“Your people, Krylov?” Benny said. He took a hitch in his pants.
“I cannot see the markings yet.” Krylov was studying the aircraft with an intentness that made Brook feel sorry for him. “I don’t believe it is my people. They could rent a helicopter if they wished, of course, and we have two qualified pilots in the embassy, but they would not have had time to do so.”
“There’s somebody else who’s had plenty of time,” Brook said.
“Eh?” Krylov lowered the binoculars to look at him. “Who is that?”
“Your ex-comrades from the Chinese mainland. They got on to me and gave me some trouble. They know why Benny and I are here. They could have made a smart guess as to how we planned to make the run.”
“Your plan did not have proper security?” Krylov sounded shocked.
“We were tight enough. But their resident here is Toby Stark. Didn’t you know that?”
Krylov’s shaggy brows shot up. “I did not. But Stark would be a good one for it, yes. He would be in an excellent position. We wondered who could be their supervisor in Japan. We knew it would probably not be an Oriental. Stark. Of course.”
“He watched me maneuver to talk to you alone, saw us go sailing together that first time. He might figure we’d pick you up at sea.”
Krylov went back to watching the approaching helicopter. His lips were locked.
Brook heard a click. He turned and saw the .32 in Benny’s hand.
“Yes, I brought it this time,” Benny said.
Brook nodded and held the wheel and throttle steady. Benny and the Russian faced aft, waiting. Presently they heard the helicopter’s engine and the whump! whump! whump! of its blades.
The ’copter made a swift pass, coming in from the starboard quarter and zooming away off the port beam. Brook made out the figures of two men in the bubble cockpit. One man was bulky; unmistakably Toby Stark.
Benny’s revolver went off.
“Don’t waste it,” Brook said.
“Peashooter!”
The ’copter made a broad circle and this time approached the bow. As it came over, Toby Stark leaned out the side door with a submachine gun in his hands. The gun eructed, two belches of steel, planting a line of little waterspouts inches from their hull. Brook swung hard to port. Benny’s gun blasted again as the craft blurred overhead and passed far astern.
Benny watched it recede. He waved the .32. “They know I’ve got this now. They won’t come in straight again. That means we’re sitting ducks.”
“Also, that popgun of yours won’t go on shooting forever,” Brook pointed out.
Benny went back to his wetback accent. It gave his profanity character.
The helicopter circled once more. This time it came to a hover well away from their port beam. They saw Stark lift a hailer to his lips. His voice came to them faintly.
“Listen carefully, Brook. You haven’t a bloody chance. We want Krylov. We’ll drop a sling for him, and after that you can go on your way. Otherwise we sink your boat and shoot you all in the water. It should bring up the sharks. Take your choice. It makes little difference to me.”
Brook laughed. “Your choice, he says. He’ll sink us afterward whether we give him Krylov or not.”
“Of course,” Krylov said.
Stark’s voice boomed faintly again. “Have that man of yours throw his revolver overboard, Brook. Do it so we can see it.”
“Go ahead, Benny. Toss it.”
Benny looked stupefied. “Amigo, are you nuts?”
“Do as I say, Benny.”
“Pete, we have a chance with this. Not much, but a chance. There’s most of the cylinder left. I might be lucky—”
“Throw it overboard so they can see.”
“God damn it, Pete!” Benny cried. “We can’t just give up! They’ll kill us, anyway! You just said so.”
The voice from the helicopter said, “I am giving you ten seconds to throw that revolver overboard.”
“You heard him, Benny,” Brook said.
Benny said, “No.”
He backed up, snarling. Brook left the wheel and went to Benny and took the revolver from his hand. He waved it by the muzzle for the benefit of the helicopter and flung it far overside. It dropped into the sea with a happy little splash.
“Damn you,” Benny panted. “Damn you. You knew I couldn’t shoot you, Pete. You know what, Pete? You’re a yellow-balled bastard, that’s what you are.” He turned his back on Brook, clutching the rail and bracing himself for the machine-gun burst from the ’copter.
“A coward?” Krylov said. He sounded surprised.
Brook went down into the cabin, and Krylov grabbed at the wheel as the boat veered. The ’copter began its approach, low over the water, moving like a crab. There was triumph in every swish of its blades. Brook came back out on deck. One hand was casually at his side, the side turned away from the approaching aircraft. At Krylov’s intake of breath Benny turned away from the rail, and he saw what was in Brook’s hand, too.
“Amigo,” Benny said reverently.
“It may work,” Krylov muttered.
The huge horse-collar of the sling began to come down on its cable. Directly overhead Toby Stark half leaned from the ’copter’s side, the submachine gun in his fat hands. Brook could clearly make out the frog-eyes and the series of dimples in his cheeks. The Australian was grinning. The ’copter pilot was an Oriental who wore a billed khaki cap; he was busy with the controls.
The submachine gun in his right hand, Stark raised the bullhorn with his left. “Krylov, go to the stern. You two stay where you are. Cooperate and you and your buddy won’t get hurt, Brook.”
“Go ahead, Alex,” Brook said.
Krylov stepped toward the transom, gripping the stanchions to keep his foothold.
“Now stop your boat,” Stark called.
Brook reached out with his left hand and eased the throttle back. The helicopter moved to within a few yards, tilted slightly so that the pilot could see across Stark’s bulk and judge the distance. Brook brought his right hand up in a flash. He was gripping a pistol-like device with a short fat barrel. He pulled the trigger. The flare gun went off, kicking back with force. Its charge, like the fireball of a Roman candle, flew into the ’copter’s cockpit and exploded with a ferocious red and orange light.
They saw the pilot clap his hands to his eyes. Stark flopped backward, dropping his gun into the sea. The aircraft dipped sharply, hung for a moment, then flipped over and plummeted into the water. Its blades struck the sea first and snapped off and whirled away like skipping stones. The fuselage followed, making a king-sized splash. A moment later there was an explosion. The concussion flattened the three men; sea washed over them.
Brook scrambled to his feet, got to the wheel, heeled the throttle, kicked the clutch forward, and jammed the control to the full.
Their boat lifted its bow like a high diver taking off and plunged for the open sea. Behind them they left a wild party of sharks.
Chapter 13
SUBJECT: Project Summary LN-42-93001-68 (Short Title: Crossover)
TO: The Undersecretary
1. Political asylum having been granted and coordinated with pertinent agencies under the provisions of SR-358-B, Paras. 3c and 11m, subject project is now closed and further operations promulgated by this matter designated Project LN-54-34597-68 (Short Title: Cactus).
2. Subject defectee, Aleksei Vassilievich Krylov, now in protective custody of this agency at Sanctuary K-41 where he is undergoing review and interrogation in presence of Lazar Andreivich Levashev for purpose of coordinating related information supplied by both defectees. (See Project Summary HB-12-57884-67, Short Title: Wichita.) It is expected that interviews will continue for approximately thirty (30) days at which time subject defectee will be released and placed under Class D minimum protective measures.