“All right, let’s go,” the Lieutenant said. “And be careful with that chopper, Bill,” he said to the detective carrying the Tommy gun. “We’re short handed enough as it is, with this flu bug. Okay,” he went on, turning away and walking to the right side of the pathway, “let’s go. Slow and easy. And watch where you’re shooting.” He extended both arms to the ’copter: The powerful motor roared; the ’copter was suddenly air-borne.
I turned to the left, instructing Williams to walk on the outside, with a newer man between us. As I spaced them out, I watched the new man nervously fingering his shotgun as he licked at his lips, scanning the nearby underbrush with anxious eyes.
“It’s possible,�
�� I said to the new man, “that Harper’s only got two shots left in his gun. Maybe not even that, unless he has spare shells. So we don’t have to shoot too quick. Understand?”
He nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Rifkin.”
“Okay. Just take it easy, Rifkin. The first hundred shoot-outs are the toughest.”
He managed a smile.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s go. Slow and easy.”
The ’copter was hovering a bare fifty yards ahead, whipping the foliage, sending up huge clouds of dust. I glanced across at Friedman. He’d pushed his hat forward on his forehead, reminding me of a Western bad guy.
We’d covered maybe ten yards across the clearing, maybe more. Rifkin, on my left, was hanging back slightly. I was relieved; I was wishing he’d drop back even farther. If I’d known he was so green, I’d’ve put him on the outside, where he’d do the least damage.
Twenty yards. Ahead was a fringe of underbrush, the first terrain where a man could hide.
It was like hunting—exactly like deer hunting. Or maybe boar hunting, the most dangerous kind, at close quarters.
We were in the underbrush now, our pace slowed. I looked carefully up into the trees, still slowly walking forward. I was holding the riot gun half raised, and I saw that my knuckles were white. Except for the sound of the ’copter’s engine, the woods seemed very quiet.
Japanese snipers, in the war, had—
The ’copter was coming, fast and low. As it approached our line it swung broadside, hovering. A man in an olive-drab jump suit crouched in the open doorway, urgently gesturing toward the far side of the clearing we’d just left.
“They’ve spotted him,” I called.
“Spread out,” Friedman was saying as we all emerged from the underbrush. “Don’t bunch up.”
We moved behind the ’copter, across the clearing and into another line of underbrush, thicker than the first. The ’copter was almost directly overhead now, still raising its enormous dust cloud.
I clicked the safety off. Friedman and I were ahead of the others as we moved into shoulder-high laurel and juniper. The ’copter had moved to hover perhaps twenty feet ahead.
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 15
