Clive Cussler - Cyclops

Commander Kermit Fulton pulled back from the periscope eyepiece, his face wearing a questioning expression. He looked across the control room of the attack submarine Denver at his executive officer. "Any contact on our sensors?"

The exec spoke into one of the control room phones. "Nothing on radar, skipper. Sonar reports a small contact, but it stopped about a minute ago."

"What do they make of it?"

The answer was slow in coming and the question was repeated.

"Sonar says it sounded like a small outboard motor, no more than twenty horsepower."

"There's something mighty peculiar out there," said Fulton. "I want to check it out. Slow speed to one-third and come left five degrees."

He pressed his forehead against the periscope eyepiece again and increased the magnification. Slowly, wonderingly, he pulled back. "Give the order to surface."

"You see something?" asked the executive officer.

He nodded silently.

Everyone in the control room stared at Fulton expectantly. The exec took the initiative. "Mind letting us in on it, skipper?"

"Twenty-three years at sea," said Fulton, "and I thought I'd seen almost everything. But damned if there isn't a man up there, almost a hundred miles from the nearest land, floating in a bathtub."

<<41>>

Since the blimp's disappearance, Admiral Sandecker had rarely left his office. He buried himself in work that soon lost all meaning. His parents, though quite elderly, were still alive, and so were his brother and sister. Sandecker had never really tasted personal tragedy before.

During his years in the Navy, he was infected with dedication. There was little time for a deep relationship with a woman, and he counted few good friends, mostly Navy acquaintances. He built a wall around him between superiors and subordinates and walked the middle ground. He made flag rank before he was fifty, but he was stagnating.

When Congress approved his appointment as chief of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, he came back to life. He formed warm friendships with three unlikely people, who looked up to him with respect but treated him no differently than the man on the next bar stool.

The challenges facing NUMA had drawn them together. Al Giordino, an extrovert who took a strange glee in volunteering for the dirtiest projects and stealing Sandecker's expensive cigars. Rudi Gunn, driven to accomplish nothing less than perfection, a natural at organizing programs, who couldn't make an enemy if he tried. And then there was Pitt, who had done more than anyone to revive Sandecker's creative spirit. They soon became as close as father and son.

Pitt's freewheeling attitude toward life and his sarcastic wit trailed behind him like a comet's tail. He couldn't enter a room without livening it up. Sandecker tried but failed to blot out the memories, to unchain himself from the past. He leaned back in the desk chair and closed his eyes and gave in to the sorrow. To lose all three of them at one time stunned him beyond comprehension.

While Pitt was in his thoughts, the light blinked and a muted chime came from his private phone line. He massaged his temples briefly and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Jim, is that you? I got your private number from a mutual friend at the Pentagon."

"I'm sorry. My mind was wandering. I don't recognize the voice."

"This is Clyde. Clyde Monfort."

Sandecker tensed. "Clyde, what's up?"

"A signal from one of our attack subs returning from the Jamaican landing exercise just came across my desk."

"How does that concern me?"

"The sub's commander report's picking up a castaway no more than twenty minutes ago. Not exactly standard procedure for our nuclear sub forces to take strangers on board, but his guy claimed he worked for you and got pretty nasty when the skipper refused to allow him to send a message."

"Pitt!"

"You got it," answered Monfort. "That's the name he gave. Dirk Pitt. How'd you know?"

"Thank God!"

"Does he check out?"

"Yes, yes, he's bona fide," Sandecker said impatiently. "What about the others?"

"No others. Pitt was alone in a bathtub."

"Say again."

"The skipper swears it was a bathtub with an outboard motor."

Knowing Pitt, Sandecker didn't doubt the story for a second. "How soon can you have him picked up by helicopter and dropped at the nearest airfield for transport to Washington?"

"You know that's not possible, Jim. I can't have him cleared and released until after the sub docks at its base in Charleston."

"Hang on, Clyde. I'll call the White House on another line and get the authorization."

"You got that kind of clout?" Monfort asked incredulously.

"That and more."

"Can you tell me what's going down, Jim?"

"Take my word for it. You don't want to get involved."

They gathered at a White House dinner party to honor the Prime Minister of India, Rajiv Gandhi, who was on a goodwill tour of the United States. Actors and labor leaders, athletes and billionaires, they all shed their opinions, their differences, and mingled like neighbors at a Sunday social.

Former Presidents Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter conversed and acted as though they had never left the West Wing. Standing in a corner filled with flowers, Secretary of State Douglas Oates swapped war stories with Henry Kissinger, while the Super Bowl champion quarterback of the Houston Oilers stood in front of the fireplace and peered openly at the breasts of ABC news anchor Sandra Malone.

The President shared a toast with Prime Minister Gandhi and then introduced him to Charles Murphy, who had recently flown over Antarctica in a hot-air balloon. The President's wife came over, took her husband's arm, and pulled him toward the dance floor of the state dining room.

A White House aide caught Dan Fawcett's eye and nodded toward the doorway. Fawcett went over, heard him out, then approached the President. The chain of command was well oiled.

"My apologies, Mr. President, but a courier has just arrived with a congressional bill that requires your signature before midnight."

The President nodded in understanding. There was no bill to sign. It was a code for an urgent message. He excused himself to his wife and went across the hall to a small private office. He paused until Fawcett closed the door before picking up the phone

"This is the President."

"Admiral Sandecker, sir."

"Yes, Admiral, what is it?"

"I have the Chief of Naval Forces in the Caribbean on another line. He has just informed me that one of my people, who vanished with Jessie LeBaron, has been rescued by one of our submarines."

"Has he been identified?"

"It's Dirk Pitt."

"The man must be either indestructible or very lucky," the President said with a touch of relief in his voice. "How soon can we get him here?"

"Admiral Clyde Monfort is holding on the line for authorization to provide priority transport."

"Can you connect me to him?"

"Hold on, sir." There was a second's pause followed by a click.

The President said, "Admiral Monfort, can you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"This is the President. Do you recognize my voice?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"I want Pitt in Washington as fast as you can possibly get him here. Understood?"

"I read you, Mr. President. I'll see that a Navy jet lands him at Andrews Air Force Base before daybreak."

"Spread a security net on this affair, Admiral. Keep the submarine at sea and place the pilots, or anyone else who comes within a hundred yards of Pitt, under confinement for three days."

There was a slight hesitation. "Your orders will be carried out."

"Thank you. Now please let me speak to Admiral Sandecker."

"I'm here, Mr. President."

"You heard? Admiral Monfort will have Pitt at Andrews before dawn."