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rs manufactured。
Pitt then quickly showered and changed clothes and took a taxi to the airport at Keflavik。
His black Volvo cab soon left the smokeless； city behind。 its meter humming headed onto the narrow …asphalt belt that was the coastal road to the Keflavik airport。 To his right stretched the Atlantic； at this moment as blue as the Aegean waters of the Grecian Isles。 The wind was rising off the sea； and he could see a small fleet of fishing boats running for the harbor； pushed by the relentless swells。 His left side took in the green countryside； rolling in an uneven furrowed pattern； dotted by grazing cattle and Iceland's famous long…maned ponies。
As the beauty of the scenery flashed by； Pitt began to think about the Vikings； those dirty； hard…drinking love…a…fight men who ravaged every civilized shore they set foot on； and who had been romanticized beyond all exaggeration and embellishment in legends handed down through the centuries。 They had landed in Iceland； flourished and then disappeared。 But the tradition of the Norsemen was not forgotten in Iceland； where the hard； sea…toughened men went out every day in storm or fog to harvest the fish that fed the nation and its economy。
Pitts thoughts were soon jolted back to reality by the voice of the cab driver as they passed through the gates of the airport。
〃Do you wish to go to the main terminal； sir？〃
〃No； the maintenance hangars。〃
The driver thought a moment。 〃Sorry； sir。 They are on the edge of the field beyond the passenger terminal。 Only authorized cars are permitted on the flight line。〃
There was something about the cab driver's accent that intrigued Pitt。 Then it came to him。 There was an unmistakable American midwestern quality about it。
〃Let's give it a try； shall we？〃
The driver shrugged and pulled the cab up to the flight line gate and stopped where a tall； thin； grayhaired man in a blue uniform stepped from the same austere； white…painted guard shack that seemed to sit by gates everywhere。 He touched his fingers to his cap brim in a friendly salute。 Pitt rolled down the window； leaned out； and showed his Air Force I。D。
〃Major Dirk Pitt；〃 he snapped in an official tone； introducing himself。 〃I'm on urgent business for the United States government and must get to the mercial maintenance hangar for nonscheduled aircraft。〃
The guard looked at him blankly undl he bed and then； smiling dumbly； shrugged。
The cab driver stepped from behind the steering wheel。 〃He doesn't understand English； Major。 Allow me to translate for you。〃
Without waiting for an acknowledgment； the driver put an arm around the guard and gently walked him away from the car toward the gate； tag rapidly but gesturing gracefully as he rattled off a flow of words in Icelandic。 It was the first chance that Pitt had a good look at his helpmate。
The driver was medium height； just under six foot； not more than twenty…six or twenty…seven years old； with straw…colored hair and the light skin that usually goes with it。 If Pitt had passed him on the street； he would have pegged him as a jor assistant executive； three years out of university； eager to make his mark in his father…in…law's bank。
Finally the two men broke out laughing and shook hands。 Then the driver climbed back behind the wheel and winked at Pitt as the still smiling guard opened the gate and waved them through。
Pitt said； 〃You seem to have a way with security guards。〃
〃A necessity of the trade。 A cab driver wouldn't be worth his salt if he couldn't talk his way past a gate guard or a policeman on a barricaded street。〃
〃It's apparent you've mastered the knack。〃
〃I work at it。 。 。 Any particular hangar； sir？
There are several； one for every major airline。〃
〃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； bined 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 on toward the offices in the rear of the hangar。
He opened a door and moved into what appeared to be a bination 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 good…naturedly 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 bee 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 reg