Jack reached into his computer bag and pulled out several CDs. “I have them. I didn’t want them sent e-mail for obvious reasons. I had the images shipped out from Denver, FedEx.”
Paulson leaned forward and studied the disks. “Have you looked at the photos?”
“No, I just got them,” said Jack. “I thought we might take a look here.”
Jack handed the CD’s to Ridley, who leaned over to his desktop computer. The mechanic cleared away several flight manuals and pushed the CD into the access slot and selected photos listed simply as 001.jpg through 005.jpg.
“How do you know what’s what?” Ridley asked opening the files.
“I told Breslen not to label the pictures in any way, just as an additional precaution.”
Ridley selected the first digital photograph and double-clicked on it. The computer chewed on it for a moment, and then a crystal-clear view of a rugged white valley appeared in brilliant resolution on the computer screen. On the right side of the photo was the outline of an aircraft sitting on the ice. On the opposite a rugged peak jutted straight up. Thor’s Hammer was clearly visible in the clear Antarctic atmosphere.
“Damn if that isn’t a sight,” whispered Paulson.
Ridley squinted as he studied the miniature outline of the B-29 on the ice. “I can’t tell shit about the condition of the aircraft from that distance.”
Jack leaned forward. “That’s 16-meter resolution. There are pictures with a 1-meter resolution on those disks.”
Ridley studied the area surrounding the Las Tortugas. “That must be the Russian camp, but I can’t tell what they have in place with this lousy resolution.”
Jack pointed out a thin black line. It looked strangely out of place compared to the stark whiteness of the ice. “Any idea what that might be?”
Ridley grimaced. “I know what that is.” He stared at Paulson. “That’s a monument to the reckless nature of this salvage.”
“It’s the Antonov,” said Paulson.
“All that remains of an aircraft when it crashes is a thin black ribbon of debris, and the crew enjoys a flaming ride into hell.”
“That’s not going to happen to us,” said Paulson. “We’re gonna do this mission by the numbers.”
Ridley shook his head sadly. “I’m sure the Russian commander promised the same. Like I said, you got cold weather, low density take-off conditions at altitude. It’s more what will go right rather than what could go wrong.
Ridley pulled the disk out of the computer and slid in another one. The photos on this disk were labeled 010.jpg through 015.jpg. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Ridley clicked on the jpg labeled 0.10.jpg.
Instead of a white rugged landscape, the familiar shape of a B-29 Super Fortress filled the screen in razor-sharp detail.
A huge grin spread across Ridley’s face. “Bingo.”
He clicked on the zoom-in button and more of the Las Tortugas filled the screen. He pointed toward the engine nodules. “They’ve got new engines and props on engines one, two, three and four so that means they got the bomber on landing gear and probably have fresh wheels and tires installed.”
Ridley scrolled the picture left, then right, examining the aluminum-and-fabric skin of the bomber. “Looks like they got it all patched up, at least the top of it.” He scowled. “I can’t vouch for what kind of job they did with the fabric — hell, it might just rip right off halfway back to Chile.”
A series of metal structures stood in a circle next to the bomber. “They weren’t too concerned with comfort. It looks like they converted the cargo containers to living units and probably a makeshift machine shop. They probably heated them with propane heaters while they worked on the bird.”
Paulson leaned forward in anticipation. “Can you and your crew get it airworthy?”
“Provided they haven’t screwed up the engine installation,” Ridley said. “Boy, your Russian friends are gonna be really pissed when we fly this mother right out from under their noses.”
Paulson beamed, but before he could reply his cell phone began vibrating on the top of the cluttered desk. He looked at the number. “You were able to cancel my appearance with the proper grace and decorum, I assume.”
It had to be Karen.
Paulson rocked back in the chair. “You’re kidding. He said that? How’d they get that?” Paulson stood and paced around the office.
Jack felt increasingly uncomfortable as Paulson’s tone got angrier.
“What’d you tell them?” Paulson nodded a couple and then grinned from ear to ear. “Whatever I’m paying you, it isn’t near enough.” He winked at Jack. “Yeah, I know.” He laid the phone back on the table.
“Let me guess,” Jack said. “We got a problem.”
Paulson nodded. “The word is out on our recovery of the Tortugas, sort of. It’s just a rumor, no hard info, yet anyway. When Karen called, the producer asked if I was canceling due to the rumors that I was salvaging a ‘wrecked bomber in Antarctica.’ She flatly denied it, bless her heart.”
“Nice,” said Jack. “So that’s that?”
“Not exactly. Karen told ‘em I’d be happy to come on air as schedule to discuss the Everest adventure and deny any silly rumors concerning the Las Tortugas. She said I’d work out my scheduling conflict and be in-studio early.” He gave Jack a sly smile. “Here’s the best part: You’re coming along. I’m gonna need some cover.”
CHAPTER 26
Glen Janssen rappelled down the rock, his jaws clenched tight. He was experienced, but rock climbing wasn’t something one engaged in like tennis on a Sunday-afternoon whim. It had been a while since he’d hung from a rope.
“A couple more feet and I’ve got you, sir,” said the part-time park ranger and expert climber.
“Break out a couple of flashlights,” Janssen said.
“Yes, sir, I have them right here.” The ranger pulled out two heavy-duty black flashlights and switched them on. “Care to go first, sir?”
“You can just call me Glen,” Janssen said with a wink. “Stay close.”
After climbing through the narrow passageway, Janssen stood on the edge of the ancient city, his flashlight working back and forth across the structures inside. He shook his head. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
The ranger nodded in awe. “This is unbelievable. I mean, we’re told to be on the lookout for undiscovered villages, but I never thought we’d find one.” He pulled out his radio. “Should I make a call and get more people on the ledge?”
“We’ll hold off on that for now.” Janssen climbed down the first set of boulders leading to the dwelling floor.
He knew what he was looking for: pieces of red granite that had no business in an 800-year-old Native American dwelling, plus a way out of the cavern that led to the top of the mesa.
CHAPTER 27
Ridley looked out the window of the Gulfstream charter as it approached Oakland International Airport. The old mechanic woke Angus Lyon, a crack warbird mechanic he’d brought along to help with the engine replacement on the Caribou.
Lyon was a 40-year-old, hard-drinking Scotsman. When sober, he could take apart a large radial engine and rebuild it blindfolded. More important, he’d been checked out as a flight engineer on the B-29, something critical to flying the old bomber.
Ridley had learned over time that Lyon stayed rock solid and sober as long as he was on an aircraft retrieval mission. He could work in freezing temperatures in little more than a long sleeve T-shirt and seemed to get stronger after a series of 20-hour days out in the elements.