The Mediterranean Caper

Clive Cussler

BERKLEY BOOKS, New York

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE MEDITERRANEAN CAPER

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

Originally published in Great Britain in 1973 as May Day by Sphere Books Ltd., and in 1977 by Bantam Books, Inc., as The Mediterranean Caper.

Copyright © 1973 by Clive Cussler.

Dirk Pitt® is a registered trademark of Clive Cussler.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4362-1723-7

BERKLEY®

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

"GET-TO-THE-NEXT-PAGE EXCITEMENT…

Dirk Pitt is a combination James Bond and Jacques Cousteau."

—New York Daily News

On a quiet Greek island, a U.S. Air Force base has come under attack—by a World War I fighter plane…

THE MEDITERRANEAN CAPER

Now it's up to Dirk Pitt to root out the elusive truth behind the attack—and find out how it's connected to mysterious acts of sabotage against a scientific expedition, an international smuggling ring and a dark-haired beauty with some dangerous secrets…

"Nobody does it better than Clive Cussler. NOBODY!"

—Stephen Coonts

"Cussler is the master of building suspense and tension."

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

"Cussler can keep anyone on the edge of their chair with his gripping descriptions of action."

—UPI

"Full of action, intrigue and beautiful women."

—San Antonio Express-News

CLIVE CUSSLER is…

"Just about the best storyteller in the business."

—New York Post

DIRK PITT® is…

that rarest of individuals without whom the world could not survive. He is a man of swift, decisive action who lives by his honor—forever standing watch on the front lines in the enduring war between good and evil. As the son of a U.S. senator, graduate of the Air Force Academy and special projects director for the U.S. National Underwater and Marine Agency (NUMA), his courage and cool under fire are matched only by his forceful nature and ferocious determination to do whatever is necessary. Pitt reports directly to Admiral James Sandecker, the cunning commander of NUMA, and is backed up by the tough, streetwise Al Giordino—a childhood friend and partner in undersea adventure for more than twenty years.

PRAISE FOR

CLIVE CUSSLER AND THE DIRK PITT® SERIES

"ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO PUT DOWN."

—The San Francisco Examiner

"WICKEDLY ENGROSSING."

—Publishers Weekly

"BY FAR THE BEST."

—Tulsa World

"ENOUGH INTRIGUE TO SATISFY EVEN THE MOST DEMANDING THRILL-SEEKERS…An entertaining and exciting saga, full of techno details and narrow escapes."

—The Chattanooga Times

"PURE ENTERTAINMENT…AS RELIABLE AS PITT'S TRUSTY COLT.45."

—People

DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

Trojan Odyssey

Valhalla Rising

Atlantis Found

Flood Tide

Shock Wave

Inca Gold

Sahara

Dragon

Treasure

Cyclops

Deep Six

Pacific Vortex

Night Probe

Vixen 03

Raise the Titanic!

Iceberg

The Mediterranean Caper

DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND DIRK CUSSLER

Treasure of Khan

Black Wind

KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS

The Navigator

Polar Shift

Lost City

White Death

Fire Ice

Serpent

Blue Gold

OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH JACK DU BRUL AND CRAIG DIRGO

Skeleton Coast

Dark Watch

Sacred Stone

Golden Buddha

NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO

The Sea Hunters II

The Sea Hunters

Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed

CHILDREN'S BOOKS BY CLIVE CUSSLER

The Adventures of Vin Fiz

To Amy and Eric,

long may they wave.

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

It was oven hot, and it was Sunday. In the air traffic tower, the control operator at Brady Air Force Base lit a cigarette from a still-glowing butt, propped his stocking feet on top of a portable air conditioner and waited for something to happen.

He was totally bored, and for good reason. Air traffic was slow on Sundays. In fact, it was nearly nonexistent. Military pilots and their aircraft rarely flew on that day in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations, particularly since no international political trouble was brewing at the moment. Occasionally a plane might set down or take off, but it was usually just a quick refueling stop for some VIP who was in a hurry to get to a conference somewhere in Europe or Africa.

The control operator scanned the large flight schedule blackboard for the tenth time since he came on duty. There were no departures, and the only estimated time of arrival was at 1630, almost five hours away.

He was young—in his early twenties—and strikingly refuted the myth that fair-haired people cannot tan well; wherever skin showed, it looked like dark walnut laced with strands of platinum blond hair. The four stripes on his sleeve denoted the rank of a Staff Sergeant, and although the temperature was touching ninety-eight degrees, the armpits of his khaki uniform displayed no damp sweat stains. The collar on his shirt was open and missing a tie; a custom normally allowed at Air Force facilities located in warm atmospheres.

He leaned forward and adjusted the louvers on the air conditioner so that the cool air ran up his legs. The new position seemed to satisfy him, and he smiled at the refreshing tingle. Then, clasping his hands behind his head, he relaxed backward, staring at the metal ceiling.

The everpresent thought of Minneapolis and the girls parading Nicollet Avenue crossed his mind. He counted again the fifty-four days left to endure before he was rotated back to the States. When each day came it was ceremoniously marked off in a small black notebook he carried in his breast pocket.

Yawning for perhaps the twentieth time, he picked up a pair of binoculars that were sitting on the window ledge, and surveyed the parked aircraft that rested on the dark asphalt runway stretching beneath the elevated control tower.

The runway lay on the island of Thasos in the northern part of the Aegean Sea. The island was separated from the Greek Macedonia mainland by sixteen miles of water, appropriately called the Thasos Strait. The Thasos land mass consisted of one hundred and seventy square miles of rock, timber and remnants from classical history dating back to 1000 B.C.

Brady Field, as generally termed by the base personnel, was constructed under a treaty between the United States and the Greek government in the late nineteen sixties. Except for ten F-105 Starfire Jets, the only other permanently based aircraft were two monstrous C-133 Cargomaster transports that sat like a pair of fat silver whales, glistening in the blazing Aegean sun.

The sergeant pointed the binoculars at the dormant aircraft and searched for signs of life. The field was empty. Most of the men were either in the nearby town of Panaghia drinking beer, sunbathing on the beach or napping in the air-cooled barracks. Only a solitary MP guarding the main gate, and the constant rotation of the radar antennae atop its cement bunker offered any form of human presence. He slowly raised the lenses and peered over the azure sea. It was a bright, cloudless day, and he could easily recognize details on the distant Greek mainland. The glasses swung east and gathered in the horizon line where deep blue water met light blue sky. Through the shimmering haze of heat waves the white speck of a ship resting at anchor came into view. He squinted and adjusted the focus knob to clarify the ship's name on the bow. He could just barely make out the tiny black words: First Attempt.

That's a dumb name, he thought. The significance escaped him. Other markings also darkened the ship's hull. In long, heavy, black lines across the center of the hull were the vertical letters NUMA, which he knew stood for the National Underwater Marine Agency.

A huge crooked crane stood on the stern of the ship and hung over the water, lifting a round ball-like object from the depths. The sergeant could see men laboring about the crane, and he felt inwardly glad that civilians had to work on a Sunday too.

Suddenly his visual exploration was cut short by a robot-like voice over the intercom.

"Hello, Control Tower, this is Radar…Over!"

The sergeant laid down the binoculars and flicked a microphone switch. "This is the Control Tower, Radar. What's up?"

"I've got a contact about ten miles to the west."

"Ten miles west?" boomed the sergeant. "That's inland over the island. Your contact is practically on top of us." He turned and looked again at the big lettered blackboard, reassuring himself that no scheduled flights were due. "Next time, let me know sooner?"

"Beats me where it came from," droned the voice from the radar bunker. "Nothing has shown on the scope in any direction under one hundred miles in the last six hours."

"Well either stay awake down there or get your damn equipment checked," snapped the sergeant. He released the mike button and grabbed the binoculars. Then he stood up and peered to the west.

It was there…a tiny dark dot, flying low over the hills at treetop level. It came slow; no more than ninety miles an hour. For a few moments it seemed to hang suspended over the ground, and then, almost all at once, it began to take on shape. The outlines of the wings and fuselage drew into sharp focus through the binoculars. It was so clear as to be unmistakable. The sergeant gaped in astonishment as the rattley-bang engine sound of an old single seat, biwing airplane complete with rigid, spoked wheel landing gear, tore the arid island air.

Except for the protruding in-line cylinder head, the fuselage followed a streamlined shape that tapered to straight sides at the open cockpit. The great wooden propeller beat the air like an old windmill, pulling the ancient craft over the landscape at a tortoise-like air speed. The fabric covered wings wavered in the wind and showed the early characteristic scalloped trailing edge. From the spinner enclosing the propeller hub to the rear tips of the elevators, the entire machine was painted a bright and flamboyant yellow. The sergeant lowered the glasses just as the plane displaying the familiar black Maltese Cross markings of World War I Germany flashed by the control tower.

In another circumstance the sergeant would have probably dropped to the floor if an airplane buzzed the control tower at no more than five feet. But his amazement at seeing a very real ghost from the dim skies of the Western Front was too much for his senses to grasp, and he stood stock-still. As the plane passed, the pilot brazenly waved from his cockpit. He was so close that the sergeant could see the features of his face under the faded leather helmet and goggles. The spectre from the past was grinning and patting the butts of the twin machine guns, mounted on the cowling.

Was this some sort of colossal joke? Is the pilot a nutty Greek with a circus? Where did he come from? The sergeant's brain spun with questions but no answers. Suddenly he became aware of twin, blinking spots of light, emitting behind the propeller of the plane. Then the glass of the control tower windows shattered and disappeared around him.

A moment in time stopped and war came to Brady Field. The pilot of the World War I fighter dipped around the control tower and strafed the sleek modern jets parked lazily on the runway. One by one the F-105 Starfires were raked and slashed by ancient eight millimeter bullets that tore into their thin aluminum skin. Three of them burst into flames as their full tanks of jet fuel ignited. They burned fiercely, melting the soft asphalt into smoking puddles of tar. Again and again, the bright yellow flying antique soared over the field, spitting a leaden stream of destruction. One of the C-133 Cargomasters went next. It erupted in a gigantic roar of flames that rose hundreds of feet into the air.

In the tower the sergeant lay on the floor, looking dazedly at a red trail of blood that oozed from his chest. He gently pulled the black notebook from his breast pocket and stared in fascinated surprise at a small, neat hole in the middle of the cover. A dark veil began to circle his eyes and he shook it off. Then he struggled to his knees and looked around the room.

Glittering fragments of broken glass blanketed the floor, the radio equipment, the furniture. In the center of the room, the air conditioner lay upside down like a dead mechanical animal, its legs thrown stiffly in the air and its coolant trickling onto the floor from several round punctures. The sergeant dully peered up at the radio. Miraculously it was untouched. Painfully, he crawled across the floor slicing his knees and hands on the crystal slivers. He reached the microphone and grasped it tightly, bloodying the black plastic handle.

Darkness crowded the sergeant's thoughts. What is the proper procedure? he wondered. What does one say at a time like this? Say something, his mind shouted, say anything!

"To all who can hear my voice. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! This is Brady Field. We are under attack by an unidentified aircraft. This is not a drill. I repeat, Brady Field is under attack…"

1

1

Major Dirk Pitt adjusted the headset on his thick black hair and slowly turned the channel crank on the radio, trying to fine-tune the reception. He listened intently for a few moments, his dark, sea-green eyes reflecting a trace of bewilderment. A frown cut his forehead in a series of grooves and hung there in the tanned leathery skin.

It wasn't that the words crackling over the receiver weren't understandable. They were. He just didn't believe them. He listened again, and listened hard over the droning roar of the PBY Catalina's twin engines. The voice he heard was fading, when it should have been getting stronger. The volume control was turned to full-on, and Brady Field was only thirty miles away. Under those conditions, the air traffic operator's voice should have blasted Pitt's eardrums out. The operator is either losing power or he's seriously injured, thought Pitt. He pondered a minute and then reached over to his right and shook the sleeping figure in the co-pilot's seat.

"Come out of it, sleeping beauty." He spoke in a tone that was soft and effortless, yet had a way of making itself heard in a throbbing airplane or a crowded room.

Captain Al Giordino wearily raised his head and yawned loudly. The fatigue of sitting in an old vibrating PBY flying boat for thirteen hours straight was evident in his dark, bloodshot eyes. He flung his arms upward, puffed out his barrel chest and stretched. Then he came erect and leaned forward, peering out in the distance beyond the cockpit windows.

"Are we over the First Attempt yet?" Giordino mumbled through another yawn.

"Almost," replied Pitt. "There's Thasos dead ahead."

"Oh hell," Giordino grunted; then grinned. "I could have slept another ten minutes. Why'd you wake me?"

"I intercepted a message from Brady Control that said the field was under attack by an unidentified aircraft."

"You can't be serious," Giordino said incredulously. "It must be some kind of a joke."

"No, I don't think so. The control operator's voice didn't sound like it was faking." Pitt hesitated and kept an eye on the water only fifty feet away as it flashed under the PBY's hull. Just for practice he had wave-hopped the last two hundred miles; a means of keeping his reflexes honed and sharp.

"It might be that Brady Control was telling the truth," said Giordino, peering through the cockpit windshield. "Look over there toward the eastern part of the island."

Both men stared at the approaching mound rising out of the sea. The beaches bordering the surf were yellow and barren, but the round sloping hills were green with trees. The colors danced in the heat waves and vividly contrasted against the encircling blue of the Aegean. On the eastern side of Thasos a large pillar of smoke rose into the windless sky and formed a giant, spiral-shaped, black cloud. The PBY's bow soared closer to the island, and soon they could distinguish the orange movement of flames at the base of the smoke.

Pitt grabbed the mike and pressed the button on the side of the handgrip. "Brady Control, Brady Control, this is PBY-086, over." There was no response. Pitt repeated the call twice more.

"No answer?" queried Giordino.

"Nothing," returned Pitt.

"You said an unidentified aircraft. I take it that means one?"

"That's precisely what Brady Control said before they went off the air."

"It doesn't make sense. Why would one plane attack a United States Air Force Base?"

"Who knows," Pitt said, easing the control column back slightly. "Maybe it's an irate Greek farmer who's tired of our jets scaring his goats. Anyway, it can't be a full-scale attack, or Washington would have notified us by now. We'll have to wait and see." He rubbed his eyes and blinked away the drowsiness. "Get ready. I'm going to take her up, circle in over those hills and come down out of the sun for a closer look."

"Take it nice and easy." Giordino's eyebrows came together and he grinned a serious grin. "This old bus is way overmatched if that's a rocket firing jet down there."

"Don't worry." Pitt laughed. "My main goal in life is to stay healthy as long as possible." He pushed the throttles forward, and the two Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines increased their beat. His large, brown hands moved efficiently, pulling back on the control column, and the plane aimed its flat snout at the sun. The big Catalina rose steadily, gaining altitude by the second, and circled above the Thasos mountains in the direction of the growing smoke cloud.

Suddenly, a voice broke in over Pitt's headset. The unexpected sound nearly deafened his ears before he could lower the volume—the same voice he heard before, but stronger this time.

"This is Brady Control calling. We are under attack! I repeat, we are under attack! Come in…anybody, please reply!" The voice was near hysteria.

Pitt replied, "Brady Control, this is PBY-086. Over."

"Thank God, someone answered," the voice gasped.

"I tried to raise you before, Brady Control, but you faded and went off the air."

"I was hit in the first attack, I…I must have passed out. I'm all right now." The words sounded broken, but coherent.

"We're approximately ten miles west of you at six thousand feet." Pitt spoke slowly and did not repeat his position. "What is your situation?"

"We have no defense. All our aircraft were destroyed on the ground. The nearest interceptor squadron is seven hundred miles away. They'll never get here in time. Can you assist?"

Pitt shook his head from side to side from habit. "Negative Brady Control. My top speed is under one hundred ninety knots and I only have a couple of rifles on board. We'd be wasting our time engaging a jet."

"Please assist," the voice pleaded. "Our attacker is not a jet bomber but a World War I biplane. I repeat, our attacker is a World War I biplane. Please assist."

Pitt and Giordino merely looked at each other, dumbfounded. It was a full ten seconds before Pitt could pull his senses back into reign.

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