Clive Cussler - Pacific Vortex!

Suddenly the doorbell chimes echoed through the apartment. Pitt, jolted by the unexpected sound, jerked up and froze as the guard charged from the bathroom, stopping in mute shock at the ghastly sight of his dead comrade laying on the floor. Then he turned and stared blankly at Pitt.

«Drop the gun and freeze,» Pitt said sharply.

Delphi's executioner stood still and squinted at the small automatic in Pitt's hand. The door chimes sounded again. The man leaped sideways and, as he brought up his gun to fire. Pitt shot his assailant in the heart.

The guard remained standing, gaping at Pitt through stunned and vacant eyes. His hands fell limp; the projectile gun dropped softly to the carpet as he slowly sank to his knees before toppling sideways and ending in a fetal position on the floor.

Pitt remained immobile, listening to the frantic pounding on the front door, his eyes taking in the debris of death at his feet The four walls of the room seemed to close in on him. Something was missing. His mind refused to cooperate; the last few minutes had left him confused and numb. Someone else should have been there…

Summer!

He threw back the curtains that bordered the balcony, finding nothing but the wall behind them. Frantically he searched the room, calling her name. She did not answer. The balcony, he thought She must have followed Delphi and his men from the roof. It was empty, but a rope was tied to the railing that led to the terrace of the apartment below. She had escaped the same way as before.

Then his eyes caught a small flower laying in one of the lounge chairs. It was a delicate plumeria blossom; its exquisite white bloom flushed yellow on the inside. He held it up, studying it as one might study a rare butterfly. Delphi's daughter, he thought to himself. How was it possible?

He was still standing there on the balcony with the flower in one hand and the gun in the other, gazing out over the brilliant blue rippling ocean when Hunter's security men broke through the door.

«Mr. Pitt…» The attractive young WAVE spoke hesitantly. «The admiral's expecting you. Oh, by the way,» she said, lowering her eyes, «we're all proud to have you in the 101st for what you did on the Martha Ann.»

«How's the admiral taking his daughter's kidnapping?» He hadn't meant to sound so brusque.

«He's a tough old bird,» she answered simply.

«Is he in his office?»

«No, sir. They're all waiting in the conference room.» She rose and came from behind her desk. «This way, please.»

He followed her down a corridor, where she stopped at a door on the right, knocked, held it open, announced him, and closed it quietly behind him when he had passed through.

There were four men in the room. Two he knew, two he did not. Admiral Hunter came forward to shake Pitt's hand. He looked older, far older, far more weary than when Pitt had last seen him, only four days previously.

«Thank God you're safe,» Hunter said warmly, surprising Pitt with a tone of intense sincerity. «How's your leg?»

«Okay,» Pitt said briefly. He looked into the old man's eyes. «I'm sorry about Captain Cinana… and Adrian. It was my fault. If only I'd been more alert.»

«Nonsense!» he said with a tight grin. «You got two of those bastards. It must have been quite a fight.»

Before Pitt could answer, Denver came up and thumped him on the back. «Good to see you. You look as rotten as ever.»

«Dog tired, maybe. Thirty minutes sleep out of twenty-four hours beats the hell out of my girlish complexion.''

«Sorry about that,» said Hunter. «But we're running out of time. Unless we can raise the Starbuck damned quick, we can write her off for good.» The harsh edge of strain showed unmistakably in the lines around Hunter's eyes. Tor what little time that is available, we have you to thank. Flooding the forward torpedo compartment was an act of genius.»

Pitt grinned. «The Martha Ann's helmsman was dead sure we'd both wind up paying for damages out of our wages.»

Hunter allowed the bare hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. «Come and sit down; but first let me introduce you to Dr. Elmer Chrysler, Chief of Research for Tripler Hospital.»

Pitt shook hands with a short little man who had a bony handgrip like a pair of pliers. The head was completely shaven and the ears held a giant pair of horned-rimmed glasses. The brown eyes in back of the lenses were beady, but the smile was large and genuine.

«And Dr. Raymond York, Head of the Marine Geology Department for the Eton School of Oceanography.» York didn't look like a geologist; he looked more like a burly truck driver or longshoreman. He was big, just touching six feet, and wide in the shoulders. He flashed a set of perfectly spaced teeth.

As they were introduced, Pitt's hand was crushed by five of the largest and meatiest fingers he'd ever seen.

Hunter motioned Pitt to a chair and then said: «We're anxious to have your account of the Martha Ann's loss and the fight in your hotel room.»

Pitt relaxed and tried to force his tired mind into categorizing the events in their proper perspective. He knew they were all watching him closely, listening to every detail he could dredge up from memory.

Denver nodded. «Take your time and forgive us if we butt in every now and then with a question.»

Pitt began softly. «I suppose it all started when we discovered the rise on the seafloor, a rise not charted on our underwater topographical maps.»

Then Pitt told them everything. The two scientists took notes while Denver watched over a tape recorder. Occasionally one of the men seated around the conference table would interrupt and ask a question which Pitt would answer as best he could. His only omission concerned Summer; he lied, saying he had palmed a knife before Delphi's men had bound him.

Hunter pulled the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes and wadded it in an ashtray. «What about this Delphi character? So far, Major Pitt's verbal contact with this fellow is the only communication we've had with anyone connected, if indeed he is, to the Vortex.»

Dr. Chrysler leaned across the table. «Could you describe this man in detail?»

«Approximately six feet eight inches in height,» Pitt replied. «Well proportioned for his size; I'm not versed at guessing weight for someone that tall. Rugged, lined face, graying hair, and, of course, his most striking feature, yellow eyes.» Chrysler's brow furrowed. «Yellow?»

«Yes, almost gold.»

«That's not possible,» Chrysler said. «An albino might have pink eyes with a slight orange tint to them. And certain types of diseases might alter the color to a pale sort of grayish-yellow. But a bright gold? Not likely. The iris of the eye simply does not contain the right pigments for such a hue.»

Dr. York took a pipe from his pocket and idly twisted it in his hand. «Most strange that you should describe a giant of a man with yellow eyes. There really was such a person.»

«The Oracle of Psychic Unity,» Chrysler said softly. «Of course, Dr. Frederick Moran.» «I don't recall the name,» said Hunter. «Frederick Moran was one of the century's great classical anthropologists. He advocated the theory that the human mind would be the crucial factor in man's eventual extinction.»

York nodded. «A brilliant but egocentric man. Disappeared at sea nearly thirty years ago.»

«The Delphi Oracle,» Pitt said to no one in particular.

Denver caught the connection immediately. «Of course. Delphi comes from the oracle of ancient Greece.»

«It's not possible,» Chrysler said. «The man's dead.» «Is he?» Pitt questioned. «Maybe he found his Kanoli.»

«Sounds like a Hawaiian Shangri-la,» said Hunter. «Perhaps it is,» Pitt said. He related briefly his conversation with George Papaaloa at the Bishop Museum.