Night Probe! - Clive Cussler

"Who else but a woman would care?" Pitt laughed. "Probably a spit-and-polish type, cool, precise and very official, who talks in Morse code."

"You're just being nasty." Heidi smiled.

"You wait." Pitt grinned back. "I bet he climbs up the ladder whistling "Maple Leaf Forever."

Lieutenant Commander Raymond Weeks did nothing of the sort. He was a jolly-looking man with laughing gray-blue eyes and a warm face. He had a pleasant ringing voice that came out of a short body with a noticeable paunch. With the right stuffing and a costume he'd have made a perfect department store Santa Claus.

He leaped lightly over the railing and walked unerringly up to Pitt, who was standing slightly off to one side of the welcoming committee.

"Mr. Pitt, I'm Ray Weeks. This is indeed an honor. I was absorbed by your work on the Titanic raising. You might even say I'm a fan of yours."

Charmingly disarmed, Pitt could only mumble, "How do you do."

Heidi nudged him in the ribs. "Spit and polish, heh?"

Weeks said, "Beg your pardon."

"Nothing," Heidi said brightly. "An inside joke."

Pitt recovered and made the introductions. It was, to his way of thinking, a wasted formality. That Weeks had been well briefed was obvious. He seemed to know everything about everybody. He expounded on a marine archaeological project that Rudi Gunn had nearly forgotten, even though he had been its field director. Weeks was especially solicitous to Heidi.

"If all my fellow officers looked like you, Commander Milligan, I might never retire from service."

"Flattery deserves a reward," said Pitt. "Perhaps I can persuade Heidi to give you a tour of the ship."

"I'd like that very-much." Then Weeks' expression turned serious. "You may not be so hospitable when you learn the nature of my visit."

"You've come to tell us the ball game has been called because of political rain."

"Your vernacular is most appropriate." Weeks shrugged. "I have my orders. I'm sorry."

"How much time have we got to retrieve our men and equipment?"

"How much do you need?"

"Twenty- four hours."

Weeks was no fool. He knew enough about salvage to know Pitt was conning him. "I can give you eight."

"We can't bring up the saturation chamber in less than twelve."

"You'd make a good merchant in a Turkish bazaar, Mr. Pitt." Weeks' smile returned. "Ten hours should see you through. "Providing you begin counting after lunch."

Weeks threw up his hands. "My God, you never give up. All right, after lunch it is."

"Now that's settled, Commander Weeks," said Heidi, "if you'll follow me, I'll show you the operation."

Accompanied by two of his ship's officers, Weeks trailed Heidi down a stairway to the work platform inside the center well. Pitt and Gunn turned and slowly made their way to the control room.

"Why the V.I.P treatment for a character who's kicking us out of the park?" Gunn asked irritably.

"I bought ten hours," Pitt said in a low voice. "And I'm going to buy every minute I can to keep those guys below working on the wreck."

Gunn stopped and looked at him. "Are you saying you're not discontinuing the project?"

"Hell yes," said Pitt earnestly.

"You're nuts." Gunn shook his head in wonder. "We need at least two more days to break through to Shields' cabin. You don't stand a prayer of stalling that long."

Pitt smiled crookedly. "Maybe not, but by God, I'm going to try."

Through the heavy veil of sleep, Moon felt someone shaking him. He had remained in his office around the clock since the Ocean Venturer had moored over the Empress of Ireland. Normal sleeping hours were forgotten and he took to catching up on his sleep with short catnaps. When he finally opened his eyes he found them looking into the grim features of the White House communications director. He yawned and sat up. "What's the latest?"

The communications director handed him a sheet of paper. "Read it and weep."

Moon studied the wording. Then he looked up. "Where's the President?"

"He's speaking to a group of Mexican-American labor leaders out in the rose garden."

Moon slipped on his shoes and hurried down the hallway, pulling on his coat and straightening his tie as he went. The President had just finished a round of handshaking and was returning to the oval office when Moon caught up with him. "More bad news?" asked the President.

Moon nodded and held up the message. "The latest word from Pitt."

"Read it to me as we walk back to my office."

"He says, "Have been ordered out of the St. Lawrence by the Canadian navy. Granted a ten-hour grace period to pack the suitcases. Destroyer is standing by."

"Is that all?"

"No, sir, there's more."

"Then let's have it."

Moon read on. " 'Intend to disregard eviction notice. Salvage continues. We are preparing to repel boarders. Signed Pitt.' "

The President stopped in mid-stride. "What was that?"

"Sir?"

"The last part, read it again."

" 'We are preparing to repel boarders.' "

The President shook his head in astonishment. "Good lord, the order to repel boarders hasn't been given in a hundred years."

"If I'm any judge of character, Pitt means what he says."

The President looked thoughtful.

"So the British and Canadians have slammed the door."

"I'm afraid that's the verdict," said Moon. "Shall I contact Pitt and order him to break off the salvage? Any other action might provoke a military response."

"It's true we're walking a tightrope, but good old-fashioned guts deserve a reward."

Moon suppressed a sudden fear. "You're not suggesting we throw Pitt a lifeline."

"I am," said the President. "It's time we showed some guts of our own."

They stood together tenderly as though it was the first time and watched a young moon rise in the east, guessing the destinations of the ships beating steadily downriver. Overhead the two red lights, signifying a vessel moored over a wreck, burned from the mast, giving them just enough glow to make out each other's faces. "I never knew it would come to this," Heidi said softly.

"You created a ripple effect," Pitt responded, "and it's still spreading."

She leaned against him. "Strange how the discovery of an old crumpled letter in a university archive could touch so many lives. If only I'd left well enough alone," she whispered.

Pitt put his arm around her and gently squeezed. "We can't look back on the ifs. There's no profit in it."

Heidi gazed across the water at the Canadian destroyer. The decks and boxlike superstructure were brightly lit, and she could hear the hum of the generators. She shivered as a drifting patch of fog crept in across the river. "What will happen when we overstep Commander Weeks' deadline?"

Pitt held up his watch to the dim mast lights. "We'll know in another twenty minutes."

"I feel so ashamed."

Pitt looked at her. "What is this, cleanse-the-soul hour?"

"That ship wouldn't be out there if I hadn't blabbed to Brian Shaw."

"Remember what I said about ifs."

"But I slept with him. That makes it worse. If anyone is hurt I…..." The words escaped her and she fell silent as Pitt held her tight.

They did not speak again until, a few minutes later, a low, polite cough tugged them back to reality. Pitt turned to see Rudi Gunn standing on the bridge wing above.

"You'd better come up, Dirk. Weeks is getting pretty insistent. Claims he sees no evidence of our departure. I'm running out of excuses."

"Did you tell him the ship is swept by bubonic plague and mutiny?"

"No time for humor," Gunn said seriously. "We also have a contact on radar. A ship steering out of the main channel in our direction. I fear our luncheon guest has called up reinforcements."

Weeks stared through the bridge windows at the incoming mist. He held a cup of coffee in one hand that was half full and turning cold. His normally easygoing disposition was stretched to the limits by the annoying indifference of the NUMA ship to his requests for information. He turned to his first officer, who was bent over a radarscope. "What do you make of it?"