Clive Cussler: Pacific Vortex!

The chiefs voice came through from the engine room again. «The starboard shaft just went, Commander. Broke clean through aft of the seal Took two bearings with it.»

«Maintain procedure,» Crowhaven came back.

«But sir,» the chiefs voice was pleading, desperate. «What if the port shaft goes? Even if we break free to the surface, how do we make headway?»

«We row,» Crowhaven said curtly. «I repeat, maintain procedure!»

If both propeller shafts were going to shear, they were going to shear. But until the port shaft went with the starboard, he'd rip it to pieces while he still had a chance at saving the Starbuck and his crew. God, he wondered, how could so much go so wrong at the very last minute?

Lieutenant Robert M. Buckmaster, U.S.M.C., unleashed a short burst from his automatic rifle at a concrete bunker and wondered the same thing. The best-laid plans of mice and men, he thought. The operation should have been simple: take the transmitter, his orders said. A group of Navy men were still hidden in the tropical underbrush waiting for word of the capture so they could commandeer the equipment and send the coded messages that Buckmaster didn't understand. Marine lieutenants were seldom privy to classified information, he mused. It's okay to get killed, but it's not okay to know why.

The old Army installation on the northwest tip of Maui had looked deserted and innocent enough, but the instant his squad began infiltrating the perimeter,

they'd run into more detection and warning gear than surrounded the gold depository at Fort Knox. Electrified wire, light beams which activated ear-blasting sirens, and bright flood lamps drenching the entire installation in a blinding, naked glare. Nothing in his briefing had prepared him for this, he thought angrily. Sloppy planning; no detailed warning of the obstacles. Lieutenant or not, he was personally going to read the riot act to his commanding officers for causing this mess.

From windows, doorways, and rooftops that had seemed empty only moments earlier, the defenders opened up with a heavy burst of automatic weapons fire, halting Buckmaster's commando force in their tracks. The marines answered back and their aim had been deadly; bodies were beginning to pile up around the bunkerlike openings. At the height of the battle, a burly, grizzled-looking sergeant ran through the shadows cast by the flood lamps, and threw himself down on the ground next to Buckmaster.

«I pulled one of their guns off a dead body,» he shouted above the din. «It's a Russian ZZK Kaleshrev»

«Russian?» Buckmaster echoed incredulously.

«Yes, sir.» The sergeant held up the automatic weapon in front of Buckmaster's eyes. «It's the newest light arm in the Soviet arsenal. Beat's the hell out of me how these guys got hold of them.»

«Save it for the Intelligence Section.» Buckmaster turned his attention back to the transmitter buildings as the noise of firing increased in the darkness.

«Corporal Danzig and his squad are pinned down behind a retaining wall.» The sergeant broke off to fire a series of short bursts to draw some of the defenders' attention. «I'd give up retirement for a ninety-millimeter tank buster,» he yelled between bursts.

«This was supposed to be a surprise assault, remember? They told us we wouldn't need any heavy armament.

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion; a huge cloud of dust billowed up and chunks of concrete fell over the area like hail. The shock of the concussion made Buckmaster gasp; then he slowly rose to his feet and stared at the shambles of the transmitter buildings.

«Radio!» he shouted. «Dammit, where's the radio man?»

A marine with a blackened face clad in black and green camouflage fatigues, raced from the shadows. «Here, Lieutenant»

Lieutenant Buckmaster took the offered receiver, dreading what he had to say.

«Big Daddy… Big Daddy. This is Mad Chopper. Over.»

«This is Big Daddy, Mad Chopper. Go ahead. Over.» The voice in the receiver sounded as though it were coming from the bottom of a well.

The gang down the block blew the deal right in our faces. I repeat, blew the deal right in our faces. We won't tune in the news tonight»

«Big Daddy understands, Mad Chopper. He sends his regrets. Over and out»

Buckmaster jammed the receiver back in its cradle. He was mad and he didn't care if they knew it all the way back to the Pentagon. Something had gone terribly wrong here tonigiht The whole atmosphere had an ominous stink about it He vaguely wondered, as his men began regrouping, whether he would ever know who had gotten the short end of the stick.

The door opened and two men dragged Giordino into the room, dropping him roughly onto the floor. Pitt caught his breath. Al was in pitiful shape; his mangled feet hadn't been treated; there wasn't the least sign of disinfectant or bandages on them. Blood from a gash above his left eye had hardened, gluing his eye half shut, leaving an appalling malevolent expression that burned with the fires of unadulterated defiance.

«Well now, Major Pitt,» Delphi said reproachfully. «Nothing to say to your boyhood friend? No? Perhaps you have forgotten his name? Does Albert Giordino ring a bell?»

«You know his name?»

«Of course. Does that surprise you?»

«Not really,» Pitt said easily. «I imagine Orl Cinana supplied you with a complete rundown on Giordino and myself.»

For one long moment the towering hulk behind the desk didn't get it. Then Pitt's words began to sink in and Delphi lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.

«Captain Cinana?» His voice was rock-steady, but Pitt detected a very slight touch of doubt. «You're fishing hi the wrong current You have nothing to…»

«Cut the theatrics,» Pitt sharply interrupted. «Cinana may have collected his captain's pay from the United States Navy, but he played ball on your team. A nice setup: an informer sitting on the top level of your opposition. You knew what the 101st Fleet's operational plans were before they were set down on paper. How did you recruit Cinana, Delphi? Money? Or was it blackmail? Judging from your track record, I'd say blackmail.»

«You're very observant»

«Not really. An easy scent to pick up. The good captain had outlived his usefulness as a stool pigeon. He couldn't live with the role of traitor any longer. Cinana began cracking; he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Add his little illicit affair with Adrian Hunter, and poor Cinana had to be eliminated before he spilled your organization. But you bungled his murder, Delphi. You bungled it beyond comprehension.»

Delphi looked at Pitt in bleak suspicion. «You're guessing.»

«No guesswork,» Pitt said. «It was a chance meeting between us in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel Bar that fouled your plan. Cinana was waiting for Adrian Hunter when I wandered in the door. He, of course, had no idea I was another one of Adrian's playmates, but he couldn't run the risk of an embarrassing introduction — a rendezvous with an admiral's daughter twenty years his junior, in a dark corner of a bar, might conjure up any number of nasty visions — so he ducked out before she showed up. Then when Summer stepped on stage for the assassination, she mistook me for Cinana. And why not? I fit the description. Neither Cinana nor I had worn our uniforms that night, and to top it off, I was conveniently drinking with Miss Hunter. There was no doubt in Summer's mind. She took care of Adrian and then lured me onto the beach where she tried to pump me full of poison. It was only after she found herself in my apartment, that it began to dawn on her that she'd made a terrible mistake. My first hint came when she addressed me as Captain. And later, you yourself supplied the clincher when you admitted to having an informant. Two and two went together: the answer was Cinana. All in all, very elementary.