Iceberg

"That won't be necessary. Keep the meter ru

I'll only be a few minutes."

Pitt got out and walked through the side door of the hangar, a sterile giant of a building that covered nearly two acres. Five small private planes were scattered around the floor like a handful of spectators in an otherwise empty auditorium. But it was the sixth that caught Pitts eye. It was an old Ford Trimotor known as the Tin Goose. The corrugated aluminum skin that covered the framework and the three motors, one perched on the nose directly in front of the cockpit, the other two suspended in space by an ungainly network of wires and struts, combined to make it look to the unknowing eye a thing too awkward to fly with any degree of control or, for that matter, lift its wheels from the ground. But the old pioneering pilots swore by it. To them it was a flying son of a bitch. Pitt patted the ancient washboard sides, idly wished he could test-fly it someday, and then walked on toward the offices in the rear of the hangar.

He opened a door and moved into what appeared to be a combination locker room and rest area, wrinkling his nose from the pungent, heavy smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and coffee. Except for the coffee, the aroma bore a marked resemblance to a high school gym. He stood there a moment looking at a group of five men clustered around a large European-style ceramic coffee urn, laughing good-naturedly at a recently told joke. They were all dressed in white coveralls, some spotlessly clean, others decorated with heavy splotches of black oil. Pitt sauntered easily toward them, smiling.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, any of you speak English?"

A shaggy, long-haired mechanic sitting nearest the urn looked up and drawled, "Yeah, I speak American if that'll do."

"That will do fine," Pitt laughed. "I'm looking for a man with the initials S.C. He's probably a hydraulic specialist."

The mechanic eyed him uneasily. "Who wants to know?"

Pitt forced a friendly smile and pulled out his I.D. again.

"Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt."

For a full five seconds the mechanic sat immobile, expressionless except for the stu

"Ya, got your man, Major. Ah knew it were too good to last." The voice reached from somewhere deep in Oklahoma.

It was Pitts turn to become expressionless. "Like what's too good to last?"

"Mah moonlightin' lak this," he drawled morosely. " 'working' as a hydraulic specialist for civilian airlines during mah off-duty hours." He stared forlornly into his coffee cup. "Ah knew it was against U.S. Air Force regulations, but the money was too good to pass up. Ah guess ah can kiss mah stripes good-by."

Pitt looked at him. "I know of no Air Force regulations that prevent an enlisted man or an officer, for that matter, from icking up a few dollars when he isn't on duty."

"Nuthin' wrong with Air Force rules, Major. It's Keflavik Base policy set by Colonel Nagel, the C.O. on our side of the field. He feels we should work on squadron aircraft during' our time off instead of helpin' out the feather merchants. Tryin' to make a name for himself with the Pentagon brass, ah guess. But ya wouldn't be here if you didn't know all that."

"That'll do," Pitt said sharply. His gaze swung left and right until it came back to the Air Force mechanic. Then his eyes grew suddenly cold. "When you talk to a superior officer, Airman, you stamd up."

"I don't have to kiss your ass, Major. You ain't got no uniform on-" Two seconds was all it took. with a nonchalant ease Pitt bent over. clasped the front two legs of the mechanic's chair and flipped him over on his back and put his foot over the man's throat in one deceptive movement. The other maintenance men stood there in stu

"Call off your flunkies or I break your neck," Pitt said, gri

The mechanic, unable to talk with the heel of Pitts shoe pushing against his windpipe, gestured wildly with both hands. The men stopped and moved back a step, retreating not so much from their friend's muted pleas as from the ice-cold grin on Pitt's face.

"That's a good group," Pitt said. He turned and looked down at the helpless mechanic and lifted his foot just enough to allow his prisoner to speak. "Now, then, name, rank, and serial number. Let's have it!"

"Sam… Sam Cashman," he choked. "Sergeant.

Air Force 19385628."

"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Sam?" Pitt bent and helped Cashman to his feet.

"Ahim sorry, sir. Ah figured that as long as ya were go

"You're lousy at figuring Pitt interrupted. "Next time keep your mouth shut. You admitted guilt when you didn't have to."

"Are ya still go

"To begin with, I don't give a rat's ass whether you moonlight or not. Since I'm not stationed at Keflavik Air Force Base, I could care less about the policieschicken shit as they are-of your Colonel Nagel. Therefore, I won't be the one to bust you. All I want is the answers to a few simple questions." Pitt stared Cashman in the eye and smiled warmly. "Now how about it? Will you help me?"

The expression on Cashman's face displayed genuine awe. "Christ Almighty, what ah wouldn't give to serve under an officer like you." He extended his hand.

"Ask away, Major."

Pitt returned Cashman's grip. "First question: do you usually scratch your initials in the equipment you repair?"

"Yeah, it's kind of a trademark, ya might say. Ah do good work an ahim proud of it. Serves a purpose too. If ah work on the hydraulic system of an aircraft and it comes back with a malfunction, ah know the trouble lays where ah didn't work. It saves a lot of time."

"Have you ever repaired the nose gear of a twelvepassenger British jet?"

Cashman thought for a moment. "Yeah, about a month ago. One of those new executive twin turbine Ulysses-a hell of a machine."

"Was it painted black?"

"Ah couldn't see paint markin's. It was dark, about one-thirty in the mornin' when ah got the call."

He shook his head. "Wasn't black, though. Ahim positive."

"Any distinguishing features or anything unusual about the repair that you can recall?"

Cashman laughed. "The only distinguishin' features were the two weirdos who were flyin' it." He held up a cup, offering Pitt some coffee. Pitt shook his head.

"Well, these guys were in a terrible hurry. Kept standin' around tryin' to push me. Pissed me off plenty. Seems they made a rough landin' somewhere and busted a seal in the shock cylinder. They were damned lucky that ah found a spare over at the B.O.A.C hangars."

"Did you get a look inside?"

"Hell no, you'd have thought they had the President on board the way they guarded the loadin' door."

"Any idea where they came from or where they were headed?"

"No way, they were tightlipped bastards. Talked about nothin, but the repair. Must have been on a local flight though. They didn't refuel. You ain't flyin' far in a Lorelei-not from Iceland anyhow-without full tanks."

"The pilot must have signed a maintenance order."

"Nope. He refused. Said He was behind schedule and would catch me next time. Paid me though. Twice what the job was worth." Cashman was silent for a moment. He tried to read something in the man standing before him, but Pitts face was as impenetrable as a granite statue. "What's behind these questions, Major?