Текст книги "Treasure"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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We'll give the Major an ample head start."

Gunn raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Gunn," Hollis said wearily. "What's on your mind now? Did I forget something?"

"Just curiosity, Colonel. How will you know if the hijackers somehow get wind of the assault and lay a trap?"

"One of our aircraft is filled with advanced electronic-surveillance equipment. It will fly a circular pattern seven Miles above the Lady Flamborough, detecting any radio transmissions sent by the hijackers to their collaborators outside the region. They'd scream like madmen if they thought a Special Operations Force was closing the net around them.

The Communications men and translators can intercept all transmissions and alert us in plenty of time."

Pitt made a casual motion with one hand.

"Yes, Mr. Pitt."

"I hope you haven't forgotten the NUMA party." Hollis lifted an eyebrow.

"No, I haven't forgotten." He turned to the geologist. "Mr. Findley, where did you say the old abandoned mine was located?"

"I neglected to place it," replied Findley matter-of-factly. "But since you're interested-" He paused and placed a match cover on the side of a small mount overlooking the glacier and the fjord. "She sits here, about two and a half kilometers from the forward edge of the glacier and the ship."

Hollis turned to Pitt– "That's where you'll be. You can serve as an observation post."

"Some observation post," grumbled Giordino– "In the dark and rain and sleet, we'd be lucky to see our own shoelaces."

"CozY and safe and out of harm's way," Pitt said pontifically. "We may light a fire in the stove and have ourselves a picnic."

"You do that," Hollis said with some satisfaction. He looked around at the assembled men. "Well, gentlemen, I won't bore you with a gung ho pep talk. Let's just do our jobs and save some lives."

"And will just one for the Gipper," Giordino muttered. "What did you say?"

"Al was saying what an honor it was to be part of an elite fighting force," said Pitt.

Hollis gave Giordino a stare that would cut glass. "Special Operations Forces do not give out honorary memberships. You civilians will stay back out of the way." Hollis turned to Dillenger. "If any of these NUMA people attempt to set foot on the ship before I give permission, shoot them. That's an order."

"A pleasure," Dillenger grinned sharkishly.

Giordino shrugged. "They certainily know how to vent wrath around here."

Pitt did not share Giordino's caustic mood. He understood perfectly Hollis's position. His men were professional, a team. He gazed around at them, big, quiet men, ranged in a mugh circle around the model. None was over twenty-five.

As he stared into their faces he couldn't help wondering which ones were going to die in a few short hours.

"How much longer?" Machado asked Ammar as he sprawled on Captain Collins's settee.

With no ship's power, the Captain's cabin was dimly lit by four flashlights strategically hung from the ceiling. Ammar shrugged indifferently while he read from the Koran. "You spend more time in the communications room than I do. You tell me."

Machado made a spitting gesture at the deck. "I am sick of waiting around like a pregnant duck. I say shoot the lot of them and get the hell away from this barren purgatory.

Ammar looked at his peer in the business of murder. Machado was sloppy in his habits. His hair was oily and his fingernails wedged with dirt.

One whiff at two paces was enough to recognize he seldom bathed. Ammar respected Machado as a dangerous threat, but beyond that there was only disgust.

Machado rolled off the settee to his feet and restlessly roamed the cabin before settling in a chair. "We should have received instructions twenty-four hours ago," he said. "Topiltzin is not one to hesitate."

"Neither is Akhmad Yazid," said Ammar while keeping his eyes focused on the Koran. "He and Allah will provide."

"Provide what? Helicopters, a ship, a submarine, before we're discovered? You know the answer, my Egyptian friend, yet you sit like your Sphinx."

Ammar turned a page without looking up. "Tomorrow at this time you and your men will be safely back in Mexico."

"What guarantee can you give we won't all be sacrificed for the good of the cause?"

"Yazid and Topiltzin cannot risk our capture by international commando forces," Ammar said wearily, "for fear we might talk under torture.

Their blossoming empires would be chipped to pieces if one of us revealed their involvement. Trust me, arrangements have been made for our escape. You must be patient."

"What arrangements?"

"You'll learn that part of the plan as soon as instructions arrive concerning the fate of our hostages."

The deep-dyed falsehood was beginning to fray at the edges. Machado might see the light at any time. As long as one of Ammar's men operated the ship's communications network, no signals were received while the radio was set on the wrong frequency. Yazid, and probably Topiltzin too, Ammar thought, must be sweating if they thought he had ignored the original plan and murdered everyone on board, instead of keeping them alive for propaganda purposes.

"Why not act on our own, lock them all below, sink the ship and be done with it?" Machado's voice came thick with exasperation.

"Killing the entire British crew, the American Senator and other non-Mexican or Egyptian nationals would not be wise. You may enjoy the excitement and constant intrigue of being the object of an international manhunt, Captain. Me, I'd prefer to live out my life in comfortable convenience."

"Stupid to leave witnesses."

The fool had no idea how right he was, Ammar thought. He sighed and laid down the Koran. "Your only concern is President De Lorenzo. Mine is President Hasan and Hala Kamil. Our relationship ends there."

Machado stood and crossed the cabin, jerking open the door. "We better hear something damned quick," he grumbled nastily. "I can't keep my men in check much longer. They have this growing urge to place me in charge of the mission."

Ammar smiled agreeably. "Noon . . . if we haven't heard from our leaders by noon, I will Turn over command to you."

Machado's eyes widened for an instant in suspicion. "You'd agree to step down and place me in charge?"

"Why not? I've accomplished what I set out to do. Except for the disposition of President Hasan and Miss Kamil, my job is finished. I'll gladly hand the final headaches to you."

Machado suddenly grinned the devil's own grin. "I'm going to hold you to that promise, Egyptian. Then maybe I'll see the face behind the mask." Then he stepped outside.

The door latch had hardly clicked after Machado's depamm when Ammar removed the miniature radio from under his coat and pressed the transmit switch.

"Ibn?"

"Yes, Suleiinan Aziz?"

"Your location?"

"On the stern."

"How many on shore?"

"Six have been ferried to the old mine pier. There are fifteen of us left on board, including you. The going is slow. We only have one

–man boat. The large eight-man inflatable was slashed beyond repair."

"Sabotage?"

"It could only be the handiwork of Machado's men."

"Have they caused any more problems?"

"Not yet. The cold keeps them off the outside decks. Most are sitting in the lounge drinking tequila from the bar. The rest are sleeping. You were wise to instruct our men to become friendly with them. Their discipline has loosened considerably."

"The charges?"

"All explosives have been placed in a line running parallel with the glacier's face. The detonation should bring down the entire frontal wall on the ship."

"How soon before our withdrawal can be completed?"

"The use of paddles makes for slow going under a heavy ebb tide. We can't use the boat's motor for fear of alerting Machado's men. I'd estimate another forty-five minutes to clear everyone off the ship."

"We must be safely away before daylight."

"Everyone will do their utmost, Suiek= Aziz."

"Can they run the ferry operation without you?"

:'Yes."

'Bring one man and meet me at Hasan's cabin."

"We're going to execute them?"

"No," replied Anunar. "We're taking them with us."

Ammar switched off the radio and slipped the Koran into a pocket of his coat.

His betrayal by Akhmad Yazid would be revenged. He was going to enjoy seeing his magnificent plan Turn to shambles. Ammar had no intention of carrying through with the original operation, knowing Machado had been hired to kill him and his hijack team. He was angered more by the loss of his fee than by being stabbed in the back.

Therefore, he reasoned, he would keep Hasan and Kamfl alive, and yes, De Lorenzo too, at least temporarily, as bargaining chips. He might recoup after all by turning the tables and throwing all guilt on Yazid and Topiltzin.

He needed time to think and create a new plan. But first things first.

He had to sneak his hostages off the ship before Machado and his motley crew caught on to his sleight of hand.

Hala's heart sank when the door opened and the hijacker's leader stepped into the cabin suite. She stared at him for a moment, seeing only the eyes behind the ridiculous mask and the machine gun casually held in one hand, and wondered with female curiosity what kind of man he might be under different circumstances.

He entered and spoke in a quiet but fearsome voice. "You will all come with me."

Hala trembled and lowered her gaze to the floor, angry at herself for showing fear.

Senator Pitt was not intimidated. He jumped to his feet and crossed the cabin in long strides, stopping only when the toes of his shoes nearly touched Ammar's.

"Where are you taking us and for what purpose?" the Senator demanded. .

"I am not sitting in front of one of your camel-witt,–d Senate investigation committees," said Ammar icily. "Do not cross examine me.

"We have a right to know," the Senator insisted firmly.

"You have no rights!" snaPPed Amnw. He roughly pushed the Senator aside and moved into the room, his gaze taking in the pale, apprehensive faces.

You're going for a little boat ride, followed by a short journey by train. My men will pass out blankets to ward off the damp chill."

They all looked at him as if he was crazy but none argued.

With a dreadful feeling of hopelessness, Hala slowly helped President Hasan to his feet. she was tired of living under the constant threat of death. She felt as though she no longer cared.

And yet, something within her, a spark, a will to defy, still smoldered.

The fearlessness of a soldier going into battle who knows he is going to die and has nothing to lose by fighting to the end slowly crept over her. She was determined to survive.

Captain Machado entered the communication room and found it empty. At first he thought Ammar,s radio operator had taken a brief break for a call of nawm, but he looked 'm the head and found it empty too.

Machado stared at the radio panel for a long moment, his eyes strained and red from lack of sleep, his face showing a puzzled expression. He stepped onto the bridge and approached one of his own crewmen who was peering into the radarscope.

"Where is the radio operator?" he asked.

The radar observer turned and shrugged. ,i haven't seen him, Captain.

Isn't he in the communications room?"

"No, the place is deserted."

"Would you like me to check with the Arab leader?"

Machado shook his head slowly, not quite able to get a grip on the Egyptian radio operator's disappearance. "Find Jorge Delgado and bring him here. He knows radios. Better us than the stupid Arabs to oversee the communications."

While they were talking, neither man noticed the strong blip that appeared on the radarscope, indicating a low-flying aircraft passing over the center of the island.

Even if they had been alert, there was no detecting the radar-invisible

"stealth parachutes" of Dillenger's Special Forces team as they opened them and began gliding toward the glacier.

Pitt sat in the Spartan confines of the tilt-rotor osprey. The bullet-shaped craft lifted off the ground like a helicopter but flew like a plane at speeds in excess of six hundred kilo meters per hour. He was wide-awake; only a dead man could sleep in those aluminum seats with ultrathin pads for cushions, the weather turbulence, and the engine noise that roared through the barest of soundproofing. Only a dead man, that is, except Giordino. He was deflated like a life-size balloon figurethere was no other description for it-with just enough air to give it form. Every few minutes, as if his brain was set on an automatic timer, he changed position without cracking an eye or missing a breath.

"How does he do it?" asked Findley in frank amazement.

"It's in the genes," Pitt answered.

Gunn shook his head admiringly. "I've seen him sleep in the damdest contortions in the darndest places, and I still can't believe it when I see it."

The young copilot turned and peered around the back of his seat.

"Doesn't exactly suffer from stress syndrome, does he?"

Pitt and the others laughed and then became quiet, all wishing they didn't have to leave the cozy warmth of the aircraft for the icy nightmare outside. Pitt relaxed as best he could. He felt some measure of satisfaction. Though he was not included in the assault-better to leave that to trained professionals in the art of hostage rescue-he was positioned close enough to tag along on the heels of Hollis and his SOF

teams, and he had every intention of following Dillenger's men down the scaling ropes after the attack was launched.

Pitt sensed no foreboding premonition nor imagined any omen of death. He did not doubt for an instant his father was alive. He couldn't explain it, even to himself, but he felt the Senator's presence. The two had a tight bond over the years. They could almost read each other's minds.

"We'll be at your landing point in six minutes," announced the pilot with a cheerfulness that made Pitt cringe.

The pilot seemed blissfully unconcerned at flying over jagged, snowcapped peaks he couldn't see. All that was visible through the windshield was the flash of sleet slamming the glass, and the darkness beyond.

"How do you know where we are?" asked Pitt.

The pilot, a laid-back Burt Reynolds type, shrugged lazily. "All in the wrists," he quipped.

Pitt leaned forward and peered over the pilot's shoulder. No hands were on the controls. The pilot was sitting with his arms folded, staring at a small screen that looked like a video game. Only the Osprey's nose showed at the bottom of the graphic display, while the flashing picture was rifled with mountains and valleys that hurtled past under the simulated aircraft. In a split-screen panel in an upper corner, distances and altitudes appeared in red digital numbers.

"Untouched by human hands," said Pitt. "The computer is replacing everyone."

"Lucky for us they haven't developed a knack for sex.1' The pilot laughed. He reached out and made a slight adjustment with a tuning knob. " and radar scanners read the ground and the computer converts it to three-demensional display. I plug in the auto pilot, and while the aircraft darts around the terrain like a Los Angeles Raiders running back, I think about such wondrous subjects as the Congressional budget and our State Department's foreign policy."

"That's news to me," muttered the copilot wryly.

"Without our little electronic guide here," the pilot continued, undaunted, "we'd still be sitting on the ground at Punta Arenas waiting for daylight and clearing weather-" A chime

sound issued from the display screen, and the pilot stiffened.

"We're coming up on our programmed landing site. You better get your people ready to disembark."

"What were your instructions from Colonel Hollis for dropping us off?"

"Just to set you down behind the mountain summit above the mine to hide from the cruise ship's radar. You'll have to hoof it the rest of the way."

Pitt turned to Findley. 11 any problem on your end?"

Findley smiled. "I know that mountain like my wife's bottom, every nook and crack. The summit is only two kilometers from the mine entrance.

An easy walk down the slope. I could do it blindfolded."

"from what I see of this rotten weather," Pitt muttered darkly, "that's exactly what you'll have to do."

The howl of the wind replaced the whine from the Osprey's turbines as the NUMA crew quickly exited through the cargo hatch. There was no time wasted, no words spoken, only a silent farewell wave to the pilots.

Within a minute, the four men, carrying only two tote bags, were bent into the sleet and trudging up the rocky slope toward the mountain's summit.

Findley silently took the lead. Visibility was almost as bad On the ground as it was in the air. The flashlight in Findley's hand was one degree above useless. The flaying sleet reflected the flashlight's beam, revealing the broken terrain no more than one or two meters ahead.

In no way did they remotely resemble an elite assault team. They carried no visible weapons. No two wore the same type Of Clothing to ward off the cold. Pitt had on gray ski togs; Giordino wore dark blue. Gunn was lost in an orange survival suit that looked two sizes too large. Findley was outfitted like a Canadian lumbe ack complete with a woolly Basque stocking cap pulled low over his ears. The only items they had in common were yellow-lensed ski goggles.

The wind was blowing at about twenty kilometers per hour, Pitt estimated-bitter but bearable. The rocky, uneven surface was sliPPery from the wet, and they slid and stumbled, frequently losing their balance and falling heavily.

Every few minutes they had to wipe the buildup of sleet from their goggles. Soon, from the front, they looked like snowmen, while their backs were quite dry.

Findley raked the ground ahead with his flashlight, dodging large boulders and sparse, grotesque shrubs. He knew he had reached the summit when he stepped onto an outcrop of bare rock and was struck by the full force of the wind.

"Not much further," he said over the howl of the wind. "Downhill all the way."

"Too bad we can't rent a toboggan," said Giordino gloomily.

Pitt pulled back his glove and peered at the luminous hands of his old Doxa dive watch. The assault was set for 0-five hundred. Twenty-eight minutes away. They were running late.

"Let's make time," he shouted. "I don't want to miss the party."

They made good time for the next fifteen minutes. The mountain's slope became more gradual, and Findley found a narrow, winding track that led to the mine. Farther downhill the stunted pines became thicker, the rock became smaller, looser, and their boots were able to get a better grip.

Thankfully, the driving wind and sleet began to ease up. Holes in the clouds appeared and stars became visible. They were able to see now without the hindrance of the goggles.

Findley grew more confident of his surroundings as a high ore talking materialized in the blackness. He skirted the pile and swung onto a small, narrow-gauge railroad track and began following it into the dark.

He was about to turn and shout "We're here," but was cut off. Pitt suddenly and unexpectedly reached out, grabbed the back of Findley's collar and jerked him to a halt so abruptly his feet flew out from under him, and he crashed on his buttocks. As he fell, Pitt snatched the flashlight and switched it off.

"What in Hell?"

"Quiet!" Pitt rasped sharply.

"You hear something?" asked Gunn softly.

"No, I smell a familiar odor."

odor?"

"Lamb. Somebody is barbecuing a leg of lamb."

They all leaned their heads back and sniffed the air

"By God, you're right," murmured Giordino. "I do smell lamb on a grill."

Pitt helped Findley to his feet– "Appears that someone has jumped your claim."

"they must be dumber than a toad if they think there's any ore worth processing around here."

"I doubt they're excavating for zinc."

Giordino moved off to one side. "Before you doused the light, I saw a glint over here somewhere." He moved one foot around in a semicircle. It struck an object that clinked, and he picked it up. He turned so he was facing away from the Mine and flicked on a tiny penlight. "A bottle of ChAteau Margaux 1966-for hardrock miners, these guys have real style."

"Odd goings-on here," said Findley. "Whoever moved in isn't getting their hands dirty."

"Lamb and vintage Bordeaux must have come from the Lady Flamborough,"

Gunn concluded.

"How far away are we from where the glacier meets the fjord?" Pitt asked Findley.

"The glacier itself is only about five hundred meters to the north. The wall facing the fjord is slightly less than two kilometers west."

"How was the ore transi3reported?"

Findley gestured in the direction of the fjord. "By this narrow-gauge railroad-The tracks run from the mine entrance to the ore crusher, then down to the dock, where the Ore was loaded on ships."

"You never said anythipg about a dock."

"NobodY asked." Findley shrugged. "A small loading pier.

The pilings extend into a cove slightly off to one side of the glacier."

"Approximate distance from the ship?"

"A baseball outfielder with a good arm could lob a ball from the dock against the hull."

"I should have seen it," Pitt murmured bitterly. "I missed it, everyone missed it."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Findley,

"The terrorists' support team," answered Pitt. The hijackers on the ship need an advance base for their escape. They couldn't disembark at sea without detection and capture unless they had a submarine, which is impossible to find

without legitimate government backing. The abandoned mine site makes a perfect hiding place for helicopters. And they can use the narrow-gauge railroad for commuting back and forth from the fjord."

"Hollis," said Gunn briefly, "We'd better inform him."

"Can't," said Giordino. "Our friendly neighborhood Colonel refused to provide us with a radio."

"So how do we warn Hollis?" Gunn put in.

"No way." Pitt shrugged. "But we might help by finding and disabling their helicopters while pinning down any terrorist force in the mine camp to keep them from catching Hollis and his assault teams in a vise."

"There could be fifty of them," protested Findley. "We're only four."

"'Their security is lax," Gunn pointed out. "They don't expect anyone to drop in from the interior of a deserted island in the middle of a storm."

"Rudi's right," said Giordino. "If they were alert they'd have been onto us by now. I vote we evict the bastards."

"We have surprise on our side," Pitt continued. "As long as we stay careful and keep undercover in the dark, we can keep them off balance."

"If they come after us," asked Findley, "do we throw rocks?"

"My life is guided by the Boy Scout motto," replied Pitt.

He and Giordino knelt in unison and unzipped the tote bags. Giordino began passing around bulletproof vests while Pitt handed out the weapons.

He held up a semiautomatic shotgun for Findley. "You said you hunted some, Clayton. Here's an early Christmas present. A twelve-gauge Benelli Super Ninety."

Findley's eyes gleamed. "I like it." He ran his hands over the stock as lightly as though it were a woman's thigh. "Yes, I like it." Then he noticed that Gunn and Giordino carried Heckler-Koch machine guns modified with silencers. "You can't buy this stuff at a corner hardware store. Where did you get it?"

"Special Operations Forces issue," Giordino said nonchalantly. "Borrowed when when Hollis and Dillenger weren't looking."

Findley was further amazed when Pitt shoved a round drum in an ancient"Mompson submachine gun. "You must like antiques."

"There's something to be said for old-fashioned craftsman ship," said Pitt. He looked at his watch again. Only six minutes remained before Hollis and Dillenger attacked the ship. "No shooting until I give the word. We don't want to screw up the Special Forces assault. They have precious little chance of surprise as it is."

"What about the glacier?" Findley asked. "Won't our gunfire send out shock waves that could fracture the forward wall of ice?"

"Not from this range," Gunn assured him. "Our concentrated fire will seem more like the distant bang of firecrackers."

"Remember," ordered Pitt, "we want to stall off a gun battle as long as we can. Our first priority is to find the helicopters."

"A pity we don't have any explosives," mumbled Giordino. "Nothing ever comes easy."

Pitt gave Findley a few seconds to get his bearings. Then the geologist nodded and they moved out, skirting the backs of the old, weathered buildings, keeping to the shadows, stepping as quietly as possible, the crunch of their soles against the loose gravel muffled by the stiff breeze that reversed and now came sweeping down the mountainside.

The buildings around the mine were mostly built of wooden support beams covered by corrugated metal sheeting that showed signs of corrosion and rust. Some were small sheds, others rose two to four stories into the sky, their walls trailing off into the gloom. Except for the smell of the roasting lamb, it looked like an old American West ghost town.

Abruptly Findley stopped behind a long shed and held up a hand, waiting for the other to close around him. He Peered around the corner once, twice, and then turned to Pitt.

"The recreation and dining-hall building is only a few paces to my right," he whispered. "I can make out cracks of light spilling out from under the door." Giordino tested the air with his nose. "They must like their meat well done."

"any sign of guards?" asked Pitt.

"The area looks deserted."

"Where could they hide the helicopters?"

"The main mine is a vertical shaft dropping to six levels. So that's out as a parking garage."

"Where, then?" Findley gestured into the early-morning blackness. "The ore-crushing mill has the largest open space. There's also a sliding door used for storing heavy equipment. If the copter's rotor blades were folded they could easily squeeze three of them inside."

"The crushing mill it is," said Pitt softly.

There was no more time to waste; Hollis and Dillenger's joint attack would begin at any minute. They were halfway past the dining hall when the door suddenly opened and a shaft of light filtered through the rain, cutting them off below the knees and illuminating their feet. They froze, guns in firing position.

A figure was silhouetted by the interior light for a few seconds. He stepped over the threshold briefly and scraped a few morsels from a dish onto the ground. Then he turned and closed the door. Moments later Pitt and the others flattened their backs against the crushing-mill's wall.

Pitt turned and put his mouth to Findley's ear.

"How can we sneak in?"

"Conveyor belts run through openings in the building that carried the bulk ore to the crusher and back to the train after it became slurry.

The only problem is they're way over our heads."

"Lower access doors?"

"The big equipment-storage door," Findley answered, his murmur as soft as Pitts, "and the main front entrance. If I remember correctly there's also a stairway that leads into a side office."

"No doubt locked," said Giordino morosely.

"A bright thought," Pitt conceded. "Okay, the front door it is. No one inside will be expecting total strangers coming to call. We'll go in clean and quiet, like we belong. No surprises. Just one of their buddies strolling from the dining hall."

"I bet the door squeaks," Giordino muttered.

They walked unhurriedly around a corner of the crushing nial and entered unchallenged through a high, weathered door that swung on its hinges noiselessly.

"Curses," Giordino whispered ugh clenched teeth.

The interior of the building was enormous. It had to be. A giant mechanical machine sat in the center like a giant octopus with conveyor belts, water hoses and electrical wiring for tenfacies. The ore crusher consisted of a massive horizontal cylinder containing various-sized steel balls that pulverized the ore.

Huge flotation tanks sat along one wall that had received the slurry after crushing. Overhead, maintenance catwalks reached by steel ladders crisscrossed above the massive equipment. A cord of lights hung from the catwalk railings, their power produced by a portable generator whose exhaust popped away in one corner.

Pitt had guessed wrong. He had figured at least two, perhaps even three, helicopters to evacuate the hijackers. There was only one-a large British Westiand Commando, an older but reliable craft designed for logistic support. it could carry eight or more passengers if they were tightly crammed in. Two men in ordinary combat fatigues were standing on a high mechanic's stand peering through an access panel beside the engine. They were engrossed in their work and paid no notice to their predawn visitors.

Slowly, cautiously, Pitt advanced into the great open crushing room, Findley on his right, Giordino covering the left, Gunn And Findley together. the helicopter's two crewmen did not Turn from their work.

Only then did he see an uncaring guard sitting on an overturned box behind a support beam with his back to the door.

Pitt gestured to Giordino and Findley to circle around the helicopter in the shadows and search for other hijackers. The guard, having felt the rush of cold air from the opening-andclosing door, half turned to see who had entered the building.

Pitt walked slowly toward the guard, who was dressed in black combat fatigues, with a ski mask over his head. Pitt was only two meters away when he smiled and lifted a hand in a vague greeting.

The guard gave him a quizzical look and said something in Arabic.

Pitt gave a friendly shrug and replied in gibberish that was lost under the sound of the generator's exhaust.

Then the guard focused his eyes on the old Thompson machine gun. The two seconds between puzzlement, and alarm, followed by physical reaction, cost him painfully. Before he could bring up his weapon and whip sideways, Pitt had chopped the butt of the Thompson against his skull under the black ski mask.

Pitt caught the guard as he slumped and propped him back against the beam as though he were dozing. Next he ducked under the forward fuselage of the helicopter and approached the two mechanics working on the engine. Reaching the stand, he grasped the rungs of its ladder and gave it a great heave, tipping it backwards.