So intently were they watching the scene that they did not notice the speck in the distance growing larger. Admiral Kemper was the first to distinguish it; he seldom missed a thing. He rose out of his chair and peered as though his eyes were laser beams. The others finally saw it too as the speck enlarged into a helicopter coming straight on the warhead.

“What in God’s name …” Higgins muttered.

“It looks like the same crazy bastard who buzzed the Iowa,” announced Kemper.

“This time we’ll blast his ass,” Higgins said, reaching for his communications phone.

The low sun bounced off the helicopter’s canopy, making a bright momentary glint on the viewing screen. The craft grew, and soon, large black letters could be seen on its side.

“NUMA,” said Kemper. “That’s one of the National Underwater and Marine Agency copters.”

Jarvis’s hands fell from his face and he looked up as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep. “You did say ‘NUMA.’ “

“See for yourself,” Kemper said, pointing.

Jarvis looked. Then, like a man demented, he knocked over his chair and stretched across the table, slapping the phone out of Higgins’s hand. “No!” he shouted.

The Iowa 265p>

Higgins look stunned.

“Leave well enough alone!” Jarvis snapped. “The pilot knows what he’s doing.”

All that Jarvis was certain of was that Dirk Pitt was behind the drama being played out over the capital city. A NUMA helicopter and Pitt. The two had to be connected. A tiny glimmer of hope flickered within Jarvis as he watched the gap narrow between aircraft and warhead.

The Minerva bored in on the bright-orange parachute like a bull charging a matador’s cape. It was going to be a tight race. Steiger and Sandecker had overestimated the trajectory of the Quick Death warhead and were hovering near the National Archives building when they saw the chute open early, a quarter of a mile short of their position. Precious time was lost while Steiger feverishly swung the aircraft on a closing course in a desperate gamble conceived by Pitt a few hours previously.

“Twelve seconds gone,” Sandecker announced impassively from the cabin door.

Eighteen seconds to detonation, Steiger thought to himself.

“Ready on the hook and winch,” said Sandecker.

Steiger shook his head. “Too risky. One pass is all we’ll get. Must take it through the shrouds bow-on.”

“You’ll foul the rotor blades.”

“The only shot we’ve got,” Steiger replied.

Sandecker did not argue the point. He hurriedly dropped into the copilot’s seat and strapped himself in.

The warhead was looming through the windshield. Steiger noted that it was painted regulation-Navy blue. He pushed in the throttles to the twin turboshaft engines and at the same time pulled the pitch-control column back. The Minerva’s forward speed was cut so abruptly that both men winced as they were thrown against their safety harnesses.

“Six seconds,” said Sandecker.