Air Force 19385628.'
'That wasn't so bad, now was it, Sam?' Pitt bent and helped Cashman to his feet.
'Ahim sorry, sir. Ah figured that as long as ya were gonna court-martial me anyway-'
'You're lousy at figuring Pitt interrupted. 'Next time keep your mouth shut. You admitted guilt when you didn't have to.'
'Are ya still gonna bust me?'
'To begin with, I don't give a rat's ass whether you moonlight or not. Since I'm not stationed at Keflavik Air Force Base, I could care less about the policieschicken shit as they are-of your Colonel Nagel. Therefore, I won't be the one to bust you. All I want is the answers to a few simple questions.' Pitt stared Cashman in the eye and smiled warmly. 'Now how about it? Will you help me?'
The expression on Cashman's face displayed genuine awe. 'Christ Almighty, what ah wouldn't give to serve under an officer like you.' He extended his hand.
'Ask away, Major.'
Pitt returned Cashman's grip. 'First question: do you usually scratch your initials in the equipment you repair?'
'Yeah, it's kind of a trademark, ya might say. Ah do good work an ahim proud of it. Serves a purpose too. If ah work on the hydraulic system of an aircraft and it comes back with a malfunction, ah know the trouble lays where ah didn't work. It saves a lot of time.'
'Have you ever repaired the nose gear of a twelvepassenger British jet?'
Cashman thought for a moment. 'Yeah, about a month ago. One of those new executive twin turbine Ulysses-a hell of a machine.'
'Was it painted black?'
'Ah couldn't see paint markin's. It was dark, about one-thirty in the mornin' when ah got the call.'
He shook his head. 'Wasn't black, though. Ahim positive.'
'Any distinguishing features or anything unusual about the repair that you can recall?'
Cashman laughed. 'The only distinguishin' features were the two weirdos who were flyin' it.' He held up a cup, offering Pitt some coffee. Pitt shook his head.
'Well, these guys were in a terrible hurry. Kept standin' around tryin' to push me. Pissed me off plenty. Seems they made a rough landin' somewhere and busted a seal in the shock cylinder. They were damned lucky that ah found a spare over at the B.O.A.C hangars.'
'Did you get a look inside?'
'Hell no, you'd have thought they had the President on board the way they guarded the loadin' door.'
'Any idea where they came from or where they were headed?'
'No way, they were tightlipped bastards. Talked about nothin, but the repair. Must have been on a local flight though. They didn't refuel. You ain't flyin' far in a Lorelei-not from Iceland anyhow-without full tanks.'
'The pilot must have signed a maintenance order.'
'Nope. He refused. Said He was behind schedule and would catch me next time. Paid me though. Twice what the job was worth.' Cashman was silent for a moment. He tried to read something in the man standing before him, but Pitts face was as impenetrable as a granite statue. 'What's behind these questions, Major?
Mind lettin' me in on your secret?'
'No secret,' Pitt said slowly. 'A Lorelei crashed a couple of days ago and nothing except a portion of the nose gear was left to identify. I'm trying to trace it, that's all.'
'Wasn't it reported as missin'?'
'I wouldn't be here if it was.'
'Ah knew there was something fishy about them guys. That's why ah went ahead and filled out a maintenance report.'
Pitt leaned over, his eyes boring into Cashman's.
'What good was a report if you couldn't identify the aircraft?'
A shrewd smile split Cashman's lips. 'Ah may be a country boy, but mah momma didn't drop me outta her bottom this mornin'.' He stood up and tilted his head toward a side door. 'Major, ahim gonna make your day.'
He led Pitt into a small dingy office furnished with only a battered desk that was decorated with at least fifty cigarette burn marks, two equally battered chairs and a huge metal filing cabinet. Cashman walked straight to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer, rummaged for a moment, found what he was looking for and handed Pitt a folder soiled with greasy fingerprints.
'Ah wasn't kidding' ya, Major, when ah said it was too dark to make out any paint markin's. Near as ah could tell, the plane had never been touch by a brush or spraygun. The aluminum skin was —,Is shiny as the day it let the factory.'
Pitt opened the folder and scanned the maintenance report. Cashman's handwritin left much to be desired, but there was no mistaking the notation under AIRCRAFT IDENTIFICATION:
'Compliments of a limey inspector at the Lorelei factory,' Cashman answered, sitting on a corner of the desk. 'After replacin' the seal on the nose gear, ah took a flashlight and checked out the main landin' gear for damage or leakage, and there it was, stuck away under the right strut as pretty as you please. A green tag sayin' that this here aircraft's landin' gear had been examined and okayed by master inspector Clarence Devonshire of Lorelei Aircraft Limited. The plane's serial number was typed on the tag.'
Pitt threw the folder on the desk. 'Sergeant Cashman!' he snapped.
Stunned at the brusque tone, Cashman jumped erect. 'Sir?'
'Your squadron!'
'Eighty-seventh Air Transport Squadron, sir.'
'Good enough.' Pitts cold expression slowly worked into a huge grin and he slapped Cashman on the shoulder. 'You're absolutely right, Sam. You truly made my day.'
'Wish ah could say the same,' Cashman sighed, visibly relieved, 'but that's twice in the last ten minutes ya scared the crap outta me. Why'd ya want mah squadron?'
'So I'd know where to send a case of Jack Daniel's. I take it you enjoy good whiskey?'
A look of wonder suddenly came over Cashman's face. 'By gawd, Major, you're sumthin' else. Ya know that?'
'I try.' Already Pitt was plotting how to explain a case of expensive whiskey on his expense account.
What the hell, screw Sandecker, he thought; the tab was worth the consequences. Screw, the word bounded out of his mind and caused him to remember something. He reached inside his pocket.
'By the way, have you ever seen this before?' He handed Cashman the screwdriver he'd found on the black Lorelei.
'Well, waal, fancy that. Believe it or not, Major, this here screwtwister is mine. Bought it through the catalog of a tool specialty house in Chicago. It's the only one of its kind on the island. Where'd you come across it?'
'In the wreck.'
'So that's where it went,' he said angry. 'Those dirty bastards stole it. Ah should a known they were up to sumthin' illegal. Ya just tell me when their trial is, and ah'fl be happier than a rejected hog at a packin' plant to testify against them.'
'Save your leave time for a wor-thwbhe escapade.
Your friends won't be showing for a trial. They bought the farm.'
'Killed in the wreck?' It was more statement than question.
Pitt nodded.
'Ah suppose ah could go on about crime not payin', but why bother.
If they had it coming', they had it coming'. That's all there is to it.'
'As a philosopher, you make a great hydraulic specialist, Sam.' Pitt shook Cashman's hand once more.
'Good-by and thank you. I'm grateful for your help.'
'Glad to do it, Major. Here, keep the screwdriver for a souvenir.
Already ordered a new one, so won't be needin' it.'
'Thanks again.' Pitt shoved the screwdriver back in his pocket, turned and left the office.
