"We have a problem here. Every helicopter on the island is grounded. The paramedics will have to be airdropped from a transport."
"Do you understand? It is imperative that helicopters be used. The survivors must be airlifted out. And most important, Admiral. I must lead the search-repeat-I must lead the search. The crash site is invisible from the air. Your rescue party could search for days and never find it."
Pitt could sense the gloom at the other end. Sandecker took a long time in answering. Then he spoke wearily, defeated, as if he were delivering the last rites, which indeed he very nearly was.
"Negative to your request. There are seven copters on the island. Three belong to the Air Force, four to the Icelandic Search and Rescue Department. All are grounded due to maintenance problems." Sandecker paused, then went on slowly. "The possibility seems remote, but our people and the government authorities smell sabotage."
"Oh, Christ!" Pitt murmured, and suddenly his blood ran cold. Every contingency. The term came back to haunt him again and again. Kelly's computers had built the wau ever higher against hope of rescue. Rondheim's coldly efficient gang of killers had carried out the mechanical commands to the letter.
"Do you have enough flat ground for a light plane to land and pick you up?" Sandecker probed expectantly. "If affirmative, you could direct a rescue drop from the air."
"A small plane might make it," Pitt said. "I have a level meadow here the length of a football field."
Outside, unnoticed by Pitt, the sun, a perfect orange disk in the northern latitudes, was being rapidly overtaken by great rolling black clouds that soon surrounded and cut off its bright glow. A chilling breeze had sprung up and was bending the grass in the meadows and hills. Pitt became aware of Andursson's hand on his shoulder and the sudden dimming light in the room at the same time.
"A storm from the north," Andursson said solemnly. "It will snow withiin the hour."
Pitt threw back the chair and hurriedly crossed the room to a small double window. He stared through the glass, his eyes unbelieving, and he struck his fist against the wall in despair.
"God, no!" he whispered. "It would be suicidal for the paramedics to parachute through a blinding snowstorm."
"Nor could a light plane fly through the turbulence," Andursson said. "I have seen the coming of many northerns and have known their ferocity. This will be a bad one."
Pitt weaved drunkenly back to the radio and collapsed in the chair. He held his cut and swollen face in his hands and muttered softly, "God save them. God save all of them now. Hopeless, hopeless."
Sandecker came over the radio, but Pitt sat unhearing. "Your exact position, Major. Can you give me your exact position?"
Andursson reached over Pitt and took the microphone. "One minute, Admiral Sandecker," he said firmly. "Please stand by."
He took Pitts right hand and gripped it hard.
"Major Pitt, you must control your mind." He looked down, his eyes bright with compassion. " 'The knot of death, though it be bound like stone, may be unravelled by he who knows the frail strand.' "
Pitt slowly looked up into Andursson's eyes. "So, I have another poet on my hands."
Andursson simply nodded his head shyly.
"This has certainly been my week for poets," Pitt sighed. Then he swore softly to himself. He had already spent far too much time in needless talk and useless pity, and time was running short. He needed a plan, a device, a gimmick to reach those who put their trust in him. Computers make mistakes, he told himself. Those cold electronic monsters can make an error-an error that may be infinitesimal, but none the less the possibility exists. There is no emotion built into their wiring, no sentiment, no room for nostalgia.
"Nostalgia," Pitt said out loud, rolling the word on his tongue, savoring every syllable, repeating it at least three more times.
Andursson stared at him strangely. "I do not understand."
"You'll soon see," Pitt said. "I'm not waiting to find the frail strand in your poetic knot of death. I'ming to cut it with blades," The old man looked more lost than ever.
"Blades?"
"Yes, propeller blades. Three of them, to be exact."
Chapter 18
There are many wondrous sights to behold in this world, but to Pitt nothing, not even a thirty-story rocket blasting into outer space or a needle-nosed supersonic transport streaking across the sky at twice — the speed of sound could ever look half as incredibly beautiful as that old Ford trimotor, the famed Tin Goose, pitching and rolling awkwardly in the fitful wind, curtained by the black folds of giant menacing clouds. Braced against the increasing gale, he watched intently as the ancient aircraft, graceful in its ugliness, circled Andursson's farm once before the pilot eased back on the throttles, skimmed less than ten feet over a fence and set it down in the meadow where the wide-set landing wheels rolled to a complete stop in less than two hundred feet from touchdown.
Pitt turned to Andursson. "Well, good-by, Golfur.
Thank you for all you've done for me… for all of US.
Golfur Andursson shook Pitts hand. "It is I who thank you, Major.
For the honor and opportunity to help my fellow brother. God go with you."
Pitt couldn't run, his cracked ribs wouldn't permit that, but he covered the distance to the trimotor in less than thirty seconds. Just as he reached the right side of the fuselage, the door flew open and a strong arm reached down and pulled him into the cramped, narrow cabin.
"Are you Major Pitt?"
Pitt looked into the face of a great bull of a man, tan-faced, with long blond sideburns. "Yes, I'm Pitt."
"Welcome back to the roaring twenties, Major.
This is a helluva idea, using this old flying fossil for a rescue mission." He held out his hand. "I'm Captain Ben Hull."
Pitt took the massive paw and said, "Best we move out if we expect to beat the snow."
"Right you are," Hull boomed briskly. "No sense in getting ticketed for overparking." If Hull was mildly shocked at Pitts damaged face or his strange-looking clothes, he concealed it well. "We ranthis trip without a copilot, a reserved seat in your name, Major. Figured you'd want front row balcony to lead us to the wreck."
"Before I signed off, I asked Admiral Sandecker for a couple of items-"
"Got news for you, Major. That old sea dog carries a big mean stick. Seems he pulled every plug to get them on board before we took off." He pulled a package from his parka and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"Beats the hell out of me why you'd want a bottle of Russian vodka and a box of cigars at a moment like
"It's for a couple of friends," Pitt said, sniffing. He turned and made his way past ten men ranged in various relaxed positions along the floor of the cabin-large, quiet, purposeful-looking men dressed in arctic weather gear. They were men who were ed in scuba diving, parachute jumping, survival, and nearly every phase of emergency medicine except surgery. A wave of confidence surged through Pitt just from observing them.
Ducking his head to clear the low cockpit door, Pitt moved into the cramped confines and eased his sore body into the worn and cracked leather bucket seat, sitting vacant on the copilot's side. As soon as he was safely strapped in, he turned and found himself staring into the grinning face of Sergeant Sam Cashman.
"Howdy, Major." Cashman's eyes widened. "God Amighty, who stomped on your face?"
"Tell you over a drink sometime." Pitt glanced at the instrument panel, quickly familiarizing himself with the old-fashioned gauges. "I'm a bit surprised to see-"
"To see a sergeant flyin' this mission instead of a genuine flight officer," Cashman bed. "You got no choice, Major. Ahim the only one on the whole island who's checked out on this old bus. Ain't she a winner?
She'll take off and land on a dollar bill and give you change."