"However, I have a radio transmitter." He motioned to a side room. "Please, this way."
Pitt followed him into a small, well-lit, but Spartan room, the three primary pieces of furniture being a chair, a cabinet and an ancient hand-carved table holding a gleaming transmitter, not more than a few months from manufacture; Pitt could only marvel at the latest equipment being used in an isolated farmhouse. The Icelander crossed hurriedly to the transmitter, sat down and began twisting the array of dials and knobs. He switched the radio to SEND, selected the frequency and picked up the microphone.
He spoke a few words rapidly in Icelandic and waited. Nothing came back over the speaker. He shifted the transmitting frequency fractionally and spoke again.
This time a voice answered almost immediately. The pressure of the race against death made Pitt as tense as a guy wire in a hurricane gale, and in total indifference to his pain and fatigue he paced the floor while his benefactor conversed with the — Reykjavik authorities. After ten minutes of explanation and translation, Pitt requested and received a call from the American Embassy.
"Where in the goddamned hell have you been?"
Sandecker's voice exploded over the speaker so loudly that it might have come from the doorway.
"Waiting for a streetcar, walking in the park," Pitt snapped back.
"It makes no difference. How soon before a team of medics can be assembled and in the air?"
There was a tense silence before the admiral answered. There was, he knew, a tone of urgent insistence in Pitts voice, a tone Sandecker had seldom heard from Pitts lips. "I can have a team of Air Force paramedics ready to load in thirty minutes," he said slowly. "Would you mind telling me the reason behind your request for a medical unit?"
Pitt didn't answer immediately. His thoughts were barely able to focus. He nodded thankfully as the Icelander offered him the chair.
"Every minute we waste with explanations, someone may die. For God's sake, Admiral," Pitt implored, "contact the Air Force and get their paramedics loaded on helicopters and supplied to aid victims of an air disaster. Then while there's time, I can fill you in on the details."
"Understood," Sandecker said without wasting a word. "Stand by."
Pitt nodded again, this time to himself, and slumped dejectedly in the chair. It won't be long now, he thought, if only they're in time. He felt a hand on his shoulder, half turned and managed a crooked smile up at the warm-eyed Icelander.
"I've been a rude guest," he said quietly. "I haven't introduced myself or thanked you for saving my life."
The old man offered a long, weathered hand.
"Golfur Andursson," he said. "I am chief guide for the Rarfur River."
Pitt grit)ped Andursson's hand and introduced himself and then asked, "A chief guide?"
"Yes, a guide is also the river warden. We act as guides for fishermen and watch over the ecology of the river, much like a conservationist in your own country who protects the natural resoarces of your inland water grounds."
"It must be lonely work-" Pitts mouth stopped working and he gasped as a sharp pain in his chest nearly carried him into blackness. He clutched the table, fighting to remain conscious.
"Come," Andursson said. "You must let me tend to your injuries."
"No," Pitt answered firmly. "I must stay by the radio. I'm not leaving this chair."
Andursson hesitated. Then he shook his head and said nothing. He disappeared from the room and returned in less than two minutes carrying a large first-aid case and a bottle.
You are lucky," he said smiling. "One of your countrymen fished the river just last month and left this with me." He held up and proudly displayed a fifth of Seagram's V.O. Canadian Whiskey. Pitt noticed that the seal on the cap had not been broken.
Pitt was on his fourth healthy swig and the old river warden had just finished binding his chest when the radio crackled and Sandecker's gravel voice broke into the room again.
"Major Pitt, do you read me?"
Pitt lifted the microphone and pressed the transmitting switch. "Pitt here. I read you, Admiral."
"The paramedics are mustering at Keflavik and Iceland's civilian search and rescue units are standing by. I'll maintain radio contact and coordinate their efforts." There was a momentary silence. "You have a lot of worried people here. Keflavik has no report Of a missing plane, either military or commercial."
Rondheim wasn't taking any chances, Pitt thought.
The bastard. was taking his own sweet time about reporting his overdue and missing guests. Pitt breathed deeply and took another shot of the V.O. Then he replied: "Notification isn't scheduled yet."
Total uncomprehension broke in Sandecker's voice.
"Come again. Please repeat."
"Trust me, Admiral. I can't even begin to answer a tenth of the questions that must be running through everyone's mind, especially over the radio repeatespecially over the radio."
Somehow, Pitt thought, the names of the internationally known men back in the ravine had to be kept from the news services for at least the next thirty-six hours time enough to stop Kelly, Rondheim and Hermit Limited before they could be warned and go underground. He had to give the admiral credit. Sandecker caught Pitts implication of the need for secrecy almost immediately. "Your message is understood. Can you give me the location? Use your reverse coordination map."
"Sorry, I know of no such-"
"Dammit!" Sandecker shouted, turning the speaker into a thunderbolt of distorted static. "Do as you're ordered."
Pitt sat and stared dumbly at the radio's speaker for nearly thirty seconds before Sandecker's hidden meaning began to register in his weary mind. The admiral was offering him a chance to answer questions withOut giving away valid information, by replying in the contrary. He mentally kicked himself for letting Sandecker outdo him in the verbal gymnastics.
Pitt flicked off the mike switch and turned to Andursson. "How far is the nearest town and in what direction?"
Andursson vaguely pointed out the window. "Sodafoss… we are exactly fifty kilometers south of its town square."
Pitt quickly added to the Icelander's figure to allow for the distance he had stumbled across the plateau.
"back to the radio. The aircraft came down approximately eighty kilometers north of Sodafoss. I repeat, eighty kilometers north of Sodafoss."
"Was the aircraft civilian or military?"
"Military."
"How many survivors?"
"Can't say for certain. Two, maybe four."
Pitt could only hope the admiral would grasp the total number of twenty-four. The feisty old oceanographer didn't fail him.
"Let — us hope we can have them safe and sound by this time tomorrow." Sandecker's intimation of twenty-four hours quickly settled any doubt. He paused, and then his voice came through, low, quiet with a strong inflection of concern. "Is miss Royal with you?"
"Yes.
Sandecker didn't reply immediately. Pitt could almost see the sudden paling, almost hear the sudden intake of breath. Then the admiral said, "Has she… has she given you any trouble?"
Pitt thought a moment. trying to piece together the right words. "You know how women are, Admiral, always complaining. First it was an imaginary ache in her ankles, now she claims she's freezing to death. I'll be eternally grateful if you use all haste in taking this griping female off my hands."
"Will do all possible at this end to grant your request." The gravel-like tone was back now. "Stand by."
Pitt hummed softly to himself. This was taking too much time, each minute was precious, each second irreplaceable. He looked at his watch. Exactly one o'clock-seven hours since he crawled out of the ravine. He felt a sudden chill and took another swallow from the bottle.
The radio crackled again. "Major Pitt."
"Come in, Admiral."