Chapter 51

AS THE HELICOPTER RACED above the ocean, Smith looked at Fats drooped over the pontoon. “Why, I think he fainted!” He tried to steady the bloated man, making sure he wouldn’t get hurt.

But Fats suddenly convulsed and fought against him in terror, slapping at Smith so violently that he slipped and fell off the pontoon. Smith tried to catch him, but Fats plummeted into the sea far below. “I hope he can swim,” Smith said with a frown. “I think they teach that at Quantico.” Then he stood upright on the pontoon and worked his way to the cockpit door with tiny steps in his big-flippered feet.

“Throw out your guns!” he shouted.

“Don’t provoke him!” the FBI director said, cringing back into his seat. “You don’t know all the terrible things this man has done!”

“I just saw him throw our agent overboard in cold blood,” the aide said. The aide and the director promptly tossed their guns out the window. The weapons tumbled in long arcs to splash into the blue Caribbean.

Smith wrestled the cabin door open and climbed in, his wet suit dripping. He held the bloated agent’s .357 Magnum before him. The director and aide quailed, while the nervous pilot tried to make himself look indispensable.

Smith was wet and cold and tired and angry. He had hoped to sleep peacefully in his own bed tonight, and now dawn was just starting to break over the Caribbean. He made the other men move aside so he could squeeze into the cockpit. He slid the door shut behind him, muffling the chopper noise.

Keeping his eye on the two cowering FBI men, Smith spoke to the pilot. “Since my own country keeps trying to kill me, you may as well fly me to the nearest point in Cuba. What have I got to lose?”

“But this is an FBI chopper!” The pilot stared at Smith in terror. “With these markings they’d shoot us down on sight!”

Smith said, “I wouldn’t blame them, after the way the FBI is acting today.”

The dapper director mellowed his voice to wheel and deal. “Let’s be reasonable, Smith. I can provide you with a false identity, just like we do for all major criminals. We can let you live in high style someplace you won’t be recognized — entirely at government expense.”

“My hero, Nelson, would never make a deal like that,” Smith said indignantly. “No honor in it.”

“Nelson?” the director said, baffled. “You mean Baby-Face Nelson? We didn’t make a deal with him. We just shot him. But that was a long time ago. With today’s FBI, you have a better opportunity than he did. What do you say, Smith?”

“I say you guys are crazy,” Smith said. “First the CIA and now the FBI. Come on, just take me to Cuba, where I’ll be safe!”

“Wait a minute,” the FBI aide said. “I’ve just thought of a way for him to get to Cuba without us getting shot out of the sky.” He covertly winked at the director. “There’s a small island just on the edge of Cuban waters. It’s called Pirate Key — disputed territory, totally uninhabited. We can fly over, circle slowly, and if Smith will just parachute —”

“What?” Smith said. “If we’re going to go all the way there, why don’t you just land and let me off?”

“That would be illegal without a landing permit.” The aide casually reached into the rear of the cockpit cabin. “Here, let me get your emergency chest-pack parachute.”

Behind the passenger seats, boxes of smoke flares and tear gas had been stowed. The aide’s arm clawed around, knocking over boxes of flares, getting hold of the parachute as he talked. “Besides, it wouldn’t be wise to land the FBI director anywhere near Cuba. He’s their number one most wanted man.”

The aide brought the emergency parachute out from behind the seat and extended it toward Smith. “Now, if you’ll just put this on, we’ll drop you off. Everybody’s happy.”

“And I get to play Robinson Crusoe,” Smith said sourly.

“There’s Pirate Key, right down there,” the pilot said, pointing to a low patch of land about a mile ahead of them. Daybreak spilled over the waters. “Very close to Cuba. You can hunt for pearls in the oyster bays on your leisurely swim over. I promise, you’ll be happy.”

Smith looked out the front windscreen at a yellow-sand island with a low hill in its center, surrounded by emerald water. “Doesn’t look like too bad a place.” He pursed his lips as he studied the beaches, the trees, the small hill.

The aide elbowed the director and jerked his thumb toward the rear seats. The director snaked his hand back and grabbed a tubular flare and hid it under his coat.

“It looks a long way down, though,” Smith said. “I’m a sailor, not a paratrooper. I’ve never done this before. Are you sure I can make the jump in these diving flippers?”

Smith put the chest pack on, wrestling the straps around his gold-filled rucksack. “I’ll do it,” Smith said, “since I don’t want to get you guys in trouble — no need for the pilot to land.” He managed to keep the FBI men covered with his Magnum, though the aide helped him fuss over his heavy rucksack.

“And we promise not to tell anybody on our side where you went,” the aide said soothingly. “We’ll say the FBI director here threw you out of the chopper. He’ll look like a hero, and the rest of us can just forget about this little incident.”

“Word of honor?” Smith asked innocently.

“On my honor as an FBI man.”

The aide’s hands tugged the last strap in place, giving the lieutenant a pat on the shoulder. Smith diverted the gun by giving the last strap a tug. “All right. I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

The aide saw his opening and reacted with lightning speed, knocking the Magnum out of Smith’s hand. The weapon clattered on the floor of the cockpit.

“Now!” he screamed.

Snarling, the director brought the tube flare out from under his coat. “I’ll kill you, Smith!” He fumbled with the flare’s firing tab.

“No, no!” the aide said, urgently trying to grab the flare from the director.

“I believe you’re pointing the wrong end, sir,” Smith said.

With a squealing whoosh, the flare blasted like a comet into the pile of boxes behind the seats. A cloud of smoke hit Smith.

“You guys are nuts!” he said, but his words were drowned out by the pop of exploding flares. Smith grabbed the cockpit door, swung it open to the fresh sea air and dived out, his swim flippers flopping in the air.

As he turned somersaults, Smith grabbed at the rip cord, missing repeatedly. When he finally yanked the cord, his chest pack spilled out. The parachute opened with a jerk.

Reorienting himself, Smith watched the helicopter flying like a drunken, blazing bumblebee as it receded northward. Huge clouds of black smoke poured from the cockpit and trailed after. Smith shook his head in amazement, glad to be away from the insanity.

Pirate Key was about five hundred feet below him, but he had drifted off course, some distance offshore.

Smith dunked into the water with a splash, and the parachute settled over his head like a fishnet. Falling into the sea didn’t really matter to him, since he still hadn’t changed out of his wet suit.

* * *

“Mayday!” the director said, coughing and choking. His voice sounded like the yelp of a dog. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

“Sir,” the aide said, “you need to use the radio.”

* * *

Back in Florida, the high-level brass gathered around a table, incredibly serious, jaws clenched, as if each one chewed on a particularly tough lump of gristle. A Coast Guard captain and a Navy admiral sat in the center of the group.

“We should send out a flight to oversee the safe return of the FBI director,” the captain said.

“To hell with that boob,” the admiral said. “We’re after Smith! He’s a traitor to the U.S. Navy, and I won’t stand for that.”

He jabbed a ballpoint at the chart and circled a tiny dot, a small key close to the north coast of Cuba. Using the pen like a stiletto, he stabbed it. “Smith’s gone down on Pirate Key. He must have some sort of secret rendezvous set up. But we can catch him if we move fast enough. Send out a missile frigate at once, flank speed to saturate bomb the whole island!”

The ballpoint stabbed again, and this time the point went clear through the paper.