Trojan Odyssey by Clive Cussler Page A

evacuate the shoreline in an effort to save countless lives.
    Barrett wrestled easily with the controls that were modified to endure extreme turbulence and checked the numbers on his Global Positioning satellite instrument before making a slight course adjustment. He turned to his copilot. “This is a real bad one,” he said, as the Orion was jolted by a sudden wind surge.
    The crew spoke through microphones and listened through headsets. Any conversation without the radio had to be shouted into an upturned ear. The shriek of the wind was so piercing it drowned out the exhaust roar of the engines.
    The rangy man slouched in the copilot’s seat was sipping coffee from a covered cup through a straw. Neat and fastidious, Jerry Boozer prided himself on never spilling a drop of liquid or a sandwich crumb in the cockpit during a hurricane stalk. He nodded in agreement. “The worst I’ve seen in the eight years I’ve been chasing these things.”
    â€œI’d hate to be living in her path when she reaches land.”
    Boozer picked up his microphone and spoke into it. “Hey, Charlie, what’s your magic department reading of the storm’s wind?”
    Back in the science compartment packed with an array of instruments and consoles crammed with meteorological electronic systems, Charlie Mahoney, a research scientist from Stanford University, sat strapped in a chair facing a matrix of sensors that measured temperature, humidity, pressure, winds and fluxes. “You ain’t gonna believe this,” he answered in a Georgia accent, “but the last dropwindsonde profiling system I released recorded horizontal wind speeds of up to two hundred and twenty miles an hour as it fell through the storm toward the sea.”
    â€œNo wonder poor old Gertie is taking a beating.” Boozer had hardly mouthed the words when the aircraft soared into calm air and the sun glittered on the shiny aluminum fuselage and wings.
    They had entered Lizzie’s eye. Below, a restless sea reflected the blue of the sky. It was like flying into a giant tube whose circular walls were forged with swirling, impenetrable clouds. Boozer felt as if he was flying inside a vast whirlpool whose pit led to Hades.
    Barrett banked and circled within the eye while the meteorologists behind gathered their data. After nearly ten minutes, he turned the Orion and headed into the tortured gray wall. Again, the aircraft shuddered as if it was under attack by all the furies of the gods. Abruptly, it felt like a giant’s fist had smashed into the starboard, sending the plane over on one wing. Anything that wasn’t tied down in the cockpit—papers, folders, coffee cups, briefcases—was hurled against the starboard bulkhead. No sooner had the gust passed than a blast of even increased force hurled the aircraft through the turmoil like a balsa wood glider tied to a fan, sending all that loose debris crashing against the opposite side of the cockpit. The double shock came like the blow of a tennis ball from a racket against a backstop. Barrett and Boozer were nearly frozen in shock. Neither had ever experienced a collision with a wind gust of that magnitude, and not one but two in almost as many seconds. It was unheard of.
    The Orion shuddered and fell off in an uncontrolled bank to the port.
    Barrett felt a sudden loss of power and his eyes immediately swept the instrument panel as he struggled to level out the aircraft. “I’m getting no readings on number four engine. Can you see if she’s still turning?”
    â€œOh God!” muttered Boozer, staring through his side window. “Number four engine is gone!”
    â€œThen shut it down!” Barrett snapped.
    â€œThere’s nothing left to shut down. It’s fallen away.”
    His mind and strength fully concentrating on righting the Orion, Barrett twisted the wheel on the control column and fought the pedals, not comprehending Boozer’s