“I know, I know,” Becker said, more in exasperation than anger. “I don't mean to be ungrateful, but every minute counts.” He flicked the cigarette butt into the sea and jammed his hands even further into his pockets. “Too bad Denmark no longer has capital punishment,” he fumed. “I'd like to see that whole murderous SOS bunch swing- ing from the end of a rope.”

“You're sure they deliberately rammed you?”

“No doubt of it! They changed course and came directly at us. Bang! Like a torpedo.” He glanced at his watch. “You're sure the Americans said five minutes? I don't see any ships approaching.”

“That is puzzling,” the captain said. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. “I don't see any vessels, either.” Hearing a noise, he pointed the lenses toward the overcast sky. “Wait. There's a heli- copter coming this way. It's moving very fast.”

The pencil-point speck grew rapidly larger against the slate-gray cloud cover, and before long the thrump-thrump of rotors was audi- ble. The aircraft made directly for the Thor and buzzed the ship slightly higher than mast-level, then it banked and went into a wide circle around the research vessel. The letters NUMA were clearly visible in big bold letters on the side of the turquoise Bell 212.

The ship's first mate trotted across the deck toward the captain and pointed to the circling chopper. “It's the Americans. They're asking permission to land.”

The captain replied in the affirmative, and the crewman relayed the okay into a squawking hand radio. The helicopter swooped in, hovered above the stern deck and descended in slow motion, mak- ing a gentle landing at the exact center of the white circle that marked the helipad.

The door flew open, and two men emerged under the spinning ro- tors and made their way across the deck. As a politician, Becker was an acute observer of people. The men moved with the casual easiness that he had seen in other Americans, but their determined stride and the way they carried themselves projected an air of supreme confi- dence.

The broad-shouldered man leading the way was just over six feet tall and around two hundred pounds, Becker estimated. His hair was gray, but as the man drew near, Becker saw that he was young, probably around forty. His dark-complexioned companion was slightly shorter, younger and slimmer. He walked with the panther- like grace of a boxer; it would not have surprised Becker if he'd known that the man had financed his way through college fighting as a middleweight. His movements were relaxed, but with the in- herent energy of a coiled spring.

The captain stepped forward to greet the Americans. "Welcome to the Thor/' he said.