The bird bobbed its head and squawked raucously like a churchgoer enjoying Reverend Chiun’s fire-and-brimstone sermon.
“And when Prince Howard is devoured, then our enemy will be more powerful and his hold on you will be stronger. You will go out into the world again, and even I will be forced to stand against you and I will fall, for who can stand against the Master of Sinanju? Sa Mangsang will strengthen, his hold on you will be stronger and there will be nothing that can stop either of you.”
Remo was shaken. “You have foreseen this, Little Father?”
Chiun pursed his lips. “Not foreseen.”
“Not foreseen, exactly,” the parrot agreed.
“But you believe this is what’s going to happen?” Remo asked.
“I predict that this will happen,” Chiun replied. “Is that not reason enough to heed my warnings?”
Chapter 40
The Japanese fishing trawlers should have steered around the perimeter that was being guarded by the international fleet. The trawler ignored the radioed warning and entered the off-limits watch zone around the vortex.
“Here they come—it’s a U.S. Coast Guard ship,” announced Chad, peering through his binoculars. ‘It’s a little cutter.” He read off the numbers on the bow.
Dr. Williamson punched it up on his laptop computer. He had loaded a database of all Coast Guard vessels—as well as U.S., Japanese and French navy ships—just for this eventuality. They knew they’d run into resistance from somebody.
“She’s a quick one,” Williamson announced. He fed the specifications on the ship into a little piece of software he had improvised this morning. It took their current position and the position of any potential pursuit craft and came up with an estimate of their ability to reach safety, once the pursuit started.
The laptop gave them a yellow-flag warning. “We’ll make it to the inside border of the watch zone ahead of them, but only if they don’t fire on us,” Williamson announced. “That’s too risky. We need one more kilometer of clearance between us and them.”
“Maybe they won’t fire,” Mick Chad said. “Let’s try it.”
“They will fire. They’ve been firing on any vessel that tries to get in,” Williamson said. “They’ll disable us and take away the Flying Fish.”
The radio beeped. It was Tom Bomi, captain of the fishing trawler.
They could see him. He was on the bridge of the trawler, smiling and waving to them. Mick Chad and Dr. Williamson were on the bridge of the Flying Fish, the vessel that was in tow behind the trawler.
“You need a little extra space, right? I get it for you?”
Chad perked up. Williamson frowned. “How?” he asked.
“I cut you free, then make a run for the vortex, see?” Bomi explained on the speaker. “They chase me, and when they out of range you go like hell.”
“You’ll get fined,” Williamson pointed out.
“And arrested,” Bomi said. “That’s why it cost you five thousand dollars more.”
Williamson choked. “Does he think I’m rich? I’m a professor.”
Mick Chad shrugged. Not even a professor, Chad thought. Professors teach in colleges and work in labs. Williamson didn’t do that. He lived off of grants from freaks with too much money and too little common sense.
Mick Chad had been on more than one silly “expedition” with Dr. Williamson. Once they were looking for gargantuan earthworms in Siberia. Big as diesel locomotives, miles long. They didn’t find any. Another time they went to Tibet to find a yeti. All they found were yaks and Tibetans.
What they were looking for this time, Mick Chad had no idea. He was just along for the ride. He knew how to drive the vessel—more or less—so once again Williamson had hired him. Chad was a good guide who could pilot just about anything and who knew how to cut a path through any international red tape.
This time, Williamson had paid Chad in advance. He had put up the funds to lease this vessel, which wasn’t cheap. The so-called professor had a staff of eight researchers with him—a crew of thinkers that was twice as big as any other expedition. Williamson was seriously determined to find something. Who knew what? Mick didn’t care. He just liked being along for the ride—and he liked the cash, most of it under the table.
“We go in or we go home,” Chad said. “Your call, Professor.”
“Fine. Tell him we have a deal.” Miserably, Williamson used his laptop to transfer the funds into the accounts of the Japanese trawler captain.
The captain waved again when, he got the confirmation on his own satellite computer, and his fishermen scrambled to the winch to release the Flying Fish’s tow cable. It drifted away from the trawler and bobbed gently in the Pacific water.
Mick Chad started the dock maneuvering engines and began chugging slowly away from the vortex. “The Coast Guard will think we’re heading away under our own power. They’ll leave us alone to chase the Japs.”
“Let’s hope so,” Williamson said.
Captain Bomi’s trawler revved away, across the current but generally toward the vortex. The cutter issued orders over the radio, then gave chase as the trawler increased speed. Within a minute the cutter was just a dot.
“Let’s go, Chad,” Williamson said.
“You got it.” Chad hit the lifter power switches and the vessel rumbled. Giant fans spun up to speed and built pressure until a cushion of air was created, hoisting the Flying Fish on it and extracting the maneuvering propellers right out of the water. Then the big propulsion fans, protruding from either side of the hull like open car doors, started to spin.
Mick Chad worked the joysticks carefully. Hovercraft control wasn’t easy. Most of them had computerized navigation systems, but the Flying Fish wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art.
The Flying Fish rotated in a circle, to face back into the vortex.
But Chad rotated too fast. Dr. Williamson tipped off his feet with a cry of alarm. Chad pushed hard on the joystick—the wrong joystick. He made the big hovercraft spin faster, like a thrill-seeker’s carousel. Chad gulped and hit the other joystick, full throttle.
The alternate fan roared to life and brought the spinning to a sudden halt. Anybody who was still on his feet was thrown off balance and slammed to the deck. Chad realized he was giving it too much power in the other direction …
“Sorry,” he announced ten seconds later when he finally had the Flying Fish under control.
“Where’d you learn to drive a hovercraft, idiot!” Williamson said shakily, still on his hands and knees.
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“I never said I did.”
“So why’d you take the job?”
“I can drive a hovercraft as well as any other pilot,” Chad stated. “For what you’re paying, I’m as good as you’re gonna get.” He had no idea if it was true, but it sounded good. He locked the joysticks together and accelerated the Flying Fish toward the vortex.
The others stormed into the wheelhouse to make their protest. They didn’t get far before Mick announced, “Coast Guard’s coming.”
“How fast?” Williamson asked.
“Unknown. The vortex is starting to affect our systems. Radar’s no good. Satellite’s crapping out and so’s the GPS. Radio’s still working and I got a message to stop and be boarded.”