"02 - The Mediterranean Caper (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cussler Clive)

Except for the protruding in-line cylinder head, the fuselage followed a streamlined shape that tapered to straight skies at the open cockpit The great wooden propeller beat the air like an old windmill, pulling the ancient craft over the landscape at a tortoise-like air speed. The fabric covered wings wavered in the wind and showed the early characteristic scalloped trailing edge. From the spinner enclosing the propeller hub to the rear tips of the elevators, the entire machine was painted a bright and flamboyant yellow. The sergeant lowered the glasses just as the plane displaying the familiar black Maltese Cross markings of World War I Germany, flashed by the control tower. In another circumstance the sergeant would have probably dropped to the floor if an airplane buzzed the control tower at no more than five feet. But his amazement at seeing a very real ghost from the dim skies of the Western Front was too much for his senses to grasp, and he stood stock still. As the plane passed, the pilot brazenly waved from his cockpit. He was so close that the sergeant could see the features of his face under the faded leather helmet and goggles. The spectre from the past was grinning and patting the butts of the twin machine guns, mounted on the cowling.

Was this some sort of colossal joke? Is the pilot a nutty Greek with a circus? Where did he come from? The sergeant's brain spun with questions but no answers. Suddenly he became aware of twin, blinking spots of light, emitting behind the propeller of the plane. Then the glass of the control tower windows shattered and disappeared around him.

A moment in time stopped and war came to Brady Field. The pilot of the World War I fighter dipped around the control tower and strafed the sleek modern jets parked lazily on the runway. One by one the F-105 Starfires were raked and slashed by ancient eight millimeter bullets that tore into their thin aluminum skin. Three of them burst into flames as their full tanks of jet fuel ignited. They burned fiercely, melting the soft asphalt into smoking puddles of tar. Again and again, the bright yellow flying antique soared over the field, spitting a leaden stream of destruction. One of the C-133 Cargomasters went next. It erupted in a gigantic roar of flames that rose hundreds of feet into the air.

In the tower the sergeant lay on the floor, looking dazedly at a red trail of blood that oozed from his chest. He gently pulled the black notebook from his breast pocket and stared in fascinated surprise at a small. neat hole in the middle of the cover. A dark veil began to circle his eyes and he shook it off. Then he struggled to his knees and looked around the room.

Glittering fragments of broken glass blanketed the floor, the radio equipment, the furniture. In the center of the room, the air conditioner lay upside down' like a dead mechanical animal: its legs thrown stiffly in the air and its coolant trickling onto the floor from several round punctures. The sergeant dull peered up at the radio. Miraculously It was untouched. Painfully, he crawled across the floor slicing his knees and hands on the crystal slivers. He reached the microphone and grasped it tightly, bloodying the black plastic handle. Darkness crowded the sergeant's thoughts. What is the proper procedure, he wondered? What does one say at a time like this? Say something his mind shouted, say anything!

"To all who can hear my voice. MAY DAY! MAY DAY! This is Brady Field. We are under attack by an unidentified aircraft. This is not a drill, I repeat, Brady Field is under attack..."











1

Major Dirk Pitt adjusted the headset on his thick black hair and slowly turned the channel crank on the radio, trying to fine-tune the reception. He listened intently for a few moments, his dark, sea-green eyes reflecting a trace of bewilderment A frown cut his forehead in a series of grooves and hung there in the tanned leathery skin.

It wasn't that the words crackling over the receiver weren't understandable. They were. He just didn't believe them. He listened again, and listened hard over the droning roar of the PBY Catalina's twin engines. The voice he heard was fading, when it should have been getting stronger. The volume control was turned to full on, and, Brady Field was only thirty miles away. Under those conditions, the air traffic operator's voice should have blasted Pitt's eardrums out. The operator is either losing power or he's seriously injured, thought Pitt He pondered a minute and then reached over to his right and shook the sleeping figure in the co-pilot's seat.

"Come out of it, sleeping beauty." He spoke in a tone that was soft and effortless, yet had a way of making itself heard in a throbbing airplane or a crowded room.

Captain Al Giordino wearily raised his head and yawned loudly. The fatigue of sitting in an old vibrating PBY flying boat for thirteen hours straight was evident in his dark, bloodshot eyes. He flung his arms upward, puffed out his barrel chest and stretched. Then he came erect and leaned forward, peering out in the distance beyond the cockpit windows.

"Are we over the First Attempt yet?" Giordino mumbled through another yawn.

"Almost," replied Pitt. "There's Thasos dead ahead."

"Oh hell," Giordino grunted; then grinned. "I could have slept another ten minutes. Why'd you wake me?"

"I intercepted a message from Brady Control that said the field was under attack by an unidentified aircraft"

"You can't be serious," Giordino said incredulously. "It must be some kind of a joke."

"No, I don't think so. The control operator's voice didn't sound like it was faking.' Pitt hesitated and kept an eye on the water only fifty feet away as it flashed under the PBY's hull. Just for practice he had wave-hopped the last two hundred miles; a means of keeping his reflexes honed and sharp.

"It might be that Brady Control was telling the truth," said Giordino, peering through the cockpit windshield. "Look over there toward the eastern part of the island."

Both men stared at the approaching mound rising out of the sea. The beaches bordering the surf were yellow and barren, but the round sloping hills were green with trees. The colors danced in the heat waves and vividly contrasted against the encircling blue of the Aegean. On the eastern side of Thasos a large pillar of smoke rose into the windless sky and fanned a giant, spiral-shaped, black cloud. The PBY's bow soared closer to the island, and soon they could distinguish the orange movement of flames at the base of the smoke. Pitt grabbed the mike and pressed the button on the side of the handgrip. "Brady Control, Brady Control, this is PBY-086, over." There was no response. Pitt repeated the call twice more.

"No answer?" queried Giordino.