Iceberg

Chapter 18

There are many wondrous sights to behold in this world, but to Pitt nothing, not even a thirty-story rocket blasting into outer space or a needle-nosed supersonic transport streaking across the sky at twice — the speed of sound could ever look half as incredibly beautiful as that old Ford trimotor, the famed Tin Goose, pitching and rolling awkwardly in the fitful wind, curtained by the black folds of giant menacing clouds. Braced against the increasing gale, he watched intently as the ancient aircraft, graceful in its ugliness, circled Andursson's farm once before the pilot eased back on the throttles, skimmed less than ten feet over a fence and set it down in the meadow where the wide-set landing wheels rolled to a complete stop in less than two hundred feet from touchdown.

Pitt turned to Andursson. "Well, good-by, Golfur.

Thank you for all you've done for me… for all of US.

Golfur Andursson shook Pitts hand. "It is I who thank you, Major.

For the honor and opportunity to help my fellow brother. God go with you."

Pitt couldn't run, his cracked ribs wouldn't permit that, but he covered the distance to the trimotor in less than thirty seconds. Just as he reached the right side of the fuselage, the door flew open and a strong arm reached down and pulled him into the cramped, narrow cabin.

"Are you Major Pitt?"

Pitt looked into the face of a great bull of a man, tan-faced, with long blond sideburns. "Yes, I'm Pitt."

"Welcome back to the roaring twenties, Major.

This is a helluva idea, using this old flying fossil for a rescue mission." He held out his hand. "I'm Captain Ben Hull."

Pitt took the massive paw and said, "Best we move out if we expect to beat the snow."

"Right you are," Hull boomed briskly. "No sense in getting ticketed for overparking." If Hull was mildly shocked at Pitts damaged face or his strange-looking clothes, he concealed it well. "We ranthis trip without a copilot, a reserved seat in your name, Major. Figured you'd want front row balcony to lead us to the wreck."

"Before I signed off, I asked Admiral Sandecker for a couple of items-"

"Got news for you, Major. That old sea dog carries a big mean stick. Seems he pulled every plug to get them on board before we took off." He pulled a package from his parka and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Beats the hell out of me why you'd want a bottle of Russian vodka and a box of cigars at a moment like

"It's for a couple of friends," Pitt said, sniffing. He turned and made his way past ten men ranged in various relaxed positions along the floor of the cabin-large, quiet, purposeful-looking men dressed in arctic weather gear. They were men who were ed in scuba diving, parachute jumping, survival, and nearly every phase of emergency medicine except surgery. A wave of confidence surged through Pitt just from observing them.

Ducking his head to clear the low cockpit door, Pitt moved into the cramped confines and eased his sore body into the worn and cracked leather bucket seat, sitting vacant on the copilot's side. As soon as he was safely strapped in, he turned and found himself staring into the grinning face of Sergeant Sam Cashman.

"Howdy, Major." Cashman's eyes widened. "God Amighty, who stomped on your face?"

"Tell you over a drink sometime." Pitt glanced at the instrument panel, quickly familiarizing himself with the old-fashioned gauges. "I'm a bit surprised to see-"

"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 hundred-and-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.

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 man-made 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."

"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 massive 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 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 matter-of-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."

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 gauze.

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."

"With respects, sir, none of this figures."

"Until an hour ago, those were our words precisely," Kippmann said.

"Just what have you got in mind?" Pitt asked.

"This." Kippmann pulled more papers from his seemingly bottomless briefcase and studied them briefly.

"Until we were able to question you and the other survivors who were physically up to it, we had only a sketchy idea at best as to the purpose behind Hermit Limited. We knew it existed, and we were fortunate to ferrett out a small percentage of their business dealings, but their ultimate goal, the brains, the money behind the entire operation remained a mystery-" Pitt broke in guardedly. "But you had a lead. You suspected Dr. Hunnewell."

"I'm glad you didn't tumble sooner, Major. Yes, the N.I.A. was trailing Dr. Hunnewell. No concrete evidence, of course. That's why we set him in the hope he would lead us to the men at the top of the organization.".

"Oh, God, it was a setup!" It wasn't easy to combine a sour exclamation and an anguished moan in the same breath, but Pitt pulled it off. "The whole goddamned scene on that iceberg was a setup."

"Yes, Hunnewell came to our attention when he so thoughtfully provided all the right solutions for Fyrie Limited's undersea probe, but offered absolutely nothing toward the efforts under development in his own country."

"Then emtombing the Lax was a neat little piece of deception," Pitt said. "That was your drawing card.

Hunnewell was bound to come forward as an investigator when the admiral here asked him out of what Hunnewell probably couldn't seemed sheer coincidence. believe his luck. He immediately volunteered, not to see what happened to his old friend Kristjan Fyrie-he'd already guessed that-or to inspect the strange phenomenon of a ship locked in ice, but rather to discover what had become of his precious undersea probe."

"Again, Yes. Major."

Kippmann handed Pitt several glossy photographs. "Here are pictures taken from the submarine that kept a watch on the Lax for almost three weeks. They show an unusual feature about the crew."

Pitt ignored him, and looked up at Sandecker evenly and steadily. "The truth comes out at last. The Lax was found by the search fleet and then tailed until it burned."

Sandecker shrugged. "Mr. Kippmann took the trouble to notify me of that interesting little fact only last night." The tight grin on his griffineke features hardly indicated friendliness toward Kippmann.

"Reproach us if you will," Kippmann said seriously, "but it was vital that you both were kept on the sidelines as much as possible. If Kelly or Rondheim or Particularly Hunnewell had smelled your connection with us, our whole operation would have bombed." He stared at Pitt, his voice low. "Major, you were simply to act as pilot for Hunnewell while he inspected the Lax. You then were to fly him to Reykjavik where we would have again taken over our observation of his movements."

"It didn't quite work out that way, did it?"

"We underestimated the other side," Kippmann said candidly.

Pitt inhaled on a cigarette and idly watched the smoke curl toward the ceilng. "You haven't explained how the Lax came to be in the iceberg. Nor have you shed any light on what happened to the pirate crew, or given a hint as to how Fyrie and his crew and scientists could disappear for over a year and then suddenly hove their charred bodies turn up on the ship again."

"The answer to both questions is simple," Kippmann said. "Fyrie's crew never left the ship."

Sandecker took his hands from behind his head and slowly leaned forward, placing them palms down on the desk in front of him. His eyes were rock-hard. "Matajic reported a crew of Arabs, not fair-haired Scandinavians."

"That's true," Kippmann agreed. "I think if you gentlemen will oblige me by glancing at these photographs, you'll see what I mean about the crew."

He passed the prints to Sandecker and extra copies to Pitt. He then sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette after inserting it in a long holder. Kippmann was totally relaxed. Pitt — was beginning to think the man would have yawned if he'd been stabbed in the crotch.

"Please note photo number one," Kippmann said.

"It was taken with a very sharp telephoto lens through a periscope. As you can see, it clearly shows ten crew members going about their duties on various parts of the ship. There isn't a dark-skinned man in the bunch."

"Coincidence," Sandecker said guardedly. "The Arabs Matajic reported seeing might have been below."

"A slim possibility, Admiral, providing we stopped at one picture.

However, the other photos were taken at different times and on different days. By comparing them all together, we get a count of approximately fourteen men, not one of Arab ancestry. Surely, gentlemen, if there were even one arab on that ship, he would have had to make an appearance during a three-week period." Kippmann broke in and tapped his cigarette holder against the rim of an ashtray. "Also, we have definitely identified the faces in the photographs as the same people who set sail on the Lax shortly before it vanished."

"And what of Matajic?" Sandecker asked, probing. "He was a top scientist, trained in accurate observation. Surely he was positive of what he saw' "Matajic saw men who were made up to look like other nationalities," Kippmann said. "The crew should have been masters at disguise by the time he stumbled onto them-remember they had visited a number of ports. They took no chances of recognition- It's only guesswork, of course, we'll never know for certain, but it's fairly safe to say the crew caught O'riley watching them and slipped into their phony pose before Matajic came on board for supper."

"I see," Pitt said mildly. "And then what?"

"You can guess the rest, if you don't already know it." Kippmann toyed with his cigarette holder a moment and then continued. "Somehow, it's not difficult to imagine, the celtinium-279 ignited and transformed the Lax into a floating incinerator. Our submarine could only stand by and watch helplessly-it happened so quickly, there were no survivors. Fortunately the Navy had put a fast-thinking skipper in command of the sub.

A storm was approaching and he knew it was only a question of time before the red-hot plates on the Lax's hull cooled and contracted, bursting their seams and letting the sea water flood in and sink her, a finale further speeded by the Force Eight storm building on the horizon."

"So he turned a twenty-million-dollar submarine into a tugboat and nudged the burning hulk against a convenient iceberg until it melted its way inside," Pitt sat there looking at Kippmann, his expression pleasant.

"Your theory is quite correct, Major," Kippmann said thinly" Not my theory." Pitt smiled. "Dr. Hunnewell's. It was he who came up with the hot poker in ice proposal."

"I see," Kippmann said, but he didn't.

"The next question that interests me directly" Pitt hesitated, mashing out his cigarette-"is why did you send Hunnewell and me chasing all over the North Atlantic hunting down a particular iceberg after you erased all of its distinguishable markings? Why did you set Hunnewell up to find the Lax and then deliberately try to hide it?"

Impassively Kippmann stared at Pitt. "Thanks to you, Major, my men were forced to work their asses off in freezing temperatures, chipping the Coast Guard's red dye marker from the iceberg simply because you showed up two days ahead of schedule."

"You were going over the Lax with a fine-toothed comb and hadn't finished when Hunnewell and I appeared on the scene. Is that it?"

"Precisely," Kippmann said. "Nobody expected you to fly a helicopter through the aftermath of the season's worst storm."

"Then your men were there-" Pitt broke off, looked at Kippmann for a long speculative moment, then went on quietly, "Your agents were concealed on the berg the entire time Hunnewell and I explored the Lax."

Kippmann shrugged. "You didn't give us a chance to pull them off."

Pitt half rose from the couch. "You mean they stood by and did nothing when Hunnewell and I damned near fell from the berg into the sea, no rope, no help, no encouraging word, nothing?"

"In our business we have to be ruthless." Kippmann offered a tired smile. "We don't like it, but we have to. It's just that it's the nature of the game."

"A game?" Pitt said. "A fantasy of intrigue? A sport of make-believe dog eat dog? You're in a rotten occupation?"

"A never-ending cycle, my friend," Kippmann said acidly. "We didn't start out to be this way. America has always been the good guy. But you can't play knit when the other side uses every dirty rule in the book."

"Granted, we're the land of suckers, always believing that good never fails to triumph over evil. But where does that leave us? Back in Disneyland?"

"I'll come to that in due time," Kippmann said with restraint. "Now then, from what you and the others in the hospital reported, Hermit Limited intends to make their move approximately nine hours and forty-five minutes from now. Their first step will be to assassinate the leader of the Latin American country that they plan to take over. Am I correct?"

"That's what the man said," Pitt nodded. "Beginning with Bolivia."

"You shouldn't believe all you hear, Major. Kelly only used Bolivia as an example. He and his group aren't strong enough for a country that size. He's too much of a businessman to make a grab until he is ninety percent sure of a profit."

"The target could be any one of half a dozen countries," said Sandecker. "How in hell can you be sure which one it is?"

"We have computers too" Kippmann said with some satisfaction. "The processed data narrowed the choice down to four. Major Pitt helpfully narrowed it down to two."

"You've lost me," Pitt said. "How could I-"

"The models you dredged from the sea, Kippmann cut in quickly. "One is the exact repleca of the capitol building of the Dominican Republic. The other is the government legislative chambers of French Guiana."

"A fifty-fifty chance at best," Sandecker said slowly.

"Not really," Kippmann said. "It's the honored opinion of the N.I.A. that Kelly and his little troop will try for a double-header."

"Both countries at once?" Sandecker looked at Kippmann inquiringly. "You can't be serious?"

"Yes, we're serious, and if you'll pardon the expression', we're deadly serious."

"What can Kelly hope to gain by splitting his efforts?" Pitt asked.

"Trying for the Dominican Republic and French Guiana at the same time isn't the gamble it seems."

Kippmann pulled a map from the folder and smoothed it on Sandecker's desk. "On the northern coast of South America you have Venezuela, and British, Dutch and French Guiana. Further north, a day's passage by boat, a few hours' flight by plane, the island that contains Haiti and the Domini'can Republic. Strategically it's a beautiful situation."

"In what way?"

"Suppose," Kippmann said thoughtfully, "just suppose a dictator who ruled Cuba also ruled Florida as well."

Sandecker looked at Kippmann, his face set and intense. "By God, it is a beautiful situation. It would only be a matter of time before Hermit Limited, operating on the same island, strangled Haiti's economy and took over."

"Yes, then using the island as a base, they could slowly spread into the central Latin countries and absorb them one by one."

Pitts voice was impassive. "History recalls that Fidel Castro tried to infiltrate the mainland countries and failed on every occasion."

"Yes," Kippmann repeated. "But Kelly and Hermit Limited have the one thing Castro lacked-a foothold. Kelly will have French Guiana." He paused in reflection a moment. "A foothold as sure and as firm as the Allies had in 1944 when they invaded France at Normandy."

Pitt shook his head slowly. "And I thought Kelly was insane. The bastard just might do it. He just might pull his fantastic scheme off."

Kippmann nodded. "Let us say, considering all facts, at the present time the odd makers would probably lay their bets in favor of Kelly and Hermit Limited."

"Maybe we should let him do it," Sandecker said.

"Maybe, he was somehow meant to have his utopia."

"No, it is not meant to be," Kippmann said calmly.

"It can never happen."

"You seem pretty certain," Pitt said.

Kippmann stared at him and grinned thinly.

"Didn't I tell you? One of the birds that tried to kill you in that doctor's office decided to cooperate. He told us quite a story."

"It seems there are a number of things you forgot to tell us." Sandecker grunted acidly.

Kippmann went on. "Kelly's glorious enterprise is doomed to failure; I have it on the best authority." He paused, his grin broadening. "As soon as Hermit Limited is entrenched in the Dominican Republic and French Guiana, there will be a proxy fight among the board of directors. Major Pitts passing acquaintance, Mr. Oskar Rondheim, intends to emate Kelly, Marks, Von Hummel and the rest and take over as chairman of the board. Sad to say, Mr. Rondheim's future intentions will hardly be classed as honorable and benevolent."

Tidi was sitting prettily in a wheelchair beside Lillie's bed when Pitt entered the hospital room, followed by Sandecker and Kippmann.

"The doctors tell me you'll both live," Pitt said, smiling. "Just thought I'd… ah. offer my farewells.", drop by and

"You're leaving?" Tidi asked sadly.

"Afraid so. Someone has to identify Rondheim's triggermen."

"You-be careful," she stammered. "After all you went through to save us, we don't want to lose you now."

Lillie raised his head stiffly. "Why didn't you say something out there in the ravine?" he asked seriously.

"God, I had no idea your ribs were kicked in."

"It made no difference. I was the only one who could walk. Besides, I never fail to get carried away when I have a good audience."

Lillie smiled. "You had the best."

Pitt asked, "How's your back?"

"I'll be in this miserable body cast longer than I care to think about, but at least I'll be able to dance again when it comes off."

Pitt stared down at Tidi. Her face was pale and tears were beginning to well in her eyes and Pitt understood.

"When the big day arrives," Pitt said, forcing a grin, "we'll celebrate with a party, even if it means I have to drink your old man's beer."

"That I'll have to see."

Sandecker cleared his throat. "Ah… I take it that Miss Royal is as good a nurse as she is a secretary. Lillie grasped Tidi's hand. "I'd break a bone every day of the week if it always meant meeting someone like her."

There was a short pause. "I think we should be leaving," Kippmann said. "Our Air Force transportation is waiting even now."

Pitt leaned down and kissed Tidi and then shook Lillie's hand. "Look after yourselves. I'll be expecting an invitation to that party soon." He turned his palms upward and shrugged helplessly. "God only knows where I'll be able to find a date who'd be seen in public with a battered face like this."

Tidi laughed at that. He squeezed her shoulder and then turned and left the room.

In the car on the way to the air base, Pitt stared out the window, his eyes unseeing, his mind back in the hospital. "He'll never walk again, will he?"

Kippmann shook his head sadly. "It's doubtful… very doubtful."

Fifteen minutes later, without a further word being spoken, they arrived at the Keilavik Air Field to find an Air Force B-92 reconnaissance bomber waiting by the terminal. Another ten minutes and the supersonic jet was speeding down the runway, soaring out over the ocean.

Sandecker, alone in the terminal, watched the plane lifting into the azure sky, his eyes following it until it disappeared into the distance of the cloudless horizon. Then, wearily, he walked back to the car.