The Mediterranean Caper (11 page)

“Sorry, Doc,” Pitt said without taking his eyes from the sky. “But there was no time for a formal office call. You better get below now. If my little battle tactic doesn't work, you're going to do a land office business in about ten minutes.”

Without answering, the wiry, deeply tanned doctor closed a large worn leather case, turned and ducked down the bridge ladder.

Pitt drew back from the railing and glanced over at Gunn. “Are you connected?”

“Say when.” Gunn was tense, but looked ready and eager. He held a small black box in his hand attached to a wire that led up the radar mast and then into the brilliant morning sky. “Do you think the pilot of the old contraption will take the bait?”

“History never fails to repeat itself,” Pitt said confidently, glaring at the nearing plane.

Even in this moment of tense anxiety Gunn found time to marvel at Pitt's complete transformation since dawn: the man who staggered on board the
First Attempt
in such fearful physical condition was not the same man who now stood on the bridge with gleaming eyes and the expectant posture of a warhorse inhaling the scent of battle through flaring nostrils. It seemed strange, but Gunn couldn't stop his mind from drifting back many months ago to the bridge of another ship, a tramp steamer called the
Dana Gail
. He remembered as though it was only an hour ago seeing the same expression on Pitt's face just before the old rusty hulk cast off to find and destroy a mysterious seamount in the Pacific, north of Hawaii. Abruptly he was pulled back to the reality of the present by a strong grip on his arm.

“Get down,” Pitt said urgently, “or the shock wave will blow you overboard. Be ready to join the contacts the instant I give the word.”

The bright yellow plane was banking now, circling around the ship, testing it for defenses. The drone of its noisy engine tore across the water, causing a vibration in Pitt's eardrums. He watched it through a pair of borrowed binoculars, smiling with satisfaction as he noted small round patches in the fabric of the wings and fuselage; a record of Giordino's hits with the carbine. Moving the glasses in a near vertical angle he focused on the black wire that led upward, and all at once he felt a hope that began to amount to complete conviction.

“Steady…steady,” he said quietly. “I think he's going to nibble at the cheese.”

The cheese, Gunn thought wonderingly. He calls that damn balloon up there the cheese. Who would have ever thought that Pitt wanted a damn weather balloon when he asked whether the
First Attempt
carried meteorological gear. Now the damn balloon floated up there in the damn sky with a one-hundred-pound charge of explosives from the damn seismic lab tied to it. Gunn peered above the railing at the big silvery airborne ball and the lethal package dangling beneath it. The cable holding the captive balloon and the electrical wire attached to the explosives both stretched eight hundred feet high and four hundred feet astern; a total distance of four football fields away. He shook his head; it was ironic that the explosive charge, normally utilized for producing underwater shock waves to analyze the bottom of the sea, would now be used to blow an airplane out of the sky.

The roar of the plane's engine grew louder, and for one brief moment Pitt thought it was going to dive straight-on at the ship, but then he realized that its angle of descent was too low. The pilot was lining the Albatros up for a pass at the balloon. He stood up for a better view, knowing he was a tempting and exposed target. The engine turned into a high-pitched snarl and the gun sights aimed for the lazy gas bag, waiting above the sparkling water. There was no delay, no adjusting for range; the yellow wings glistened in the sun, obscuring the flashes from the two guns mounted on the cowling. The sound of the staccato bursts and the whine of the bullets signaled the beginning of the attack.

The rubberized nylon skin of the helium filled bag shuddered under the onslaught of the rapid gunfire. It sagged at first, then wrinkled like a prune and collapsed, flapping in lose folds toward the sea. The yellow Albatros swept over the dropping balloon, making a beeline for the
First Attempt
.

“Now!”
Pitt yelled, hitting the deck.

Gunn threw the switch.

The next instant seemed to march on to infinity. Then there was a gigantic blast which shook the ship from keel to mast. The early morning silence was shattered with a violent sound like the breaking of a thousand windows by a tornado. And, in the sky, a tower of dense smoke and flame swirled in a huge bursting mass of orange and black. The concussion from the explosion knocked the wind from Pitt and Gunn, squeezing internal organs against spines with the sudden punch of a battering ram.

Slowly, moving with painful stiffness from the tight bandages and struggling for breath, Pitt rose to his feet and peered into the expanding cloud for signs of the Albatros. Shaken for a moment, his eyes darted too high, and he could see nothing but curling smoke; the plane and its pilot were gone. Then he realized what had happened. The brief lag between his shouted signal and the actual explosion saved the plane from instant disintegration. Swinging his gaze down to the horizon he spotted it. The craft was gliding clumsily through the air, its engine dead.

Pitt snatched at the binoculars and quickly sighted them on the Albatros. It was trailing smoke and fiery fragments in a meteoric trail. He watched in morbid fascination as one of the lower wings suddenly folded backward and fell away, causing the plane to tumble in a series of wild gyrations, like a piece of paper thrown from a high office building. Then it seemed to hang suspended for a moment before plunging into the sea, leaving a signature of smoke melting into the warm air.

“It's down,” said Pitt excitedly. “We've scored.”

Gunn was lying against the far bulkhead corner. He crawled across the deck and lifted his head dazedly. “How far and what heading?”

“About two miles abaft the starboard beam,” replied Pitt. He lowered the glasses and looked at Gunn's pale face. “Are you all right?”

Gunn nodded. “Just lost a little wind, that's all.”

Pitt smiled, but there was little humor in his eyes. He was smugly satisfied with himself, very pleased with the outcome of his plan. “Send the double-ender and some men out there to dive on the wreck. I'm anxious to find out what our ghost looks like.”

“Of course,” said Gunn. “I'll personally lead the diving party. But, only on one condition…you get your ass down to my cabin immediately. The doc hasn't finished with you yet.”

Pitt shrugged, “You're the captain.” He turned back to the rail and looked again at the spot that marked the grave of the yellow Albatros.

He was still at the rail ten minutes later when Gunn and four of the
First Attempt
's crew loaded their diving gear on the double-ender whaler and cast off. The little boat made no attempt to circle and search the general surface area but moved straight to the spot where the plane disappeared. Pitt watched until he could see the divers drop into the sparkling blue water at intervals to converge together underwater at the final resting place of the wreck.

“Come along, Major,” said a voice at his elbow.

He slowly turned and looked into the face of the bearded doctor. “It's no use chasing me, Doc. I won't marry you,” Pitt said, a wide grin riding his face.

The blue-eyed old ship's surgeon did not grin back. He merely pointed down the ladder at Gunn's cabin.

Pitt had no choice but to wearily resign himself and turn his battered body over to the doctor's care. In the cabin he fought a halfhearted battle against unconsciousness, but the administered sedatives won a beachhead, and soon he was sheathed in a deep sleep.

Pitt stared at
the gaunt and repulsive face that echoed his image from a small mirror hanging in the cabin's head. The black hair dangled down his face and ears, adding an unkempt crown above the deep green eyes that were circled and etched with jagged red blood vessels. He had not slept long; his watch showed a time lapse of only four hours. It was the heat that woke him, the morning blanket of hot air, drifting across the sea from Africa and digging its burning fingers into his skin. He discovered the ventilator that was closed, and he opened it, but the damage was already done. The hot dry air had a head start and the air-conditioning would never catch up and cool the cabin, at least not until early evening. He pushed the tap and splashed water over his face, letting the coolness soak into his pores as it dribbled down his back and shoulders.

He briskly dried his damp skin and tried to recall in sequence what had happened the night before. Willie and the Maybach-Zepplin. The villa. Drinking with von Till. Teri's beauty, her paled features. Then the labyrinth, the dog and the escape. Athena; did her owner ever find her? The dory, this morning, the yellow Albatros and the explosion. Now the waiting for Gunn and his crew to salvage the plane and find the body of its mystery pilot. What was the connection with von Till? What were the old kraut's motives? And Teri. Did she know about the trap? Was she trying to warn him? Or, did she bait him into being used and pumped for information by her uncle?

He shook all thoughts and questions from his mind. The bandages itched and he fought the agonizing urge to scratch…God, it was hot…if only he had a nice cold drink. The only item of clothing the doctor hadn't cut off his body was his shorts. He rinsed them out in the basin and put them on wet. Within minutes they were completely dry.

A light knock came from the door. It slowly swung open and the red-haired cabin boy poked his head around the bulkhead. “Are you awake, Major Pitt?” he queried softly.

“Yes, but just barely,” Pitt replied.

“I…I didn't mean to bother you,” the boy said hesitantly. “The doc asked me to check on you every fifteen minutes to make sure you were resting comfortably.”

Pitt threw a withering stare at the cabin boy. “Who the hell can rest comfortably in this furnace with the air-conditioning turned off?”

A lost bewildered look crossed the young sunburned face. “Oh my gosh, I'm sorry sir. I thought Commander Gunn left it on.”

“What's done is done,” Pitt said, shrugging. “How about something cold to drink?”

“Would you like a bottle of
FIX
?”

Pitt's eyes narrowed sharply. “A bottle of what?”

“FIX
. It's a Greek beer.”

“All right, if you say so.” Pitt couldn't help but grin. “I've heard of taking a fix before, but never drinking one.”

“I'll be right back, sir.” The boy ducked around the bulkhead and closed the door. Suddenly it jerked open again and the young boy's flaming hair reappeared. “I'm sorry, Major, I almost forgot. Colonel Lewis and Captain Giordino are waiting to see you. The colonel wanted to bust right in and wake you, but the doc wouldn't hear of it. He even threatened to throw the colonel off the ship if he tried it.”

“All right, send them in,” said Pitt with impatience. “Just hurry with the beer before I evaporate.”

Pitt lay back on the bunk and let the sweat roll down his body onto the rumpled sheets, sopping the areas that came in contact with his skin. His mind continued to turn, ransacking every detail of the past, assembling for the present, pushing ahead and plotting future directions.

Lewis and Giordino.

They hadn't wasted any time in coming. If Giordino received an answer from NUMA headquarters, it might help to supply one of the many missing pieces to the puzzle. The four borders were forming, but the middle was a scattered conglomeration of uncertain and unknown quantities. Von Till's evil face leered from the maze, his tight-lipped grin curling in smug disdain. Pitt's mind raced on. The great white dog. He tried to force it into another piece of the puzzle, but it wouldn't fit. That's strange, he thought, the dog doesn't correspond to the piece it's supposed to. For some unfathomable reason he couldn't force the animal between von Till and Kurt Heibert.

Suddenly Lewis burst into the cabin with all the finesse of a sonic boom. His face was red and he was sweating, the tiny beads streamed down his nose and into his moustache where they were absorbed like rain in a forest. “Well now, Major, aren't you sorry you passed up my invitation for dinner?”

Pitt half smiled. “I admit there was a time or two last night when I regretted turning down your scallops.” He pointed to the gauze and adhesive tape crisscrossing his chest. “But at least my other dinner engagement gave me a few memories that I can carry for a long, long time.”

Giordino stepped from behind Lewis' hulking form and waved a greeting to Pitt. “See what happens every time I let you go out and carouse on your own.”

Pitt could see the wide grin on Giordino's face, but he also noticed a fraternal look of concern in his friend's eyes. “Next time, Al, I'll send you in my place.”

Giordino laughed. “Don't do me any favors if you're a living example of the morning after.”

Lewis parked his bulk heavily in a chair facing the bunk. “God, it's hot in here. Don't these damn floating museums carry air-conditioning?”

Pitt enjoyed a tinge of sadistic pleasure at Lewis' steaming discomfort. “Sorry, Colonel, the unit must be overtaxed. I have beer coming that should help make the heat a bit more endurable.”

“Right now,” Lewis snorted, “I'd even settle for a glass of Ganges River water.”

Giordino leaned over the bunk. “For chrissakes, Dirk, what mischief did you get yourself into after you left us last night? Gunn's radio message said something about a mad dog.”

“I'll tell you,” said Pitt. “But first I need a couple of questions answered myself.” He looked at Lewis. “Colonel, do you know Bruno von Till?”

“Do I know von Till?” Lewis repeated. “Only slightly. I was introduced to him once and have seen him occasionally at parties given by the local dignitaries, but that's about all. From what I gather, he's something of a mystery.”

“Do you, by chance, know what his business is?” Pitt asked hopefully.

“He owns a small fleet of ships.” Lewis paused for a moment, closing his eyes in thought. Then they shot open, transmitting a look of sudden recollection, “Minerva, yes that's it, Minerva Lines: the name of the fleet.”

“I've never heard of it,” Pitt murmured.

“Small wonder,” snorted Lewis. “Judging from the decrepit rust buckets I've seen smoking by Thasos, I doubt whether anyone else knows of its existence either.”

Pitt's eyes narrowed. “Von Till's ships cruise along the Thasos coastline?”

Lewis nodded. “Yes, one passes every week or so. They're easy to spot; they all have a big yellow ‘M' painted on the smoke funnels.”

“Do they anchor off shore or dock at Liminas?”

Lewis shook his head. “Neither. Every ship I've bothered to notice came from the south, circled the island and reversed course south again.”

“Without stopping?”

“They lie-to for perhaps half an hour, no more, right off the point by the old ruins.”

Pitt raised up out of the bunk. He looked questioningly at Giordino, then Lewis. “That's odd.”

“Why?” asked Lewis, lighting a cigar.

“Thasos is at least five hundred miles north of the main Suez Canal shipping lanes,” Pitt said slowly. “Why should von Till send his ships on a thousand-mile detour?”

“I don't know,” Giordino said impatiently. “And frankly, I could care even less. Why not stop this verbal screwing around and tell us about your nocturnal escapades? What has this von Till character got to do with last night?”

Pitt stood and stretched, wincing from the stiff soreness. His mouth had a sand and gravel taste; he could not recall when his throat had been so dry before. Where was that dumb kid with the beer? Pitt caught sight of Giordino's cigarettes, and he motioned for one. He lit it and inhaled, increasing the rotten taste in his mouth.

He shrugged, smiling wryly. “OK, I'll give it to you from beginning to end, but please feel free to stare at me like I'm crazy; I'll understand.”

In the heat-tortured cabin, the steel walls almost too hot to touch, Pitt told his story. He held nothing back, not even a thin belief that Teri had somehow betrayed him to von Till. Lewis nodded thoughtfully on occasion but made no comment; his mind seemed to linger elsewhere, returning only when Pitt graphically described an event. Giordino paced the small cubicle unhurriedly, leaning slightly against the slow rolling of the ship.

When Pitt finished, no one spoke. Ten seconds passed, twenty, then thirty. The atmosphere had turned humid from perspiration and rapidly became stale from cigar and cigarette smoke.

“I know,” Pitt said a little tiredly. “It sounds like a fairy tale and makes very little sense. But, that's exactly the way it happened, I left nothing out.”

“Daniel in the lion's den,” Lewis said flatly, without inflection. “I admit, what you've told us seems farfetched, but the facts have a strange way of bearing you out.” He pulled a handkerchief from a hip pocket and dabbed it across his forehead. “You were correct in predicting that the antique plane would attack this ship, and you even knew when.”

“Von Till supplied me with a hint. The rest was conjecture.”

“I can't figure the weird set-up,” said Giordino. “Using an old biplane to shoot up the sea and landscape merely to get rid of the
First Attempt
seems overly complicated.”

“Not really,” said Pitt. “It soon became obvious to von Till that his sabotage attempts on the scientific operations of NUMA's expedition were not succeeding according to plan.”

“What crossed him up?” Giordino inquired.

“Gunn was stubborn.” Pitt grinned evenly. “In spite of what he thought were accidents and setbacks due to natural causes, he refused to weigh anchor and give up.”

“Good for him,” Lewis grunted, and cleared his throat to speak, but Pitt went on unruffled.

“Von Till had to find another direction. Using the old aircraft was a stroke of genius. If he had sent a modern jet fighter to attack Brady Field, all hell would have broken out in the form of an international crisis. The Greek government, the Russians, the Arabs; all would have become involved, and this whole island would have been teeming with military personnel on emergency alert. No, von Till was smart: the antique Albatros caused our government some embarrassment and cost the Air Force a few million dollars, but spared everyone a diplomatic mess and an armed conflict.”

“Very interesting, Major.” Lewis' voice was flat, skeptical. “Very interesting…and most instructional. But would you mind answering a question that's been nagging the back of my mind?”

“What is it, sir?” It was the first time Pitt had addressed Lewis as sir, and he found it strangely distasteful.

“Just what are these seagoing eggheads looking for that brought this rotten business down around our heads?”

“A fish,” Pitt replied, grinning.

Lewis' eyes widened and he almost dropped his cigar on his huge lap. “A what?”

“A fish,” Pitt repeated. “It's nicknamed
Teaser
; a rare species reported to be a living fossil. Gunn assures me that landing one would be the greatest scientific achievement of the decade.” Pitt supposed wryly that he was overdoing it a bit, but he was irritated by Lewis' blustering pompousness.

Lewis' face was not pleasant as he rose trembling from his chair. “You mean to say that I have fifteen million dollars' worth of wrecked aircraft scattered over a base under my personal command, my military career all but ruined, and all because of a goddamned fish?”

Pitt tried his best to look serious. “Yes, Colonel, I guess you might say that.”

A saddened look of absolute defeat gripped Lewis' features as he shook his head from side to side. “My God, my God, it's not fair, it's just not…”

He was interrupted by a knock on the metal door. The cabin boy entered, carrying a tray containing three brown bottles.

“Keep them coming,” Pitt ordered. “And keep them cold.”

“Yes sir,” the boy mumbled. He set the tray down on the desk and hurried from the cabin.

Giordino passed Lewis a beer. “Here Colonel, drink up and forget the damage to Brady. The taxpayers will absorb the cost anyway.”

“In the meantime I'll probably suffer a coronary,” Lewis said gloomily. He sat back down in the chair, collapsing like a leaky inner tube.

Pitt held up the ice frosted bottle and rolled its cold surface across his forehead. The red and silver label was stuck on crooked. He stared idly at the reversed printing that proudly proclaimed:
BY APPOINTMENT TO THE ROYAL GREEK COURT
.