Vixen 03 (24 page)

The blue and yellow insignia that ran across the top of the fuselage appeared surprisingly sharp, and the words military AIR transport service were still quite legible. Vixen 03 no longer resembled an airplane. It was easier to picture her as a huge dead whale whose fins and tail had been clipped. The severed and twisted control cables, electrical wiring, and hydraulic lines dangling from the gaping wounds could be imagined as entrails.

Abe Steiger was the first to break the hushed quiet.

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“Odds are that’s the cause of her crash,” he said, pointing at the gash in the cargo cabin just aft of the cockpit. “She must have thrown a prop blade.”

Bass stared at the ominous evidence, making no comment. The pain in his chest became more intense. With great force of will he put it from his mind while unconsciously massaging the ache on the inside of his left arm. He tried to peer through the plane’s windshield glass, but the years of accumulated silt blocked out all view. The cranes had lifted the fuselage ten feet above the lake’s surface when a thought struck him and he turned and gazed at Pitt questioningly.

“I see no provisions for a makeshift barge. How do you expect to carry the wreckage to shore?”

Pitt grinned. “This is where we send for a sky hook, Admiral.” He gestured at Giordino. “Okay, signal Dumbo.”

Within two minutes, like some great pterodactyl flushed from its Mesozoic nest, an ungainly structured helicopter soared over the treetops, its two big rotors pounding the thin mountain air with peculiar-sounding thumps.

The pilot hovered the giant helicopter above the moored cranes. Two hooks gradually unreeled from the gaping belly and were rapidly attached to the hoist cradles by the derrick crews. Then the pilot took up the strain of the full weight and the connectors from the crane cables slackened and were released. The Dumbo clawed at the air, its turbines struggling under the massive load. Very tenderly, as if maneuvering a cargo of fragile crystal, the pilot eased Vixen 03 toward shore.

Pitt and the others turned their backs as a cloud of spray, kicked up by the rotor blades, swirled in from the lake. Giordino, ignoring the gusting wetness, moved to where the pilot could plainly see him, motioning with his hands while directing the lowering operation over the earphone transmitter.

Five minutes was all it took for the Dumbo to release its load and disappear again over the trees. Then they all stood there staring, no one making a move for the wreckage. Steiger murmured a command to his Air Force detail and they smartly marched to the truck and began unloading the coffins, setting them on the ground in an orderly row. One of Pitt’s men produced a ladder and propped it against the exposed rear of the upper cargo deck. Pitt remained silent and indicated with his hand that Admiral Bass be the first to enter the aircraft.

Once inside, Bass made his way around the canisters to the control—

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cabin doorway. He stood immobile for several seconds, looking pale and very ill. ‘•

“Are you all right, sir?” Pitt asked, coming up behind him.

The voice that answered was remote and far away. “I can’t seem to bring myself to look at them.”

“It would serve no purpose,” said Pitt gently.

Bass leaned heavily against the bulkhead, the agony in his chest growing. “A minute to get my bearings. Then I’ll take stock of the warheads.”

Steiger approached Pitt, gingerly stepping around the canisters as though he were afraid to touch them. “Whenever you give the word I’ll bring my men on board to recover the remains of the crew.”

“Might as well begin with our unexplained guest.” Pitt tilted his head at ajumble of loose canisters. “You’ll find him strapped to the floor about ten feet to your right.”

Steiger searched in the area Pitt instructed and shrugged, his facial expression blank. “I don’t find anything.”

“You’re practically standing on top of him,” Pitt said.

“What gives, for Christ’s sake?” Steiger demanded. “I’m telling you there’s nothing here.”

“You must be blind.” Pitt pushed Steiger aside and looked down. The straps were still attached to the cargo tie-down rings but the body in the old khaki uniform had vanished. Pitt stared dumbly at the space on the floor while his mind stumbled to grasp the reality of the missing remains. He knelt and picked up the rotting straps. They had been cut.

Steiger’s eyes reflected doubt. “The water was like ice the day you dived. Perhaps your mind saw something …” His voice trailed off but the implication was clear.

Pitt rose to his feet. “He was here,” he said, expecting no further argument and receiving none.

“Could he have washed out the aft opening during the lift operation?” Steiger offered lamely.

“Not possible. The divers who swam beside the wreck to the surface would have reported any debris falling free.”

Steiger started to say something, but suddenly his eyes turned uncomprehending at a strangled gasping sound that emitted from the forward end of the compartment. “What in God’s name is that?”

Pitt wasted no time in answering. He knew.

He found Admiral Bass lying on the wet floor, fighting for breath, his

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skin bathed in cold sweat. The unbearable severity of the pain contorted his face into a tormented mask.

“His heart!” Pitt called out to Steiger. “Find Giordino and tell him to get that helicopter back here.”

Pitt began tearing the clothing away from the admiral’s neck and chest. Bass reached up and grasped Pitt’s wrist. “The … the warheads,” he rasped.

“Rest easy. We’ll soon have you on your way to a hospital.”

“The warheads …” Bass repeated.

“All safe in their canisters,” Pitt reassured him.

“No … no … you don’t understand.” His voice was a hoarse whisper now. “The canisters … I counted them … twenty-eight.”

Bass’s words were becoming barely audible, and Pitt had to place his ear at the tremoring lips.

Giordino rushed up carrying several blankets. “Steiger gave me the word,” he said tensely. “How is he?”

“Still hanging in there,” Pitt said. He released the viselike grip from his wrist and gently squeezed Bass’s hand. “I’ll see to it, Admiral. That’s a promise.”

Bass blinked his dulled eyes and nodded in understanding.

Pitt and Giordino had covered him and cushioned his head with the blankets when Steiger reappeared, followed by two airmen carrying a stretcher. Only then did Pitt rise to his feet and step aside. The helicopter had already returned and landed when they carried the still-conscious Bass from Vixen 03.

Steiger took Pitt’s arm. “What was he trying to tell you?”

“His inventory of the warhead canisters,” Pitt answered. “He counted twenty-eight.”

“I pray the old guy makes it,” Steiger said. “At least he had the satisfaction of knowing the monstrosities were retrieved. Now all that’s . left is to dump them in the ocean. End of horror story.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s only the beginning.”

“You’re talking in riddles.”

“According to Admiral Bass, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twenty-eight warheads filled with the Quick Death agent.”

Steiger sensed an icy dread in Pitt’s tone. “But his inventory … the count came to twenty-eight.”

“He should have tallied thirty-six,” Pitt said ominously. “Eight warheads are missing.”

No Return Ticket

Washington, D.C.- December 1988

The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective glass, rose thirty stories above an East Washington hill.

On the top floor Admiral James Sandecker sat behind an immense desk made from a refinished hatch cover salvaged from a Confederate blockade runner in Albemarle Sound. His private line buzzed.

“Sandecker.”

“Pitt here, sir.”

Sandecker pushed a switch on a small console that activated a holographic TV camera. Pitt’s lifelike image materialized in three-dimensional depth and color in the middle of the office.

“Raise the camera from your end,” said Sandecker. “You’ve chopped off your head.”

Through the miracle of satellite holography Pitt’s face seemed to grow from his shoulders, and his projected self, including voice and gestures, became identical to the original. The major difference, which never ceased to amuse Sandecker, was that he could pass a hand through the image because it was totally lacking in matter.

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“That better?” asked Pitt.

“At least you’re whole now.” Sandecker wasted no more words. “What’s the latest on Walter Bass?”

Pitt looked tired as he sat on a folding chair beneath a large pine tree, his ebony hair tossed by a stiff breeze.

“The heart specialist at the Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver reports his condition as stable. If he survives the next forty-eight hours, his chances for recovery look good. As soon as he’s strong enough for the trip, they’re going to transfer him to Bethesda Naval Hospital.”

“What about the warheads?”

“We trucked them to a rail siding in Leadville,” Pitt answered slowly. “Colonel Steiger volunteered to arrange shipment to Pier Six in San Francisco.”

“Tell Steiger we’re grateful for his cooperation. I’ve ordered our Pacific Coast research ship to be standing by. Instructions were given to the skipper to dump the warheads off the continental shelf in ten thousand feet of water.” Sandecker hesitated at posing the next question. “Did you locate the missing eight?”

Pitt’s negative expression answered him even before the image spoke.

“No luck, Admiral. A thorough search of the lake bed failed to turn up a trace.”

Sandecker read the frustration on Pitt’s face. “I fear the time has come to inform the Pentagon.”

“Do you honestly think that a wise course?”

“What other options do we have?” Sandecker came back. “We don’t have the means at our disposal for a large-scale investigation.”

“All we need is a lead,” Pitt said, pressing on. “Odds favor the warheads’ being stored somewhere, gathering dust. It’s even possible the thieves don’t know what they really have on their hands.”

“I’ll accept that,” Sandecker said. “But who would want them in the first place? Christ, they weigh nearly a ton each, and they’re easily recognizable in exterior appearance as obsolete naval shells.”

“The answer will also lead us to the murderer of Loren Smith’s father.”

“No corpus delicti, no crime,” Sandecker said.

“I know what I saw,” Pitt said evenly.

“It won’t alter present circumstances. The dilemma staring us all in the face is how to get a tag on those lost warheads and do it before someone gets it in his head to play demolition expert.”

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Suddenly the exhaustion seemed to drop from Pitt. “Something you just said jogged a thought. Give me five days to flush out the warheads. If I turn up nothing, then it’s your ball game.”

Sandecker smiled tightly at Pitt’s sudden show of intensity. “This happens to be my ball game, any way you look at it,” he said sharply. “As the senior government official involved in this mess, it became my unwanted responsibility the day you hijacked a NUMA aircraft and underwater camera system.”

Pitt stared back across the room but remained discreetly silent.

Sandecker left Pitt stewing for a moment while he rubbed his eyes. Then he said, “All right, against my better judgment I’ll take the gamble.”

“You’ll go along, then?”

Sandecker caved in. “You’ve got five days, Pitt. But heaven help us if you come up empty-handed.”

He hit the switch to the holograph and Pitt’s image faded and disappeared.

It was just before sunset when Maxine Raferty turned from her clothesline and spied Pitt walking up the road. She continued her chore, pinning up the last of her husband’s shirts before waving a greeting.

“Mr. Pitt, how nice to see you.”

“Mrs. Raferty.”

“Loren with you up to the cabin?”

“No, she had to remain in Washington.” Pitt looked around the yard. “Is Lee at home?”

“In the house, fixing the kitchen sink.” A brisk breeze was sweeping down the mountains from the west and Maxine thought it odd that Pitt was carrying his Windbreaker over his right hand and arm. “Just go on in.”

Lee Raferty was sitting at the kitchen table, filing burrs from a length of plumbing pipe. He looked up as Pitt entered.

“Mr. Pitt. Hey, sit down; you’re just in time. I was about to open a bottle of my private stock of grape squeezin’s.”

Pitt pulled up a chair. “You make wine as well as beer?”

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“Gotta be self-sufficient up here in the high country,” Lee said, grinning, and pointing a cigar stub at the pipe. “Take this. Cost me a fortune to get a plumber up here from Leadville. Cheaper to do it myself. Leaky gasket. Any kid could fix it.”

Raferty laid the rusty pipe on an old newspaper, rose from the table, and produced two glasses and a ceramic jug from under a cupboard.

“I wanted to talk with you,” Pitt said.

“Sure thing.” Lee poured the glasses to their brims. “Hey, what do you think about all that commotion up at the lake? I hear tell they found an old airplane. Could it be the one you was askin’ about?”

“Yes,” Pitt answered, sipping from the wineglass, which he held in his left hand. He was mildly surprised to find the wine quite smooth. “That’s part of the reason I’m here. I was hoping you might enlighten me as to why you murdered Charlie Smith.”

The only reaction was the slight lift of one gray eyebrow. “Me … murder old Charlie? What on earth are you talking about?”

“A falling-out of partners who thought they’d discovered a pot of gold deep in a mountain lake.”

He stared at Pitt and tilted his head questioningly. “You’re talking like a crazy man.”

“The last thing you expected was a stranger appearing on your doorstep asking questions about a lost airplane. You’d already made a mistake by not disposing of the oxygen tank and nose gear. I pay homage to you and your wife’s theatrical talents. I swallowed your country-bumpkin act with all the gullibility of a tourist. After I left, you covered my every move, and when you saw me dive in the lake, you were dead certain I had discovered the aircraft and Charlie Smith’s bones. At that point you made an irreversible blunder: you panicked and removed Charlie, in all probability burying his bones deep in the mountains. If you’d left him strapped to that sunken cargo floor, the sheriff would have been hard pressed to tie you to a three-year-old murder.”