Clive Cussler - Dragon

Clausen gaped in astonishment as the depression opened up and the tractor dove into a suddenly expanding pit. He froze in horror as man and machine fell into the darkness below. He was mute with terror, but he instinctively braced his feet against the metal floor and clutched the steering wheel in a tight grip. The tractor hurtled a good twelve meters before it splashed into a deep underground stream. Huge clods of soil struck the water, churning it into a maelstrom that was soon blanketed by clouds of falling dust. The noise echoed far into unseen reaches as the tractor sank into water up to the top treads of its high rear tires before coming to rest.

The impact drove the breath from Clausen’s body. An agonizing pain shot through his back, and he knew it meant an injured vertebra. Two of his ribs, and perhaps more, cracked after his chest impacted against the steering wheel. He went into shock, his heart pounding, his breath coming in painful gasps. Bewildered, he hardly felt the water swirling around his chest.

Clausen blessed the tractor for landing right side up. If it had tumbled on one of its sides or top, in all probability he’d have been crushed to death or pinned and drowned. He sat there trying to comprehend what had happened to him. He looked up at the blue sky to get a grasp of his predicament. Then he peered around through the gloom and the drifting layers of dust.

The tractor had fallen into the pool of a limestone cave. One end was flooded but the other rose above the pool and opened into a vast cavern. He saw no signs of stalactites, stalagmites, or other natural decorations. Both the small entry cave and the larger chamber appeared to have low six-meter-high flat ceilings that were carved by excavation equipment.

Painfully he twisted out of the tractor seat and half crawled, half swam up the ramplike floor leading into the dry cavern. Knees sliding, hands slipping on the slimy coating covering the cave’s floor, he struggled forward on all fours until he felt dry ground. Wearily he hauled himself up into a sitting position, shifted around, and stared into dim recesses of the cavern.

It was filled with aircraft, literally dozens of them. All parked in even rows as if waiting for a squadron of phantom pilots. Clausen recognized them as the Luftwaffe’s first turbojet aircraft, Messerschmitt-262 Schwalbes (Swallows). They sat like ghosts in their mottled gray-green colors, and despite almost fifty years of neglect, they appeared in prime condition. Only mild corrosion on the aluminum surfaces and flattened tires suggested long abandonment. The hidden air base must have been evacuated and all entrances sealed before the Allied armies arrived.

His injuries were temporarily forgotten as Clausen reverently walked between the planes and into the flight quarters and maintenance repair areas. As his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he became amazed at the neat orderliness. There was no sign of a hurried departure. He felt the pilots and their mechanics were standing at inspection in the field above and expected back at any time.

He entered a state of rapture when it struck him that all the wartime artifacts were on his property, or under it, and belonged to him. The worth of the aircraft to collectors and museums must have ranged in the millions of deutsche marks.

Clausen made his way back to the edge of the underground pool. The tractor looked a sorry sight with only the steering wheel and upper tires rising out of the water. Once more he gazed up at the hole to the sky. There was no hope of climbing out on his own. The opening was too high and the walls too steep.

He wasn’t a tiny bit worried. Eventually his wife would come looking for him and summon neighbors when she found him standing happily in their newly discovered subterranean bonanza.

There had to be a generator somewhere for electrical power. He decided to search out its location. Perhaps, he thought, he might be able to fire it up and light the cavern. He squinted at his watch and figured another four hours would pass before his wife became curious over his prolonged absence.

He hesitated, thoughtfully staring into the far end of the cave that sloped into the forbidding pool, wondering if maybe another cavern waited in the darkness beyond the flooded depths.

32

“IF THE PUBLIC only knew what goes on behind their backs, they’d burn Washington,” said Sandecker as the Virginia countryside flashed past the heavily tinted and armored windows of the customized mobile command center disguised as a nationally known bus line.

“We’re in a war right up to our damned teeth,” the MAIT team’s Deputy Director, Donald Kern, grumbled. “And nobody knows but us.”

“You’re right about the war,” said Pitt, contemplating a glass of soda water he held in one hand. “I can’t believe these people had the guts to abduct Loren and Senator Diaz on the same day.”

Kern shrugged. “The senator stepped from his fishing lodge at six o’clock this morning, rowed out into a lake not much bigger than a pond, and vanished.”

“How do you know it wasn’t an accidental drowning or suicide?”

“There was no body.”

“You dragged and searched the entire lake since this morning?” Pitt asked skeptically.

“Nothing so primitive. We diverted our newest spy satellite over the area. There was no body floating on or below the water.”

“You have the technology to see an object as small as a body underwater from space?”

“Forget you heard it,” Kern said with a slight grin. “Just take my word for the fact that another Japanese team of professional operatives snatched Diaz in broad daylight along with his boat and outboard motor, and they managed it within sight of at least five other fishermen who swear they witnessed nothing.”

Pitt looked at Kern. “But Loren’s abduction was witnessed.”

“By Al and Frank, who guessed what was going down, sure. But the spectators in the stands were concentrating on the race. If any of them happened to glance in Loren’s direction during the excitement, all they saw was a woman entering the limo under her own free will.”

“What screwed up the abductors’ well-laid plan,” said Sandecker, “was that you men knew she was being seized and gave chase. Your alert action also confirmed the Japanese connection behind Senator Diaz’s kidnapping.”

“Whoever masterminded the separate plots was good,” Kern admitted. “Too good for the Blood Sun Brotherhood.”

“The terrorist organization,” said Pitt. “They were behind it?”

“That’s what they want us to think. The FBI received a phone call by someone who said he was a member and claiming responsibility. Strictly a red herring. We saw through the facade in less than a minute.”

“What about the helicopter that controlled the limousine?” Pitt asked. “Did you track it?”

“As far as Hampton Roads. There it blew up in midair and fell in the water. A Navy salvage team should be diving on it now.”

“A bottle of scotch they won’t find bodies.”

Kern gave Pitt a canny look. “A bet you’d probably win.”

“Any trace of the limousine that got away?”

Kern shook his head. “Not yet. It was probably hidden and abandoned after they transferred Congresswoman Smith to another vehicle.”

“Who’s in charge of the hunt?”

“The FBI. Their best field agents are already forming investigative teams and assembling all known data.”

“You think this is tied to our search into the bomb cars?” asked Giordino, who along with Pitt and Mancuso had been picked up by Kern and Sandecker a few miles from the accident site.

“It’s possible they could be warning us to lay off,” answered Kern. “But our consensus is they wanted to shut down the Senate investigating committee and eliminate the legislators who were ramrodding a bill to cut off Japanese investment in the U.S.”