The Gulf by David Poyer Page B

the windshield. “Aw right, Big Dipper’s on duty! Keep it in the back window and we ought to get there.”
    â€œOh, Christ,” said Hayes again.
    They went east till the water glimmered. Hayes picked up a radio tower he recognized and they steered for that. They were almost on the causeway to Sitra Island before they realized it. At Hayes’s shout, Schweinberg jerked the wheel, too suddenly, and they hit the median and went airborne. The car sailed over the dry ground between lanes for what seemed like a long time, then hit with a rattling jolt that snapped their heads into the dash.
    â€œDown and locked!” howled Schweinberg. “You still there, man?”
    â€œStill here, you still there?”
    â€œATO, get me a fucking fix!”
    There was an excited babble from the back seat. They ignored it. “Home plate dead ahead, range one mile,” said Hayes.
    They slowed for the gate guard, holding up I.D.s. When they were clear, Schweinberg accelerated again. Warehouses loomed ahead. They plunged between them into a hardstand of palleted cargo, racing down a twenty-foot-wide lane at fifty miles an hour. There was muffled whimpering from the rear now.
    Looking out the right window, Hayes saw a head. This seemed odd and he blinked and tried to focus. Yep, a yellow hard hat was moving along with them on the far side of a long stack of oil drums. “Hey,” he said. “Look over there.”
    â€œI can’t. I’m driving,” said Schweinberg. His lower lip was between his teeth and he was staring straight ahead.
    â€œThere’s a guy over there.”
    â€œIs that so? He’s workin’ late.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Hayes closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the head was in the same relative position, but it was larger. This was interesting. When another aircraft did that, it meant you were on a collision course. “Wonder ’f he sees us,” he muttered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, wonder—”
    They came to an intersection and the forklift, with the man Hayes had been watching on top of it, came out of the side aisle with the forks three feet off the pavement. Metal screamed as it tore, and Schweinberg shouted, “Shit! That sonofabitch almost hit us!”
    Hayes felt wind on his feet. He looked down to see the roadway going by. “Uh, hey, he did. Hey, uh … do you see that water ahead?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œGod damn it, Schweinberg, stop! ”
    The brakes worked great. There were thuds and cries from the back seat. The pilots unfolded themselves clumsily. Hayes took all the money he had left and leaned back inside. The Japanese were staring fixedly forward, no longer smiling. “Uh, thank you,” he mumbled thickly. “We’re sorry about the car. Is it a rental car? I hope so. Send us the bill if it’s more than this, aw right? Thank the nice people, Chunk Style.”
    â€œTh’ y’,” mumbled Schweinberg. He let go of the door tentatively, grabbing handfuls of air to stay erect. Behind him, the door slammed. The Honda’s little engine tapped, and torn sheet metal squeaked against the rear tire as it moved off.
    They stumbled down the pier. Hayes felt as if the air had been let out of his legs. Schweinberg didn’t feel anything, no more than if he were floating toward the ship on a whiskey cloud. At last the brow slanted ahead. Grimly, like mountain climbers assaulting the summit, they hauled themselves toward the quarterdeck.
    Hayes glanced around, ready for Lenson to jump out from the shadows, but there was only a sleepy, pissed-off-looking enlisted man. “Hope you officers had a good time ashore,” he said.
    â€œWe had a great time,” roared Schweinberg, groping forward toward the hatchway. But Hayes stood still for a moment, peering into a sudden, yawning blackness. The hangar. In the dimness he could make out the folded tail boom, the