Clive Cussler: Iceberg

"I have to hand it to you. That was the slickest con job it's been my misfortune ever to witness."

"I know. There are times when I hate myself."

"Have you considered what may happen when Commander Koski sees through our devious little plan?" Pitt stood up and stretched. "We simply do what any good con man would do."

"And that is?" Hunnewell prompted dubiously.

Pitt smiled. "We siply worry about it when the time comes."

Of all the oceans, only the Atlantic is totally unpredictable. The Pacific, the Indian, even the Arctic each have their personal idiosyncrasies, but all have one trait in common: they seldom fail to provide a hint of their coming moods. Not so the Atlantic, especially north of the 15th parallel of latitude. In a matter of a few hours a glassy calm sea might be transformed into a foamwhipped cauldron instigated by a Force 12 hurricane, or there are times when the Atlantic's fickle nature works in reverse. Heavy winds, heavy seas during the night may give every indication of an impending storm, yet when the dawn comes, there is nothing to see but an azure n=or beneath an empty sky. And so it was for the men on the Catawaba as the new sun found them cruising comfortably over a peaceful seascape.

Pitt woke slowly, his eyes coming into focus on the rear of a pair of extra-large white shorts, amply filled by Dover, who was bending over a small basin brushing his teeth.

"You've never looked lovelier," Pitt said.

Dover turned around, the toothbrush poised over his bottom left molars. "Huh?"

"I said, good morning!"

Dover merely nodded, mumbled something incoherent through the toothpaste, and turned back to the basin.

Pitt sat up and listened. The hum of engines was still there, and the only other mechanical sound came from the rush of warm air through the ventilator. The motion of the ship seemed so smooth, it was almost imperceptible.

"I don't wish to appear a rude host, Major," Dover said, smiling, "but I suggest you blossom from that sack. We should be within range of your search area in another hour and a half."

Pitt threw off the blankets and stood up. "First things first. How is your establishment classed when it comes to breakfast?"

"A two-star Michelin rating," Dover said cheerfully. "I'll even treat."

Pitt had a fast wash, decided against a shave, and quickly slipped into his flight clothes. He followed Dover into the passageway, wondering how a man as large as the lieutenant could wander around the ship without running his head into low bulkheads at least ten times a day.

They had just finished a breakfast that Pitt figured would have cost at least five dollars in any of the better hotels when a seaman came up and said that Commander Koski wanted to see them in the bridge control room. Dover followed him, with Pitt lagging a few steps behind carrying a cup of coffee. The commander and Hunnewell were crouched over a chart table as they entered the room.

Koski looked up. The outthrust jaw no longer set like the bow of an icebreaker, and the intense blue eyes seemed almost tranquil.

"Good morning, Major. Are you enjoying your stay?"

"The accommodations are a bit cramped, but the food is superb."

The hard but genuine smile came on. "What do you think of our little electronic wonderland?"

Pitt made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan of the control room. It was like something out of a science fiction space movie. From floor to ceiling the four steel bulkheads stood buried behind a mechanical avalanche of computers, television monitors, and instrumented consoles. Endless rows of technically labeled switches and knobs crisscrossed the equipment, garnished by enough colored indicator lights to fin a casino marque Las Vegas.

"Very impressive," Pitt said casually, sipping his coffee. "Air-search radar and surface-search radar scanners. the latest Loran-type navigational equipment of medium, high and ultra-high frequencies, not to mention computerized navigational plotting." Pitt spoke with the nonchalant air of a public relations director employed by the boatyard that laid the Catawaba's keel.

"The Catawaba comes equipped from the factory with more extensive oceanographic, communications, navigational, aerological and plotting equipment than any ship its size in the world. Basically, Commander, your vessel is designed to remain in midocean under any atmospheric conditions as a weather station, to conduct search and rescue operations, and to assist in oceanographic research work. I might add that she is manned by seventeen officers and one hundred sixty enlisted men, and cost between twelve and thirteen million dollars to build at the Northgate Shipyards in Wilmington, Delaware."

Koski, Dover and all the other men in the bridge control room, with the exception of Hunnewell, who remained intent on the chart, froze. If Pitt had been the first Martian to visit earth, he couldn't have possibly been the object of more incredulous apprehensiveness.

"Don't be surprised, gentlemen," Pitt said, feeling the warmth of self-satisfaction. "I make it a habit to do my homework."

"I see," Koski said grimly. It was obvious that he didn't see. "Perhaps you might give us a clue as to why you've studied your lessons so diligently."

Pitt shrugged. "As I've said, it's a habit."

"An irritating one at that." Koski looked at Pitt with a hint of uneasiness. "I wonder if you're really what you say you are."

"Dr. Hunnewell and I are bona fide," Pitt said reassuringly.

"We'll know for certain in approximately two minutes, Major." Koski's tone suddenly turned cynical. "I like to do my homework too."

"You don't trust me," Pitt said dryly. "A pity. Your mental anxiety is all for nothing. Dr. Hunnewell and I have no intent, or the means, for that matter, of endangering the safety of your ship or crew."

"You've given me no opportunity for trust." Koski's eyes were bleak, his voice icy. "You carry no written orders, I've received no radio signals regarding your authority, nothing… nothing but a vague message from Coast Guard Headquarters announcing your arrival. I might point out that anyone with a know'ledge of our call signal could have sent that communication."

"Nothing's impossible," Pitt said. He couldn't help but admire Koski's perception. The commander had struck the nail precisely on the head.

"If you're playing a shady game, Major, I want no part of it-I, Koski broke off to accept a signal form from a seaman, and studied it carefully, taking his time about it. A strange considering look crossed his face. Then he frowned as he passed the sheet across to Pitt. "It seems that you're a never-ending source of surprise."

If Pitt didn't look uncomfortable, he certainly felt it. The,ohous exposure had been a long time coming, and he d had plenty of time to prepare. Unfortunately, he hadn't come up with a plausible back-up story. Pitt quickly decided there was little he couldd do but take the form from the commander's hand and appear unconcerned. It said: "Regarding your inquiry of Dr. William Hunnewell and Major Dirk Pitt, Dr. Hunnewell's credentials are of the highest caliber. He is Director of the California Institute of Oceanography. Major Pitt is indeed Special Projects Director for NUMA. He also is the son of Senator George Pitt. These men are engaged in oceanographic research vital to the interests Of the goverdment and are to be extended every assistance and courtesy, Also, inform Major Pitt that Admiral Sandecker requests that the major beware of frigid women." It was signed by the Commandant of the Coast Guard.

"The defense rests,"' Pitt said, savoring each syllable to the hilt. Sandecker, the old fox, had used his influence to finagle the Coast Guard Commandant into playing the game. Pitt let out a deep breath and handed the message form back to Koski. l "It must be nice to have friends in high places, Koski said, a touch of anger in his voice.