Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .TXT) 📗

    "Every klick helps," said Giordino, "but we'll still be cutting it a mite fine."

    "Survival is guaranteed," Pitt said confidently. "This aircraft carries life vests for everyone on board plus two life rafts. I know-- I checked when I walked through the main cabin." He paused, turned, and looked back. Rodgers was checking to see all the students had their shoulder harnesses on properly.

    "Our pursuers will be on to us the instant you make contact with your vessel," Shannon persisted bleakly. "They'll know exactly where to intercept and shoot us down."

    "Not," Pitt replied loftily, "if I play my cards right."

    Setting the office chair to almost a full reclining position, communications technician Jim Stucky settled in comfortably and began reading a paperback mystery novel by Wick Downing. He had finally gotten used to the thump that reverberated throughout the hull of the NUMA oceanographic ship, Deep Fathom, every time the sonar unit bounced a signal off the seafloor of the Peru Basin. Boredom had set in soon after the vessel began endlessly cruising back and forth charting the geology 2500 fathoms below the ship's keel. Stucky was in the middle of the chapter where a woman's body is found floating inside a waterbed when Pitt's voice crackled over the speaker.

    "NUMA calling Deep Fathom. You awake, Stucky?"

    Stucky jerked erect and pressed the transmit button. "This is Deep Fathom. I read you, NUMA. Please stand by." While Pitt waited, Stucky alerted his skipper over the ship's speaker system.

    Captain Frank Stewart hurried from the bridge into the communications cabin. "Did I hear you correctly? You're in contact with Pitt and Giordino?"

    Stucky nodded. "Pitt is standing by."

    Stewart picked up the microphone. "Dirk, this is Frank Stewart."

    "Good to hear your beer-soaked voice again, Frank."

    "What have you guys been up to? Admiral Sandecker has been erupting like a volcano the past twenty-four hours, demanding to know your status."

    "Believe me, Frank, it hasn't been a good day."

    "What is your present position?"

    "Somewhere over the Andes in an antique Peruvian military chopper."

    "What happened to our NUMA helicopter?" Stewart demanded.

    "The Red Baron shot it down," said Pitt hastily. "That's not important. Listen to me carefully. We took bullet strikes in our fuel tanks. We can't stay in the air for more than a half hour. Please meet and pick us up in the town square of Chiclayo. You'll find it on your charts of the Peruvian mainland. Use our NUMA backup copter."

    Stewart looked down at Stucky. Both men exchanged puzzled glances. Stewart pressed the transmit button again. "Please repeat. I don't read you clearly."

    "We are required to land in Chiclayo due to loss of fuel. Rendezvous with us in the survey helicopter and transport us back to the ship. Besides Giordino and me, there are twelve passengers."

    Stewart looked dazed. "What in hell is going on? He and Giordino flew off the ship with our only bird. And now they're flying a military aircraft that's been shot up with twelve people on board. What's this baloney about a backup chopper?"

    "Stand by, Stewart transmitted to Pitt. Then he reached out and picked up the ship's phone and buzzed the bridge. "Find a map of Peru in the chart room and bring it to communications right away."

    "You think Pitt has fallen off his pogo stick?" asked Stucky.

    Not in a thousand years," answered Stewart. "Those guys are in trouble and Pitt's laying a red herring to mislead eavesdroppers." A crewman brought the map, and Stewart stretched it flat on a desk. "Their rescue mission took them on a course almost due east of here. Chiclayo is a good seventy-five kilometers southwest of his flight path."

    "Now that we've established his con job," said Stucky, "what's Pitt's game plan?"

    "We'll soon find out." Stewart picked up the microphone and transmitted. "NUMA, are you still with us?"

    "Still here, pal," came Pitt's imperturbable voice.

    "I will fly the spare copter to Chiclayo and pick up you and your passengers myself. Do you copy?"

    "Much appreciated, skipper. Always happy to see you never do things halfway. Have a beer waiting when I arrive."

    "Will do," answered Stewart.

    "And put on some speed will you?" said Pitt. "I need a bath real bad. See you soon."

    Stucky stared at Stewart and laughed. "Since when did you learn to fly a helicopter?"

    Stewart laughed back. "Only in my dreams."

    "Do you mind telling me what I missed?"

    "In a second." Stewart picked up the ship's phone again and snapped out orders. "Pull in the sonar's sensor and set a new course on zero-nine-zero degrees. Soon as the sensor is secured, give me full speed. And no excuses from the chief engineer that his precious engines have to be coddled. I want every revolution." He hung up the phone with a thoughtful expression. "Where were we? Oh yes, you don't know the score."

    "Is it some sort of riddle?" Stucky muttered.

    "Not at all. Obvious to me. Pitt and Giordino don't have enough fuel to reach the ship, so we're going to put on all speed and meet them approximately halfway between here and the shore, hopefully before they're forced to ditch in water infested with sharks."

    Giordino whipped along, a bare 10 meters (33 feet) above the tops of the trees at only 144 kilometers (90 miles) an hour. The twenty-year-old helicopter was capable of flying almost another 100 kilometers faster, but he reduced speed to conserve what little fuel he had left after passing over the mountains. Only one more range of foothills and a narrow coastal plain separated the aircraft from the sea. Every third minute he glanced warily at the fuel gauges. The needles were edging uncomfortably close to the red. His eyes returned to the green foliage rushing past below. The forest was thick and the clearings were scattered with large boulders. It was a decidedly unfriendly place to force-land a helicopter.

    Pitt had limped back into the cargo compartment and begun passing out the life vests. Shannon followed, firmly took the vests out of his hands, and handed them to Rodgers.

    "No, you don't," she said firmly, pushing Pitt into a canvas seat mounted along the bulkhead of the fuselage. She nodded at the loosely knotted, blood-soaked bandanna around his leg. "You sit down and stay put."

    She found a first aid kit in a metal locker and knelt in front of him. Without the slightest sign of nervous stress, she cut off Pitt's pant leg, cleaned the wound, and competently sewed the eight stitches to close the wound before wrapping a bandage around it.

    "Nice job," said Pitt admiringly. "You missed your calling as an angel of mercy."

    "You were lucky." She snapped the lid on the first aid kit. "The bullet merely sliced the skin."

    "Why do I feel as though you've acted on General Hospital?"

    Shannon smiled. "I was raised on a farm with five brothers who were always discovering new ways to injure themselves."

    "What turned you to archaeology?"

    "There was an old Indian burial mound in one corner of our wheat field. I used to dig around it for arrowheads. For a book report in high school, I found a text on the excavation of the Hopewell Indian culture burial mounds in southern Ohio. Inspired, I began digging into the site on our farm. After finding several pieces of pottery and four skeletons, I was hooked. Hardly a professional dig, mind you. I learned how to excavate properly in college and became fascinated with cultural development in the central Andes, and made up my mind to specialize in that area."