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He watched as the F-15s accelerated past, dropped their noses, and pointed them toward Key West.
They fell into line as if playing follow the leader and switched on their landing lights. At first the brilliant rays only reflected on water, and then they lit up a salt flat before sweeping up the naval air station runway.
The effort of concentration showed on Jurgens' face. The shuttle went right where he aimed it, but it was never meant to soar through the air like a paper glider. Burkhart read out the airspeed and altitude so Jurgens could center his attention on flying.
"Gettysburg, you are three hundred feet under minimum," said Foley.
"If I pull up another inch, she'll stall."
The runway seemed to take forever to grow larger. The shuttle was only four miles out, but it looked like a hundred. Jurgens believed he could make it. He had to make it. Every brain cell in his skull willed the Gettysburg to hang in the air.
"Speed 320, altitude 1,600, three miles to runway," reported Burkhart. His voice had a trace of hoarseness.
Jurgens could see the flashing lights from the fire and rescue equipment now. The fighters were hovering above him, shining their landing lights on the concrete ribbon 1.5 miles long by 200 feet wide.
The shuttle was eating up her glide slope. Jurgens flared her out as much as he dared. The landing lights glinted on the shoreline no more than ninety feet below. He held on to the last possible second before he pushed the switch and deployed the landing gear. Normal landing procedure required the wheels to touch 2,760 feet down the runway, but Jurgens held his breath, hoping against hope that they would even reach the concrete.
The salt flat flashed past under the blinding beams and was lost in the darkness behind. Burkhart gripped his seat rests and droned off the diminishing numbers.
"Speed 205. Main gear at ten feet. . . five feet. . . three feet. . . two feet. . . one, contact."
The four huge tires of the main landing gear thumped on the hard surface and protested at the sudden friction with a puff of smoke. A later measurement would show that Jurgens touched the shuttle down only forty-seven feet from the end of the runway. Jurgens gently pitched the bow down until the nose wheel made contact and then pushed both brake pedals. He rolled the spacecraft to a stop with a thousand feet to spare.
"They made it!" Hollyman whooped over his radio.
"Gettysburg to Houston Control," said Jurgens with an audible sigh. "The wheels have stopped."
"Magnificent! Magnificent!" shouted Foley.
"Congratulations, Dave," added Mitchell. "Nobody could have done it better."
Burkhart looked over at Jurgens and said nothing, simply gave a thumbs-up sign.
Jurgens sat there, his adrenaline still flowing, basking in his triumph over the odds. His weary mind began to wander and he found himself wondering who Dirk Pitt was. Then he pressed the intercom switch.
"Mr. Steinmetz."
"Yes, Commander?"
"Welcome back to earth. We're home."
Pitt tool one quick comprehensive look as he stepped back into Velikov's study. Everyone was kneeling, clustered around Raymond LeBaron, who was stretched out on the floor. Jessie was holding his hand and murmuring to him. Gunn looked up at Pitt's approach and shook his head.
"What happened?" Pitt asked blankly.
"He jumped to his feet to help you and caught the bullet that cut your ear," Giordino replied.
Before kneeling, Pitt stared down a moment at the mortally wounded millionaire. The clothing that covered the upper abdomen bloomed in a spreading stain of crimson. The eyes still had life and were focused on Jessie's face. His breath came in rapid and shallow pants. He tried to raise his head and say something to her, but the effort was too great and he fell back.
Slowly Pitt sank on one knee beside Jessie. She turned and looked at him with tears trickling down her discolored cheeks. He stared back at her briefly without speaking. He could think of nothing to say to her, his mind was played out.
"Raymond tried to save you," she said huskily. "I knew they could never completely turn him inside out. In the end he came back."
LeBaron coughed, a strange rasping kind of cough. He gazed up at Jessie, his eyes dulled, face white and drained of blood. "Take care of Hilda," he whispered. "I leave everything in your hands."
Before he could say more, the room trembled as the rumble of explosives came from deep below.
