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"General maintenance-the one that handles transient nonscheduled aircraft."
The glare of the sun bounced off the white cement taxiway and made Pitt squint. He slipped a pair of sunglasses from a breast pocket and put them on. Several huge jetliners were parked in even rows, displaying, the emblems and color schemes of TWA, Pan American, Tceltnclic, and B.O.A.C, while crews of whitciled mechanics buried themselves under engines and crawled over the wings with fuel hoses.
On the other side of the field, a good two miles away, Pitt could make out aircraft of the U.S. Air Force, undoubtedly going through the same rituals.
"Here we are," the driver announced. "Permit me to offer you my services as a translator."
"That won't be necessary. Keep the meter running.
I'll only be a few minutes."
Pitt got out and walked through the side door of the hangar, a sterile giant of a building that covered nearly two acres. Five small private planes were scattered around the floor like a handful of spectators in an otherwise empty auditorium. But it was the sixth that caught Pitts eye. It was an old Ford Trimotor known as the Tin Goose. The corrugated aluminum skin that covered the framework and the three motors, one perched on the nose directly in front of the cockpit, the other two suspended in space by an ungainly network of wires and struts, combined to make it look to the unknowing eye a thing too awkward to fly with any degree of control or, for that matter, lift its wheels from the ground. But the old pioneering pilots swore by it. To them it was a flying son of a bitch. Pitt patted the ancient washboard sides, idly wished he could test-fly it someday, and then walked 54
on toward the offices in the rear of the hangar.
He opened a door and moved into what appeared to be a combination locker room and rest area, wrinkling his nose from the pungent, heavy smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and coffee. Except for the coffee, the aroma bore a marked resemblance to a high school gym. He stood there a moment looking at a group of five men clustered around a large European-style ceramic coffee urn, laughing goodnaturedly at a recently told joke. They were all dressed in white coveralls, some spotlessly clean, others decorated with heavy splotches of black oil. Pitt sauntered easily toward them, smiling.
"Pardon me, gentlemen, any of you speak English?"
A shaggy, long-haired mechanic sitting nearest the urn looked up and drawled, "Yeah, I speak American if that'll do."
"That will do fine," Pitt laughed. "I'm looking for a man with the initials S.C. He's probably a hydraulic specialist."
The mechanic eyed him uneasily. "Who wants to know?"
Pitt forced a friendly smile and pulled out his I.D. again.
"Pitt, Major Dirk Pitt."
For a full five seconds the mechanic sat immobile, expressionless except for the stunned widening of his eyes. Then he threw his hands in the air helplessly and then let them fall limply to his sides.
"Ya, got your man, Major. Ah knew it were too good to last." The voice reached from somewhere deep in Oklahoma.
It was Pitts turn to become expressionless. "Like what's too good to last?"
"Mah moonlightin' lak this," he drawled morosely. " 'working' as a hydraulic specialist for civilian airlines during mah off-duty hours." He stared forlornly into his coffee cup. "Ah knew it was against U.S. Air Force regulations, but the money was too good to pass up. Ah guess ah can kiss mah stripes good-by."
Pitt looked at him. "I know of no Air Force regulations that prevent an enlisted man or an officer, for that matter, from icking up a few dollars when he isn't on duty."
"Nuthin' wrong with Air Force rules, Major. It's Keflavik Base policy set by Colonel Nagel, the C.O. on our side of the field.
He feels we should work on squadron aircraft during' our time off instead of helpin' out the feather merchants. Tryin' to make a name for himself with the Pentagon brass, ah guess. But ya wouldn't be here if you didn't know all that."
"That'll do," Pitt said sharply. His gaze swung left and right until it came back to the Air Force mechanic . Then his eyes grew suddenly cold. "When you talk to a superior officer, Airman, you stamd up."
"I don't have to kiss your ass, Major. You ain't got no uniform on-" Two seconds was all it took. with a nonchalant ease Pitt bent over. clasped the front two legs of the mechanic's chair and flipped him over on his back and put his foot over the man's throat in one deceptive movement. The other maintenance men stood there in stunned immobility for a few seconds. Then their senses returned and they began to circle Pitt menacingly.
"Call off your flunkies or I break your neck," Pitt said, grinning pleasantly into the fear-filled eyes.
The mechanic, unable to talk with the heel of Pitts shoe pushing against his windpipe, gestured wildly with both hands. The men stopped and moved back a step, retreating not so much from their friend's muted pleas as from the ice-cold grin on Pitt's face.
"That's a good group," Pitt said. He turned and looked down at the helpless mechanic and lifted his foot just enough to allow his prisoner to speak. "Now, then, name, rank, and serial number. Let's have it!"
"Sam . . . Sam Cashman," he choked. "Sergeant.
Air Force 19385628."
"That wasn't so bad, now was it, Sam?" Pitt bent and helped Cashman to his feet.
