Flood Tide

  The first rays of the sun were spreading over the mountains to the east when Pitt turned to Julia, who was sitting beside him, her arms clasped around the young girl. He looked over at her, seeing her face in the light for the first time, shocked at the punishment inflicted on what must have been delicate features, and fully appreciating her courage and stamina in surviving her ordeal.

  Cold anger suddenly overwhelmed him. "My God, those bastards really worked you over."

  "I haven't looked in a mirror, but I suspect I won't be showing my face in public for a while," she said gamely.

  "If your superiors at INS give out medals, you'd rate a chestfull."

  "A certificate of merit in my file is the best I can hope for."

  "Tell everybody to hold on tight," he advised her. "We're coming into rapids."

  "After we reach the mouth of the river, what then?" she asked.

  "According to my calculations, any place on a map called Grapevine Bay must have grapes and grapes mean vineyards and vineyards mean people. The more, the merrier. Shang's mad dogs wouldn't dare attack us with a hundred U.S. citizens looking on."

  "I'd better call the INS field agents again and alert them to the fact that we've left the area and give them our destination."

  "A good idea," said Pitt, pushing the throttle forward to its stop with one hand while handing her the phone with the other. "They can concentrate their forces on the retreat instead of worrying about us at the cabin."

  "Did you hear from your NUMA people?" Julia shouted above the increased roar of the exhaust.

  "They're supposed to meet and pick me up after we reach Grapevine Bay."

  "Do they use little open aircraft painted yellow?"

  He shook his head. "NUMA leases executive jets and helicopters with turquoise color schemes. Why do you ask?"

  Julia tapped Pitt on the shoulder and pointed over the stern at a yellow ultralight that was chasing them down the river. "If they're not friends, they must be foes."

  10

  PlTT TOOK A FAST LOOK over his shoulder at the aircraft rapidly closing over the wake of the Chris-Craft. He recognized it as an ultralight, a pusher-engined, high-winged monoplane with tricycle landing gear and tandem seats for two people. The pilot sat forward, out in the open, with his passenger behind and slightly elevated. The airframe consisted of aluminum tubing braced with thin cable. Propelled by a lightweight, reduction-drive, fifty-horsepower engine, it could move fast. Pitt guessed it was capable of 120 miles an hour.

  The pilot was flying directly over the middle of the river no more than forty feet off the water. He was good, Pitt admitted. The air currents swirled through the narrow canyon in a series of strong wind gusts, but the pilot compensated and kept the ultralight on a straight and level course. He was coming after the runabout intentionally and purposefully, like someone who knew exactly what he was about to do. There was no hesitation and no uncertainty about who was going to end up the loser in the coming unequal contest. God knows Pitt had no doubts, not when he saw a man strapped in the seat behind the pilot holding a stubby machine pistol in his hands.

  "Force everyone to get down as low as they can," Pitt ordered Julia.

  She spoke in Chinese, passing on Pitt's command, but the runabout's passengers were already so overcrowded in the small cockpits they had no place to go. All they could do was settle as low as humanly possible in the leather seats and duck their heads.

  "Oh, dear lord," gasped Julia. "There are two more of them about a mile behind the first."

  "I wish you hadn't told me," said Pitt, hunched over the steering wheel, willing the runabout to go faster. "They're not about to let us escape and spread the gospel about their shady operation."

  The lead ultralight roared so low over the speeding Chris-Craft, the draft from its propeller blades whirled a cloud of spray that dampened the occupants of the boat. Pitt expected to hear gunshots, see holes appear in the smoothly varnished mahogany, but the aircraft passed on without attacking. It pulled up sharply, its tricycle landing wheels missing the runabout's windshield by no more than five feet.

  Kung Chong sat strapped into the rear seat of the ultralight bringing up the rear and gazed with smug satisfaction at the speeding runabout below. He spoke into the transmitter attached to his crash helmet. "We have the boat in sight," he reported.

  "Have you commenced your attack?" asked Lo Han from the mobile security vehicle.

  "Not yet. The lead plane reports our quarry is not alone."

  "As we suspected, there were two of them."

  "Not two," said Kung Chong. "More like ten or twelve. The boat appears crowded with old people and young children."

  "The devil must have found a family camping along the river and forced them into the boat to act as hostages. Our adversary, it seems, will stop at nothing to preserve his life."

  Kung Chong raised a pair of binoculars with one hand and peered at the passengers huddled in the dual cockpits. "I believe we have an unforeseen problem, Lo Han."

  "We've had nothing but problems for the past twelve hours. What is it now?"

  "I can't be certain, but it appears the occupants of the boat are immigrants."

  "Impossible, the only aliens brought ashore are either confined, on their way inland or dead."

  "I could be mistaken."

  "Let's hope you are," said Lo Han. "Can you fly close enough to identify their nationality?" asked Lo Han.

  "For what purpose? For me to eliminate the devil responsible for the destruction of Qin Shang's yacht and the infiltration into the alien holding cells, those who are with him must die too. What difference if they are Chinese or American?"

  "You are right, Kung Chong," acknowledged Lo Han. "Do whatever you must to protect the enterprise."

  "I shall give orders to launch the attack."

  "Be certain there are no spectators in the vicinity."

  "The river is clear of recreational craft, and the shorelines are empty of people."

  "Very well, but keep a sharp eye. We cannot afford eyewitnesses."

  "As you command," said Kung Chong. "But time is running out. If we do not destroy the boat and those in it within the next few minutes, all opportunity will be lost."

  "Why didn't he fire?" asked Julia, squinting against the glare from the morning sun on the surface of the river.

  "A hitch in their assassination plans. They thought I worked alone. He's reporting to his boss that I'm loaded to the gunwales with passengers."

  "How far to Grapevine Bay?"

  "A good twelve or thirteen miles."

  "Can't we pull onto shore and take cover in the trees and rocks?"

  "Not a practical idea," he said. "All they'd have to do is land in the nearest clearing and hunt us down. The river is our only chance, slim as it is. You and the others keep your heads down. Let them wonder where I picked up a load of passengers. If they're looking closely they'll spot the folds on your eyelids and realize you're not the descendants of European ancestry on a picnic."

  The venerable Chris-Craft covered another two miles of river before the lead ultralight dipped low over the river and increased speed, its nose aimed menacingly at the runabout. "No more peaceful intentions," said Pitt calmly. "He means business this time. How good are you with a handgun?"

  "My qualifying scores on the range are higher than most of the male agents I know," she said as matter-of-factly as if she was describing her latest hairdo.

  He took the bundle from under his seat, unwrapped the towel and handed her his old automatic pistol. "Ever shoot a Colt forty-five?"

  "No," she answered. "When required, most of us at INS pack a Beretta forty-caliber automatic."

  "Here are two spare clips. Don't waste your shells firing at the engine or fuel tank. As a target, it's too small to hit on an aircraft passing overhead at more than fifty miles an hour. Aim for the pilot and the gunner. One good body shot and they'll either crash or head for home."

  She took the .45, twisted around in the seat
so she was facing backward, flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer. "He's almost on us," she warned Pitt.

  "The pilot will roll and come over us slightly off to one side, giving his gunner a clear shot downward," Pitt said coolly. "The instant he lines us up in his sights, shout out which side he's passing, left or right, so I can zigzag under him."

  Without questioning Pitt's instructions, Julia gripped the old Colt with both hands, raised the barrel and lined up the sights on the two men perched in front of the wings and engine as it soared down the river. Her face showed more concentration than fear as her finger tightened on the trigger.

  "On your left!" she called out.

  Pitt threw the runabout in a sharp turn to the left, staying with the ultralight. He heard the quiet staccato burp of an automatic weapon with a suppressor on its muzzle, mingled with the loud thunder of the old Colt, and saw bullets lace the water only three feet alongside the hull as he cut under the ultralight, using its underside to mask the runabout from the gunner's view.

  As the ultralight shot ahead, Pitt saw no trace of injury to the pilot or copilot. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. "You missed!" he snapped.

  "I could have sworn I scored," she snapped back furiously.

  "Ever hear of a deflection shot?" Pitt lectured her. "You've got to lead a moving target. Haven't you ever hunted ducks?"

  "I could never bring myself to shoot a harmless bird," she said loftily as she expertly ejected an empty clip and pumped a full one inside the handgrip of the Colt.

  Feminine logic again, thought Pitt. Can't shoot an animal or bird, but not hesitating to blow a man's head off. "If he comes at the same speed and altitude, aim a good ten feet ahead of the pilot."

  The ultralight circled around for another attack while its sister craft hung back in the distance. The droning whir of the engine's exhaust echoed off the rock walls of the canyon. The pilot swooped low over the shoreline, the airflow churned out by the propeller blades whipping the tops of the trees along the banks. The serene and picturesque river and the slopes of the forested canyon seemed the wrong location for a life-and-death struggle. The clear green water flowed past banks that were lined with trees marching up the rocky sides of the mountains until they thinned and stopped at the timberline. The yellow aircraft stood out like a colored gemstone, a Mexican fire opal against a sapphire sky. All things considered, Pitt thought fleetingly, there are worse places to die.

  The ultralight leveled out and came directly toward the Chris-Craft's bow on this run. Now Pitt had an open field of vision and could see the angle of the gunner's trajectory for himself. Unless the pilot is a certified cretin, Pitt thought, he won't fall for the same sidestep again. Pitt had to reach down in his bag of tricks for another dodge. Maintaining his course until the last possible second, he felt like a herring taunting a shark.

  Julia leveled the Colt over the windshield. She almost looked comical, her head slightly tilted to one side as she aimed with the only eye that was partially open. The pilot of the ultralight was sideslipping up the river to give his gunner additional shooting time and a wider range of fire. He knew his stuff and wasn't about to be fooled twice. On this strafing run he hugged the riverbank, cutting off any attempt by Pitt to slip under the plane's narrow belly. The pilot was also playing a more cautious game. Some of Julia's bullets had struck the wing and made him realize his prey had a sting.

  Pitt knew with sickening certainty that they were going to take hits. No tricky maneuvers, no fancy footwork, could save them this time around. Unless Julia scored big-time, they were all dead, literally. He watched the ultralight loom up through the windshield. It was like standing in the middle of a bridge over a thousand-foot ravine with an express train hurtling toward him.

  And then there was the despairing thought that even if they were successful in downing the first ultralight, they weren't even halfway home. The second and third craft were lagging back, staying out of range and clear of stray bullets while awaiting their turn. Take one out of the game and two substitutes were suited up and ready for action. The moment of trepidation ended as bullets struck and gouged the water, the line of splashes moving inexorably toward the boat.

  Pitt jerked the steering wheel, sending the runabout on a skidding turn to his right. The gunner compensated, but too late. Pitt swung the boat in a flat curve to the left, throwing off his aim. He feinted again, but the gunner merely swiveled his weapon and laid down an S pattern. Then, as if he had touched a switch, Julia began blasting away.

  This was the moment. As bullets stitched a groove of holes across the lustrous mahogany bow of the Chris-Craft, Pitt took the gear lever in both hands and yanked it back while the boat was at full speed. There was a horrifying grinding noise as the gearbox howled in protest. The engine revolutions raced past the red line on the tachometer, and the boat came to an abrupt stop. Then it leaped backward in a tight arc. Several bullets shattered the windshield but miraculously missed hitting anyone. And then the hail of fire, like a passing rainstorm, moved behind the boat. Julia tracked her target and fired until the last shell flipped out of the firing chamber.

  Pitt glanced back and saw a beautiful sight. The ultralight was out of control, the racing engine shrieking like a banshee as fragments of the propeller spiraled in the air, spraying in every direction. He could see the pilot fighting the controls in a futile gesture as the craft hung poised in the air as if tied to a string. Then the nose dipped, and it plunged lifeless into the middle of the river, making a crater in the water and causing a huge splash before bobbing back to the surface for a few moments and then sinking rapidly until it vanished.

  "Nice shooting," Pitt complimented Julia. "Wyatt Earp would be proud of you."

  "I was lucky," Julia said modestly, not about to admit that she had been aiming at the pilot.

  "You put the fear of God in the pilot of the other two. They're not about to make the same mistakes as his buddy. They'll lay back out of range of your Colt, take their time and pepper away at us at a safer altitude."

  "How much farther until we're out of the canyon?"

  "Four, maybe five miles."

  They exchanged looks, she seeing the fierce determination in his eyes, he seeing her head and shoulders sag from severe fatigue, mental and physical. It didn't take a physician to see Julia was half-dead from lack of sleep. She had run on sheer guts as far as she could go, and had come to the end of the road. She turned slightly and stared at the bullet holes that had splintered the bow of the Chris-Craft.

  "We're not going to make it, are we?" she muttered the words dully.

  "Hell yes, we're going to make it!" he answered as if he truly believed it. "I didn't interrupt my vacation and go to all the work of bringing you and these people this far to let it end now."

  She gazed at his dark, craggy face for a long moment, then shook her head in defeat. "I can't get off a straight shot if the ultralights stay more than a hundred yards away, not at that distance against a moving target from a boat that's bounding all over the place."

  "Do the best you can." Hardly brilliant words of encouragement, Pitt conceded, but his mind was on other matters as he swerved around a series of large boulders protruding from the river. "Another ten minutes and we'll be home free."

  "What if they both come at the same time?"

  "You can bet on it. Take your time and divide your fire, two shots at one then two shots at the other. Maintain a show of resistance, just enough to keep them from getting too cocky and coming in too close. The farther they stay away, the more difficult for the gunners to fire with any accuracy. I'll throw the boat all over the river to spoil their aim."

  Pitt had read Kung Chong's mind correctly. The Chinaman ordered his pilots to attack from a higher altitude. "I have lost one aircraft and two good men," he dutifully reported to Lo Han.

  "How?" asked Lo Han simply.

  "By gunfire from the boat."

  "Not inconceivable that professionals would carry automatic weapo
ns."

  "I am ashamed to say, Lo Han, the defensive fire comes from a woman with one automatic pistol."

  "A woman!" Lo Han's voice came through Kung Chong's earpiece as angry as he ever heard it. "We have lost face, you and I. Conclude this unfortunate occasion and do it now."

  "Yes, Lo Han. I will faithfully carry out your orders."

  "I anxiously await your announcement of victory."

  "Soon, very soon," Kung Chong said confidently. "Success or death. I promise you one or the other."

  During the next three miles, the tactics worked. The two remaining ultralights pressed home their attack, weaving violently from side to side to escape the few pathetic shells sent in their direction, but making it next to impossible for the gunners to train their machine pistols. Two hundred yards away from the Chris-Craft they split apart and closed in on the runabout from two sides. It was a shrewd maneuver that enabled them to converge their fire.