Clive Cussler - Treasure

"stealth parachutes" of Dillenger's Special Forces team as they opened them and began gliding toward the glacier.

Pitt sat in the Spartan confines of the tilt-rotor osprey. The bullet-shaped craft lifted off the ground like a helicopter but flew like a plane at speeds in excess of six hundred kilo meters per hour. He was wide-awake; only a dead man could sleep in those aluminum seats with ultrathin pads for cushions, the weather turbulence, and the engine noise that roared through the barest of soundproofing. Only a dead man, that is, except Giordino. He was deflated like a life-size balloon figurethere was no other description for it-with just enough air to give it form. Every few minutes, as if his brain was set on an automatic timer, he changed position without cracking an eye or missing a breath.

"How does he do it?" asked Findley in frank amazement.

"It's in the genes," Pitt answered.

Gunn shook his head admiringly. "I've seen him sleep in the damdest contortions in the darndest places, and I still can't believe it when I see it."

The young copilot turned and peered around the back of his seat.

"Doesn't exactly suffer from stress syndrome, does he?"

Pitt and the others laughed and then became quiet, all wishing they didn't have to leave the cozy warmth of the aircraft for the icy nightmare outside. Pitt relaxed as best he could. He felt some measure of satisfaction. Though he was not included in the assault-better to leave that to trained professionals in the art of hostage rescue-he was positioned close enough to tag along on the heels of Hollis and his SOF

teams, and he had every intention of following Dillenger's men down the scaling ropes after the attack was launched.

Pitt sensed no foreboding premonition nor imagined any omen of death. He did not doubt for an instant his father was alive. He couldn't explain it, even to himself, but he felt the Senator's presence. The two had a tight bond over the years. They could almost read each other's minds.

"We'll be at your landing point in six minutes," announced the pilot with a cheerfulness that made Pitt cringe.

The pilot seemed blissfully unconcerned at flying over jagged, snowcapped peaks he couldn't see. All that was visible through the windshield was the flash of sleet slamming the glass, and the darkness beyond.

"How do you know where we are?" asked Pitt.

The pilot, a laid-back Burt Reynolds type, shrugged lazily. "All in the wrists," he quipped.

Pitt leaned forward and peered over the pilot's shoulder. No hands were on the controls. The pilot was sitting with his arms folded, staring at a small screen that looked like a video game. Only the Osprey's nose showed at the bottom of the graphic display, while the flashing picture was rifled with mountains and valleys that hurtled past under the simulated aircraft. In a split-screen panel in an upper corner, distances and altitudes appeared in red digital numbers.

"Untouched by human hands," said Pitt. "The computer is replacing everyone."

"Lucky for us they haven't developed a knack for sex.1' The pilot laughed. He reached out and made a slight adjustment with a tuning knob. " and radar scanners read the ground and the computer converts it to three-demensional display. I plug in the auto pilot, and while the aircraft darts around the terrain like a Los Angeles Raiders running back, I think about such wondrous subjects as the Congressional budget and our State Department's foreign policy."

"That's news to me," muttered the copilot wryly.

"Without our little electronic guide here," the pilot continued, undaunted, "we'd still be sitting on the ground at Punta Arenas waiting for daylight and clearing weather-" A chime

sound issued from the display screen, and the pilot stiffened.

"We're coming up on our programmed landing site. You better get your people ready to disembark."

"What were your instructions from Colonel Hollis for dropping us off?"

"Just to set you down behind the mountain summit above the mine to hide from the cruise ship's radar. You'll have to hoof it the rest of the way."

Pitt turned to Findley. 11 any problem on your end?"

Findley smiled. "I know that mountain like my wife's bottom, every nook and crack. The summit is only two kilometers from the mine entrance.

An easy walk down the slope. I could do it blindfolded."

"from what I see of this rotten weather," Pitt muttered darkly, "that's exactly what you'll have to do."

The howl of the wind replaced the whine from the Osprey's turbines as the NUMA crew quickly exited through the cargo hatch. There was no time wasted, no words spoken, only a silent farewell wave to the pilots.

Within a minute, the four men, carrying only two tote bags, were bent into the sleet and trudging up the rocky slope toward the mountain's summit.

Findley silently took the lead. Visibility was almost as bad On the ground as it was in the air. The flashlight in Findley's hand was one degree above useless. The flaying sleet reflected the flashlight's beam, revealing the broken terrain no more than one or two meters ahead.

In no way did they remotely resemble an elite assault team. They carried no visible weapons. No two wore the same type Of Clothing to ward off the cold. Pitt had on gray ski togs; Giordino wore dark blue. Gunn was lost in an orange survival suit that looked two sizes too large. Findley was outfitted like a Canadian lumbe ack complete with a woolly Basque stocking cap pulled low over his ears. The only items they had in common were yellow-lensed ski goggles.

The wind was blowing at about twenty kilometers per hour, Pitt estimated-bitter but bearable. The rocky, uneven surface was sliPPery from the wet, and they slid and stumbled, frequently losing their balance and falling heavily.

Every few minutes they had to wipe the buildup of sleet from their goggles. Soon, from the front, they looked like snowmen, while their backs were quite dry.

Findley raked the ground ahead with his flashlight, dodging large boulders and sparse, grotesque shrubs. He knew he had reached the summit when he stepped onto an outcrop of bare rock and was struck by the full force of the wind.

"Not much further," he said over the howl of the wind. "Downhill all the way."

"Too bad we can't rent a toboggan," said Giordino gloomily.

Pitt pulled back his glove and peered at the luminous hands of his old Doxa dive watch. The assault was set for 0-five hundred. Twenty-eight minutes away. They were running late.

"Let's make time," he shouted. "I don't want to miss the party."

They made good time for the next fifteen minutes. The mountain's slope became more gradual, and Findley found a narrow, winding track that led to the mine. Farther downhill the stunted pines became thicker, the rock became smaller, looser, and their boots were able to get a better grip.

Thankfully, the driving wind and sleet began to ease up. Holes in the clouds appeared and stars became visible. They were able to see now without the hindrance of the goggles.

Findley grew more confident of his surroundings as a high ore talking materialized in the blackness. He skirted the pile and swung onto a small, narrow-gauge railroad track and began following it into the dark.

He was about to turn and shout "We're here," but was cut off. Pitt suddenly and unexpectedly reached out, grabbed the back of Findley's collar and jerked him to a halt so abruptly his feet flew out from under him, and he crashed on his buttocks. As he fell, Pitt snatched the flashlight and switched it off.

"What in Hell?"

"Quiet!" Pitt rasped sharply.

"You hear something?" asked Gunn softly.

"No, I smell a familiar odor."

odor?"

"Lamb. Somebody is barbecuing a leg of lamb."

They all leaned their heads back and sniffed the air