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

    "Ain't it the truth, ain't it the truth," said Giordino, turning the nose of the craft toward the west and reducing the throttle settings to conserve fuel.

    Pitt pulled the passenger door closed, redogged the latches, untied Shannon's line from around his waist, and returned to the cockpit. "How does our fuel look?"

    "Fuel, what fuel?"

    Pitt gazed over Giordino's shoulder at the gauges. Both showed flickering red warning lights. He could also see the drawn look of fatigue on his friend's face. "Take a break and let me spell you at the controls."

    "I got us this far. I'll take us what little distance we have left before the tanks run dry."

    Pitt did not waste his breath in debate. He never ceased to marvel at Giordino's intrepid calm, his glacial fortitude, he could have searched the world and never found another friend like the tough burly Italian. "Okay, you take her in. I'll sit this one out and pray for a tailwind."

    A few minutes later they crossed over the shoreline and headed out to sea. A resort with attractive lawns and a large swimming pool encircled a small cove with a white sand beach. The sunbathing tourists looked up at the lowflying helicopter and waved. With nothing better to do, Pitt waved back.

    Pitt returned to the cargo cabin and approached Rodgers. "We've got to dump as much weight as possible, except for survival equipment like the life vests and the remaining raft. Everything else goes, excess clothing, tools, hardware, seats, anything that isn't welded or bolted down."

    Everyone pitched in and passed whatever objects they could find to Pitt, who heaved them out the passenger door. When the cabin was bare the chopper was lighter by almost 136 kilograms (300 pounds). Before he closed the door again, Pitt looked aft. Thankfully, he didn't see any pursuing aircraft. He was certain the Peruvian pilot had radioed the sighting and his intention to attack, blowing Pitt's Chiclayo smokescreen. But he doubted the Solpemachaco would suspect the loss of their mercenary soldiers and helicopter for at least another ten minutes. And if they belatedly totaled the score, and whistled up a Peruvian Air Force fighter jet to intercept, then it would be too late. Any attack on an unarmed American research ship would stir up serious diplomatic repercussions between the United States government and Peru, a situation the struggling South American nation could ill afford. Pitt was on safe ground in assuming that no local bureaucrat or military officer would risk political disaster regardless of any under-the-table payoff by the Solpemachaco.

    Pitt limped back to the cockpit, slid into the copilot's seat, and picked up the radio microphone. He brushed aside all caution as he pressed the transmit button. To hell with any bought-and-paid-for Solpemachaco cronies who were monitoring the airwaves, he thought.

    "NUMA calling Deep Fathom. Talk to me, Stucky."

    "Come in, NUMA. This is Deep Fathom. What is your position?"

    My, what big eyes you have, and how your voice has changed, Grandma."

    "Say again, NUMA."

    "Not even a credible effort." Pitt laughed. "Rich Little you ain't." He looked over at Giordino. "We've got a comic impersonator on our party line."

    "I think you better give him our position," Giordino said with more than a trace of cynicism in his voice.

    "Right you are." Pitt nodded. "Deep Fathom, this is NUMA. Our position is just south of the Magic Castle between Jungleland and the Pirates of the Caribbean."

    "Please repeat your position," came the voice of the flustered mercenary who had broken in on Pitt's call to Stucky.

    "What's this, a radio commercial for Disneyland?" Stucky's familiar voice popped over the speaker.

    "Well, well, the genuine article. What took you so long to answer, Stucky?"

    I was listening to what my alter ego had to say. You guys landed in Chiclayo yet?"

    "We were sidetracked and decided to head home," said Pitt. "Is the skipper handy?"

    "He's on the bridge playing Captain Bligh, lashing the crew in an attempt to set a speed record. Another knot and our rivets will start falling out."

    "We do not have a visual on you. Do you have us on radar?"

    "Affirmative," answered Stucky. "Change your heading to two-seven-two magnetic. That will put us on a converging course."

    "Altering course to two-seven-two," Giordino acknowledged.

    How far to rendezvous?" Pitt asked Stucky.

    "The skipper makes it about sixty kilometers."

    "They should be in sight soon." Pitt looked over at Giordino. "What do you think?"

    Giordino stared woefully at the fuel gauges, then at the instrument panel clock. The dial read 10:47 A.m. He couldn't believe so much had happened in so little time since he and Pitt had responded to the rescue appeal by the imposter of Doc Miller. He swore it took three years off his life expectancy.

    "I'm milking her for every liter of fuel at an airspeed of only forty klicks an hour," he said finally. "A slight tailwind off the shore helps, but I estimate we have only another fifteen or twenty minutes of flight time left. Your guess is as good as mine."

    "Let us hope the gauges read on the low side," said Pitt. "Hello, Stucky."

    "I'm here."

    "You'd better prepare for a water rescue. All predictions point to a wet landing."

    "I'll pass the word to the skipper. Alert me when you ditch."

    "You'll be the first to know."

    "Good luck."

    The helicopter droned over the tops of the rolling swells. Pitt and Giordino spoke very little. Their ears were tuned to the sound of the turbines, as if expecting them to abruptly go silent at any moment. They instinctively tensed when the fuel warning alarm whooped through the cockpit.

    "So much for the reserves," said Pitt. "Now we're flying on fumes."

    He looked down at the deep cobalt blue of the water only 10 meters (33 feet) beneath the belly of the chopper. The sea looked reasonably smooth. He figured wave height from trough to crest was less than a meter. The water looked warm and inviting. A power-off landing did not appear to be too rough, and the old Mi-8 should float for a good sixty seconds if Giordino didn't burst the seams when he dropped her in.

    Pitt called Shannon to the cockpit. She appeared in the doorway, looked down at him, and smiled faintly. "Is your ship in sight?"

    "Just over the horizon, I should think. But not close enough to reach with the fuel that's left. Tell everybody to prepare for a water landing."

    "Then we do have to swim the rest of the way," she said cynically.

    "A mere technicality," said Pitt. "Have Rodgers move the life raft close to the passenger door and be ready to heave it in the water as soon as we ditch. And impress upon him the importance of pulling the inflation cord after the raft is safely through the door. I for one do not want to get my feet wet."

    Giordino pointed dead ahead. "The Deep Fathom."

    Pitt nodded as he squinted at the dark tiny speck on the horizon. He spoke into the radio mike. "We have you on visual, Stucky."

    "Come to the party," answered Stucky. "We'll open the bar early just for you."

    "Heaven forbid," said Pitt, elaborately sarcastic. "I don't imagine the admiral will take kindly to that suggestion."