Nick took one look at the metal detector Ivins had thrust into her hands and said, “Bloodhounds aren’t designed to find mineral deposits.”
“Gold?” Ivins shoved the second detector at Hurst. “Chicken feed. I told you. We’re looking for the Flying Dutchman.”
Ivins had forced Nick and Hurst to leave the cabin’s shelter to go exploring, while Karen stayed behind with Tyler and Barlow.
Ivins laughed at her bewilderment. “That mine’s only a namesake. What came out of it wouldn’t buy you a new dress, Doctor Scott. What I want you to find is the original Flying Dutchman. It’s a Junkers F.13, right up your alley if you’re the expert people say you are.”
Nick had never seen a Junkers F.13, but she’d read about them. It was the world’s first all-metal airliner. In 1919 it vaulted Germany into the forefront of commercial aviation. Its single-engine design had evolved from the warplanes that Junkers built during World War I. But as a collectable it hardly rated armed robbery. The Val was much more valuable because of its connection with Pearl Harbor.
She asked, “Why would a Junkers land here?”
“Gold miners flew it.”
“When?”
“In 1919.”
“In this wilderness,” Hurst said. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s here all right,” Ivins answered. “We have more than Erickson’s word on it. We’ve also confirmed it through independent research.”
Hurst pursed his lips. “I’ll say one thing, if any plane could make it, a Junkers could. They were great planes for their time. Did you know the Germans were still flying them on the Russian front as late as 1943? Six seaters, they were, though I imagine the Germans crammed in more soldiers than that.”
Hurst leaned the metal detector against his shoulder, freeing his gloved hands so he could rub them together as he warmed to his subject. “The F.13 was made of corrugated Duralumin from nose to tail. In its time, it held several altitude and distance records.”
“I knew it was a good idea to bring you along,” Ivins said. “But you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“It’s what you’re not telling us that worries me,” Nick said. “Look at this place.”
The narrow spit of land on which they stood was rocky and pitted, hardly a likely landing strip. But the glacial plain beyond, strewn with massive boulders, was even worse. This late in the day, under a heavy overcast, the landscape had turned an ugly gray.
Nick continued. “Why would a pilot risk landing his Junkers in a godforsaken place like this?”
“It’s a long story. Right now, just find me the damned thing.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know exactly where Erickson saw it, would you?”
“Somewhere near the end of this ridge, if you believe the old fart.”
“Which end?”
“He never said.”
“It’s too bad he’s not here now to show us.”
“Yeah, maybe we were a little premature there,” Ivins said. “But once he started blabbing about this place, I figured it was time he had a heart attack.”
“You killed him?” Hurst gasped.
Ivins shrugged. “Let’s just say the doctor cured him of getting any older.”
Hurst’s eyes widened as they focused on the pistol in Ivins’s hand. His expression said what Nick had already concluded, that once the guns had come out, their survival was unlikely, since Ivins wouldn’t want surviving witnesses.
Nick forced a smile. “What’s your Mister McKenna going to say when he finds out you killed the man who could have showed us where to look?”
Ivins gestured impatiently. “The Junkers was in plain sight in 1942.”
She hugged her hands into her armpits so Ivins wouldn’t see them shaking. More from cold and anger, she hoped, than from fear. The wind had picked up enough to send the chill factor plummeting. She glanced toward the cabin, where Karen Royce was guarding the others.
Ivins went on. “The old boy was very clear on that point. He described the Junkers in detail. It wasn’t going anywhere, he said, because it had crashed into a rock.”
Instinctively, Nick turned to study the rock slide that had buried the northern end of the spit.
“Jesus,” Hurst muttered, “if it’s under there we’ll be digging forever.”
“Let’s hope not,” Ivins said. “We haven’t got that much food. At least, you haven’t.”
“That rock fall is forty feet deep in places,” Nick pointed out. “At that depth, our metal detectors are useless. We won’t know where to begin. Besides, if that plane is under there, it won’t be worth salvaging.”
“Just start looking,” Ivins said.
“I suggest we walk the ridgeline first. Erosion could have sent the plane over the side.”
“I did that yesterday, and didn’t see anything.”
“You’re not an archaeologist,” Nick said. “What do you expect to find?”
“I won’t know until I see it.”
Ivins’s eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you the rules first. If you screw up, I shoot Mister Hurst. I figure he’s more expendable.”
A visible inspection along both sides of the spit produced no sign of the Junkers, but then Nick hadn’t expected to be that lucky. Still, procedure called for site survey before any digging began. And in this case procedure was buying them some time. It was also exposing them to a knife-sharp wind that cut to the bone.
Her hands were numb and she had a hard time holding onto the metal detector. Hurst had his Bloodhound slung over both shoulders, like a soldier so weary he no longer worried about the enemy.
“That’s it,” Nick said as they completed their tour. “That leaves us with the rock fall.”
She checked the blackening sky. “We don’t have much daylight left.” Or maybe Gus’s storm had finally arrived, bringing darkness with it.
Ivins, whose head was hunched into his parka, said, “To hell with this. We can start again in the morning.” He gestured toward the cabin.
When they reached it, Nick saw that two tents had been erected along the outer, western wall. The tents, though out of the direct gale, billowed in back-drafts each time the wind gusted. Several containers were stacked close by, along with a couple of small cans of gasoline.
“Karen!” Ivins shouted.
“In here.” Karen’s voice, though windblown, hadn’t come from the tents.
Ivins herded them to the far side of the cabin, where a light now shone from the opening that had once been a door. Old roof timbers had been wedged into the opening, enlarging it enough for a crawl-through on all fours.
Karen’s head poked out. “The wind chill out here is a killer, so I shifted all the equipment into the tents. As soon as I back up, send them in one at a time.”
Nick crawled in first, wriggling her way, wary of the squat, fragile-looking timbers that shored up what remained of the original door frame. Dislodge one, she thought, and she’d be trapped like a miner in a cave-in. But her claustrophobia was short-lived. The tunnel-like entrance quickly opened up into a room shaped like a lean-to with a dirt floor. A softly hissing kerosene lantern lit the cramped space as brightly as a hundred-watt bulb.
Karen was crouched with her back against the cabin wall, her pistol at the ready. Tyler and Barlow were jammed together in the corner, their hands behind their backs.
Karen pointed Nick into the corner with them. Hurst joined Karen.
“Now turn around,” Karen ordered, “with your hands behind your backs.”
“They’re using plastic handcuffs,” Barlow complained.
“They’re called restraints,” Ivins clarified. “They’re lightweight and tough as steel. Ain’t technology great?”
Nick’s every instinct told her to fight back but she resisted the temptation. Resistance would be useless in such a cramped space, especially against two guns.
“Let me do the honors,” Ivins added as he grabbed Nick’s wrists from behind, slipped a loop over them, and cinched it tight enough to hurt.
“You’ve cut off the circulation,” she said. “So?”
“I won’t be much use to you if I can’t use my hands.”
“Let me take a look,” Karen said. “After I do Hurst.”
Hurst grunted as the plastic noose tightened around his wrists.
Ivins said, “Okay, now she’s all yours.”
A moment later Karen said, “She’s right,” and loosened the restraint enough to stop the pain.
“You might as well make yourselves comfortable,” Ivins said. “It’s going to be a long night.”