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.

PART FIVE

ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN

APRIL 15, 2001

WASHINGTON, D.C.

WHEN THE MILITARY Pa.s.sENGER aircraft sent to bring Pitt, Giordino, and the relics from Ok.u.ma 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 c.o.c.kpit, the plane was deserted. After loading the box and tying it down to the floor, Pitt tried to open the c.o.c.kpit 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 c.o.c.kpit, 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 c.o.c.kpit 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 b.u.t.ts off the plane!"

The aircraft was still moving at twenty-five miles an hour when Giordino ejected the pilot and copilot through the pa.s.senger door onto the asphalt, taking satisfaction in seeing them bounce and roll like rag dolls. "What now?" he asked, as he reentered the c.o.c.kpit. "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 c.o.c.kpit. 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 pa.s.senger 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 st.i.tch 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 pa.s.senger 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.