Treasure dp-9

by Clive Cussler

"Untouched by human hands," said Pitt. "The computer is replacing everyone."

  "Lucky for us they haven't developed a knack for sex.1' The pilot laughed. He reached out and made a slight adjustment with a tuning knob. " and radar scanners read the ground and the computer converts it to three-demensional display. I plug in the auto pilot, and while the aircraft darts around the terrain like a Los Angeles Raiders running back, I think about such wondrous subjects as the Congressional budget and our State Department's foreign policy."

  "That's news to me," muttered the copilot wryly.

  "Without our little electronic guide here," the pilot continued, undaunted, "we'd still be sitting on the ground at Punta Arenas waiting for daylight and clearing weather-" A chime

  sound issued from the display screen, and the pilot stiffened.

  "We're coming up on our programmed landing site. You better get your people ready to disembark."

  "What were your instructions from Colonel Hollis for dropping us off?"

  "Just to set you down behind the mountain summit above the mine to hide from the cruise ship's radar. You'll have to hoof it the rest of the way."

  Pitt turned to Findley. 11 any problem on your end?"

  Findley smiled. "I know that mountain like my wife's bottom, every nook and crack. The summit is only two kilometers from the mine entrance.

  An easy walk down the slope. I could do it blindfolded."

  "from what I see of this rotten weather," Pitt muttered darkly, "that's exactly what you'll have to do."

  The howl of the wind replaced the whine from the Osprey's turbines as the NUMA crew quickly exited through the cargo hatch. There was no time wasted, no words spoken, only a silent farewell wave to the pilots.

  Within a minute, the four men, carrying only two tote bags, were bent into the sleet and trudging up the rocky slope toward the mountain's summit.

  Findley silently took the lead. Visibility was almost as bad On the ground as it was in the air. The flashlight in Findley's hand was one degree above useless. The flaying sleet reflected the flashlight's beam, revealing the broken terrain no more than one or two meters ahead.

  In no way did they remotely resemble an elite assault team. They carried no visible weapons. No two wore the same type Of Clothing to ward off the cold. Pitt had on gray ski togs; Giordino wore dark blue. Gunn was lost in an orange survival suit that looked two sizes too large. Findley was outfitted like a Canadian lumbe ack complete with a woolly Basque stocking cap pulled low over his ears. The only items they had in common were yellow-lensed ski goggles.

  The wind was blowing at about twenty kilometers per hour, Pitt estimated-bitter but bearable. The rocky, uneven surface was sliPPery from the wet, and they slid and stumbled, frequently losing their balance and falling heavily.

  Every few minutes they had to wipe the buildup of sleet from their goggles. Soon, from the front, they looked like snowmen, while their backs were quite dry.

  Findley raked the ground ahead with his flashlight, dodging large boulders and sparse, grotesque shrubs. He knew he had reached the summit when he stepped onto an outcrop of bare rock and was struck by the full force of the wind.

  "Not much further," he said over the howl of the wind. "Downhill all the way."

  "Too bad we can't rent a toboggan," said Giordino gloomily.

  Pitt pulled back his glove and peered at the luminous hands of his old Doxa dive watch. The assault was set for 0-five hundred. Twenty-eight minutes away. They were running late.

  "Let's make time," he shouted. "I don't want to miss the party."

  They made good time for the next fifteen minutes. The mountain's slope became more gradual, and Findley found a narrow, winding track that led to the mine. Farther downhill the stunted pines became thicker, the rock became smaller, looser, and their boots were able to get a better grip.

  Thankfully, the driving wind and sleet began to ease up. Holes in the clouds appeared and stars became visible. They were able to see now without the hindrance of the goggles.

  Findley grew more confident of his surroundings as a high ore talking materialized in the blackness. He skirted the pile and swung onto a small, narrow-gauge railroad track and began following it into the dark.

  He was about to turn and shout "We're here," but was cut off. Pitt suddenly and unexpectedly reached out, grabbed the back of Findley's collar and jerked him to a halt so abruptly his feet flew out from under him, and he crashed on his buttocks. As he fell, Pitt snatched the flashlight and switched it off.

  "What in Hell?"

  "Quiet!" Pitt rasped sharply.

  "You hear something?" asked Gunn softly.

  "No, I smell a familiar odor."

  odor?"

  "Lamb. Somebody is barbecuing a leg of lamb."

  They all leaned their heads back and sniffed the air

  "By God, you're right," murmured Giordino. "I do smell lamb on a grill."

  Pitt helped Findley to his feet- "Appears that someone has jumped your claim."

  "they must be dumber than a toad if they think there's any ore worth processing around here."

  "I doubt they're excavating for zinc."

  Giordino moved off to one side. "Before you doused the light, I saw a glint over here somewhere." He moved one foot around in a semicircle. It struck an object that clinked, and he picked it up. He turned so he was facing away from the Mine and flicked on a tiny penlight. "A bottle of ChAteau Margaux 1966-for hardrock miners, these guys have real style."

  "Odd goings-on here," said Findley. "Whoever moved in isn't getting their hands dirty."

  "Lamb and vintage Bordeaux must have come from the Lady Flamborough,"

  Gunn concluded.

  "How far away are we from where the glacier meets the fjord?" Pitt asked Findley.

  "The glacier itself is only about five hundred meters to the north. The wall facing the fjord is slightly less than two kilometers west."

  "How was the ore transi3reported?"

  Findley gestured in the direction of the fjord. "By this narrow-gauge railroad-The tracks run from the mine entrance to the ore crusher, then down to the dock, where the Ore was loaded on ships."

  "You never said anythipg about a dock."

  "NobodY asked." Findley shrugged. "A small loading pier.

  The pilings extend into a cove slightly off to one side of the glacier."

  "Approximate distance from the ship?"

  "A baseball outfielder with a good arm could lob a ball from the dock against the hull."

  "I should have seen it," Pitt murmured bitterly. "I missed it, everyone missed it."

  "What are you talking about?" demanded Findley,

  "The terrorists' support team," answered Pitt. The hijackers on the ship need an advance base for their escape. They couldn't disembark at sea without detection and capture unless they had a submarine, which is impossible to find

  without legitimate government backing. The abandoned mine site makes a perfect hiding place for helicopters. And they can use the narrow-gauge railroad for commuting back and forth from the fjord."

  "Hollis," said Gunn briefly, "We'd better inform him."

  "Can't," said Giordino. "Our friendly neighborhood Colonel refused to provide us with a radio."

  "So how do we warn Hollis?" Gunn put in.

  "No way." Pitt shrugged. "But we might help by finding and disabling their helicopters while pinning down any terrorist force in the mine camp to keep them from catching Hollis and his assault teams in a vise."

  "There could be fifty of them," protested Findley. "We're only four."

  "'Their security is lax," Gunn pointed out. "They don't expect anyone to drop in from the interior of a deserted island in the middle of a storm."

  "Rudi's right," said Giordino. "If they were alert they'd have been onto us by now. I vote we evict the bastards."

  "We have surprise on our side," Pitt continued. "As long as we stay careful and keep undercover in the dark, we can keep them off balance."

  "
If they come after us," asked Findley, "do we throw rocks?"

  "My life is guided by the Boy Scout motto," replied Pitt.

  He and Giordino knelt in unison and unzipped the tote bags. Giordino began passing around bulletproof vests while Pitt handed out the weapons.

  He held up a semiautomatic shotgun for Findley. "You said you hunted some, Clayton. Here's an early Christmas present. A twelve-gauge Benelli Super Ninety."

  Findley's eyes gleamed. "I like it." He ran his hands over the stock as lightly as though it were a woman's thigh. "Yes, I like it." Then he noticed that Gunn and Giordino carried Heckler-Koch machine guns modified with silencers. "You can't buy this stuff at a corner hardware store. Where did you get it?"

  "Special Operations Forces issue," Giordino said nonchalantly. "Borrowed when when Hollis and Dillenger weren't looking."

  Findley was further amazed when Pitt shoved a round drum in an ancient"Mompson submachine gun. "You must like antiques."

  "There's something to be said for old-fashioned craftsman ship," said Pitt. He looked at his watch again. Only six minutes remained before Hollis and Dillenger attacked the ship. "No shooting until I give the word. We don't want to screw up the Special Forces assault. They have precious little chance of surprise as it is."

  "What about the glacier?" Findley asked. "Won't our gunfire send out shock waves that could fracture the forward wall of ice?"

  "Not from this range," Gunn assured him. "Our concentrated fire will seem more like the distant bang of firecrackers."

  "Remember," ordered Pitt, "we want to stall off a gun battle as long as we can. Our first priority is to find the helicopters."

  "A pity we don't have any explosives," mumbled Giordino. "Nothing ever comes easy."

  Pitt gave Findley a few seconds to get his bearings. Then the geologist nodded and they moved out, skirting the backs of the old, weathered buildings, keeping to the shadows, stepping as quietly as possible, the crunch of their soles against the loose gravel muffled by the stiff breeze that reversed and now came sweeping down the mountainside.

  The buildings around the mine were mostly built of wooden support beams covered by corrugated metal sheeting that showed signs of corrosion and rust. Some were small sheds, others rose two to four stories into the sky, their walls trailing off into the gloom. Except for the smell of the roasting lamb, it looked like an old American West ghost town.

  Abruptly Findley stopped behind a long shed and held up a hand, waiting for the other to close around him. He Peered around the corner once, twice, and then turned to Pitt.

  "The recreation and dining-hall building is only a few paces to my right," he whispered. "I can make out cracks of light spilling out from under the door." Giordino tested the air with his nose. "They must like their meat well done."

  "any sign of guards?" asked Pitt.

  "The area looks deserted."

  "Where could they hide the helicopters?"

  "The main mine is a vertical shaft dropping to six levels. So that's out as a parking garage."

  "Where, then?" Findley gestured into the early-morning blackness. "The ore-crushing mill has the largest open space. There's also a sliding door used for storing heavy equipment. If the copter's rotor blades were folded they could easily squeeze three of them inside."

  "The crushing mill it is," said Pitt softly.

  There was no more time to waste; Hollis and Dillenger's joint attack would begin at any minute. They were halfway past the dining hall when the door suddenly opened and a shaft of light filtered through the rain, cutting them off below the knees and illuminating their feet. They froze, guns in firing position.

  A figure was silhouetted by the interior light for a few seconds. He stepped over the threshold briefly and scraped a few morsels from a dish onto the ground. Then he turned and closed the door. Moments later Pitt and the others flattened their backs against the crushing-mill's wall.

  Pitt turned and put his mouth to Findley's ear.

  "How can we sneak in?"

  "Conveyor belts run through openings in the building that carried the bulk ore to the crusher and back to the train after it became slurry.

  The only problem is they're way over our heads."

  "Lower access doors?"

  "The big equipment-storage door," Findley answered, his murmur as soft as Pitts, "and the main front entrance. If I remember correctly there's also a stairway that leads into a side office."

  "No doubt locked," said Giordino morosely.

  "A bright thought," Pitt conceded. "Okay, the front door it is. No one inside will be expecting total strangers coming to call. We'll go in clean and quiet, like we belong. No surprises. Just one of their buddies strolling from the dining hall."

  "I bet the door squeaks," Giordino muttered.

  They walked unhurriedly around a corner of the crushing nial and entered unchallenged through a high, weathered door that swung on its hinges noiselessly.

  "Curses," Giordino whispered ugh clenched teeth.

  The interior of the building was enormous. It had to be. A giant mechanical machine sat in the center like a giant octopus with conveyor belts, water hoses and electrical wiring for tenfacies. The ore crusher consisted of a massive horizontal cylinder containing various-sized steel balls that pulverized the ore.

  Huge flotation tanks sat along one wall that had received the slurry after crushing. Overhead, maintenance catwalks reached by steel ladders crisscrossed above the massive equipment. A cord of lights hung from the catwalk railings, their power produced by a portable generator whose exhaust popped away in one corner.

  Pitt had guessed wrong. He had figured at least two, perhaps even three, helicopters to evacuate the hijackers. There was only one-a large British Westiand Commando, an older but reliable craft designed for logistic support. it could carry eight or more passengers if they were tightly crammed in. Two men in ordinary combat fatigues were standing on a high mechanic's stand peering through an access panel beside the engine. They were engrossed in their work and paid no notice to their predawn visitors.

  Slowly, cautiously, Pitt advanced into the great open crushing room, Findley on his right, Giordino covering the left, Gunn And Findley together. the helicopter's two crewmen did not Turn from their work.

  Only then did he see an uncaring guard sitting on an overturned box behind a support beam with his back to the door.

  Pitt gestured to Giordino and Findley to circle around the helicopter in the shadows and search for other hijackers. The guard, having felt the rush of cold air from the opening-andclosing door, half turned to see who had entered the building.

  Pitt walked slowly toward the guard, who was dressed in black combat fatigues, with a ski mask over his head. Pitt was only two meters away when he smiled and lifted a hand in a vague greeting.

  The guard gave him a quizzical look and said something in Arabic.

  Pitt gave a friendly shrug and replied in gibberish that was lost under the sound of the generator's exhaust.

  Then the guard focused his eyes on the old Thompson machine gun. The two seconds between puzzlement, and alarm, followed by physical reaction, cost him painfully. Before he could bring up his weapon and whip sideways, Pitt had chopped the butt of the Thompson against his skull under the black ski mask.

  Pitt caught the guard as he slumped and propped him back against the beam as though he were dozing. Next he ducked under the forward fuselage of the helicopter and approached the two mechanics working on the engine. Reaching the stand, he grasped the rungs of its ladder and gave it a great heave, tipping it backwards.

  The mechanics flew through the air, so startled they didn't shout. Their only reaction was to throw up their hands in a futile attempt to claw the air before thumping onto the hard wooden plank floor. One struck his head and blacked out immediately. The other landed on his side, his tight arm breaking with an audible snap. A painful gasp burst from his lips only to be silenced by the sudden impact of the Thompson' butt against his temple.

>   "Nice work," said Findley, dispensing with silence.

  "Every move a picture," Pitt muttered loftily.

  "I hope that's the lot."

  "Not quite. Al has four more behind the 'chopper."

  Findley cautiously stepped under the aircraft and was astounded to see Giordino sitting comfortably in a folding chair, staring fiercely at four scowling captives entirely encased up to their chins in sleeping bags.

  "You always had a fetish for neat packages," said Pitt.

  Giordino's eyes never left his prisoners. "And you were always too loud. What was all the noise?"

  "The mechanics took a nasty fall off the maintenance stand."

  "How many did we bag?"

  "Seven, all told."

  "Four must be part of the flight crew."

  "A backup pilot and copilot plus two mechanics. They weren't taking any chances."

  Findley motioned to one of the mechanics. "One of them is coming around.."

  Pitt slung his Thompson over a shoulder. "I think we'll fix it so they can't go anywhere for a while. You do the honors, Clayton. Bind and gag them. You should find some straps inside the chopper. Al, keep a sharp eye on them. Rudi and I are going to look around outside."

  "We'll ensure their complete immobilization," said Giordino, speaking like a bureaucrat.

  "You better. They'll kill you if you don't."

  Pitt motioned to Gunn and they stripped off the upper clothing from two of their prisoners. Pitt snatched the ski mask and pulled the black sweater from the unconscious guard. He wrinkled his nose from the smell of the unwashed sweater and slipped it over his own head.

  Then they walked out the door, making no effort to appear inconspicuous.

  They strode briskly, confidently, staying in the center of the road that ran between the buildings. At the dining hall they cut into the shadows and peered around the edge of a window through a crack in the curtains.

  "There's got to be a dozen of them in there," Gunn whispered. "All armed to their molars. Looks like they're ready to vacate the premises,"

  "Damn Hollis," Pitt grunted softly. "if only he'd given us some means of communicating with him."