"To see a sergeant flyin' this mission instead of a genuine flight officer," Cashman bed. "You got no choice, Major. Ahim the only one on the whole island who's checked out on this old bus. Ain't she a winner?
She'll take off and land on a dollar bill and give you change."
"Okay, Sergeant. You're in command. Now let's swing this bird into the wind and get her up. Bear due, west along the river until I tell you to cut south."
Cashman merely nodded. Deftly he jockeyed the Tin Goose on a hundredand-eighty-degree turn until it faced into the wind at the far side of the meadow. Then he shoved the three throttles forward and sent the lumbering old airliner bouncing and shuddering on its way, ever closer to the fence on the opposite end of the field, no more than three hundred feet away.
As they lurched past the front of Golfur Andursson's little house with the plane's tail wheel still glued to the ground, Pitt began to have a vague idea of what Charles Lindbergh's thoughts must have been when he urged his heavily laden Spirit of St.
Louis off the muddy runway of Roosevelt Field back in 1927. It seemed impossible to Pitt that any aircraft short of a helicopter or light two-seater could leave the earth in so small a space. He shot a fast look at Cashman and saw only icy calmness and total relaxation. Cashman was indifferently whistling a tune, but Pitt couldn't quite make out the melody above the roar of the trio of two-hundredhorsepower engines.
There was no doubt, Pitt reflected. Cashman certainly displayed the image of a man who knew how to handle a plane, especially this one.
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With two-thirds of the meadow gone, Cashman eased the control column forward and lifted the tail wheel and then pulled back, floating the plane a few feet above the turf. Then to Pitts horror, Cashman suddenly dropped the trimotor back hard on the ground no more than fifty feet in front of the fence. Pitts horror turned to amazement as Cashman jerked the controls back against his chest and literally bounced the old Tin Goose over the fence and threw it into the air.
"Where in hell did you learn that little trick?" Pitt said, exhaling a great sigh of relief. It was then he recognized the tune Cashman was whistling as the theme from the old movie, "Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines."
"Used to be a crop duster in Oklahoma," Cashman replied.
"How did you wind up as a mechanic in the Air Force?"
"One day the junker ah was flyin' developed a nasty cough. Plowed up a farmer's pasture and butchered his champion beef sire years before its time. Everybody in the county was out to sue me. Ah was flat broke so ah split the scene and enlisted."
Pitt couldn't help smiling as he peered through the windshield at the river two hundred feet below. From that height he could easily spot the sloping ridge where Andursson had found him. He saw something now he didn't expect to find. Almost imperceptibly, he became aware of a long even line against the landscape that trailed off toward the south. He pushed open the little side window and looked again. It was there all right: the dark shade of green against the lighter tinted tundra.
His footprints, where they had sunk into the soft vegetation, had left a path that was easy to follow as the white line down the center of a highway.
Pitt caught Cashman's eye and motioned earthward. "To the south. Follow that dark trail to the south."
Cashman banked the plane and stared for a moment out the side window. Then he cocked his head in acknowledgment and turned the nose of the trimotor southward. Fifteen minutes later he could only wonder at the unerring trail Pitt had made during his trek to the river. Except for a few occasional deviations around rough or uneven ground, the manmade mark on the earth was almost as straight as a plumb line. Fifteen minutes, that was all the old antique needed to cover the same distance that had taken Pitt several hours.
"I have it now," Pit shouted. "There, that cracklike depression where my path ends."
"Where do you want me to set her down, Major?"
"Parallel to the ran of the ravine. There's a flat area running about five hundred feet east and west."
The sky was darkening by the moment-darkening with the mist of falling snow. Even as Cashman made his landing approach, the first flakes began dotting the windshield, streaking to the edges of the glass before being blown into the sky by the airstream.
Pitts race had been won, but only by the barest of margines.
Cashman made a safe landing, a smooth landing considering the rugged terrain and the difficult wind conditions. He timed his run so that the cabin door of the trimotor ended up within ten yards of the steep drop-off.
The wheels had hardly rolled to a halt when Pitt leaped from the plane and was stumbling, sliding to the bottom of the ravine. Behind him, Hull's men began methodically unloading supplies and arranging them on the dampening ground. Two of the paramedics uncoiled ropes and threw them down the slopes in preparation of bringing up the survivors.
Pitt ignored all this. He had one driving desire: to be the first into that chilling pit of hell.
He came upon Lillie still stretched out on his back with Tidi huddled over him, his head cradled in her arms. She was talking to Lillie, saying words Pitt couldn't understand, her voice no more than a weak, hoarse whisper; she seemed to be trying her best to smile, but her lips barely curved in a pitiful grimace and there was little pleasantry in either the voice or the eyes. Pitt walked up behind her and gently touched her wetstreaked hair.
"It seems you two have become rather close friends."
Tidi twisted around and stared dazedly at the figure standing over her. "Good Lord, you've come back."
She reached out and touched his hand. "I thought I heard an airplane. Oh, God, this is wonderful, you've come back."
"Yes," Pitt smiled faintly, then nodded at Lillie.
"How is he?"
"I don't know," she said wearily. "I just don't know. He slipped into unconsciousness about half an hour ago."
Pitt knelt down and listened to Lillie's breathing. it was slow and steady. "He'll make it. This guy has guts ten miles long.
The big question is whether he'll ever walk again."
Tidi pressed her face against Pitts hand and began to sob, her breath coming in convulsive shudders, the shock, the pain, and the relief washing over her in rolling waves. He held her tightly saying nothing. He was still holding her shivering body and stroking her hair as the would a little girl when Captain HUH approached.
"Take the girl first," pitt said. "Her ankles are broken."
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"My men have set up an aid tent above the slopes.
There's a stove warming in it now. She'll be comfortable there until the Icelandic Search and Rescue Team can transport her to Reykjavik." Hull wiped his eyes tiredly.
"Their cross-country vehicles are homing in on our radio signals now."
"Can't you airlift her out?"
Hull shook his head. "Sorry, Major. That old trimotor can only carry eight stretcher cases on one trip.
I'm afraid the first load will have to be the most critically injured. This is one occasion where the ladies will have to go last."
He nodded down at Lillie. "How bad is this one?"
"Fractured shoulders and pelvis."
Two of Hull's men appeared carrying an aluminum basket stretcher. "Take the man first," he ordered.
"And see that you handle him gently. This one is a back injury."
The paramedics carefully eased Lillie's inert form into the stretcher and attached the ropes for the ascent to the treacherous ravine. Pitt couldn't help but be impressed and thankful for the efficiency and smoothness of the lifting lines. Just three minutes later Hull had returned for Tidi.
"Okay, Major. I'll take the little lady."
"Handle her with care, Captain. She happens to be Admiral Sandecker's private secretary."
Apparently nothing startled Hull for long. The surprise only flickered in his eyes for an instant. "Well, well," he boomed. "In that case, I'll escort the lady myself."
Hull tenderly picked Tidi up in his ma
ssive arms and carried her to a waiting basket. Then true to his word, he climbed along beside her all the way to the top of the slope and saw her comfortably bedded down inside the warm tent before he returned to direct the rescue operation.
Pitt pulled the package from under his arm and moved slowly across the broken bottom of the ravine until he stood over the Russian diplomat. "Mr. Tamareztov, how are you getting along?"
"A Russian relishes the cold, Major Pitt." He cupped a small handful of snow that had fallen across his chest. "Moscow would not be Moscow without a season of snow. To me it is the same as desert sand to an Arab a curse that is part of one's very existence."
"Are you in pain?"
"An old Bolshevik never admits to pain."
"A pity," Pitt said.
"A pity?" Tainareztov repeated. He looked at Pitt suspiciously.
"Yes, I was about to offer you a little something that's guaranteed to relieve discomfort caused by hay fever, headache and indigestion."
"More Yankee humor, Major?"
Pitt let a slight grin touch his face. "Yankee sarcasm," he said.
"The prime reason why we're so often misunderstood by people of other countries. The average American has a sarcastic streak down his back that defies intellicent comprehension." He sat down next to Tamareztov and produced the bottle of vodka. "For example, you before you the fruits of my trip to the corner liquor store."
Tamareztov could only stare incredulously.
A promise made is a promise kept." pit cradled the injured Russian's head and tilted the bottle to the man's lips. "Here, drink some of this."
Tamareztov easily drained a quarter of the bottle before Pitt eased it away. He nodded his head and mumbled his thanks.
Then his eyes took on a warm penetrating expression. "Domestic, true Soviet domestic-How in the world did you manage that?" he asked.
Pitt tucked the bottle in Tamareztov's armpit. ,it was on sale," he said. Then he rose and turned to leave.
"Major Pitt."
"Yes?"
"Thank You," Tamareztov said simply.
He was white with snow, lying there vacantly staring at the clouds when Pitt found him. His face, calm and serene, had the expression of a man untouched by pain, a man who was happy and content and at last at peace with himself. A medic was bending over, examining him.
"Heart?" Pitt asked softly, somehow afraid he might wake him.
"Considering his age, that's as safe a bet as any, sir." The medic turned and motioned to Hull, who was standing but a few 86
feet away.
"Shall we evacuate him, now, Captain?"
"Leave him lay," Hull said. "It's our job to save the living. This man is dead. As long as there is a chance to keep any one of these people from joining him, our attention must go to them."
"You're right, of course," Pitt said wearily. "This is your show, Captain. Hull's tone softened. "You know this man, sir?"
"I wish I had known him better. His name is Sam Kelly.
The name obviously meant nothing to Hull. 'y don't you let us take you topside, Major. You're in a pretty bad way yourself ."
."
Pitt reached over "No, I'll stay with Sam here and gently closed Kelly's eyes for the final time and lightly brushed the snowflakes from the old wrinkled face. Then he took a cigar he recognized as Sandecker's special brand from the box and slipped it into Kelly's breast pocket.
Hull stood unmoving for nearly a minute, groping for words. He started to say something but thought better of it and instead simply nodded his head in silent understanding. Then he turned and plunged back to work.
Sandecker closed the file and put it down and leaned forward as if he were about to spring. "If you're asking for my permission, the answer is an unequivocal no!"
"You plac me in an awkward position, Admiral."
The words came from a man who sat facing Sandecker.
He was short and seemed almost as broad as the chair.
He wore a nondescript black suit with a white shirt decorated by a black silk tie. Unconsciously, every so often, he ran his hand over a bald head as if searching for hair that once might have existed, and he peered through gray eyes that never blinked under Sandecker's blazing stare. "I had sincerely hoped we would have no disagreement. However, since that is not to be, I must inform you that my presence here is purely an act of courtesy. I already possess the orders for Major Pitts reassignment."
"By whose authority?" Sandecker asked.
"They were signed by the Secretary of Defense," the other man replied matterof-factly.
"You wouldn't mind showing me the orders," Sandecker said. He was playing his last pawn and he knew it.
"Very well." His opponent sighed. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a set of papers and handed them to Sandecker.
Silently the admiral read the orders. Then his lips twisted in a wry smile. "I didn't really stand a chance, did I?"
"No, you didn't."
Sandecker looked down at the papers in his hands again and shook his head. "You're asking too much . . . too much."
"I don't enjoy this sort of thing, but time is a commodity we can't afford. This whole scheme, a naive scheme, spawned by Hermit Limited is totally impractical. I admit it sounds inspiring and all that. Save the world, build a paradise. Who knows, maybe F. James Kelly has the answer for the future. But at the moment, he is the leader of a gang of maniacs who have murdered nearly thirty people. And, exactly ten hours from now, he plans to assassinate two heads of state. Our course is determined by one elementary fact-he must be stopped. And Major Pitt is the only one who is physically capable of recognizing Kelly's hired killers."
Sandecker threw the papers on the desk. "Physically capable. Nothing but goddamned words that have no feeling." He pushed himself from the chair and began pacing the room. "You're asking me to order a man who has been like a son to me, a man who has been beaten within an inch of death, to get up from a hospital bed and track down a gang of vicious killers six thousand miles from here?" Sandecker shook his head.
"You don't know the half of what you're demanding from human flesh and blood. There are limits to a man's courage. Dirk has already done far more than was expected of him."
"Granted that courage is reduced by expenditure.
And I agree that the major has done more than was thought humanly possible. God knows there are few if any of my men who could have pulled that rescue off."
"It could be we're arguing over nothing," Sandecker said. "Pitt may not be in any condition to leave the hospital."
"I'm afraid your fears, or should I say your hopes, are groundless." The bald man checked through a brown folder. "I have here a few observations from my agents, who by the way have been guarding the major."
He paused, reading, then went on. "Excellent physique, constitution like a bull, unique rapport with . . . ah . . . the nurses.
Fourteen hours of rest, intensive care and massive vitamin injections plus the finest muscle therapy known by the top doctors in Iceland. He has been stitched, massaged and taped. Fortunately, the only major damage was to his ribs and at that the fractures were minor. All in all, he's a sorry mess, but I can't be particular. I'd take him if they were lowerin him into a coffin."
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Sandecker's face was cold and blank. He turned as one of the embassy secretaries poked her head around a door.
"Major Pitt is here, sir."
Sandecker glared at the fat man. Surprise edged into his voice. "You bastard, you knew all along he would do it."
The fat man shrugged and said nothing.
Sandecker stiffened. His eyes looked resentfully into the fat man's. "Okay, send him in." Pitt came through the door and shut it behind him.
He moved stiffly across the room to a vacant sofa and very slowly eased into the soft cushions. His entire face was swathed in bandages, only the slits for his eyes and nose plus the top opening for a patch of black hair gave any indication of life beneath the rolls of white g
auze.
Sandecker tried to look behind the bandages. The deep green eyes that were visible never seemed to flicker.
Sandecker sat down behind the desk and clasped his hand behind his head. "Do the doctors at the hospital know where you are?"
Pitt smiled. "I suspect they'll wonder in another half hour."
"I believe you've met this gentleman." Sandecker motioned to the fat man.
"We've talked over the telephone," Pitt answered.
"We haven't been formally introduced . . . at least not with proper names."
The fat man walked quickly around the desk and offered Pitt his hand. "Kippmann, Dean Kippmann."
Pitt took the hand. It was a fooler. There was nothing weak and fat about the grip. "Dean Kippmann," Pitt repeated. "The chief of the National Intelligence Agency. There's nothing like playing with the big leaguers."
"We deeply appreciate your help," Kippmann said warmly. "Do you feel up to a little air travel?"
"After Iceland, a little South American sun couldn't hurt."
"You'll enjoy the sun all right." Kippmann stroked the skin on his head again. "Particularly the southern California variety."
"Southern California?"
"By four o'clock this afternoon."
"By four o'clock this afternoon "At Disneyland."
"At Disneyland?"
Sandecker said patiently: "I'm well aware that your destination isn't exactly what you had in mind. But we can do without the echo."
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