Pacific Vortex! Part 13

"We'll drop you a postcard from time to time," Pitt said.

"You'd better do more than that," Denver shot back, his lips curled in a tight smile, but his eyes hard. "I'm going to reserve the bar at the Reef Hotel for three weeks from today. And woe to the man who doesn't show up." He turned to Boland. "You have the code, Paul. The admiral and I will track you by satellite. When you spot the Starbuck, simply radio under maritime transmission that you've stopped all engines to repair a burned shaft bearing. We'll have your exact position in a millisecond."

Denver shook hands with Pitt and Boland. "Little else can be said but good luck!" Before the other two men could answer, Denver abruptly wheeled about and strode from the room.

A few minutes later Denver stood on the dock, leaning against a piling as he watched the crew slip the s.h.i.+p's lines and hoist the gangplank. He idly studied the starboard side of the Martha Ann as she moved slowly into the channel toward the mouth of the silent harbor. He stared at the navigation lights until the gentle throbbing beat of the s.h.i.+p's engines gradually diminished into the darkness. Then he flipped his cigarette into the calm, oily water, shoved his hands in his pockets, and wearily made his way along the dock to the parking lot Pitt stood at the rail of the fantail and idly watched the Martha Ann's propellers churn out their wake. The frothing blue and white ma.s.s swirled, slowly diminis.h.i.+ng a quarter of a mile behind the stern before the sea relentlessly closed over and covered her as though healing a giant scar. The weather was warm and the sky was clear; a solid breeze rushed past from the northeast.

What a crazy group he'd run across in the last two days, he thought despairingly. A devious-minded girl who tried to ram a hypodermic needle into his back, an a.s.sa.s.sin with tobacco-stained teeth, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of an admiral, a lieutenant commander with a ridiculous tattoo, and a little commander who was apparently the smartest of them all.

But yet, this group wasn't able to haunt the dim reaches of his mind. That was left for another character of the drama, a character who had yet to step on the stage; a giant of a man with golden eyes.

What was his reason for researching the lost island of Kanoli so many years ago? Could he have simply been a scholar trying to unearth a lost civilization, or an occult delving into myths and legends? Or someone with even stranger goals in mind? What was there in the tale of Kanoli that couldn't be found in half the drivel written about the lost continent of Mu, or in the overabundance of fiction dealing with Atlantis? The mysteries of the Pacific Vortex and the Bermuda Triangle were real enough. There had to be a logical solution to the riddles lying about somewhere, Pitt figured restlessly. A key that was so obvious that it was entirely overlooked.

"Mr. Pitt?"

Pitt's mental gymnastics were broken by the young man in coveralls.

Pitt smiled. "What can I'do for you?"

The seaman was about to salute. He appeared fl.u.s.tered at how to act before a civilian, particularly one on a Navy s.h.i.+p.

"Commander Boland requests your presence on the bridge."

"Thank you. I'm on my way."

Pitt swung around and walked across the steel deck past the tarp-covered hatches. Beneath his feet the engines pounded away with a rhythmic beat as the s.h.i.+p ploughed into the calm water, throwing a white salty mist over the railings and onto the superstructure, coating the paint with a glistening layer of dripping wetness.

Pitt climbed the ladder that led to the bridge. Boland was standing in front of the helmsman, gazing through binoculars over the bow at the stark blue horizon. He dropped his gla.s.ses a moment, wiping the smudges on the bottom of his T-s.h.i.+rt. Then he returned them to his eyes and again studied the vast emptiness ahead.

"What's up?" Pitt queried. He looked through the window but he could see nothing.

"Thought you'd like to know," Boland said, "we've Just entered the new search area." He set the gla.s.ses on the bulkhead shelf, touched a transmitter switch, and spoke sharply in a staccato tone.

"Lieutenant Harper, this is the skipper. Stop all engines. We're heaving to." He looked at Pitt. "Now we go to work."

Boland motioned him down a companion stair that led to an alleyway beneath the bridge. After they had pa.s.sed several cabin doors, Boland hesitated at one and opened it.

"The heart of the operation," he announced. "Our Flash Gordon Room. Four tons of electronic gimmickry. Please observe the scientific marvels of the 101st at work." He pointed to a long bank of instruments within a large compartment about eight hundred square feet.

"A panel to measure sound velocity and pressure, recording the parameters with time in digital format on magnetic tape. A proton-precision magnetic sensor to pick up any iron on the seafloor. Monitors for the underwater TV cameras." Boland pointed at four monitors embedded in the equipment. "That's why we heaved to, so we can release the sensors and cameras behind the s.h.i.+p on the glide sled and begin scanning."

Pitt studied the screens. The cameras were just being lowered in the water; he could see the swells slap at the lenses as they slipped under the surface and entered the silent void of sun-sparkled, restless liquid. Two of the cameras recorded color, making the blue-green shadows seemingly drift off into infinity.

"The next instrument is an advanced sonar system," Boland continued. "It takes detailed 'sound' pictures of the ocean floor and anything on it. We also have a side-scanning system that takes in half a mile on either side of the hull. Their sensors will also be towed behind the s.h.i.+p."

"A mile-wide detection belt," Pitt said. That should cut an impressive swath through the search sector."

Pitt noted that Boland made no conscious effort to introduce him to any of the crew manning the equipment. If there was one thing Boland sadly lacked, it was the barest hint of social courtesy. Pitt found himself wondering how Boland ever made lieutenant commander.

"And this little sweetheart over here," Boland said proudly, "is the real brain of the outfit A Selco-Ramsey 8300 computer system." He nodded at a tall, narrow panel of lights and k.n.o.bs standing atop a wide-set keyboard. "Lat.i.tude-longitude, velocity and heading, complete on-board capability. In short, it hooks into the centralized control system, and from this point in time until we discover the Starbuck, this inhuman ma.s.s of transistors will run the s.h.i.+p." "Makes it sanitary," Pitt murmured. "How's that?"

"Untouched by human hands." Boland's brow furrowed. "Yeah, you might say that"

Pitt leaned over the keyboard operator's shoulder and studied the printout tapes. "A neat arrangement The Selco-Ramsey 8300 can be overridden and re-programmed from a master control. In this case, probably the operations bunker back at Pearl Harbor. Makes it handy for Admiral Hunter in the event we go the same way as the people on the Lillie Marlene. At the first sign of trouble, he and Denver can override our system, turn the s.h.i.+p around, and bring it back to port. He may lose the crew, but the 101st Fleet gets its super salvage s.h.i.+p home intact. A neat arrangement indeed."

"You know your electronics," Boland said slowly. His face had a strange mixture of suspicion and respect.

"You might say I have a pa.s.sing acquaintance with most of the equipment you have on board."

"You've seen all this before?"

"On at least three of NUMA's oceanographic research s.h.i.+ps. Your capability is a bit more specialized since your primary objective is salvage. But our state-of-the-art is slightly ahead of yours due to the scientific nature of our explorations."

"My apologies," Boland forced a smile. "I've been underestimating your talents." He wheeled, walked across to the detection room officer, spoke a few words to him, and returned. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Do Navy regulations cover that?" Pitt grinned, somewhat taken by Boland's sudden display of friendliness.

Boland's return grin had a touch of shrewdness to it. "You forget. Technically, this is a civilian s.h.i.+p."

"I'm all for technicalities."

They had just started for the door when the detection room officer announced: "Television cameras and sonar sensors in position, Skipper."

Boland nodded. "Fast work, Lieutenant Well get underway immediately..."

"One moment," Pitt interrupted. "Just out of curiosity, what's our depth reading?"

Boland looked at him questioningly and then turned. "Lieutenant?"

The detection room officer was already bent over the sonar sensor, staring intently at the jagged shading that crawled across the readout paper.

"Five thousand, six hundred seventy feet, sir."

"Anything unusual in that?" Boland queried.

"Should be deeper," Pitt answered. "Can we have a look at your ocean floor charts?"

"Here, sir." The lieutenant moved to a large chart table with a frosted gla.s.s top and switched on the overhead illuminator. He unrolled a large chart and clipped it to the edge of the table. "North Pacific sea-floor. Not very detailed, I'm afraid. Very few depth-sounding expeditions in this part of the world."

Manners suddenly struck Boland. "Dirk Pitt, this is lieutenant Stanley."

Pitt nodded. "Okay, Stanley, let's see what youVe got" He set his elbows on the edge of the table and peered at the strange-looking contours that represented the floor of the Pacific Ocean. "What's our position?"

"Bight here, Major." Stanley made a small fix on the chart. "3210/ N, 15117' W."

"That puts us over the Fullerton Fracture Zone," said Pitt slowly.

"Sounds like a football injury." Boland was also hunched over the table.