Clive Cussler - The Mediterranean Caper

The cheese, Gunn thought wonderingly. He calls that damn balloon up there the cheese. Who would have ever thought that Pitt wanted a damn weather balloon when he asked whether the First Attempt carried meteorological gear. Now the damn balloon floated up there in the damn sky with a one hundred pound charge of explosives from the damn seismic lab tied to it. Gunn peered above the railing at the big silvery airborne ball and the lethal package dangling beneath it The cable holding the captive balloon and the electrical wire attached to the explosives both stretched eight hundred feet high and four hundred feet astern; a total distance of four football fields away. He shook his head, it was ironic that the explosive charge, normally utilized for producing underwater shockwaves to analyze the bottom of the sea, would now be used to blow an airplane out of the sky.

The roar of the plane’s engine grew louder, and for one brief moment Pitt thought it was going to dive straight-on at the ship, but then be realized that its angle of descent was too low. The pilot was lining the Albatros up for a pass at the balloon. He stood up for a better view, knowing he was a tempting and exposed target The engine turned into a high pitched snarl and the gun sights aimed for the lazy gas bag, waiting above the sparkling water. There was no delay, no adjusting for range, the yellow wings glistened in the sun, obscuring the flashes from the two guns mounted on the cowling, The sound of the staccato bursts and the whine of the bullets signaled the beginning of the attack.

The rubberized nylon skin of the helium filled bag shuddered under the onslaught of the rapid gunfire. It sagged at first, then wrinkled like a prune and collapsed, flapping in lose folds toward the sea. The yellow Albatros swept over the dropping balloon, making a beeline for the First Attempt.

"Now!" Pitt yelled, hitting the deck.

Gunn threw the switch.

The next instant seemed to march on to infinity. Then there was a gigantic blast which shock the ship from keel to mast. The early morning silence was shattered with a violent sound like the breaking of a thousand windows by a tornado. And, in the sky, a tower of dense smoke and flame swirled in a huge bursting mass of orange and black. The concussion from the explosion knocked the wind from Pitt and Gunn; squeezing internal organs against spines with the sudden punch of a battering ram.

Slowly, moving with painful stiffness from the bandages and struggling for breath, Pitt rose to his feet and peered Into the expanding cloud for signs of the Albairos. Shaken for a moment, his eyes darted too high, and he could see nothing but curling smoke; the plane and Its pilot were gone. Then he realized what had happened. The brief lag between his shouted signal and the actual explosion saved the plane from instant disintegration. Swinging his gaze down to the horizon he spotted it The craft was gliding clumsily through the air, its engine dead.

Pitt snatched at the binoculars and quickly sighted them on the Albatros. It was trailing smoke and fiery fragments in a meteoric frail. He watched in morbid fascination as one of the lower wings suddenly folded backward and fell away, causing the plane to tumble in a series of wild gyrations, like a piece of paper thrown from a high office building. Then It seemed to bang suspended for a moment before plunging into the sea, leaving a signature of smoke melting into the warm air.

“It’s down,” said Pitt excitedly. “We’ve scored.”

Gunn was lying against the far bulkhead corner.

He crawled across the deck and lifted his head dazedly.

“How far and what heading?”

“About two miles abaft the starboard beam,” replied Pitt He lowered the glasses and looked at Gunn’s pale face. “Are you all right?”

Gunn nodded. “Just lost a little wind, that’s all.”

Pitt smiled, but there was little humor in his eyes. He was smugly satisfied with himself, very pleased with the outcome of his plan. “Send the double-ender and some men out there to dive on the wreck. I’m anxious to find out what our ghost looks like.”

“Of course,” said Gunn. “I’ll personally lead the diving party. But, only on one condition.. you get your ass down to my cabin immediately. The doc hasn’t finished with you yet.”

Pitt shrugged, “You’re the captain.” He turned back to the rail and looked again at the spot that marked the grave of the yellow Albatros.

He was still at the rail ten minutes later when Gunn and four of the First Attempt's crew loaded their diving gear on the double-ender whaler and cast off. The little boat made no attempt to circle and search the general surface area but moved straight to the spot where the plane disappeared. Pitt waited until be could see the divers drop into the sparkling blue water at intervals to converge together underwater at the final resting place of the wreck.

“Come along. Major,” said a voice at his elbow.

He slowly turned and looked into the face of the bearded doctor. “It’s no use chasing me Doc. I won’t marry you.” Pitt said, a wide grin riding his face.

The blue-eyed old ship’s surgeon did not grin back. He merely pointed down the ladder at Gunn’s cabin.

Pitt had no choice but to wearily resign himself and turn his battered body over to the doctor's care. In the cabin he fought a half-hearted battle against unconsciousness, but the administered sedatives won a beachhead, and soon he was sheathed in a deep sleep.

Pitt stared at the gaunt and repulsive face that echoed his image from a small mirror, hanging in the cabin’s head. The black hair dangled down his face and ears, adding an unkempt crown above the deep green eyes that were circled and etched with jagged red blood vessels. He had not slept long; his watch showed a time lapse of only four hours. It was the heat that woke him, the morning blanket of hot air, drifting across the sea from Africa and digging its burning fingers into his skin. He discovered the ventilator that was closed, and he opened it, but the damage was already done. The hot dry air had a head start and the air conditioning would never catch up and cool the cabin, at least not until early evening. He pushed the tap and splashed water over his face, letting the coolness soak into his pores as it dribbled down his back and shoulders.

He briskly dried his damp skin and tried to recall in sequence what had happened the night before. Willie and the Maybach-Zepplin. The villa. Drinking with von Till. Teri’s beauty, her paled features. Then the labyrinth, the dog and the escape. Athena; did her owner ever find her? The dory, this morning, the yellow Albatros and the explosion. Now the waiting for Gunn and his crew to salvage the plane and find the body of its mystery pilot. What was the connection with von Till?

What was the old kraut’s motives. And Teri. Did she know about the trap? Was she trying to warn him?

Or, did she bait him into being used and pumped for information by her uncle?

He shook all thoughts and questions from his mind. The bandages itched and he fought the agonizing urge to scratch… God, it was hot… if only he had a nice cold drink. The only item of clothing the doctor hadn’t cut off his body was his shorts. He rinsed them out in the basin and put them on wet.

Within minutes they were completely dry.

A light knock came from the door. It slowly swung open and the red-haired cabin boy poked his head around the bulkhead. “Are you awake, Major Pitt?” he queried softly.

“Yes, but just barely.” Pitt replied.

“I… I didn’t mean to bother you,” the boy said hesitantly. “The doc asked me to check on you every fifteen minutes to make sure you were resting comfortably.”

Pitt threw a withering stare at the cabin boy. “Who the hell can rest comfortably in this furnace with the air conditioning turned off?”