Clive Cussler - Atlantis Found

"Oh?" said Gunn, looking curiously at his trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else. "What mistake is that?"

Pitt was staring up at the gaping, jagged holes in his hangar's walls. There was a cold malignity glaring out of his opaline green eyes, a malignity Gunn had seen on at least four other occasions, and he shivered involuntarily.

"So far, the bad guys have had all the fun," said Pitt, his mouth twisted in a crooked grin. "Now it's my turn."

Pitt watched his security-camera tapes before going t0 bed and saw that the guards had done their homework. Using maps of the airport's underground drainage system, they'd found a large concrete pipe eight feet in diameter that carried away the rain and melted snow runoff from the airport's runways, taxiways, and terminal areas. The drainage pipe ran within ninety feet of Pitt's hangar. At a maintenance access, unseen in the high weeds, the guards had set up a well camouflaged observation post.

Pitt considered walking over and offering them coffee and sandwiches, but it was only a passing thought. The last thing he needed to do was compromise their security cover.

He had just dressed and finished a quick breakfast when a truck loaded with materials to repair the holes in the hangar stopped on the road outside. An unmarked van pulled up behind the truck and several women in coveralls stepped out. The security guards did not reveal their presence, but Pitt knew they were closely observing the scene. One of the workmen walked over to him.

"Mr. Pitt?"

"Yes."

"We'll get in, make the repairs, clean up the mess and get out as fast as we can."

Pitt watched in awe as men began unloading old rusting corrugated sheets that nearly matched those on the hangar walls. "Where did you find those?" he asked, pointing.

"You'd be surprised how the government keeps track of old building materials," the foreman replied. "What you see came off the roof of an old warehouse in Capital Heights."

"Our government is more efficient than I gave them credit for."

He left them to their work and was about to slip behind the wheel of a turquoise-colored NUMA Jeep Cherokee, when a black split-window Sting Ray Corvette stopped on the road. Giordino leaned out the passenger's window and yelled, "Need a lift?"

Pitt jogged to the car and climbed in, folded his legs, and settled in the leather seat. "You didn't tell me you were coming by."

"I was told to be at the same place as you at eight o'clock. Thought we might as well share a ride."

"You're okay, Al," said Pitt cheerfully, "I don't care what they say about you."

Giordino turned the Corvette off Wisconsin Avenue onto a small residential side street in Glover Park near the Naval Observatory. The street, only one block in length, was shaded by century-old elm trees. Except for a single house hidden behind high hedges, the block was empty. No parked cars, no people strolling the sidewalks.

"You sure we didn't make a wrong turn?" said Giordino.

Pitt looked through the windshield and pointed. "We're on the right street, and since that's the only house in sight, this must be the place."

Giordino turned into the second entrance of a circular driveway but kept going straight, to the rear of the house, instead of stopping under the front porte cochere. Pitt studied the three-story brick structure as Giordino steered toward a detached garage at the back. The house looked to have been built for someone of importance and wealth sometime after the Civil War. The grounds and house appeared immaculately maintained, but the curtains were all drawn, as if its tenants were away for an extended length of time.

The Corvette rolled into the garage, whose double doors were spread open. The interior was vacant, except for scattered garden tools, a lawn mower, and a tool bench that looked as if it hadn't been used in decades. Giordino turned off the ignition, placed the shift lever in Park, and turned to Pitt.

"Well, what now?"

His answer came as the doors automatically closed. A few seconds later, the car began to fall slowly through the floor of the garage on an elevator. But for a barely audible hum, the ride was soundless. Pitt tried to estimate the rate of descent and distance, but it became dark. After what he guessed was a drop of nearly a hundred feet, the elevator came to a gentle stop. An array of lights flashed on and they found themselves in a fair-size concrete parking garage filled with several cars. Giordino pulled the Corvette into an empty stall between a turquoise jeep Cherokee with "NUMA" painted on the front doors and a Chrysler limousine. The jeep, they knew, was Admiral Sandecker's. He insisted that all NUMA transportation vehicles be four-wheel-drive suburban utility vehicles, so they could be driven in the worst weather.

A Marine guard stood at the entrance to a metal doorway. "Think the car is okay here," said Giordino impishly, "or should I lock it?"

"Just a gut feeling," answered Pitt, "but I have the feeling it's not going anywhere."

They exited the car and walked over to the uniformed guard, who wore the three stripes of a sergeant on his sleeves. He nodded and greeted them. "You must be Dirk Pitt and Albert Giordino. You're the last to arrive."

"Don't you want to see our IDs?" asked Giordino.

The guard smiled. "I've studied your photos. Knowing which is which is like comparing Joe Pesci to Clint Eastwood. You're not difficult to tell apart."

He pressed a button beside the door and it slid open, revealing a short hallway leading to another metal door. "When you reach the inner door, stand still for a moment until the guard on the other side ID's you with a security camera."

"Doesn't he trust your judgment?" asked Giordino.

The guard never cracked a smile. "Insurance," he said tersely.

"Aren't they overdoing the security routine?" muttered Giordino. "We could have just as easily reserved a couple booths at Taco Bell to hold a briefing."

"Bureaucrats have a fetish for secrecy," said Pitt.

"At least I could have had a burrito."

They were passed through the door into a vast carpeted room whose walls were covered with drapes to mute the acoustics. A twenty-foot-long kidney-shaped conference table dominated the room. A huge screen covered the entire far wall. The room was comfortably lit, and easy on the eyes. Several men and one woman were already seated around the table. None stood as Pitt and Giordino approached.

"You're late." This from Admiral James Sandecker, the head of NUMA. A small athletic man with flaming red hair and a Vandyke beard, he had commanding cold blue eyes that took in everything. Sandecker was as canny as a leopard sleeping in a tree with one eye open- he knew that a meal would come to him sooner or later. He was testy and irascible but ran NUMA like a benevolent dictator. He motioned now to a man sitting on his left.

"I don't believe you two know Ken Helm, special agent with the FBI."

A gray-haired man, dressed in a tailored business suit, with speculative, quiet hazel eyes that peered over reading glasses, half rose out of his chair and extended his hand. "Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino, I've heard a great deal about you."

Which means he's perused our personnel files, Pitt thought to himself.

Sandecker turned to the man on his right. "Ron Little. Ron has a fancy title over at Central Intelligence, but you'd never know it."

Deputy director was the title that ran through Pitt's mind at meeting Little.

He looked through collie-brown eyes set in a deeply lined face- pious, middle-aged, a face etched with experience. He simply nodded. "Gentlemen."

"The others you know," Sandecker said, nodding down the table.

Rudi Gunn was furiously taking notes and didn't bother to look up.

Pitt stepped over and placed a hand on Pat O'Connell's shoulder and said softly, "Sooner than you thought."