The Mystery of the Vanished Victim (16 page)

“If we can just hold them off for another few minutes,” Gully said desperately, estimating that it would take the motorcade that long to reach the United Nations. The white convertible, clearly visible below them, was proceeding slowly past a line of cheering people, as Prince Behar acknowledged their enthusiastic greetings with a dignified wave of his hat.

But those on board the yellow ’copter had also estimated the time left them for their assassination attempt. The pilot reversed the craft, cutting away from his hovering position over the avenue.

“What’s he doing?” Prema asked. “Why’s he backing away? Are they giving up?”

“No,” Gully replied tensely. “He’s trying to maneuver so I can’t reflect the sun at them.”

“Two can play this game!” bellowed Sergeant Velie to their pilot. “Can’t you out-maneuver him?”

“I’ll try,” the police pilot said, and he began a kind of aerial cat-and-mouse pursuit. But it was soon apparent that the other pilot was equally skillful.

“It’s no use,” called Gully above the roar of the rotors. He lowered the locket mirror. They all groaned.

Below, the police escort swung left, the lead motorcycles turning from First Avenue and going between two white stone bunkers that flanked the gateway to the broad front entrance to the United Nations. Then the open convertible turned, too.

“Sergeant!” Prema screamed. “Why don’t you use your gun?”

But Velie’s Police Positive had been at the ready for some time. The sun kept glinting off its blued barrel, and the pilot of the other ’copter was very much aware of it. No matter how swiftly the police pilot maneuvered their whirlybird, his opponent managed to keep the same distance between them.

“He’s keeping out of pistol range,” the sergeant grumbled.

Velie jabbed his pistol back into its holster and seized the binoculars. He trained them on the fanatically determined mustached man in the other ’copter. Johnson had the rifle to his shoulder and the sergeant could see that he was accommodating himself instantly to his pilot’s changes of position. Regardless of the yellow ’copter’s swoops and turns, the rifle with its telescopic gunsight remained mercilessly fixed on the white convertible.

“He’s waiting for the car to stop at the entrance,” Velie commented grimly. “He’ll have a sure shot then!”

“C
AN’T WE
do
something?
” Prema shrieked helplessly above the noise of the engine.

“Yes!” the police pilot answered quickly. “There’s one more thing I can try …”

Once more he began to maneuver his craft as if to attempt to close the distance to the other. Puzzled, Gully watched as the yellow ’copter’s pilot kept his distance easily. What was their pilot up to?

Gully saw in a moment. What he was actually doing was using the unsuccessful distance-closing tactic to cover his real plan, which was slowly, almost imperceptibly, to inch the police ’copter higher and higher—gaining altitude without seeming to do so.

Then, so swiftly that they were pinned to their seats by the acceleration, their pilot sent the police craft skyward, far above the other’s cruising altitude. At the same time, he flicked a lever; and down from the underbelly of their ’copter an inch-thick cable began to rapidly unreel, dangling further and further below them, their speed making it stream out like the tail of a kite.

The maneuver seemed to catch the assassins’ pilot by surprise. It was only for a few seconds, but that was all the time the police pilot needed. They shot forward until they were almost directly over the yellow ’copter.

“Keep going!” shouted Sergeant Velie. “Or slow down! Anything to get that cable in his choppers!”

“He knows it, too,” the pilot said. “Watch!”

The rifleman’s pilot panicked. He was eying the cable trailing toward his spinning rotors as if it were alive, and with a wild gesture he shoved his controls hard. The yellow ’copter dropped like a stone, its blades just escaping the end of the cable. The rifle in Johnson’s hands flew up and banged against the roof of the half-open bubble.

“You did it!” yelled Gully. “Boy, was that neat!”

They saw Johnson’s mouth going angrily, the rage in his face. But then, with surprising swiftness, he had the rifle butt back on his shoulder and was peering into the sight, trying to refocus on his victim.

Gully quickly switched his glance from Johnson to the target below.

“The car’s empty!” he exclaimed in surprise. All eyes looked down. The white convertible had drawn up at the front entrance to the United Nations. Dhavata, standing by it, and Srigar, still behind the wheel, were glancing furtively skyward as if they could not understand why nothing had happened. For Dr. Jind and Prince Behar were already under the protection of the Assembly Building’s doorway, posing for the news photographers.

“He’s safe!” screamed Prema, her small hands clapping in relief and joy. “He’s safe!”

In the yellow ’copter, Johnson had flung his now useless rifle down. The nose of the craft swung from Manhattan, pointing to the East River.

“They’re getting away!” Balbir blurted out.

“They said the method of attack was also their means of escape,” Gully exclaimed. “They must have a definite plan.”

“Whatever it is, keep after them!” Velie commanded.

Their pilot nodded and turned the craft. The yellow ’copter was now skimming over the river.

“What about Dhavata and Srigar?” asked Balbir, bitterly recalling the men who had captured and held his father.

“We’ll pick them up! Don’t you worry,” Velie reassured him.

“If only our radio hadn’t been smashed,” Gully said to their pilot.

“That’s going to make all the difference,” the pilot replied. “We can’t alert anyone to be on the lookout for the yellow ’copter and if we drop down to pass the message along, we’ll lose track of them ourselves.”

The police craft had now crossed the river. Gully stared at the yellow craft carefully, trying to measure the distance between the two helicopters. But he was unaccustomed to being so high above the ground. He could only see that the distance was growing.

“They’re pulling away from us! Is our ’copter as good as theirs?”

“It’s as good!” the pilot shouted back. “But we have three more people on board.”

Gully sank silently back in his seat.

“They’re headed for Long Island.” Sergeant Velie watched the yellow craft grow smaller in the widening distance.

“That means they’ve either a place to hide there,” Gully said, “or a boat of some kind waiting for them. I hope we’re not running out of gas!”

The pilot glanced down at his fuel gauge. “We have enough to chase them clean out to the end of Long Island.”

Ahead and to one side lay the broad expanse of Idlewild Airport.

“Keep a sharp watch on that yellow ’copter,” cautioned the pilot. “With all the air traffic out here, we could lose him.”

All eyes strained as the yellow helicopter hedgehopped over the marshy ground below. But its brilliant color kept it from blending with the green landscape.

“It’s getting smaller and smaller,” Prema wailed.

Suddenly Gully saw a sandy strip of shoreline and blue water. Then the assassins’ plot
did
call for a boat somewhere along the stretch ahead. And the conspiring foreign power behind the whole scheme to discredit the United States, Gully imagined, probably had a freighter or trawler out at sea waiting to transfer the ’copter’s passengers from their small boat and sail them away to safety.

“They’re crossing the bay!” the pilot exclaimed.

Now, the expanse of sand was widening. The bay stretched in a narrow blue expanse, bordered by the long finger of an island further out. Some small cabin cruisers and fishing boats crisscrossed the calm bay waters. In a minute, their craft was over the bay, but the yellow ’copter was darting far ahead, racing over the island that flanked the bay on the other side.

“Fire Island!” the pilot cried. “Ten to one that’s where they’re heading!”

“A smart place, too,” Velie shouted back. “Most of that beach is deserted.”

“They’ve landed! There! Near that boat!” yelled Gully.

Half a mile away the yellow helicopter had set down on the beach. A few feet offshore, a cabin cruiser bobbed on the rising tide.

“If they get outside the three-mile limit,” the pilot reminded Velie, “we haven’t any jurisdiction, no matter what they did!”

“They aren’t getting that far!” Velie muttered, drawing his revolver.

The police ’copter sped over the beach. A hundred yards ahead, they saw Johnson and the pilot wading toward the waiting cabin cruiser. Its open cockpit took up most of the stern. The canvas bridge covering had been rolled back, exposing a man at the wheel urgently beckoning to them.

“Keep her steady!” shouted Velie.

As the pilot hovered less than fifty yards from the boat and only a hundred feet above the churning waves, Velie aimed and fired. A splash of water kicked up behind Johnson, just as he vaulted into the boat. Johnson turned in fury and raised his rifle. Velie fired again, as the pilot and the boat’s captain threw themselves flat. But Johnson remained standing, firing back.

“The rotors!” the pilot cried.

They could all hear the strange new whining sound, as the helicopter’s overhead blades turned. Johnson’s shot had damaged one of them.

Velie aimed and fired again at the lone figure standing with the rifle to his shoulder in the rocking boat below. The shot tore into the wood planking inches from Johnson. Johnson fired again. Prema gasped as a hole appeared in the glass bubble near her.

“You kids get down, will you?” roared the Sergeant, firing again. “What d’ye think he’s shooting, ping-pong balls?”

“This won’t do!” the pilot exclaimed. “We’re sitting ducks up here. And I don’t like the sound of the rotors.”

Jiggling his controls, he swung the craft out to sea. The boat below started from shore. The heavy surf was making it slow going.

“We can’t let them get away now,” Gully cried.

“We won’t!” the pilot replied. “I’m going to try something to force them back to shore.”

The ’copter dipped low, less than ten feet above the rising whitecaps. Then the pilot started his run in toward the oncoming boat, which was still only twenty yards from shore.

“Hang on!” the pilot cautioned.

“What are you trying to do?” demanded Velie. “Drown us?”

The pilot didn’t answer, but Gully suddenly understood what he had in mind. They raced low over the waves, their rotors piling the water higher and higher. The rising tide and the ’copter’s down-wash combined to send waves smashing high and hard against the boat below. The down-wash caught the bow, turning the boat broadside to the rising rollers. Green water poured over the gunwales of the rocking craft below.

“Watch out!” Balbir shouted as he saw Johnson raise his rifle not a dozen yards away.

But the bobbing of the boat made it impossible for Johnson to fire accurately, even at so close a target. His shots went wild.

“Keep it up!” encouraged Velie. “Keep it up! They’re being swamped! Look at ’em bail!” For the first time, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Johnson had thrown down his rifle, forced to help with the bailing. The floor boards of the cruiser were already awash and the police ’copter was kicking up more and more waves that poured into the boat. They could see the cruiser’s skipper frantically trying to maneuver. But the water in the cockpit was making his craft unmanageable.

“They’re turning back to the shore!” Gully shouted happily. “We’ve won!”

The bow of the cruiser lumbered around slowly, pointing to shore. The ’copter hovered closer in pursuit. Now the breaking rollers sped the boat to shore and sent it crunching up onto the wet sand. As the foaming waters sucked back, the beached boat tilted helplessly. Johnson, rifle in hand again, vaulted over the side. Quickly, the other two men followed him onto the beach. Then, with a grimace of sheer fury, Johnson dropped to one knee and turned his rifle on the ’copter.

“Hang on!” shouted the pilot, feverishly working the controls.

They bobbed up and down like a jack-in-the-box, as the pilot tried to make the ’copter a difficult target while attempting to get out of range. Velie fired, his shot spewing up sand at Johnson’s knee. Then the rifle blasted back. The ’copter staggered.

“The engine!” the pilot roared in alarm.

The ’copter’s engine was sputtering and missing. Above their heads the spinning blades faltered, then picked up speed only to slow once more. The whole craft quivered as the engine vibrated wildly. At any moment now, the rotors of the helpless craft would stop turning and they would plummet into the sea!

“W
E’RE
falling!” Prema was staring horrified at the turbulent waters below.

The overhead blades had stopped.

“Don’t move!” the pilot warned. “Everyone keep absolutely still. We won’t go straight down, but there’s no way of telling how far we can glide.”

Everyone froze in his place. They could feel the helicopter sinking faster toward the tossing water. But the craft, as it fell toward the sea, was also angling for the shore. Faster and faster it dropped, but as it lost height it gained distance. Now the sandy strip of beach was almost beneath them.

“Hang on!” cried the pilot.

With a jarring shock, the ’copter struck. Its landing gear slammed into the wet sand. Inside the bubble, the passengers were tossed about. Balbir’s head swung against the bullet-holed glass, but his turban absorbed most of the blow. Gully and Sergeant Velie managed to grab Prema’s arms and keep her from sprawling forward.

The pilot craned his head around anxiously. When he saw that no one had been hurt he sprang out of the craft and helped the others jump down onto the soft wet sand.

Gully looked back. The ’copter rested on the sand, tilting at a crazy angle. As he watched, a wave broke beneath the upflung tail section and raced up the sand, foaming and curling around the broken undercarriage. It had been a close call.

“They’re gone!” Velie stormed. Pistol in hand, he looked up and down the beach.