The other craft passed directly across Giordino's vulnerable glass-enclosed cockpit. For a brief instant in time he could clearly see the Peruvian pilot. The face under the combat flight helmet flashed a set of white teeth and waved. "The bastard is laughing at me," Giordino blurted in fury.
"What did you say?" came Pitt.
"Those fornicating baboons think this is funny," Giordino said savagely. He knew what he had to do. He had noticed an almost indiscernible quirk to the enemy pilot's flying technique. When he bent left there was no hesitation, but he was a fraction of a second slow in banking right. Giordino feinted left and abruptly threw the nose skyward and curled right. The other pilot caught the feint and promptly went left but reacted too slowly to Giordino's wild ascending turn and twist in the opposite direction. Before he could counter, Giordino had hurled his machine around and over the attacker.
Pitt's opportunity came in just the blink of an eye, but his timing was right on the money. Lifting the life raft above his head with both hands as easily as if it were a sofa pillow, he thrust it out the open door as the Peruvian chopper whipped beneath him. The orange bundle dropped with the impetus of a bowling ball and smashed through one of the gyrating rotor blades 2 meters (about 6 feet) from the tip. The blade shattered into metallic slivers that spiraled outward from the centrifugal force. Now unbalanced, the remaining four blades whirled in ever-increasing vibration until they broke away from the rotor hub in a rain of small pieces.
The big helicopter seemed to hang poised for a moment before it yawed in circles and angled nose-first toward the ground at 190 kilometers (118 miles) an hour. Pitt hung out the door and watched, fascinated, as the Peruvian craft bored through the trees and crashed into a low hill only a few meters below the summit. He stared at the glinting shreds of metal that flew off into the branches of the trees. The big injured bird came to rest on its right side, a crumpled lump of twisted metal. And then it was lost in a huge fireball that erupted and wrapped it in flames and black smoke.
Giordino eased back on the throttles and made a slow circular pass over the column of smoke, but neither he nor Pitt saw any evidence of life. "This has to be the first time in history an aircraft was knocked out of the sky by a life raft," said Giordino.
"Improvisation." Pitt laughed softly, bowing to Shannon, Rodgers, and the students who were all applauding with rejuvenated spirits. "Improvisation." Then he added, "Fine piece of flying, Al. None of us would be breathing but for you."
"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."