The Eighth Day (40 page)

“Make way.”

He slammed the axe down on the composite resin-and-fiber belt. It snapped apart.

“We’re clear! Go. Go. Go,” the captain yelled, as he and his man scrambled into the chopper as it lifted off. Janice screamed because Hiccock was nowhere to be seen.

The ascent was stomach-wrenching. The huge Sikorsky engines at full power and maximum pitch of the rotor blade made the big machine rocket up at 5,000 feet per minute. With less than ten seconds until the ship below them self-destructed, it was not a comfortable speed. All they could do was ride it out and pray.

Janice’s screaming for Bill was not heard over the engine’s roar. She started to tear at her seat belt, which caught the captain’s eye as he suddenly realized what she was yelling about. He scanned the small cabin and didn’t see Hiccock. As he lunged toward the open door, a bandaged hand appeared and flopped onto the cabin floor. The captain and a sailor hauled Hiccock in and shut the door.

“Sorry. Kind of forgot you there for a second,” the captain said.

“Geez, thanks a lot.”

They felt it before they heard it. The chopper jumped up from the shock wave as the first of the demolition charges went off. The 3,000 rounds of the five-inch ammunition blasted the turreted forward-deck gun up 700 feet in the air, almost as high as they had climbed, though in a different trajectory. The whole ship disappeared in an explosion of orange flame and black smoke.

The pilot shouted, “Everyone hold on, we’re too close.”

The chopper’s blades were grabbing for air, which was denied by the blast wave emanating from the ship. Without air, Marine One took on the aerodynamics of a wall safe. It plunged back down. The pilot fought hard to bring his chopper over the blazing ship in a last-second gamble. The huge helicopter suddenly buffeted and jerked as it caught the thermals rising from the now-incinerating ship. Like an eagle gliding upward, the blades now had something to dig into and again the copter started to rise.

The stern of the ship rose up from the water and slipped below the waves on its final journey down into the eight-mile-deep Pacific trench.

The chopper landed on the heliport back at San Diego Naval. The president and Reynolds greeted Hiccock and his people.

The captain walked over to the president, snapped the salute of his career, and handed the logbook over to him. “Sir, the U.S.S.
Princeton
was scuttled at sea, by your order at 2100 hours. No hands were lost.”

“Thank you, Captain. You have served your country and mankind well.”

“Let’s go home,” Tyler said to Hiccock, kissing him.

“Hmmph!” the president said, thumbing through the logbook.

“What?” Hiccock asked.

Mitchell turned the logbook so Hiccock could read the final entry by Admiral Parks: “Ship had to be destroyed. Had a bug in it.”

IT SEEMS LIKE YOU WRITE a book alone, but trust me, within these pages is the essence and dedication of every teacher who challenged my wandering focus. My English teachers, Mr. Green, Mr. Zimmerman, and Hilda Gore who, in her spare time, took kids from the South Bronx to Lincoln Center and opened us up to “culture.” To Al Alteri who taught me music and life lessons not in any book and to Joe White who taught me how much I didn’t know about humility. And Ron Silber who turned me inside out, thus letting the beauty of the world of words in. To Adrian J. Meppen who taught journalism but majored in confidence building that took me to incredible heights. And my science and math teachers who fed and nourished my hunger for answers, Mrs. Isrealoff, Mr. Kulick, Mr. Benson, Mr. Burger, Mr. Schoenfeld, and Irv Binger—great people who understood the wonders of the universe.

To those who guided me with their advice, counsel, and grammar through the birthing process of this book: Kristine Bascom, Kathleen Connolly, and Helen Eisenman. To Linda Ardigo who suffered the labor pains of the first draft. To my secret weapon in the war against boring prose, Lou Aronica of the Fiction Studio whose velvet-gloved guidance compelled me to write a better book, without one word of criticism. To all the guys I grew up with in the Bronx who may recognize a few things, “You got a problem with that?” And to Monta, who just makes me the luckiest guy in the world every time she smiles. In no small part, she is directly responsible for this book coming to publication.

Then my mastermind group: Sid Paterson for his wisdom, support, and friendship throughout the decades; to Dana Matthow for his friendship and generosity in backing my earlier endeavors; and to Peter Insalaco for being my moral and spiritual compass through the fog of life. Mike Miklos for the military accuracy, Stephen Cagliostro for the medical, and John Weaver for exposing me to Washington. Len Watson for his input and excellent advice; Peter Kessleman for science methods; and Steve Cohen, who suggested I write this book in the first place.

The additional scenes included in this Author’s Preferred Edition of the Eighth Day were edited by Jackie Baron McCue and the manuscript prepared for publishing by Stephanie Bartosiewicz.