The admiral closed his eyes and lay still, exhausted by his efforts. Heidi moved forward and put her hand on Pitt’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should come back in the afternoon.” Pitt shook his head. “By then it will be too late.” “You’ll kill him,” Heidi said, her eyes welling with tears, her expression angry.

Bass’s hand inched across the sheets and weakly gripped Pitt’s wrist. His eyes fluttered open. “Just needed a minute to catch my breath… . Don’t go … that’s an order.”

Heidi read the tortured look of compassion in Pitt’s eyes and she reluctantly backed away. Pitt leaned toward the admiral again.

“What happens next?”

The Iowa 223p>

“After the shell passes its zenith and begins the flight to earth, the altimeter’s omnidirectional indicator begins signaling the decrease in altitude… .”

Bass’s voice trailed off and Pitt waited patiently.

“At fifteen hundred feet a parachute is released. Slows the shell’s descent and activates a small explosive device.”

“Fifteen hundred feet, parachute opens,” Pitt repeated.

“At one thousand feet, device detonates and splits head of projectile; releases a cluster mass of bomblets containing the Quick Death organism.”

Pitt sat back and considered the admiral’s description of the projectile’s operation. He looked into the waning eyes.

“The time element, Admiral. How much time between the parachute’s ejection and the QD dispersal?”

“Too long ago … can’t remember.”

“Please try,” Pitt implored.

Bass was clearly sinking. He fought to bring his brain into gear, but its cells responded sluggishly. Then the tension lines in his face relaxed and he whispered, “I think … not sure … thirty seconds … rate of descent about eighteen feet per second …”

“Thirty seconds?” Pitt said, seeking verification.

Bass’s hand released Pitt’s wrist and fell back on the bed. His eyes closed and he drifted into coma.

55

The only damage to the Iowa after she slashed through the Molly Bender was a few scrapes to the paint on her bows. Fawkes had not noticed the slightest bump. He could have averted the tragedy if he had spun the wheel hard to port, but it would have meant swerving the battleship from the deep part of the channel and running her aground.

He needed every inch he could squeeze between the riverbed and the Iowa’s hull. The months of gutting thousands of tons of nonessential steel had raised the ship from a wartime operational draft of thirty-eight feet to a few inches less than twenty-two, giving Fawkes a razor-thin margin. Already the great whirling screws were churning up bottom mud that dirtied the Iowa’s wake for miles.

224 VIXEN 03p>