Atlantis Found (69 page)

“Why not destroy them and be done with it?”

“Not our call. The President personally ordered them brought to the White House.”

“I think I understand,” Pitt assured him.

As he walked across the hangar floor, the weight of his responsibility fell over him like a black cloud. Uneasily, he approached the Wolfs’ deserted executive jet and studied the mutilated tail section that he had crushed with the Snow Cruiser, before stepping around to the entrance door and entering the darkened interior. In what little light filtered in through the smashed opening and the windows, he could discern an interior luxuriously appointed with leather chairs and sofas. He pulled his flashlight from a pocket and swept its beam around the cabin. There was a bar and credenza with a large TV. The rear compartment of the cabin held a king-size bed in anticipation of its owner’s getting a few hours’ sleep while the plane was in flight. The bathroom had gold-plated fixtures and a small shower. Forward, just behind the cockpit, he could see a small galley, complete with oven, microwave, sink, and cabinets that held crystal glasses and china.

His eyes fell on a long box that was tied to the floor beside the bed. Pitt knelt and ran his hands over the surface. He tried to lift one end, but found it was made out of bronze and extremely heavy. There was a brass plaque embedded in the lid. He shined the light on the lettering and leaned closer. The inscription was in German, but relying on the few words he’d learned, he loosely translated the message as “Here lie the treasures of the ages awaiting resurrection.”

He twisted the pins from their hasps and removed them. Then, taking a deep breath, he took both hands and lifted the lid.

There were four objects inside the bronze box, all contained in leather cases and neatly wrapped in heavy linen. He carefully opened the first case and unwrapped the smallest object. It held a small bronze plaque with a crack running through it. The sculptured front side displayed a holy knight killing a dragonlike monster. Pitt would learn later that it was considered a sacred Nazi relic because Hitler had had it in a breast pocket of his uniform during the assassination attempt, when German army dissenters had set off a bomb in his forest headquarters.

The next case held the sacred Nazi flag earlier described by Admiral Sandecker as having been smeared with the blood of a fallen supporter of Hitler who’d been killed when the Bavarian police fired on the fledgling Nazi party members during the Munich Putsch in November of 1923. The blood-stain could easily be seen under the beam of the flashlight. He placed it back inside the linen and the leather case.

Then he opened a long mahogany chest and stared in rapt fascination at the Holy Lance, the lance allegedly used by a Roman centurion to pierce the body of Jesus Christ, the lance Hitler believed would give him control over the destiny of the world. The image of the lance being used to kill Christ on the cross was too overwhelming for Pitt to envision. He gently laid the most sacred relic in Christendom back in the mahogany chest and turned to the largest of the leather cases.

After unwrapping the linen, he discovered that he was holding a heavy urn of solid silver a few inches less than two feet high. The top of the lid was decorated with a black eagle that stood on a gold wreath surrounding an onyx swastika. Just below the lid were inscribed the words
Der Führer.
Directly beneath were the dates 1889 and 1945 over the runic symbols for the SS. On the base above a ring of swastikas were the names Adolf Hitler and Eva Hitler.

The horror struck Pitt like a blow to the face. The sheer immensity of what he was staring at sent shivers up his spine and a knot twisting inside his stomach, as his face drained of all color. It didn’t seem possible that in his hands he was holding the ashes of Adolf Hitler and his mistress/wife, Eva Braun.

ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN

 
WHEN THE MILITARY PASSENGER aircraft sent to bring Pitt, Giordino, and the relics from Okuma Bay to Washington landed at the airport in Veracruz, Mexico, Pitt questioned the pilot and was told that Admiral Sandecker had sent a NUMA executive jet to carry them the rest of the way. Sweating in the heat and humidity, they hauled the bronze box to the turquoise aircraft with the big NUMA letters on the fuselage that was parked a good hundred yards away.

Except for the pilot and copilot in the cockpit, the plane was deserted. After loading the box and tying it down to the floor, Pitt tried to open the cockpit door, but it was locked. He knocked and waited until a voice came over the cabin speaker.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt, but my orders are to keep the cabin door locked and permit no exit or entry of the cockpit until the relics are safely loaded in an armored truck at Andrews Air Force Base.”

A security overkill, Pitt thought. He turned to Giordino, who was holding up a green hand. “Where did you get the green palm?”

“From the paint on the door hinge. I grabbed it for support when we loaded the box.” He rubbed a finger over the stain. “Not green, turquoise. The paint on this plane isn’t dry.”

“Looks as if the turquoise paint was sprayed on less than eight hours ago,” observed Pitt.

“Could it be we’re being hijacked?” asked Giordino.

“Maybe, but we might as well enjoy the scenery below until we can determine we’re on the right course for Washington.”

The plane taxied for a few minutes before taking off over the sea under a cloud-free radiant blue sky. For the next few hours, Pitt and Giordino relaxed and took turns keeping watch through the windows at the water below. The plane flew across the Gulf of Mexico and crossed into the States at Pensacola, Florida. From there it appeared to be on a direct course for Washington. When Giordino recognized the nation’s capital in the distance, he turned to Pitt.

“Could it be we’re like a pair of suspicious old women?”

“I’ll reserve judgment until I see a red carpet leading to an armored car.”

In another fifteen minutes, the pilot banked the aircraft and headed onto the flight path for Andrews Air Force Base. Only two miles from the end of the runway, the plane made a barely perceptible sideways motion. Pitt and Giordino, themselves pilots with many hours in the cockpit, immediately sensed the slight course deviation.

“He’s not landing at Andrews,” Giordino announced calmly.

“No, he’s lining up to come into a small private airport just north of Andrews in a residential area called Gordons Corner.”

“I have this odd feeling that we’re not getting red-carpet, VIP treatment.”

“So it would appear.”

Giordino gazed at Pitt through squinted eyes. “The Wolfs?”

“Who else?”

“They must want the relics badly.”

“Without them, they have no hallowed symbols to rally around.”

“Not like them to play games. They could have just as well put down anywhere between Mexico and Virginia.”

“Without Karl and Hugo at the family helm,” said Pitt, “they either got sloppy or else they knew they’d be tracked all the way from Veracruz and chased by Air Force fighters if they attempted to deviate from the flight plan.”

“Should we take over the controls and head for Andrews?” Giordino asked.

“Better to wait until we’re on the ground,” said Pitt. “Busting into the cockpit while the pilot is flared for touchdown might cause bad things to happen.”

“You mean a crash?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s life,” mused Giordino. “I had my heart set on a marching band and a parade through the city.”

Seconds later, the wheels gave a brief screech as they smacked the asphalt of the landing strip. Staring through one of the windows, Pitt saw an armored truck and a pair of ML430 Mercedes-Benz suburban utility vehicles converge and follow in the wake of the aircraft. Quick sprinters with 268-horsepower V-8 engines, they were about as close to European sports sedans as a four-wheeler could get.

“Now’s the time,” he said briefly. He pulled his Colt from the duffel bag as Giordino retrieved his P-10. Then Giordino effortlessly kicked open the cockpit door and they rushed inside. The pilot and copilot automatically raised their hands without turning.

“We were expecting you, gentlemen,” said the pilot, as if reading from some script. “Please do not attempt to take control of the aircraft. We cut the control cables immediately after touchdown. This aircraft is inoperable and cannot fly.”

Pitt stared over the console between the pilots and saw that the cables to the control column and foot pedals were indeed sliced where they disappeared into the flight deck. “Both of you, out!” he snapped, as he dragged them out of their seats by the collars. “Al, throw their butts off the plane!”

The aircraft was still moving at twenty-five miles an hour when Giordino ejected the pilot and copilot through the passenger door onto the asphalt, taking satisfaction in seeing them bounce and roll like rag dolls. “What now?” he asked, as he reentered the cockpit. “Those tough-looking Mercedes SUVs are only a hundred yards behind our tail and coming fast.”

“We may not have flight controls,” replied Pitt, “but we still have brakes and engines.”

Giordino looked dubious. “You don’t expect to drive this thing down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House?”

“Why not?” Pitt said, as he pushed the throttle forward and sent the aircraft speeding across the taxiway and onto the road leading from the airport. “We’ll go as far as we can and hopefully reach heavy traffic where they wouldn’t dare attack.”

“You’re why cynics outlive optimists,” said Giordino. “The Wolfs are so desperate for the relics, they’d shoot down a stadium full of women and children to get them back in their dirty hands.”

“I’m open for suggestions—”

Pitt broke off as the thump of bullets into the aluminum-skin aircraft sounded inside the cockpit. He began hitting the right brake and then the left, sending the plane zigzagging down the road to throw off the aim of the gunners in the Mercedes.

“Time for me to play Wild Bill Hickok,” said Giordino.

Pitt handed him his .45. “You’ll need all the firepower you can get. There are extra clips in my duffel bag.”

Giordino lay down beside the open passenger door with his feet toward the rear of the aircraft and sighted over the tail section at the pursuing SUVs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bullets stitch through the port wing and open the fuel tank. Luckily there was no fire, but it was only a question of time before an engine was struck and flamed. He took careful aim and fired when Pitt turned from zig to zag.

Pitt literally threw the plane up the on-ramp leading to the Branch Avenue Highway that ran into the city. With both jet engines screaming, he soon had the airplane hurtling nearly a hundred miles an hour down the right lane and shoulder of the highway. Startled drivers gaped openmouthed as the plane shot by them, then watched, stunned, the gun battle between a man shooting out the passenger door of the aircraft and two Mercedes-Benz SUVs that chased in and out of traffic from behind.

Pitt knew the aircraft easily had the power to outrun the Mercedes, but he had a great disadvantage because of the forty-two-foot wingspan. It was only a matter of time before he clipped a car, a truck, or a light pole. His only advantage was that the engines were mounted on the fuselage. But they wouldn’t turn over long if one or both wings containing the fuel tanks were torn away. As it was, he noticed that the gauge that registered the fuel on the port tank was dropping at an alarming rate. He took a quick glance out his side window and saw the wing shredded by bullets and the fuel spraying out under the head wind.

He steered by the brakes, moving in and out of the light traffic that he knew would become heavier as he neared the city. When possible, he tried to pass and move in ahead of trucks, using them as a shield against the gunfire from the men in the SUVs. He could hear Giordino’s gun shooting from the main cabin, but he couldn’t see the results, nor could he tell how close his pursuers were behind the aircraft’s rudder.

With both feet on the brakes and his right hand on the throttles, he used his left to call a Mayday over the radio. The control tower operator at Andrews Air Force Base replied and asked for his location, as they did not have him on radar. When told he was on Branch Avenue approaching the Suit-land Parkway, the controllers thought he was a nutcase and ordered him sharply to get off the radio. But Pitt persisted and demanded they call the nearest police unit, a request they were more than happy to grant.

Back in the cabin, Giordino’s slow, methodically aimed fire finally paid off. He shot out the right front tire of the lead Mercedes, sending it into an uncontrollable skid across the highway, where it flew into a drainage ditch and rolled over three times before coming to rest upside down in a cloud of dust. The other Mercedes came on without hesitation and was gaining due to the increased traffic that was slowing Pitt. He needed two lanes and the shoulder to cut past cars and trucks looming ahead.

Sirens screamed in the distance, and soon red-and-blue flashing lights were seen coming from the opposite direction. The police cars cut across the grassy strip between the divided highway and picked up the chase almost on the rear bumper of the Mercedes, passing around it and rushing toward the aircraft the officers thought was in the hands of either a drug addict or a drunk.

For perhaps ten seconds, the police officers were not aware of the bullets coming out of the automatic rifles fired by the two men out the rear side-door windows of the lone Mercedes, but then the bullets ripped through the hoods of the police cars and mauled the engines, causing them to stop dead. The officers, surprised and bewildered, coasted their cars off the highway onto the shoulder as smoke rolled from beneath their hoods.

“They stopped the cops!” Giordino shouted through the cockpit door.