Текст книги "Raise the Titanic"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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    "Order full speed ahead, damn it, or I'll run you down."

    Butera dropped the phone and fought his way outside onto the bridge wing again. The hurricane was beating the sea into a froth so savage, so angry, that it was nearly impossible to separate air from water. It was all he could do to maintain a hold on the railing.

    Then he saw it, the immense bow of the Titanic looming up through the curtain of the thrashing deluge, hardly more than a hundred feet off the starboard quarter. There was nothing he could do now except watch in frozen horror as the menacing mass moved inexorably closer to the Wallace.

    "No!" he cried above the wind. "You dirty old corpse; you leave my ship alone."

    It was too late. It seemed impossible that the Titanic could ever swing clear of the Wallace's stern. And yet the impossible happened. The great sixty-foot bow rose up on a mountainous wave and hung there suspended just long enough for the tug's screws to take bite and pull her clear. Then the Titanic dropped in the trough, missing the stern of the Wallace by no more than three feet, throwing up a surge that engulfed the entire smaller vessel, carrying away both its lifeboats and one of the ventilators.

    The wave tore Butera's grip from the railing and swept him across the bridge, jamming his body against the wheelhouse bulkhead. He lay there totally submerged under the billow, his throat choking, his lungs gasping for air, his brain sluggishly taking strength from the strong pulsing beat of the Wallace's engines that transmitted through the deck. When the water finally drained away, he struggled to his feet and retched his stomach empty.

    He clawed his way back into the safety of the wheelhouse. Butera, his senses stunned by the miracle of the Wallace's deliverance, watched the great black apparition that was the Titanic slide by astern until she disappeared again in the shroud of wind-whipped rain.

60

    "Leave it to Dirk Pitt to pick up a dame in the middle of the ocean during a hurricane," Sandecker said. "What's your secret?"

    "The Pitt curse," Pitt answered, as he tenderly bandaged the swelling on Dana's head. "Women are forever attracted to me under impossible circumstances when I'm in no mood to respond."

    Dana began to moan softly.

    "She's coming around," Gunn said. He was on his knees next to a cot they had wedged between the gymnasium's old exercise equipment to steady it from the ship's rolling and pitching.

    Pitt covered her with a blanket. "She suffered a nasty tap, but her mass of hair probably saved her from anything worse than a concussion."

    "How did she come to be on Sturgis's helicopter?" Woodson asked. "I thought she was babysitting the news people on board the Alhambra. "

    "She was," Admiral Sandecker said. "Several television network correspondents requested permission to cover the Titanic's haul to New York from aboard the Capricorn. I gave authorization on the condition that Dana accompany them."

    "I ferried them over," Sturgis said. "And, I saw Mrs. Seagram disembark when I landed on the Capricorn. It's a mystery to me how she re-entered the helicopter without being noticed."

    "Yeah, a mystery," Woodson repeated caustically. "Don't you bother checking your cargo compartment between flights?"

    "I'm not running a commercial airline," Sturgis snapped back. He looked as though he was about to hit Woodson. He glanced at Pitt and was met with a disapproving stare. Then, with a visible effort, he reined in his emotions and spoke slowly and firmly "I'd been flying that bird out there steady for twenty hours straight. I was tired. I easily convinced myself that there was no need to bother with a cargo-compartment check because I was certain it was empty. How was I to know Dana Seagram would sneak on board?"

    Gunn shook his head. "Why did she do it? Why would she?..."

    "I don't know why . . . how the hell should I?" Sturgis said. "Suppose you tell me why she threw a hammer through my rotor blades, wrapped herself up in a tarpaulin, and then clouted herself on the head? Not necessarily in that order."

    "Why don't you ask her?" Pitt said. He nodded down at the cot.

    Dana was staring up at the men, her eyes devoid of understanding. She looked as though she had just been dragged up from the sanctuary of exhausted sleep.

    "Forgive me . . . for asking such a hackneyed question," she murmured. "But, where am I?"

    "My dear girl," Sandecker said, kneeling at her side, "you're on the Titanic."

    She looked dazedly at the admiral, disbelief written across her face. "That can't be?"

    "Oh, I assure you it is," Sandecker said. "Pitt, there's a bit of scotch left. Bring me a glass."

    Pitt obediently did as he was told and handed Sandecker the glass. Dana took a swallow of the Cutty Sark, choked on it and coughed, holding her head as if to contain the pain that had suddenly exploded in her skull.

    "There, there, my dear." It was plain to see Sandecker was somewhat at a loss as to how to treat a woman in agony. "Rest easy. You've suffered a nasty blow on the head."

    Dana felt the bandage circling her hair and then clutched the admiral's hand knocking the glass on the deck.

    Pitt winced as the scotch spilled. Women just don't appreciate good booze.

    "No, no, I'm all right." She struggled to a sitting position on the cot and stared in wonder at the strange mechanical contrivances. "The Titanic," she said the name reverently. "I'm actually on the Titanic?"

    "Yes." Pitt's voice was edged with sharpness. "And, we'd like to know how you got here."

    She looked at him, half-uncertainly, half-confused, and said, "I don't know. I honestly don't know. The last thing I recall I was on the Capricorn."

    "We found you in the helicopter," Pitt said.

    "The helicopter . . . I lost my make-up kit . . . must have dropped it on the flight from the Alhambra." She forced a wan smile. "Yes, that's it. I returned to the helicopter to search for my make-up kit. I found it jammed between the fold-up seats. I tried pulling it free when . . . well, I guess I fainted and hit my head when I fell."

    "Fainted? You're sure you-" Pitt broke off his question and asked another instead. "What was the very last thing you remember seeing before you blacked out?"

    She thought a moment, staring as if at some distant vision in time. Those coffee-brown eyes seemed unnaturally large against her pale and strained face.

    Sandecker patted her hand paternally. "Just take your time."

    Finally her lips formed a word. "Boots."

    "Say again," Pitt ordered.

    "A pair of boots," she answered as if seeing a revelation. "Yes, I remember now, a pair of sharp-toed cowboy boots."

    "Cowboy boots?" Gunn asked, his expression blank.

    Dana nodded. "You see, I was down on my hands and knees trying to extricate my make-up kit, and then . . . I don't know . . . they just seemed to be there . . ." She paused.

    "What color were they?" Pitt prodded her.

    "Kind of a yellow, cream color."

    "Did you see the man's face?"

    She started to shake her head and caught herself at the first stab of pain. "No, everything went dark then . . . that's all there is . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

    Pitt could see that there was nothing to be gained by further interrogation. He looked down at Dana and smiled. She looked up and smiled back with an anxious-to-please smile.

    "We dirty old men had best leave you alone to rest for a while," he said. "If you need anything, one of us will always be close by."

    Sandecker followed Pitt over to the entrance to the grand staircase. "What do you make of it?" Sandecker asked. "Why would anyone want to harm Dana?"

    "For the same reason they killed Henry Munk."

    "You think she got wise to one of the Soviet agents?"

    "More likely, in her case, it was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

    "The last thing we need on our hands now is an injured woman." Sandecker sighed. "There'll be hell to pay when Gene Seagram gets my radio message about what happened to his wife."

    "With all due respect, sir, I told Gunn not to send your message. We can't risk a change in plans at the last minute. Men make cautious decisions where women are concerned. We won't hesitate to risk the lives of a dozen members of our own sex, but we'll balk every time when it comes to endangering one of the female species. What Seagram, the President, Admiral Kemper, and the others in Washington don't know won't hurt them, at least for the next twelve hours."

    "It would appear my authority means nothing around here," Sandecker said acidly. "Anything else you neglected to tell me, Pitt? Like who those outlandish cowboy boots belong to?"

    "The boots belong to Ben Drummer."

   "I've never seen him wear them. How would . . . how could you know that?"

    "I discovered them when I searched his quarters on the Capricorn."

    "Now you've added burglarizing to your other talents," Sandecker said.

    "Drummer wasn't alone. Giordino and I have searched every one of the salvage crews' belongings over the past month."

    "Find anything of interest?"

    "Nothing incriminating."

    "Who do you think injured Dana?"

    It wasn't Drummer. That much is certain. He's got at least a dozen witnesses including you and me, Admiral, who will testify that he's been on board the Titanic since yesterday. It would have been impossible for him to attack Dana Seagram on a ship that was fifty miles away."

    At that moment, Woodson came up and caught Pitt's arm. "Sorry for the interruption, boss, but we just received an urgent call from the Juneau. I'm afraid it's bad news."

    "Let's have it," Sandecker said wearily. "The outlook can't possibly be painted any blacker than it is now."

    "Oh, but it can," Woodson said. "The message is from the missile cruiser's captain and reads 'Have received distress call from eastbound freighter Laguna Star, bearing zero five degrees, a hundred and ten miles north of your position. Must respond. Repeat, must respond. Sorry to leave you. Good luck to the Titanic!'"

    "'Good luck to the Titanic'," Sandecker echoed. His voice was flat and empty of life. "We might as well raise a flashing sign on the hull that says, 'Welcome thieves and pirates. Come one, come all'."

    So now it begins, Pitt thought to himself.

    But the only sensation that coursed through his body was a sudden, overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom.

61

    The air in Admiral Joseph Kemper's Pentagon office reeked of stale cigarette smoke and half-eaten sandwiches, and it almost seemed to crackle under the invisible cloud of tension.

    Kemper and Gene Seagram were huddled over the admiral's desk in quiet conversation while Mel Donner and Warren Nicholson, the CIA director, sat together on the sofa, their feet propped on a coffee table, and dozed. But they jerked upright in full wakefulness when the strange buzz that was specially tuned into Kemper's red telephone broke the hushed quiet. Kemper grunted into the receiver and laid it back in its cradle.

    "It was the security desk. The President is on his way up."

    Donner and Nicholson glanced at each other and heaved themselves off the sofa. They had no sooner cleared the coffee table of the evening's debris, straightened their ties and donned their coats when the door opened and the President strode in followed by his Kremlin security adviser, Marshall Collies.

    Kemper came from behind his desk and shook the President's hand. "Nice to see you, Mr. President. Please make yourself at home. May I get you something?"

    The President scanned his watch and then grinned. "Three hours yet before the bars close. How about a Bloody Mary?"

    Kemper grinned back and nodded to his aide. "Commander Keith, will you do the honors?"

    Keith nodded. "One Bloody Mary coming up, sir."

    "I hope you gentlemen won't mind me standing watch with you," the President said, "but I have a heavy stake in this too!"

    "Not at all, sir," Nicholson answered. "We're happy to have you."

    "What is the situation at the moment?"

    Admiral Kemper gave a full briefing to the President, describing the unexpected ferocity of the hurricane, showing the positions of the ships on a projected wall map, and explaining the Titanic's towing operation.

    "Was it absolutely necessary that the Juneau be ordered off station?" the President asked.

    "A distress call is a distress call," Kemper replied solemnly, "and must be answered by every ship in the area, regardless of the circumstances."

    "We have to play according to the other team's rules until half time," Nicholson said. "After that, it's our game."

    "Do you think, Admiral Kemper, that the Titanic can stand up to the battering of a hurricane?"

    "As long as the tugs can keep her bow into the wind and sea, she's an odds-on favorite to come through with flying colors."

    "And if for some reason the tugs cannot keep her from swinging broadside to the waves?"

    Kemper avoided the President's gaze and shrugged.

    "Then it's in God's hands."

    "Nothing could be done?"

    "No, sir. There is simply no way to protect any one vessel caught in the clutches of a hurricane. It becomes a case of every ship for herself."

    "I see."

    A knock at the door, and another officer entered, laid two slips of paper on Kemper's desk, and retreated.

    Kemper read the notes and poked up, his face set in a grim expression. "A message from the Capricorn," he said. "Your wife, Mr. Seagram . . . your wife is reported missing. A search party aboard ship was unable to locate her. They fear she was lost overboard. I'm sorry."

    Seagram sagged into Collins' arms, his eyes widened in stunned horror. "Oh my God!" he cried. "It can't be true. Oh God! What am I going to do. Dana . . . Dana. . ."

    Donner rushed to his side. "Steady, Gene. Steady." He and Collins steered Seagram over to the sofa and gently lowered him to the cushions.

    Kemper gestured to the President for his attention. "There's another message, sir. From the Samuel R. Wallace, one of the tugs towing the Titanic. The towing cable," Kemper said. "It snapped. The Titanic is adrift in the center of the hurricane."

    The cable hung like a dead snake over the stern of the Wallace, its severed end swaying in the black depths a quarter of a mile below.

    Butera stood frozen beside the great electric winch, refusing to believe his eyes. "How?" he shouted in Ensign Kelly's ear. "How could it part? It was built to take worse stress than this."

    "Can't figure it," Kelly yelled back above the storm. "There was no extreme stress on her when she went."

    "Bring her up, Ensign. Let's take a look."

    The ensign nodded and gave the orders. The brake was released and the reel began turning, pulling the wire up from the sea. A solid sheet of spray dashed against the cablehouse. The dead weight of the wire acted as an anchor, dragging down the stern of the Wallace, and each time a column of water approached, it rose high over the wheelhouse and came thundering down upon it with a shock that jarred the entire tug.

    At last the end of the tow cable appeared over the stern and snaked up onto the reel. As soon as the brake was applied, Butera and Kelly moved in and began examining the frayed strands.

    Butera stared at it, his face twisted in stunned incomprehension. He touched the burned wire ends and looked dumbly at the ensign.

    The ensign did not share Butera's muteness. "Jesus Christ in heaven," he shouted hoarsely. "It's been cut through with an acetylene torch."

    Pitt was down on his hands and knees on the cargo floor of the helicopter, sweeping his flashlight under the folded passenger seats when the Titanic's tow cable dropped into the sea.

    Outside the wind howled with demonic power. Pitt couldn't have known it, but without the tug's steadying influence, the Titanic's bow was being forced by the raging sea to leeward, exposing her entire flank to the unleashed furies. She was beginning to broach to.

    It had taken him only two minutes to find Dana's make-up kit where it had solidly jammed behind one of the folded front seats immediately behind the control-cabin bulkhead. He could easily see why she had had difficulty retrieving the blue nylon case from its prison. Very few women are blessed with mechanical inclinations, and Dana was definitely not one of them. It hadn't occurred to her to simply unclasp the restraining straps and unfold the seat. Pitt did so and the kit fell free into his hand.

    He didn't bother opening it; he wasn't interested. What he was interested in was the recessed compartment in the forward bulkhead, where a twenty-man life raft sat, or where it was supposed to sit. The yellow, rubberized cover was there all right, but the raft was gone.

    Pitt had no time to appreciate the implication of his discovery. Even as he pulled the empty cover out of its compartment, a monstrous sea crashed against the flank of the helpless Titanic, heeling her great mass over on her starboard side as though she never meant to stop. Pitt made a desperate grab for one of the seat supports, but his fingers closed on air and he was spilled like a sack of potatoes down across the sloping floor, crashing against the partially opened cargo door with such force that he ripped a four-inch gash in his scalp.

    Mercifully, the next few hours were lost to Pitt. He was aware of a cold gale sweeping into the fuselage, but not much else. His mind was a vague mass of gray wool and he felt remotely detached from his surroundings. He could not know or even sense when the helicopter shed its triplelashed moorings and was hurled sideways, dropping off the first-class lounge roof onto the Boat Deck, crumpling its tail section, tearing off its rotor blades, before grinding over the railing and falling toward the tormented sea.

62

    The Russians came aboard the Titanic during the storm's lull. Deep down in the bowels of the engine and boiler rooms, Spencer and his pumping crew had no chance, not the least opportunity for any resistance. Their total surprise acknowledged Prevlov's dedication to exact planning and detailed execution.

    The fight that occurred topside-massacre would have been closer to the truth-was over almost before it began. Five Russian marines, half the boarding force, their faces all but hidden by seaman caps pulled low on top and with huge mufflers wrapped below, were in the gymnasium with automatic machine pistols ready and aimed before anyone could comprehend what was happening.

    Woodson was the first to react. He swung from the radio, his eyes widened in a look of recognition, and an expression of pure anger swept over his normally passive face. "You bastard!" he blurted, and then hurled himself at the nearest intruder.

    But a knife materialized in the man's hand and he deftly rammed it into Woodson's chest, tearing the photographer's heart nearly in two. Woodson clutched at his killer, then slowly slid downward to the booted feet, shock in his eyes, then disbelief, then pain, and finally the emptiness of death.

    Dana sat up on her cot and screamed and screamed. It was that stimulus that finally stung the other members of the salvage crew into action. Drummer caught Woodson's murderer on the cheek with his fist and received the barrel of a machine pistol across his face for his effort. Sturgis launched his body in a flying tackle but his timing was late. A gun butt caught him just above the temple at the same instant he crashed into his intended victim and they both fell to the deck in a heap, the assailant quickly regaining his feet while Sturgis lay there as if dead.

    Giordino was in the act of bringing a wrench down on another Russian's skull when there was an ear-splitting crack. A bullet passed through his upraised hand and sent the wrench clattering across the deck. The shot seemed to freeze all movement. Sandecker, Gunn, and Chief Bascom and his men halted in mid action as they abruptly realized that their unarmed defense of the ship was hopeless in the face of guns held by highly trained killers.

    At that precise moment a man strode into the room, his intense gray eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He wasted no more than three seconds-three seconds and no more was all Andre Prevlov needed to survey any given situation. He stared down at the still-screaming Dana and smiled graciously. "Do you mind, my dear lady," he said in fluent, idiomatic English. "I think female panic inflicts quite an unnecessary strain on the vocal chords."

    Her round eyes were stricken. Her mouth closed and she sat huddled in a ball on the cot, staring at the spreading pool of blood under Omar Woodson and shuddering uncontrollably.

    "There now, that's much better." Prevlov followed her eyes to Woodson, then to Drummer, who was sitting on the deck in the process of spitting out a tooth, and then to Giordino, who glared back holding his bleeding hand.

    "Your resistance was foolish," Previov said. " One dead and three injured, and for nothing."

    "Who are you?" Sandecker demanded. "By what right do you board this ship and murder my crew?"

    "Ah! A pity we must meet under such remote and unpleasant circumstances," Prevlov apologized. "You are, of course, Admiral James Sandecker, are you not?"

    "My questions still stand," Sandecker spat angrily.

    "My name is of no consequence," Prevlov replied. "The answer to your other question is obvious. I am taking over this ship in the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics."

    "My government will never stand idly by and let you get away with it."

    "Correction," Prevlov murmured. "Your government will stand idly by."

    "You underestimate us."

    Prevlov shook his head. "Not I, Admiral. I am fully aware of what your countrymen are capable of. I also know they will not start a war over the legitimate boarding of a derelict ship."

    "Legitimate boarding?" Sandecker echoed. "The Civil Salvage Service laws define a derelict vessel as one whose crew has abandoned at sea without intent of returning or attempt at recovery. Since this ship still retains its crew, your presence, sir, constitutes a blatant act of high-seas piracy."

    "Spare me your interpretation of maritime legalities." Prevlov held up a protesting hand. "You are quite right, of course, for the moment."

    The implication was clear. "You wouldn't dare cast us adrift in the middle of a hurricane."

    "Nothing so mundane, Admiral. Besides, I am well aware that the Titanic is taking on water. I need your salvage engineer, Spencer, I believe his name is, and his crew to keep the pumps operating until the storm abates. After that, you and your people will be provided with a life raft. Your departure will then guarantee our right to salvage."

    "We cannot be allowed to live to testify," Sandecker said. "Your government would never permit that. You know it, and I know it."

    Prevlov looked at him, calm, unaffected. Then he turned casually, almost callously, dismissing Sandecker. He spoke in Russian to one of the marines. The man nodded and, tipped over the radio, and pounded it with the stock of his machine pistol into mangled pieces of metal, glass, and wiring.

    "There is no further use for your operations room." Prevlov motioned around the gymnasium. "I have installed my communication facilities in the main dining room on D Deck. If you and the others will be so kind as to follow me, I will see to your comfort until the weather clears."

    "One more question," Sandecker said without moving, "You owe me that."

    "Of course, Admiral, of course."

    "Where is Dirk Pitt?"

    "I regret to inform you," Prevlov said with ironic sympathy, that Mr. Pitt was in your helicopter when it was swept over the side into the sea. His death must have come quickly."

63

    Admiral Kemper sat opposite a grim-faced President and casually poured four teaspoons of sugar into his coffee cup.

    "The aircraft carrier Beecher's Island is nearing the search area. Her planes will begin searching at first light." Kemper forced a thin smile. "Don't worry, Mr. President. We'll have the Titanic back in tow by mid-afternoon. You have my word on it."

    The President looked up. "A helpless ship adrift and lost in the middle of the worst storm in fifty years? A ship that's rusted half through after lying on the bottom for seventy-six years? A ship the Soviet government is looking for any excuse to get their hands on? And you say not to worry. You're either a man of unshakable conviction, Admiral, or you're a hyperoptimist."

    "Hurricane Amanda." Kemper sighed at the name. "We made allowances for every possible contingency, but nothing in our wildest imagination prepared us for a storm of such tremendous magnitude in the middle of May. It struck so fearfully hard, and on such short notice, that there was no time to reshuffle our priorities and time schedules."

    "Suppose the Russians took it into their heads to make their play and are on board the Titanic this minute?"

    Kemper shook his head. "Boarding a ship under a hundred-plus-mile-an-hour winds and seventy-foot seas? My years at sea tell me that's impossible."

    "A week ago, Hurricane Amanda would have been considered impossible too." The President looked up dully as Warren Nicholson sank in the opposite sofa.

    "Any news?"

    "Nothing from the Titanic," Nicholson said. "They haven't reported since they entered the eye of the hurricane."

    "And the Navy tugs?"

    "They still haven't sighted the Titanic-which isn't too surprising. With their radar inoperative, they're reduced to a visual search pattern. A hopeless chore, I'm afraid, in near-zero visibility."

    For long moments, there was a suffocating silence. It was finally broken by Gene Seagram. "We can't lose it now, not when we were so close," he said, struggling to his feet. "The terrible price we've paid . . . I've paid . . . the byzanium, oh God, we can't let it be taken away from us again." His shoulders drooped and he seemed to wither as Donner and Collins eased him back down on the sofa.

    Kemper spoke in a whisper. "If the worst happens, Mr. President? What then?"

    "We write off Sandecker, Pitt, and the others."

    "And the Sicilian Project?"

    "The Sicilian Project," the President murmured. "Yes, we write that off too."

64

    The heavy gray wool slowly began to fade away and Pitt became aware that he was lying in an upside-down position on something hard and in something wet. He hung there long minutes, his mind in the twilight zone between consciousness and unconsciousness, until gradually he was able to pry open his eyes, or at least one eye; the other was caked shut by coagulated blood. Like a man who had just struggled up from a deep dark tunnel into the daylight, he squinted his good eye from right to left, up and down. He was still in the helicopter, his feet and legs curled upward along the floor and his back and shoulders lay against the aft bulkhead.

    That accounted for the hardness. The wetness was an understatement. Several inches of water sloshed back and forth around his body. He wondered vaguely how he had come to be contorted in this awkward position.

    His head felt as if little men were running around inside it, jabbing pitchforks into his brain. He splashed some water over his face, ignoring the sting of the salt, until the blood diluted and ran off, allowing the eyelid to open. Now that he had regained his peripheral vision he turned his body so that he was sitting on the bulkhead and looking up at the floor. It was like staring at the crazy room of an amusement park fun house.

    There was to be no exiting through the cargo door; it had been jammed shut from the beating the fuselage had taken during its journey across the Titanic's decks. Left with no other choice but to get out through the control cabin hatch, Pitt began climbing up the floor, using the cargo tie-down rings for handgrips.

    One ring at a time, he pulled himself toward the forward bulkhead. or what now constituted the ceiling. His head ached and he had to stop every few feet, waiting for the cobwebs to clear. At last, he could reach up and touch the door latch. The door wouldn't budge. He pulled out the Colt and pounded at the latch. The force of the blow knocked the pistol out of his wet hand, and it clattered all the way to the rear bulkhead. The door remained stubbornly closed.

    Pitt's breath was coming now in heaving gasps. He was on the verge of blacking out from exhaustion. He turned and looked down. The aft bulkhead seemed a long way away. He gripped a cargo tie-down ring with both hands, swung in a series of ever-widening arcs, and then lashed out with both feet, using all the muscle a man can use when he knows it is his last try.

    The latch gave and the door sprung upward at an angle of thirty degrees before gravity took over and brought it slamming back down. But the brief opening was all Pitt needed to thrust a hand over the door frame, using his fingers as a jam. He gasped in agony as the door fell across his knuckles. He hung there, soaking up the pain, gathering the strength for the final hurdle. He took a deep breath and heaved his body through the opening as one would climb through a trapdoor in an attic without benefit of a ladder. Then he rested again, waiting for the dizziness to pass and his heart to slow down to a near-normal beat.

    He wrapped his bleeding fingers in a sodden handkerchief and took stock of the control cabin. No problem escaping here. The cabin hatch had been torn off its hinges and the windshield glass knocked from its frames. Now that his escape was assured, he began to wonder how long he had been unconscious. Ten minutes? An hour? Half the night? He had no way of knowing as his watch was gone, probably wrenched from his wrist.