Clive Cussler - Pacific Vortex!

«You can damn well try,» Pitt said coldly. «I'm right and you have no sound argument. If we eliminate Moran or Delphi, or whatever he calls himself, and another ship disappears, we'll always wonder. And if more vanish over the next few years, we'll have to

start from scratch. There'd be nothing to go on but a nagging doubt that we failed.»

Hunter gazed at Pitt. Twenty years ago it would have been Hunter on the other side of the table, staking his life on a conviction, ready to gamble away a service career on something he believed in. Giving up a ship, in this case, the Starbuck, ran counter to the traditions he had served since his first day at the Naval Academy. Yet, he had never disobeyed an order in his life, and there were times he wished he had. There might be a chance, an almost hopeless, impossible chance. Something that Admiral Sandecker had said about Pitt came back to him. «With this man, almost anything is possible.»

He made his decision. «Okay,» he said, «you bought yourself a show. There'll be hell to pay in Washington; but well worry about that later. Whatever plan you've got, it had better be good.»

Pitt relaxed. «Simply put; we put a trained submarine crew inside the Starbuck and order a squad of marines to shut down Delphi's transmitter before 0500 hours tomorrow.»

«Easier said than attempted,» muttered Hunter. «We've less than fifteen hours.»

For several moments Pitt was silent When he spoke, he sounded cold and grim.

«There's a solution. It'll cost the taxpayers a few bucks. But it has a better than fifty-fifty chance at succeeding.»

Hunter stirred uneasily as Pitt explained his plan. He reluctantly gave his permission, thinking that either the plan was insane, or that Pitt hadn't told him all of it. He guessed the latter.

The ancient Douglas C-54 aircraft sat poised on the runway, aiming its bow down the black asphalt between the bordering rows of colored marker lights. The wings and fuselage quivered in symphony with the four vibrating engines as their prop wash hurled dust and debris under the horizontal stabilizer into the night. Then the plane began to move forward, gathering speed with agonizing slowness as the runway lights reflected off the shiny aluminum surface and flickered across the windows. Finally it lifted off the concrete and swept elegantly over the lights of Honolulu, making a wide left bank over Diamond Head and heading north into the tradewinds. Soon Pitt's hand eased the four-throttle arms back and cocked an ear to the roaring engines as he checked the RPM and torque gauges, satisfied that the shuddering and noisy relic would get him where he wanted to go.

Tve been meaning to ask you, Ace. Have you ever ditched an airplane in the drink?» This from a short, barrel-chested man in the copilot's seat.

«Not lately,» Pitt replied.

The dark, curly-haired little man threw his arms in the air and faked a pained facial expression. «Oh, Lord, why did I let myself get conned into this insane comedy?» He turned and offered Pitt a crooked smile.

«I guess I'm fust so good-natured at heart that everybody takes advantage of me.»

«Don't hand me that crap,» Pitt blurted. I've known you since kindergarten — no one's ever taken advantage of you.»

Al Giordino slouched down in his seat and brushed a straggling lock of black hair from one eye. «Is that so? What about the time I worked for months selling violets on street corners so I could take that gorgeous little blond cheerleader to the high school prom?»

«Well, what about it?»

«God, what gall… well, what about it?» he mimicked. «You bastard. When we got to the dance you told her I had the clap… she wouldn't have anything to do with me for the rest of the evening.»

«Ah yes, now I remember,» chuckled Pitt. «She even insisted I take her home.» He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, reminiscing. «What a soft, cuddly little creature she was. It's too bad you two didn't hit it off.»

Giordino's face registered blank astonishment «Talk about cavalier treatment.»

Pitt and Giordino were close friends; they were classmates in both high school and college. Giordino held his hands aloft and stretched. He was short, no more than five feet four in height, his skin dark and swarthy, and his Italian ancestry clearly evident in his black curly hair. Complete opposites in appearance, Pitt and Giordino were ideally suited to one another; one of the primary reasons why Pitt had insisted that Giordino become his Assistant Special Projects Director. Their escapades, much to the chagrin of Admiral Sandecker, were already legend throughout the ocean-ographic agency.

«Won't Hickam Field's commanding officer be a mite irritated when he finds out we broke his private airplane?» asked Giordino.

«He can't wait. As soon as this old museum piece lands in the drink, the good general will put in a requisition for a new jet transport.»

Giordino sighed wistfully. «Ah, to own your own airplane. I'd like an antique B-17 Flying Fortress with a king-sized bed and a wet bar stocked with booze.»

«And you can paint out the Air Force insignia on the wings and replace it with a pair of bunnies.»

«Not bad,» Giordino said. «Just for that, I might even let you borrow it now and then, for a small fee, of course.»

Pitt gave up. He looked out the side cockpit window at the sea below and spotted the lights of a merchantman headed in a northeasterly direction toward San Francisco. He could discern no whitecaps; the black ocean seemed smooth and unbroken. A calm sea is best for impact, he reflected, but it also makes it difficult to judge height.

«How much further to your mysterious playground?» asked Giordino.

«Another five hundred miles,» Pitt replied.

«At the rate you're pushing this old whale, we should be there in less than two hours.» Giordino propped his feet on the instrument panel «We're already at twelve thousand feet. When do you want to start your descent?»

«In about an hour and forty minutes,» Pitt answered. «I want to take the last leg on the deck. I'm not taking any chances on detection until we set this baby right on the front porch.»

Giordino let out a low whistle. «Sounds like well have to pick a winner on the first pass.»

«We won't get a second chance.»

Giordino leaned over and tapped a wide dial in the middle of the instrument panel. «We might do it so long as that underwater position marker keeps beeping away.»

Pitt glanced at the homing device and adjusted his course until the needle behind the circular glass settled between the proper markings.

«The signal should become stronger the closer we get»

«Just get us within five hundred yards,» Giordino said hopefully. «And Selma Snoop will take us the rest of the way.» He nodded toward a small blue watertight box, a battery-operated radio direction finder tightly strapped to the arm of his seat

«You sure Selma is checked out?» Pitt said.

«She works,» Giordino said patiently. «Like I said, put us down within five hundred yards of the beeper and ni put us down on the Starbuck»

Pitt smiled. In spite of his indolent attitude, Giordino was a perfectionist who rose to every occasion with a style that always amazed Pitt He motioned silently to Giordino and lifted his hands from the control column. Giordino nodded, and took over command of the aircraft as Pitt unreeled from the cramped pilot's seat, left the cockpit, and moved aft into the passenger section of the fuselage.

Seated in the plush comfort of the general's private transport were twenty men — probably, Pitt mused, twenty of the most resigned men on the face of the earth. They were resigned to death; there was no other way to describe it. True, they volunteered, but the prospect of adventure had overridden their desire for a long and fruitful life. Each man was incased in a black rubber wet suit with the zipper pulled open to allow cool air to evaporate the sweat oozing from his skin. Behind them, lashed to cargo rings on the floor, rested an assortment of equipment and variously shaped bundles. And toward the rear of the fuselage was a row of air tanks, firmly secured and shielded to prevent them from hurtling across the compartment during the touchdown.