“This photo on display from your database,” he said. “It shows a barge containing crates. On the port rail, third crate from the stern, there are some visible markings. Do you see it?”
“Yes. Rather blurry from a thousand miles up.”
“Do your best to tell me what it says.”
Max crinkled her nose as the supercomputer that created her leaped at the challenge. The photographic image was broken down and redisplayed many thousand different ways, as an optical scanner recorded each variation. One by one, each letter was dissected. After less than a minute, Max winked at Yaeger. “You may want to inform the boss.”
“What does it say?”
“.”
“You lost me,” Yaeger said.
“It’s Bulgarian.” Max gave him an abrasive look. “It’s the word for munitions.”
31
Dirk stepped onto the Odin’s bridge wing as the ship entered Hjeltefjorden, a twenty-two-mile waterway that stretched southeast toward Norway’s Bergen Peninsula. Snowcapped hills rose sharply on either side, as the vessel steamed toward Bergen. The sun shone brightly, casting the waters a brilliant sapphire while softening the chill of a stiff southerly breeze.
A thumping caught his attention and he turned to spot a helicopter approaching from behind. Skimming over the fjord, the chopper raced by just off Odin’s beam. Dirk didn’t recognize the model, and its registration markings appeared to be taped over. He watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon on the route to Bergen, then he descended two flights of stairs and entered the wardroom. In the corner, Jack Dahlgren sat at a table, sipping coffee. His left leg was wrapped in a temporary cast and propped on a suitcase.
Dirk smiled. “They finally kick you o
ut of sick bay, stumpy?”
“I exhausted their supply of painkillers, so there was no reason to stick around,” Dahlgren said. The discomfort from his broken leg was evident in the hooded squint of his eyes.
“How’s the leg?”
“Mostly numb, except when I move. The doc did what he could, but with a shattered femur, I’m headed for shoreside surgery and a leg full of tin.”
“I’m sure you’ll get top care in Bergen, along with all the lutefisk you can stomach.”
“I was banking on it, but I think your sis has other designs.” He pointed across the room at Summer, who had just entered and was striding toward them, carrying a leather purse. She limped from a sore ankle and was trying to hide a large bruise on the side of her face by letting her long red hair hang loose.
“The second member of the Walking Wounded Club arrives,” Dirk said.
Summer shook her head. “The submersible rolls over—and Jack breaks his leg and I get a new face. Meanwhile, you waltz out without so much as a scratch. Show me the justice in that.”
“I think when we tumbled, his skull put a few dents in the submersible,” Dahlgren said. “Did more damage to the submersible than to himself.”
“Always was hardheaded,” Summer said.
“But not the only one in the family,” Dirk said. “So what’s this about not letting Jack get patched up in Bergen?”
“I just booked tickets for the three of us on an afternoon flight to London.”
“Why London?”
“The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, the Royal Navy, and Cambridge University.”
Dirk and Dahlgren looked at each other and shrugged.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dahlgren said. “What’s the significance of those three establishments?”
“Well, for starters, the hospital is where Dr. Steven Miller holds seasonal residency. Miller is a world-renowned orthopedic surgeon from Muncie, Indiana, who happens to be an old friend of Rudi Gunn. At Rudi’s request, Dr. Miller is ready and waiting to rebuild Jack’s leg as soon as we arrive.”
Dahlgren smiled. “Adios, lutefisk.”