Текст книги "Atlantis Found"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 36 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

The horror struck Pitt like a blow to the face. The sheer immensity of what he was staring at sent shivers up his spine and a knot twisting inside his stomach, as his face drained of all color. It didn't seem possible that in his hands he was holding the ashes of Adolf Hitler and his mistress/wife, Eva Braun.

EPILOGUE

ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN

April 15, 2001

Washington, D.C.

When the military passenger aircraft sent to bring Pitt, Giordino, and the relics from Okuma Bay to Washington landed at the airport in Veracruz, Mexico, Pitt questioned the pilot and was told that Admiral Sandecker had sent a NUMA executive jet to carry them the rest of the way. Sweating in the heat and humidity, they hauled the bronze box to the turquoise aircraft with the big NUMA letters on the fuselage that was parked a good hundred yards away.

Except for the pilot and copilot in the cockpit, the plane was deserted. After loading the box and tying it down to the floor, Pitt tried to open the cockpit door, but it was locked. He knocked and waited until a voice came over the cabin speaker.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pitt, but my orders are to keep the cabin door locked and permit no exit or entry of the cockpit until the relics are safely loaded in an armored truck at Andrews Air Force Base."

A security overkill, Pitt thought. He turned to Giordino, who was holding up a green hand. "Where did you get the green palm?"

"From the paint on the door hinge. I grabbed it for support when we loaded the box." He rubbed a finger over the stain. "Not green, turquoise. The paint on this plane isn't dry."

"Looks as if the turquoise paint was sprayed on less than eight hours ago," observed Pitt.

"Could it be we're being hijacked?" asked Giordino.

"Maybe, but we might as well enjoy the scenery below until we can determine we're on the right course for Washington."

The plane taxied for a few minutes before taking off over the sea under a cloud-free radiant blue sky. For the next few hours, Pitt and Giordino relaxed and took turns keeping watch through the windows at the water below. The plane flew across the Gulf of Mexico and crossed into the States at Pensacola, Florida. From there it appeared to be on a direct course for Washington. When Giordino recognized the nation's capital in the distance, he turned to Pitt.

"Could it be we're like a pair of suspicious old women?"

"I'll reserve judgment until I see a red carpet leading to an armored car."

In another fifteen minutes, the pilot banked the aircraft and headed onto the flight path for Andrews Air Force Base. Only two miles from the end of the runway, the plane made a barely perceptible sideways motion. Pitt and Giordino, themselves pilots with many hours in the cockpit, immediately sensed the slight course deviation.

"He's not landing at Andrews," Giordino announced calmly.

"No, he's lining up to come into a small private airport just north of Andrews in a residential area called Gordons Corner."

"I have this odd feeling that we're not getting red-carpet, VIP treatment."

"So it would appear."

Giordino gazed at Pitt through squinted eyes. "The Wolfs?"

"Who else?"

"They must want the relics badly."

"Without them, they have no hallowed symbols to rally around."

"Not like them to play games. They could have just as well put down anywhere between Mexico and Virginia."

"Without Karl and Hugo at the family helm," said Pitt, "they either got sloppy or else they knew they'd be tracked all the way from Veracruz and chased by Air Force fighters if they attempted to deviate from the flight plan."

"Should we take over the controls and head for Andrews?" Giordino asked.

"Better to wait until we're on the ground," said Pitt. "Busting into the cockpit while the pilot is flared for touchdown might cause bad things to happen."

"You mean a crash?"

"Something like that."

"That's life," mused Giordino. "I had my heart set on a marching band and a parade through the city."

Seconds later, the wheels gave a brief screech as they smacked the asphalt of the landing strip. Staring through one of the windows, Pitt saw an armored truck and a pair of ML430 Mercedes-Benz suburban utility vehicles converge and follow in the wake of the aircraft. Quick sprinters with 268-horsepower V-8 engines, they were about as close to European sports sedans as a four-wheeler could get.

"Now's the time," he said briefly. He pulled his Colt from the duffel bag as Giordino retrieved his P-10. Then Giordino effortlessly kicked open the cockpit door and they rushed inside. The pilot and copilot automatically raised their hands without turning.

"We were expecting you, gentlemen," said the pilot, as if reading from some script. "Please do not attempt to take control of the aircraft. We cut the control cables immediately after touchdown. This aircraft is inoperable and cannot fly."

Pitt stared over the console between the pilots and saw that the cables to the control column and foot pedals were indeed sliced where they disappeared into the flight deck. "Both of you, out!" he snapped, as he dragged them out of their seats by the collars. `Al, throw their butts off the plane!"

The aircraft was still moving at twenty-five miles an hour when Giordino ejected the pilot and copilot through the passenger door onto the asphalt, taking satisfaction in seeing them bounce and roll like rag dolls. "What now?" he asked, as he reentered the cockpit. "Those tough-looking Mercedes SUVs are only a hundred yards behind our tail and coming fast."

"We may not have flight controls," replied Pitt, "but we still have brakes and engines."

Giordino looked dubious. "You don't expect to drive this thing down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House?"

"Why not?" Pitt said, as he pushed the throttle forward and sent the aircraft speeding across the taxiway and onto the road leading from the airport. "We'll go as far as we can and hopefully reach heavy traffic where they wouldn't dare attack."

"You're why cynics outlive optimists," said Giordino. "The Wolfs are so desperate for the relics, they'd shoot down a stadium full of women and children to get them back in their dirty hands."

"I'm open for suggestions-"

Pitt broke off as the thump of bullets into the aluminum-skin aircraft sounded inside the cockpit. He began hitting the right brake and then the left, sending the plane zigzagging down the road to throw off the aim of the gunners in the Mercedes.

"Time for me to play Wild Bill Hickok," said Giordino.

Pitt handed him his .45. "You'll need all the firepower you can get. There are extra clips in my duffel bag."

Giordino lay down beside the open passenger door with his feet toward the rear of the aircraft and sighted over the tail section at the pursuing SUVs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bullets stitch through the port wing and open the fuel tank. Luckily there was no fire, but it was only a question of time before an engine was struck and flamed. He took careful aim and fired when Pitt turned from zig to zag.

Pitt literally threw the plane up the on-ramp leading to the Branch Avenue Highway that ran into the city. With both jet engines screaming, he soon had the airplane hurtling nearly a hundred miles an hour down the right lane and shoulder of the highway. Startled drivers gaped openmouthed as the plane shot by them, then watched, stunned, the gun battle between a man shooting out the passenger door of the aircraft and two Mercedes-Benz SUVs that chased in and out of traffic from behind.

Pitt knew the aircraft easily had the power to outrun the Mercedes, but he had a great disadvantage because of the forty-two-foot wingspan. It was only a matter of time before he clipped a car, a truck, or a light pole. His only advantage was that the engines were mounted on the fuselage. But they wouldn't turn over long if one or both wings containing the fuel tanks were torn away. As it was, he noticed that the gauge that registered the fuel on the port tank was dropping at an alarming rate. He took a quick glance out his side window and saw the wing shredded by bullets and the fuel spraying out under the head wind.

He steered by the brakes, moving in and out of the light traffic that he knew would become heavier as he neared the city. When possible, he tried to pass and move in ahead of trucks, using them as a shield against the gunfire from the men in the SUVs. He could hear Giordino's gun shooting from the main cabin, but he couldn't see the results, nor could he tell how close his pursuers were behind the aircraft's rudder.

With both feet on the brakes and his right hand on the throttles, he used his left to call a Mayday over the radio. The control tower operator at Andrews Air Force Base replied and asked for his location, as they did not have him on radar. When told he was on Branch Avenue approaching the Suitland Parkway, the controllers thought he was a nutcase and ordered him sharply to get off the radio. But Pitt persisted and demanded they call the nearest police unit, a request they were more than happy to grant.

Back in the cabin, Giordino's slow, methodically aimed fire finally paid off. He shot out the right front tire of the lead Mercedes, sending it into an uncontrollable skid across the highway, where it flew into a drainage ditch and rolled over three times before coming to rest upside down in a cloud of dust. The other Mercedes came on without hesitation and was gaining due to the increased traffic that was slowing Pitt. He needed two lanes and the shoulder to cut past cars and trucks looming ahead.

Sirens screamed in the distance, and soon red-and-blue flashing lights were seen coming from the opposite direction. The police cars cut across the grassy strip between the divided highway and picked up the chase almost on the rear bumper of the Mercedes, passing around it and rushing toward the aircraft the officers thought was in the hands of either a drug addict or a drunk.

For perhaps ten seconds, the police officers were not aware of the bullets coming out of the automatic rifles fired by the two men out the rear side-door windows of the lone Mercedes, but then the bullets ripped through the hoods of the police cars and mauled the engines, causing them to stop dead. The officers, surprised and bewildered, coasted their cars off the highway onto the shoulder as smoke rolled from beneath their hoods.

"They stopped the cops!" Giordino shouted through the cockpit door.

They are desperate to retrieve the sacred relics, Pitt thought, as the Mercedes pulled even and the gunners unleashed a gale of bullets that smashed into the cowl of the nose in front of him. But coming too close to the aircraft was a mistake. Giordino held both automatics in his hands and pumped both magazines into the Mercedes, striking the driver, who slumped over the wheel. The SUV then drifted out of its lane and crashed into the side of a giant truck and trailer hauling milk. The rear wheels of the heavy trailer smashed into and over the Mercedes, flattening the occupants and bouncing wildly over the wreckage before leaving it scattered in jagged pieces across the concrete.

"You can slow down now," announced an exultant Giordino. "The posse is no more."

"You're a better shot than I gave you credit for," said Pitt, easing back on the throttles, but still keeping the aircraft moving down the highway. When he was absolutely sure there was no more pursuit, he eased the aircraft onto a wide grassy area of Fort Davis Park and killed the engines.

Within minutes, they were surrounded by nearly ten District of Columbia police cars and forced to lie on the ground with their wrists handcuffed behind them. Later, after they were taken to the nearest station and questioned by two detectives, who thought their story of being chased from the airport for sacred Nazi relics belonged in Alice in Wonderland, Pitt convinced them to make a phone call.

"You're entitled to your one call," said Detective Lieutenant Richard Scott, a gray-haired veteran of the force.

"I'd be grateful if you made it for me," said Pitt.

The detective plugged a phone into a jack inside the interrogation room and looked up. "The number?"

"I've never memorized it, but information can give you the phone number for the White House."

"I'm tired of your nonsense," said Scott wearily. "What number do you want to reach?"

Pitt pierced the detective with a cold stare. "I'm dead serious. Call the White House, ask for the President's chief of staff. Tell him we, along with the sacred relics, are languishing in a police station on Potomac Avenue.

"You're joking."

"You must have checked us out and found we're ranking officials of NUMA and not wanted criminals."

"Then how do you explain shooting up the highway with guns that aren't registered?"

"Please," Pitt coaxed. "Just make the call."

Looking up the White House number, Scott followed Pitt's instructions. Slowly, his face changed expressions like a comic actor's. From suspicion to curiosity to downright bafflement. When he set down the receiver, he stared with newfound respect.

"Well?" asked Giordino.

"President Wallace himself came on the line and directed me to get you and your relics to the White House in the next ten minutes or he'd have my badge."

"Don't fret, Lieutenant," Giordino said congenially. "We won't time you."

With sirens blaring and lights flashing, Pitt and Giordino and the bronze box were rushed to the northwest gate of the White House. Once inside, the bronze box was opened and searched under the watchful eyes of the Secret Service for weapons or explosive devices. The Nazi relics were removed from their leather cases and unwrapped from the linen and examined. Then, rather than go through the trouble of replacing and rewrapping again, Giordino simply took the sacred lance and carried it in one hand. Pitt kept the little bronze plaque and gave the sacred bloodstained flag to an agent. The silver urn he kept in his possession, firmly gripped with both hands.

The President's secretary stood as she saw them approaching, surrounded by no fewer than four Secret Service agents. She smiled and greeted Pitt and Giordino. "The President and quite a few high-ranking people have been patiently waiting for you in his office."

"We look pretty shabby for a reception," said Giordino, surveying his rumpled clothing.

"If I may have a moment," asked Pitt. "Could you direct me to the nearest bathroom?"

"Why, certainly," she said sweetly. "The men's room is just behind you to your right."

In a few minutes, Pitt and Giordino entered the Oval Office. They were stunned to find the room crowded– the joint Chiefs of Staff, the President's cabinet and top aides, Admiral Sandecker with Hiram Yaeger and Rudi Gunn, several congressional leaders, and Loren Smith, who showed no fear or embarrassment by coming over and kissing Pitt square on the lips. There was a solid round of applause as Pitt and Giordino stood stunned with astonishment.

When the sounds of clapping hands and voices quieted, Pitt could not refrain from saying, "This is certainly a better reception than we got at the Gordons Corner airport."

"Gordons Corner?" blurted Sandecker. "You were supposed to land at Andrews Air Force Base, where a reception committee was still waiting for you."

"Yes," said the secretary of state, Paul Reed. "What's this about you being arrested and held by the police?"

"The Wolf family made an attempt to retrieve the relics," answered Pitt.

"They tried to hijack the relics?" asked General Amos South of the joint Chiefs of Staff. "I certainly hope they failed."

"They failed," Pitt assured him. "We have the relics."

President Dean Cooper Wallace walked up to them. "Gentlemen, the nation, no, the world, owes you a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Unfortunately, only a select few will ever learn how close the world came to chaos and what you did to prevent it."

Vice President Brian Kingman stood beside the President. "It's an injustice for you not to receive proper acclaim for your tremendous achievements, but if the story of how the world's population came within minutes of being obliterated became known, there would be total chaos. The media would go ballistic, and despite the danger having passed, fear and terror would last for years to come."

"Brian is right," said the President. "Knowing Earth is susceptible to being struck by a comet or asteroid, or experiencing an earthquake, is hardly a concern of the public during their day-to-day existence. But they could never shrug off the thought of another madman like Karl Wolf and his family attempting to annihilate billions of people to fulfill a compulsion for world domination. Fear would run rampant, a situation we cannot allow to happen."

"I don't mind, Mr. President," Giordino said, cheerfully brazen. "I've always hated the thought of people coming up and demanding my autograph while I was dining in a restaurant."

Pitt turned away to suppress his laughter. Sandecker rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. The President looked blank, not knowing if the little Italian was joking or serious.

"I think what my friend is trying to get across," said Pitt, "is that he and I are quite content to remain anonymous."

At that point, everyone in the room began asking questions, mostly about how they had crossed the ice in the Snow Cruiser and saved the Special Forces teams. Then the President stared down and saw the spear in Giordino's hand.

"Is that the Holy Lance I've heard so much about?" he asked.

Giordino nonchalantly laid the lance in the President's hands. "Yes, sir, it is."

Wallace held the lance over his head, as everyone in the room stared in awe.

"The most sacred relic in all of Christendom," proclaimed Pitt. "It's said the man who wields it can command the destiny of the world for good or evil."

"Obviously, Hitler chose the latter," said Admiral Sandecker.

"Is it truly the spear that pieced Christ's body on the cross?" Wallace asked reverently, gazing at the spear point as if expecting to see a hint of dried blood.

"So says the legend," said Pitt.

The President handed the lance to Secretary of State Reed. "You'd better take it, Paul."

"What do you intend to do with it, Mr. President?" asked General South.

Cooper lightly touched the ancient spearhead. "I'm told the lance belongs in the treasure room of the Royal Palace in Vienna, from which Hitler stole it in 1938."

Reed shook his head. "Never," he said emphatically. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it must be hidden away, never to fall into malignant hands again and be used as a symbol for tyranny."

After they had all examined the Blood Flag and the small bronze plaque thought to have saved Hitler's life, Pitt went out to the desk of the President's secretary, where he'd left the urn, and carried it into the Oval Office. He set it on the table before the fireplace. "The ashes of Hitler and Eva Braun."

Then he stood back as the crowd in the Oval Office moved in closer to inspect the words etched in the silver. Their voices soon hushed and became quiet murmurs as they examined the container of the accursed remains of history's most infamous despot.

"It makes me shudder simply to look at it," said Loren, clutching Pitt's arm.

Pitt gripped her around the waist. "I'm sure you're not alone."

"Too abhorrent to contemplate," muttered the President.

General South looked at the President and said, "Sir, I think we should inspect the interior of the urn to make absolutely certain that ashes are truly inside."

President Wallace looked around the office. "Does anyone object?"

"I also think it wise," said Secretary of State Reed, "that the FBI labs do a thorough examination to prove they're human."

"Will you please remove the lid, General?" the President asked South.

Even the tough old soldier found it repulsive to touch the urn. Very reluctantly, he gently placed his fingers around the black eagle atop the urn and twisted it cautiously as he lifted. The lid came free and he set it on the desk as if it were tainted with a virus.

Everyone stood back whisper-silent as the President warily peered into the urn. His face took on a puzzled expression, and he looked up into a sea of grim, expectant faces.

"It's empty," he said vaguely. "There are no ashes inside."

The word "empty" was repeated throughout the room. "This certainly is a twist no one counted on," said Vice President Kingman, equally mystified.

"Is it possible the Wolfs took the ashes and rehid them?" General South said, voicing the thoughts of everyone present.

Only Giordino looked strangely contemplative. Then his face brightened as if he had suddenly witnessed a revelation. He turned and looked at Pitt queerly. "Oh no!" he muttered softly. "You didn't?"

"I did," Pitt answered honestly.

"What are you talking about?" asked Loren. "Do you know who took the ashes?"

"I do."

"Then who?"

"Me," Pitt replied, his opaline green eyes reflecting fiendish mirth. "I flushed them down the toilet in the White House men's room."