He could feel Dover’s arm tense through the heavy suit. “You hurt?”
“A little bent, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Can you make a run for it?”
“I’m all right,” Dover lied through clenched teeth. “What about the evidence?”
“Forget it,” Pitt said urgently. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Without another word they took off through the storerooms and into the narrow alleyway between the freshwater tanks. Pitt slung his arm around Dover’s waist and half dragged, half carried him through the darkness.
Pitt thought the alleyway would never end. His breath began to come in gasps and his heart pounded against his ribs. He struggled to stay on his feet as the old Pilottown shook and swayed from the earth’s tremors. They reached cargo hold number four and scrambled down the ladder. He lost his grip and Dover fell to the deck. The precious seconds lost manhandling Dover over to the opposite ladder seemed like years.
Pitt had barely set foot on the scaly rungs when there was a crack like thunder and something fell past him and struck the deck. He threw the light beam up. At that instant the hatch cover disintegrated and tons of rock and debris cascaded into the hold.
“Climb, damn it, climb!” he yelled at Dover. His chest heaved and the blood roared in his ears. With an inner strength he thrust Dover’s 220 pounds up the ladder.
Suddenly a voice shouted. The light showed a figure leaning through the upper hatch, his hands grabbing Dover and pulling him through into the aft hold. Pitt instinctively knew it was Giordino. The burly little Italian had a keen sense of arriving at the right place at the right moment.
Then Pitt was at the top and crawling into the hold containing the nerve agent. The hatch cover was still intact, because the sloping ground above was not as dense near the stern section. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, willing hands were helping Dover toward the after deckhouse and temporary safety. Giordino gripped Pitt’s arm.
“We took casualties during the quake,” he said grimly.
“How bad?” asked Pitt.
“Four injured, mostly broken bones, and one dead.”
Giordino hesitated and Pitt knew.
“Mendoza?”
“One of the drums crushed her legs,” Giordino explained, his voice more solemn than Pitt had ever known it. “She suffered a compound fracture. A bone splinter pierced her suit.” His words died.
“The nerve agent leaked onto her skin,” Pitt finished, a sense of helplessness and shock flooding through him.
Giordino nodded. “We carried her outside.”
Pitt found Julie Mendoza lying on the Pilottown’s stern deck. Overhead a great cloud of volcanic ash rose into a blue sky and fortuitously drifted northward and away from the ship.
She lay alone and off to one side. The uninjured people were attending to the living. Only the young officer from the Catawba stood beside her, and his entire body was arching convulsively as he was being violently sick into his air filter.
Someone had removed her helmet. Her hair flared out on the rusty deck and glinted orange under the setting sun. Her eyes were open and staring into nothingness, the jaw jutting and rigid in what must have been indescribable agony. The blood was hardening as it dried in sun-tinted copper rivers that had gushed from her gaping mouth, nose and ears. It had even seeped from around the edges of her eyes. What little facial skin still showed was already turning a bluish black.
Pitt’s only emotion was cold rage. It swelled up inside him as he knelt down beside her and struck the deck repeatedly with his fist.
“It won’t end here,” he snarled bitterly. “I won’t let it end here.”
11
OSCAR LUCAS STARED MOODILY at his desktop. Everything depressed him: the acid tasting coffee in a cold cup, his cheaply furnished government office, the long hours on his job. For the first time since he became special agent in charge of the presidential detail, he found
“A little bent, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Can you make a run for it?”
“I’m all right,” Dover lied through clenched teeth. “What about the evidence?”
“Forget it,” Pitt said urgently. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Without another word they took off through the storerooms and into the narrow alleyway between the freshwater tanks. Pitt slung his arm around Dover’s waist and half dragged, half carried him through the darkness.
Pitt thought the alleyway would never end. His breath began to come in gasps and his heart pounded against his ribs. He struggled to stay on his feet as the old Pilottown shook and swayed from the earth’s tremors. They reached cargo hold number four and scrambled down the ladder. He lost his grip and Dover fell to the deck. The precious seconds lost manhandling Dover over to the opposite ladder seemed like years.
Pitt had barely set foot on the scaly rungs when there was a crack like thunder and something fell past him and struck the deck. He threw the light beam up. At that instant the hatch cover disintegrated and tons of rock and debris cascaded into the hold.
“Climb, damn it, climb!” he yelled at Dover. His chest heaved and the blood roared in his ears. With an inner strength he thrust Dover’s 220 pounds up the ladder.
Suddenly a voice shouted. The light showed a figure leaning through the upper hatch, his hands grabbing Dover and pulling him through into the aft hold. Pitt instinctively knew it was Giordino. The burly little Italian had a keen sense of arriving at the right place at the right moment.
Then Pitt was at the top and crawling into the hold containing the nerve agent. The hatch cover was still intact, because the sloping ground above was not as dense near the stern section. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, willing hands were helping Dover toward the after deckhouse and temporary safety. Giordino gripped Pitt’s arm.
“We took casualties during the quake,” he said grimly.
“How bad?” asked Pitt.
“Four injured, mostly broken bones, and one dead.”
Giordino hesitated and Pitt knew.
“Mendoza?”
“One of the drums crushed her legs,” Giordino explained, his voice more solemn than Pitt had ever known it. “She suffered a compound fracture. A bone splinter pierced her suit.” His words died.
“The nerve agent leaked onto her skin,” Pitt finished, a sense of helplessness and shock flooding through him.
Giordino nodded. “We carried her outside.”
Pitt found Julie Mendoza lying on the Pilottown’s stern deck. Overhead a great cloud of volcanic ash rose into a blue sky and fortuitously drifted northward and away from the ship.
She lay alone and off to one side. The uninjured people were attending to the living. Only the young officer from the Catawba stood beside her, and his entire body was arching convulsively as he was being violently sick into his air filter.
Someone had removed her helmet. Her hair flared out on the rusty deck and glinted orange under the setting sun. Her eyes were open and staring into nothingness, the jaw jutting and rigid in what must have been indescribable agony. The blood was hardening as it dried in sun-tinted copper rivers that had gushed from her gaping mouth, nose and ears. It had even seeped from around the edges of her eyes. What little facial skin still showed was already turning a bluish black.
Pitt’s only emotion was cold rage. It swelled up inside him as he knelt down beside her and struck the deck repeatedly with his fist.
“It won’t end here,” he snarled bitterly. “I won’t let it end here.”
11
OSCAR LUCAS STARED MOODILY at his desktop. Everything depressed him: the acid tasting coffee in a cold cup, his cheaply furnished government office, the long hours on his job. For the first time since he became special agent in charge of the presidential detail, he found
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