Iceberg Page 16

  Three hours later and twenty miles southwest of Reykjavik they rounded the tip of the Keflavik peninsula and broke out of the fog. Iceland's seemingly eternal sun greeted them in a dazzling brilliance. A Pan American jet, arising from the runway of the Keflavik International Airport, soared over them, its polished aluminum skin reflecting the solar glare, before making a great circle toward the east and London. Pitt watched it wistfully and idly wished he were at the controls chasing the clouds instead of standing on the deck of a rolling old scow. His thoughts were interrupted by Sandecker.

  "I can't begin to tell you how sad I feel about returning Rondheim's boat in such shabby condition." A sly, devilish smile cut a swath across Sandecker's face.

  "Your solicitude is touching," Pitt returned sarcastically.

  "What the hell, Rondheim can afford it." Sandecker took a hand off the wheel and waved it around the shattered wheelhouse.

  "A little wood putty, a little paint, new glass and it'll be good as new."

  "Rondheim might well laugh away the damage to The Grimsi, but he won't exactly roll in the aisle laughing when he learns the fate of his hydroplane and crew."

  Sandecker faced Pitt. "How can you possibly connect Rondheim with the hydroplane?"

  "The connection is the boat we're standing on."

  "You'll have to do better than that," Sandecker said impatiently.

  Pitt sat down on a bench over a life preserver locker and lit a cigarette. "The best plans of mice and men. Rondheim planned well, but he overlooked the thousand-to-one chance that we would swipe his boat.

  We wondered why The Grimsi was tied to the Fyrie dock . . . It was there to follow us. Shortly after we were to cast off and begin cruising the harbor in the luxury of the cabin cruiser, his crew would have appeared on the dock and eased this nondescript fishing boat into our wake to keep an eye on us. If we had acted suspiciously once we were at sea, there'd have been no way to shake them. The cabin cruiser's top speed probably stands near twenty knots. We know The Grimsi's to be closer to forty."

  52

  "The expressions on a few faces must have been priceless," Sandecker said, smiling.

  "Panic undoubtedly reigned for a while," Pitt agreed, "until Rondheim could figure out an alternate plan. I give him credit, he's a smart bastard. He's been more suspicious of our actions than we thought. Still, he wasn't completely sure of what we were up to. The clincher came when we borrowed the wrong boat quite by accident. After the shock wore off, he guessed, mistakenly, that we were wise to him and took it on purpose to screw him up. But he now knew where we were headed."

  "The black jet," Sandecker said positively. "Feed us to the fish after we pinpointed its exact position.

  That was the idea?"

  Pitt shook his head. "I don't think it was his original intention to eliminate us. We had him fooled on the diving equipment.

  He assumed we would try to find the wreck from the surface and then come back later for the underwater recovery."

  "What changed his mind?"

  "The lookout on the beach."

  "But where did he pop from?"

  "Reykjavik by car." Pitt inhaled and held the smoke before letting it out and continuing. "Having us tailed by air was no problem except that eventually losing us in an Icelandic fog bank was a foregone conclusion. He simply ordered one of his men to drive across the Keflavik peninsula and wait for us to show. When we obliged, the lookout followed us along the coast road and stopped when we anchored. Everything looked innocent enough through his binoculars, but like Rondheim, we took too much for granted and overlooked one minor point."

  "We couldn't have," Sandecker protested. "Every precaution was considered. Whoever was watching would have needed the Mount Palomar telescope to tell Tidi was masquerading in your clothes."

  "True. But if the sun caught them where they broke surface, any Japanese seven by fifty glasses could have picked up my air bubbles."

  "Damn!" Sandecker snapped. "They're hardly noticeable close up, but at a distance in a calm sea with the sun just right-" He hesitated.

  "The lookout then contacted Rondheim by radiophone in his car, most likely-and told him we were diving on the wreck.

  Rondheim's back was to the wall now. We had to be stopped before we discovered something vital to his game. He had to lay his hands on a boat capable of matching The Grimsi's speed and then some. Enter the hydroplane."

  "And the something vital to his game?" Sandecker probed.

  "We know now it wasn't the aircraft or its crew.

  All trace of identity was erased. That leaves the cargo."

  "The models?"

  "The models," Pitt repeated. "They represent more than just a hobby. They have a definite purpose."

  "And how do you intend to find out what in hell they're good for?"

  "Simple." Pitt grinned cunningly. "Rondheim will tell us. We drop them off with the consulate boys on the bait boat and then we sail right up to the Fyrie dock as if nothing happened. Rondheim will be so hungry to know if we've discovered anything.

  I'm counting on him to make a careless move. Then we'll shove it to him where it hurts most."

  It was four o'clock when they tied up to the Fyrie dock.

  The ramp was deserted, the dockmaster and the guard obvious by their absence. Pitt and Sandecker weren't fooled. They knew their every move had been studied the second The Grimsi rounded the harbor breakwater.

  Before he followed Tidi and Sandecker away from the forlorn and battered little boat, Pitt left a note on the helm.

  SORRY ABOUT THE MESS. WE WERE ATTACKED BY A SWARM OF RED-NECKED FUZZWORTS. PUT THE

  REPAIRS ON OUR TAB.

  He signed it Admiral James Sandecker.

  Twenty minutes later they reached the consulate.

  The young staff members who played such professional roles as bait fishermen beat them by five minutes and had already locked the two models away in the consul's vault. Sandecker thanked them warmly and promised to replace the diving gear Pitt had been forced to jettison with the best that U.S. Divers manufactured.

  Pitt then quickly showered and changed clothes and took a taxi to the airport at Keflavik.

  His black Volvo cab soon left the smokeless, city behind. its meter humming headed onto the narrow -asphalt belt that was the coastal road to the Keflavik airport. To his right stretched the Atlantic, at this moment as blue as the Aegean waters of the Grecian Isles. The wind was rising off the sea, and he could see a small fleet of fishing boats running for the harbor, pushed by the relentless swells. His left side took in the green countryside, rolling in an uneven furrowed pattern, dotted by grazing cattle and Iceland's famous long-maned ponies.

  As the beauty of the scenery flashed by, Pitt began to think about the Vikings, those dirty, hard-drinking love-a-fight men 53

  who ravaged every civilized shore they set foot on, and who had been romanticized beyond all exaggeration and embellishment in legends handed down through the centuries. They had landed in Iceland, flourished and then disappeared.

  But the tradition of the Norsemen was not forgotten in Iceland, where the hard, sea-toughened men went out every day in storm or fog to harvest the fish that fed the nation and its economy.

  Pitts thoughts were soon jolted back to reality by the voice of the cab driver as they passed through the gates of the airport.

  "Do you wish to go to the main terminal, sir?"

  "No, the maintenance hangars."

  The driver thought a moment. "Sorry, sir. They are on the edge of the field beyond the passenger terminal. Only authorized cars are permitted on the flight line."

  There was something about the cab driver's accent that intrigued Pitt. Then it came to him. There was an unmistakable American midwestern quality about it.

  "Let's give it a try, shall we?"

  The driver shrugged and pulled the cab up to the flight line gate and stopped where a tall, thin, grayhaired man in a blue uniform stepped from the same austere, white-painted guard sha
ck that seemed to sit by gates everywhere. He touched his fingers to his cap brim in a friendly salute. Pitt rolled down the window, leaned out, and showed his Air Force I.D.

  "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 54

  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 goodnaturedly 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 d
o 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?"

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  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?"