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“Great minds think alike,” Hanley said.
Through the windshield of the helicopter, the port was becoming defined as Cabrillo disconnected and turned to Adams. “Let’s get on the ground, old buddy.”
Adams nodded and started his descent.
THE FREE ENTERPRISE was just outside the breakwater as she slowed and stopped. A small open-deck fishing boat powered by a pair of 250-horsepower outboard motors pulled alongside. Pulling up next to the stairs that led to water level, the captain of the fishing boat slowed to a crawl, and one of his crew snagged the box from one of the Free Enterprise’s deckhands. The crewman slid the box into a fish hold as the captain steered away from the larger vessel and hit the gas.
Bouncing over the rough seas, the captain of the fishing boat steered his way into a small cove. The crewman climbed off the fishing boat and walked over to a road where a red van from a local package delivery service was waiting. Ten minutes later, the van had delivered the box to the airport.
There it sat awaiting transfer to a plane that was, at that instant, only a few miles away.
ADAMS TOPPED OFF both tanks and ran through his checklist. When that was finished he made notes in the log book. The helicopter had run fine on the trip in from the Oregon, so there was little to write—just flight times, weather conditions and a note of a tiny vibration. Adams was finishing just as Cabrillo drove up next to the helicopter in a tiny rental car. He pulled up next to Adams and rolled down the window.
“Hey, boss,” Adams said, “did you get half off on the rental car?”
“It’s called a Smart Car,” Cabrillo said, brushing off the joke. “This was all they had—it was either this or walk. Now bring the binoculars and locator and climb inside.”
From under the helicopter’s seat Adams retrieved a pair of binoculars and the metal box that read the signals from the bugs sprinkled on the meteorite. Then he stepped over to the Smart Car and climbed into the passenger seat. The binoculars went on the floor. The metal box he kept on his lap. As Cabrillo pulled away, Adams began to tune in the signal from the bugs.
“The box says that the object is very close,” Adams said.
Cabrillo crested a hill near the airport—the port was directly
below.
In the other lane a red van approached, and the driver was flashing his headlights. Cabrillo realized he’d been driving on the right side of the road American-style, and he swerved over to the proper lane.
“Boss,” Adams said, “we’re right on it.”
Cabrillo glanced over as the van passed—the driver gave a friendly wag of his finger at him for his poor driving, then continued on in the direction of the airport. Cabrillo glanced down the hill at a large ship just about to dock.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That must be the vessel.”
The vessel had the lines of a private yacht, but it was as black as a stealth bomber. Cabrillo could easily see the deckhands standing by with lines as the captain moved the ship over to the pier with the thrusters.
“The signal is fading,” Adams said.
Cabrillo pulled over to the side of the road and watched the yacht through the binoculars as it was secured in its slip. The side nearest him had a stairway leading from the rear deck to almost the waterline. Then a revelation struck him.
He reached for his portable telephone and speed dialed the Oregon.
He put his hand over the mouthpiece while Hanley answered, and spoke to Adams.
“They made a switch at sea,” he said quickly. “I’m going to drop you back at the helicopter and then follow the signal.”
“Call Washington and ask them to have the Danish authorities impound the vessel that just docked.”
After Hanley got his orders, Cabrillo switched the telephone off, then turned the steering wheel to the locks and hit the gas. The Smart Car roared around in a U-turn and Cabrillo headed back up the road. Entering the airport grounds again, he pulled alongside the Robinson. Adams quickly climbed out, leaving the locator on the passenger seat.
“Get her airborne, George,” Cabrillo shouted. “I’ll call you.”
Then he hit the gas again and began following the signal.
JAMES BENNETT HAD learned to fly in the U.S. Army but he had never flown a helicopter. His rating was pilot fixed-wing. Because the U.S. Air Force guarded their domain carefully, he was one of the few pilots in the army with the rating. What few fixed-wing planes the army did have were used for observation, forward spotting, and a dozen or so corporate-type planes that were used to ferry generals around.
Bennett had flown Cessna observation planes while still on active duty, so the Cessna 206 model he was flying now was old hat. Bennett had been cruising the tired old prop plane at a hundred miles an hour on the flight north. Now he slowed to enter the pattern and glanced out the side window at the runway. The runway was short and ended at a rocky cliff, but that was okay. Bennett had landed on strips hacked out of jungles, tiny strips on the sides of mountains in Southeast Asia, and once in a farmer’s field back home in Arkansas when he’d lost his engine.
Compared to those, the airport at Faeroe Islands was a piece of cake.
