"Major Dirk Pitt," he snapped in an official tone, introducing himself. "I'm on urgent business for the United States government and must get to the commercial maintenance hangar for nonscheduled aircraft."
The guard looked at him blankly undl he bed and then, smiling dumbly, shrugged.
The cab driver stepped from behind the steering wheel. "He doesn't understand English, Major. Allow me to translate for you."
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, the driver put an arm around the guard and gently walked him away from the car toward the gate, tag rapidly but gesturing gracefully as he rattled off a flow of words in Icelandic. It was the first chance that Pitt had a good look at his helpmate.
The driver was medium height, just under six foot, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with straw-colored hair and the light skin that usually goes with it. If Pitt had passed him on the street, he would have pegged him as a jor assistant executive, three years out of university, eager to make his mark in his father-in-law's bank.
Finally the two men broke out laughing and shook hands. Then the driver climbed back behind the wheel and winked at Pitt as the still smiling guard opened the gate and waved them through.
Pitt said, "You seem to have a way with security guards."
"A necessity of the trade. A cab driver wouldn't be worth his salt if he couldn't talk his way past a gate guard or a policeman on a barricaded street."
"It's apparent you've mastered the knack."
"I work at it… Any particular hangar, sir?
There are several, one for every major airline."
"General maintenance-the one that handles transient nonscheduled aircraft."
The glare of the sun bounced off the white cement taxiway and made Pitt squint. He slipped a pair of sunglasses from a breast pocket and put them on. Several huge jetliners were parked in even rows, displaying, the emblems and color schemes of TWA, Pan American, Tceltnclic, and B.O.A.C, while crews of whitciled mechanics buried themselves under engines and crawled over the wings with fuel hoses.
On the other side of the field, a good two miles away, Pitt could make out aircraft of the U.S. Air Force, undoubtedly going through the same rituals.
"Here we are," the driver announced. "Permit me to offer you my services as a translator."
"That won't be necessary. Keep the meter running.
I'll only be a few minutes."
Pitt got out and walked through the side door of the hangar, a sterile giant of a building that covered nearly two acres. Five small private planes were scattered around the floor like a handful of spectators in an otherwise empty auditorium. But it was the sixth that caught Pitts eye. It was an old Ford Trimotor known as the Tin Goose. The corrugated aluminum skin that covered the framework and the three motors, one perched on the nose directly in front of the cockpit, the other two suspended in space by an ungainly network of wires and struts, combined to make it look to the unknowing eye a thing too awkward to fly with any degree of control or, for that matter, lift its wheels from the ground. But the old pioneering pilots swore by it. To them it was a flying son of a bitch. Pitt patted the ancient washboard sides, idly wished he could test-fly it someday, and then walked on toward the offices in the rear of the hangar.
He opened a door and moved into what appeared to be a combination locker room and rest area, wrinkling his nose from the pungent, heavy smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and coffee. Except for the coffee, the aroma bore a marked resemblance to a high school gym. He stood there a moment looking at a group of five men clustered around a large European-style ceramic coffee urn, laughing good-naturedly at a recently told joke. They were all dressed in white coveralls, some spotlessly clean, others decorated with heavy splotches of black oil. Pitt sauntered easily toward them, smiling.
"Pardon me, gentlemen, any of you speak English?"
A shaggy, long-haired mechanic sitting nearest the urn looked up and drawled, "Yeah, I speak American if that'll do."
"That will do fine," Pitt laughed. "I'm looking for a man with the initials S.C. He's probably a hydraulic specialist."
The mechanic eyed him uneasily. "Who wants to know?"
Pitt forced a friendly smile and pulled out his I.D. again.
"Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt."
For a full five seconds the mechanic sat immobile, expressionless except for the stunned widening of his eyes. Then he threw his hands in the air helplessly and then let them fall limply to his sides.
"Ya, got your man, Major. Ah knew it were too good to last." The voice reached from somewhere deep in Oklahoma.
It was Pitts turn to become expressionless. "Like what's too good to last?"
"Mah moonlightin' lak this," he drawled morosely. " 'working' as a hydraulic specialist for civilian airlines during mah off-duty hours." He stared forlornly into his coffee cup. "Ah knew it was against U.S. Air Force regulations, but the money was too good to pass up. Ah guess ah can kiss mah stripes good-by."
Pitt looked at him. "I know of no Air Force regulations that prevent an enlisted man or an officer, for that matter, from icking up a few dollars when he isn't on duty."
"Nuthin' wrong with Air Force rules, Major. It's Keflavik Base policy set by Colonel Nagel, the C.O. on our side of the field. He feels we should work on squadron aircraft during' our time off instead of helpin' out the feather merchants. Tryin' to make a name for himself with the Pentagon brass, ah guess. But ya wouldn't be here if you didn't know all that."
"That'll do," Pitt said sharply. His gaze swung left and right until it came back to the Air Force mechanic. Then his eyes grew suddenly cold. "When you talk to a superior officer, Airman, you stamd up."
"I don't have to kiss your ass, Major. You ain't got no uniform on-" Two seconds was all it took. with a nonchalant ease Pitt bent over. clasped the front two legs of the mechanic's chair and flipped him over on his back and put his foot over the man's throat in one deceptive movement. The other maintenance men stood there in stunned immobility for a few seconds. Then their senses returned and they began to circle Pitt menacingly.
"Call off your flunkies or I break your neck," Pitt said, grinning pleasantly into the fear-filled eyes.
The mechanic, unable to talk with the heel of Pitts shoe pushing against his windpipe, gestured wildly with both hands. The men stopped and moved back a step, retreating not so much from their friend's muted pleas as from the ice-cold grin on Pitt's face.
"That's a good group," Pitt said. He turned and looked down at the helpless mechanic and lifted his foot just enough to allow his prisoner to speak. "Now, then, name, rank, and serial number. Let's have it!"
"Sam… Sam Cashman," he choked. "Sergeant.
Air Force 19385628."
"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Sam?" Pitt bent and helped Cashman to his feet.
"Ahim sorry, sir. Ah figured that as long as ya were gonna court-martial me anyway-"
"You're lousy at figuring Pitt interrupted. "Next time keep your mouth shut. You admitted guilt when you didn't have to."
"Are ya still gonna bust me?"
"To begin with, I don't give a rat's ass whether you moonlight or not. Since I'm not stationed at Keflavik Air Force Base, I could care less about the policieschicken shit as they are-of your Colonel Nagel. Therefore, I won't be the one to bust you. All I want is the answers to a few simple questions." Pitt stared Cashman in the eye and smiled warmly. "Now how about it? Will you help me?"
The expression on Cashman's face displayed genuine awe. "Christ Almighty, what ah wouldn't give to serve under an officer like you." He extended his hand.
"Ask away, Major."
Pitt returned Cashman's grip. "First question: do you usually scratch your initials in the equipment you repair?"
"Yeah, it's kind of a trademark, ya might say. Ah do good work an ahim proud of it. Serves a purpose too. If ah work on the hydraulic system of an aircraft and it comes back with a malfunction, ah know the trouble lays where ah didn't work. It saves a lot of time."
"Have you ever repaired the nose gear of a twelvepassenger British jet?"
Cashman thought for a moment. "Yeah, about a month ago. One of those new executive twin turbine Ulysses-a hell of a machine."
"Was it painted black?"
"Ah couldn't see paint markin's. It was dark, about one-thirty in the mornin' when ah got the call."
He shook his head. "Wasn't black, though. Ahim positive."
"Any distinguishing features or anything unusual about the repair that you can recall?"
Cashman laughed. "The only distinguishin' features were the two weirdos who were flyin' it." He held up a cup, offering Pitt some coffee. Pitt shook his head.
"Well, these guys were in a terrible hurry. Kept standin' around tryin' to push me. Pissed me off plenty. Seems they made a rough landin' somewhere and busted a seal in the shock cylinder. They were damned lucky that ah found a spare over at the B.O.A.C hangars."
"Did you get a look inside?"
"Hell no, you'd have thought they had the President on board the way they guarded the loadin' door."
"Any idea where they came from or where they were headed?"
"No way, they were tightlipped bastards. Talked about nothin, but the repair. Must have been on a local flight though. They didn't refuel. You ain't flyin' far in a Lorelei-not from Iceland anyhow-without full tanks."
"The pilot must have signed a maintenance order."
"Nope. He refused. Said He was behind schedule and would catch me next time. Paid me though. Twice what the job was worth." Cashman was silent for a moment. He tried to read something in the man standing before him, but Pitts face was as impenetrable as a granite statue. "What's behind these questions, Major?
Mind lettin' me in on your secret?"
"No secret," Pitt said slowly. "A Lorelei crashed a couple of days ago and nothing except a portion of the nose gear was left to identify. I'm trying to trace it, that's all."
"Wasn't it reported as missin'?"
"I wouldn't be here if it was."
"Ah knew there was something fishy about them guys. That's why ah went ahead and filled out a maintenance report."
Pitt leaned over, his eyes boring into Cashman's.
"What good was a report if you couldn't identify the aircraft?"
A shrewd smile split Cashman's lips. "Ah may be a country boy, but mah momma didn't drop me outta her bottom this mornin'." He stood up and tilted his head toward a side door. "Major, ahim gonna make your day."
He led Pitt into a small dingy office furnished with only a battered desk that was decorated with at least fifty cigarette burn marks, two equally battered chairs and a huge metal filing cabinet. Cashman walked straight to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer, rummaged for a moment, found what he was looking for and handed Pitt a folder soiled with greasy fingerprints.
"Ah wasn't kidding' ya, Major, when ah said it was too dark to make out any paint markin's. Near as ah could tell, the plane had never been touch by a brush or spraygun. The aluminum skin was —,Is shiny as the day it let the factory."
Pitt opened the folder and scanned the maintenance report. Cashman's handwritin left much to be desired, but there was no mistaking the notation under AIRCRAFT IDENTIFICATION: Lorelei Mark V111-B1608.
"How did you get it?" Pitt asked.
"Compliments of a limey inspector at the Lorelei factory," Cashman answered, sitting on a corner of the desk. "After replacin' the seal on the nose gear, ah took a flashlight and checked out the main landin' gear for damage or leakage, and there it was, stuck away under the right strut as pretty as you please. A green tag sayin' that this here aircraft's landin' gear had been examined and okayed by master inspector Clarence Devonshire of Lorelei Aircraft Limited. The plane's serial number was typed on the tag."
Pitt threw the folder on the desk. "Sergeant Cashman!" he snapped.
Stunned at the brusque tone, Cashman jumped erect. "Sir?"
"Your squadron!"
"Eighty-seventh Air Transport Squadron, sir."
"Good enough." Pitts cold expression slowly worked into a huge grin and he slapped Cashman on the shoulder. "You're absolutely right, Sam. You truly made my day."
"Wish ah could say the same," Cashman sighed, visibly relieved, "but that's twice in the last ten minutes ya scared the crap outta me. Why'd ya want mah squadron?"
"So I'd know where to send a case of Jack Daniel's. I take it you enjoy good whiskey?"
A look of wonder suddenly came over Cashman's face. "By gawd, Major, you're sumthin' else. Ya know that?"
"I try." Already Pitt was plotting how to explain a case of expensive whiskey on his expense account.
What the hell, screw Sandecker, he thought; the tab was worth the consequences. Screw, the word bounded out of his mind and caused him to remember something. He reached inside his pocket.
"By the way, have you ever seen this before?" He handed Cashman the screwdriver he'd found on the black Lorelei.
"Well, waal, fancy that. Believe it or not, Major, this here screwtwister is mine. Bought it through the catalog of a tool specialty house in Chicago. It's the only one of its kind on the island. Where'd you come across it?"
"In the wreck."
"So that's where it went," he said angry. "Those dirty bastards stole it. Ah should a known they were up to sumthin' illegal. Ya just tell me when their trial is, and ah'fl be happier than a rejected hog at a packin' plant to testify against them."
"Save your leave time for a wor-thwbhe escapade.
Your friends won't be showing for a trial. They bought the farm."
"Killed in the wreck?" It was more statement than question.
Pitt nodded.
"Ah suppose ah could go on about crime not payin', but why bother.
If they had it coming', they had it coming'. That's all there is to it."
"As a philosopher, you make a great hydraulic specialist, Sam." Pitt shook Cashman's hand once more.
"Good-by and thank you. I'm grateful for your help."
"Glad to do it, Major. Here, keep the screwdriver for a souvenir.
Already ordered a new one, so won't be needin' it."
"Thanks again." Pitt shoved the screwdriver back in his pocket, turned and left the office.
Pitt relaxed in the cab and stuck a cigarette between his lips without lighting the end. Obtaining the mysterious black jet's serial number had been a shot in the dark that paid off in spades. He really hadn't expected to find out anything. Staring through the window at the passing green pastures, he saw nothing with his eyes, idly wondering if the plane could now be tied directly to Rondheim. This was still worrying over the possibility when b. the view impression that the countryside looked different than before. The fields were empty of cattle and ponies, the rolling hills flattened into a vast carpet of uneven tundra. He swung around and gazed out the other window; the sea was not where it should have been; instead, it lay to the rear of the cab, slowly disappearing over a long, low rise in the road. He leaned over the front seat.
"Do you have a date with the farmer's daughter or are you taking the scenic route to run up the meter?"
The driver applied pressure to the brake and slowed the cab, stopping at the side of the road. "Privacy is the word, Major. Merely a slight detour so we can have a little chat-" The driver's voice froze into nothingness, and for good reason. Pitt had jammed the tip of the screwdriver half an inch into the cavity of his ear'.
"Keep your hands on the wheel and get this hack back on the road to Reykjavik," Pitt said quietly, "or your right ear will get screwed into your left."
Pitt watched the driver's face closely in the rearview mirror, studying the blue eyes, knowing they would signal any sudden attempt at resistance. No shadow of an expression touched the boyish features, not even a flicker of fear. Then slowly, very slowly, the face in the mirror began to smile, the smile transforming into a gentle laugh.
"Major Pitt, you are a very suspicious man."
"If you had three attempts on your lif
e in the last three days, you'd develop a suspicious nature too."
The laugh stopped abruptly and the bush brows bunched together. "Three attempts? I'm aware of only two-" Pitt cut him off by pushing the screwdriver another eighth of an inch deeper into his ear, "You're a lucky man, friend. I could try and make you contribute a few choice items about your boss and' his operation, but Russian KGB-style interrogation is way out of my line.
Instead of Reykjavik, suppose you drive nice and easy back to Keflavik, only this time to the United States Air Force side of the field where you can join a couple of your buddies and play charades with National Intelligence agents. You'll like them; they're experts at taking wanflower and turning him into a babbling life of the party.
"That might prove embarrassing."
"That's your problem."
The smile was back in the rear-view mirror. "Not entirely, Major.
It would, indeed, be a moment worth remembering to see your face when you discover you brought in a N.I.A. agent for questioning."
Pitts pressure on the screwdriver didn't relax.
"Very second-rate," he said. "I'd expect a better story from a high school freshman caught smoking pot in the boy's room."
"Admiral Sandecker said you wouldn't be an easy man to talk to."
The door was open now and Pitt had the opportunity to slam it. "When did you talk to the admiral?"
"In his office at NUMA headquarters, ten minutes after Commander Koski radioed that you and Dr. Hunnewell had landed safely, aboard the Catawaba, to be precise."
The door stayed open. The driver's answer tallied with what Pitt knew: the N.I.A. had not contacted Sandecker since he had arrived in Iceland. Pitt glanced around the car. There was no sign of life, no sign of an ambush by possible accomplices. He started to relax, caught himself, and then clenched the screwdriver until his fingers ached.
"Okay, be my guest," Pitt said casually. "But I strongly urge you to make your pitch without so much as a tic."
"No sweat, Major. Just put your mind at ease and lift my cap."
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