"I heard the distress warning. You want to go track that roller as it pounds Listvyanka?" Giordino asked through his headset.
"We've got a social call to make first. Get us airborne and head southeast, and I'll fill you in."
Giordino quickly lifted the Kamov off the moving ship and climbed to an altitude of two hundred feet, swinging east across the lake. As the helicopter accelerated to eighty-five miles per hour, Pitt provided a description of the seiche wave and the unsuspecting fishing boat. The black hull of the boat soon appeared on the horizon and Giordino adjusted his direction toward the vessel as Pitt radioed back to the Vereshchagin.
"Rudi, how's our wave rolling?"
"Gaining more power by the minute, Dirk," Gunn's voice replied soberly. "The wave is now topping thirty feet in height at its center, with velocity on the increase as it squeezes past the Selenga River delta."
"How much time before she reaches us?"
Gunn paused as he keyed in a command on the computer. "ETA to the Vereshchagin is approximately thirty-seven minutes. We'll be shy of Listvyanka by about five miles."
"Thanks, Rudi. Keep the hatches battened down. We'll be overhead for the show once we get the fishing boat alerted."
"Roger," Gunn replied, suddenly wishing he could trade seats with Pitt.
The wave was still forty miles away and the hills of Listvyanka were now plainly visible to the men on the Vereshchagin. The ship would safely be out of the main force of the wave when the tempest arrived, but there was no protecting the shoreline. Counting the minutes to go, Gunn peered out the bridge window and silently wondered what the picturesque lakeside community would look like in another hour.
-3-
"Looks like we've got some company," Wofford said, pointing off the fishing boat's stern toward the horizon.
Though Theresa had already spotted the aircraft, Wofford's words made everyone else aboard the boat stop and look. The stubby silver helicopter was approaching from the west and there was no mistaking its beeline path directly toward them.
The fishing boat was cruising toward the eastern shore with its survey gear tailing behind, the crew oblivious to any impending danger. No one aboard had noticed the sudden disappearance of all other surface boats, though an absence of vessel sightings was hardly unusual on the huge lake.
All eyes turned skyward as the ungainly helicopter roared up to the small boat, then pivoted and hovered off the port beam. The survey crew gazed up at an ebony-haired figure in the passenger's seat who waved a microphone toward the window and pointed a finger at his headset.
"He's trying to call us on the radio," Wofford observed. "Do you have your ears on, Captain?"
Tatiana translated to the annoyed captain, who shook his head and spoke indignantly back to the Russian woman. He then grabbed a radio microphone from the wheelhouse and held it up toward the helicopter while slicing his free hand horizontally across the front of his throat.
"The captain says his radio has not operated for two years," Tatiana said, reporting the obvious. "He states that there is no need for one, he sails efficiently without it."
"Now why does that not surprise me?" Roy said, rolling his eyes.
"He obviously wasn't in the Boy Scouts," Wofford added.
"It looks like they want us to turn around," Theresa said, interpreting new motions from the helicopter copilot. "I think they want us to return to Listvyanka."
"The helicopter is from the Limnological Institute," Tatiana noted. "They have no authority. We can ignore them."
"I think they are trying to warn us," Theresa protested, as the helicopter dipped its rotors several times, while the passenger continued making motions with his hands.
"We're probably intruding on an insignificant experiment of theirs," Tatiana said. Shooing her arms at the helicopter, she yelled, "Otbyt', otbyt' ... go away."
***
Giordino peered out the cockpit windshield and grinned in amusement. The crusty captain of the fishing boat appeared to be yelling obscenities at the helicopter, while Tatiana stood shooing them away.
"Apparently, they don't like what we're selling," Giordino remarked.
"I think their captain is either short on brains or long on undistilled vodka," Pitt replied, shaking his head in frustration.
"Could be your lousy Marcel Marceau imitation."
"Take a look at the waterline on that bucket."
Giordino studied the portside hull of the fishing boat, noting that it rode low in the water.
"Looks like she's sinking already," he said.
"She won't have much chance against a thirty-foot wave," Pitt remarked. "You're going to have to put me on the deck."
Giordino didn't bother questioning the wisdom of the request or protesting the danger to Pitt. He knew it would be a futile gesture. Pitt was like an overgrown Boy Scout who wouldn't take no for an answer when helping an old lady across the street. He would put his own safety last in order to help others, regardless of the risk. With a steady hand on the controls, Giordino inched the helicopter in a tight circle around the boat, searching for a spot he could touch down and offload Pitt. But the old vessel would not cooperate. A tall wooden mast ran up from the wheelhouse a dozen feet, shielding the boat like a lance.
With its forty-two-foot-diameter rotors, there wasn't a place on the boat the helicopter could hover without striking the mast.
"I can't get in tight enough with that mast. You'd have to swim it or risk a twenty-foot drop without breaking a leg," Giordino said.
Pitt surveyed the derelict black boat with its crowd of occupants who still stared up in confusion. "I'm not ready for a swim just yet," he said, contemplating the frigid lake water. "But if you can put me on that mast, I'll do my best fireman's imitation."
The thought seemed crazy, Giordino thought, but he was right. If he could maneuver the helicopter up tight to the mast from above, Pitt could grab hold and slide down to the deck. A tough enough maneuver over land, Giordino knew the attempt over a moving and rocking boat could knock the chopper out of the sky if he wasn't careful.
Pulling the Kamov up till its wheels hung ten feet above the mast, Giordino gently inched the helicopter forward until its passenger door was directly above the mast. Lightly stroking the throttle control, he adjusted the chopper's speed until it precisely matched that of the moving boat. Satisfied he was tracking together, he slowly lowered the helicopter until it hung just three feet above the mast.
"With the boat rocking, I'll have to take just a quick dip to get you down," Giordino said through the headset. "Sure you can climb back up, so I can pull you off?"
"I'm not planning on coming back," Pitt replied matter-of-factly. "Give me a second, and I'll guide you down."
Pitt took off his headset, then reached down and pulled out the red duffel bag at his feet. Opening the cockpit door to a rush of air from the rotors, he casually tossed the bag out, watching it land with a bounce on the wheelhouse roof. Pitt then dangled his feet out the door and motioned with one hand for Giordino to hold steady. The mast swung brusquely back and forth from the rocking motion of the boat, but Pitt quickly got a feel for the rhythm. When it slowed between swells, Pitt dropped his palm to Giordino. The pilot instantly dipped the helicopter three feet and, in a flash, Pitt was gone out the door.
Giordino didn't wait to see if Pitt had successfully connected with the mast but immediately lifted the helicopter up and away from the fishing boat. Gazing out the side window in relief, he saw Pitt with his arms grappled to the top of the mast, slowly sliding his way down.