Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (22 page)

“Keep at it,” Crowhaven snapped over the microphone. He didn't have to be told; he could feel the deck shuddering beneath his feet as the giant propellers pounded themselves against the bottom.

Crowhaven stepped over to a young red-haired, freckle-faced man standing in front of several deck to ceiling control panels, intently studying the massive banks of gauges and colored lights. His face was pale and he was mumbling softly to himself; Crow-haven guessed he was praying. He put his hand on the technician's shoulder and said: “Next time we come up on full astern, blow all the forward torpedo tubes.”

“Think that will help, sir?” The voice was imploring.

“It's only a drop in the bucket pressure wise, but Tm willing to snatch at any straw.”

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.

“Yes, you're a weird breed of cat, Delphi. What other man would have sent his own flesh and blood out in the dead of night to commit murder? Hardly the Father of the Year. Even your hired help wander around like robots. What's your trick, Delphi? You sprinkle mind-deadening drugs in their cornflakes, or do you mesmerize them with those phony yellow eyes?”

Delphi looked unsure; Pitt wasn't acting like a man who'd come to the end of his string.

“You push too far.” Delphi leaned forward and locked a hypnotic gaze on Pitt's eyes.

Pitt's deep green eyes never hesitated, meeting Delphi's stare with burning intensity. “Don't strain yourself, Delphi. I'm not the least impressed. As I've said, they're phony. Yellow contact lenses, nothing more. You can't cast a spell over a man who's laughing at you. You're a fraud from top to bottom. Lavella and Roblemann. Who're you trying to kid? You're not fit to wipe their blackboards. Hell, you can't even do a decent impression of Frederick Moran...”

Pitt broke off abruptly, dodging to the side as Delphi, clenched teeth bared in rage, leaped from behind the desk and swung in a wide, windmilling arc with his fist. The blow carried every ounce of Delphi's immense strength, but the blinding haze of anger blurred his timing and the fist soared past without making a connection. He stumbled, recovered, and then lost his balance, going down on his hands and knees with a grunt of agony as Pitt's foot caught him on the side of his body. He stayed where he was, swaying from side to side.

There was a moment of stunned silence throughout the room as Delphi rose unsteadily, supporting himself on the top of the heavy desk. His breath was coming in gasps, his mouth a taut white line.

Pitt stood frozen, cursing himself for overplaying his hand. There was no doubt in his mind—there could be no doubt in the mind of all who were in the room— that Delphi meant to kill him and Al. Delphi reached behind the desk, pulling open a drawer and lifting out a gun. Not one of the projectile pistols, but an automatic, Pitt noticed uneasily—a heavy dark blue .44 Colt revolver—hardly the gun he expected Delphi to wield. Unhurriedly, Delphi broke the gun open, checked the shells, and snapped it shut again. The yellow eyes hadn't yet changed—they were as expressionless and icy as ever. Pitt turned and looked down at Giordino who met his eyes with a wry grin. They tensed their bodies, waiting for the end. But Delphi's yellow eyes strayed over his targets, toward the door.

“No, Father!” Summer implored. “Not that way!”

She stood at the door, wearing a green robe that came to mid thigh, her beautifully tanned and smooth skin radiating warmth and self-assurance. Pitt's blood began to pump rapidly through his veins. She moved into the room, her eyes touching Delphi with a confident, challenging gaze.

“Do not interfere,” Delphi whispered, “This matter does not concern you.”

“You just can't shoot them down here,” Summer persisted. “You just can't!” Her great gray eyes suddenly became soft and pleading. “Not within these walls!”

“Their blood can be washed away.”

“It's no good, Father. You've had to kill to maintain our sanctuary. But that was outside in the sea. You must not bring death into your own house.”

Delphi hesitated and slowly dropped the gun.

“You're quite right, Daughter.” He smiled, “Death from a bullet is too quick, too merciful, and too unclean. We'll set them free on the surface. We'll give them a chance to survive.”

“Fat chance,” Pitt growled. “Hundreds of miles to the nearest land. Man-eaters waiting for a bite of human flesh. You're all heart.”

“Enough of this morbid talk.” The gianfs face wore a sardonic expression. “I still wish to hear how you came to be here, and I haven't time for any more of your wit.”

Pitt casually studied his watch. “About thirty-one minutes to be exact.”

“Thirty-one minutes?”

“Yes, that's when your precious sanctuary caves in.”

“Back with the jokes again, are we, my friend?” He walked over to the portal, staring at the moray eel, before turning abruptly. “How many other men were in your aircraft?”

Pitt snapped another question back. “What became of Lavella, Roblemann, and Moran?”

“You persist in toying with me.”

“No, I'm dead serious,” Pitt said. “You answer a couple of questions and I'll tell you what you want to know. My word.”

Delphi thoughtfully looked at the gun. Then he laid it on the desk “I believe you.”

To begin with, Major, my name really is Moran."

“Frederick Moran would have to be in his eighties to be alive now!”

“I am his son,” Delphi said slowly. “I was a young man when he set out with Dr. Lavella and Dr. Roble-mann to find the lost island of Kanoli. You see, my father was a pacifist. After the second world war had ended in the inferno of the atomic bomb, he knew it would only be a question of time before mankind destroyed itself in a nuclear holocaust. When countries arm for war, the arms never go unused, he once said. He began researching areas that would be safe from radiation and far from target sectors, eventually discovering that a base under the sea provided the ideal retreat. When the island of Kanoli sank into the sea many centuries ago, it dropped suddenly, without volcanic activity or major cataclysm. This indicated that the ceremonial caves and tunnels recorded in the legends might still be intact. Lavella and Roblemann sympathized with my father; they joined him in his search for the lost isle. After nearly three months of sounding the seafloor, they found it, and immediately began plans for pumping the passages dry. It took them nearly a year before they were able to set up quarters within the seamount.”

“How was it possible to work so long in secret?” Pitt asked. “The records list the expedition's ship as missing only a few months after it left port.”

“Secrecy was no great problem,” Delphi continued. The ship's hull had been modified so that divers and equipment would be able to pass in and out of the sea. A few alterations like changing the name on the bow, and painting the superstructure, and the ship simply became another unnoticed steamer plying the Western trade route. Not secrecy, but financing, became the major problem."

“ The rest I know,” Pitt said with an unnerving degree of certainty.

Delphi looked up. Summer took a step forward, the identical expression of doubt showing in their faces.

“How odd you didn't catch onto the fact that the entire 101st Fleet, the entire Navy Department, discovered your setup.”

“What purpose do you serve by lying?” Delphi demanded.

“You should have guessed, Delphi. Remember when you left my apartment? I mentioned Kanoli, yet you hardly batted an eye. Probably because you knew I was about to die so my little revelation was of no consequence.”

“How... how could you?...”

The curator at the Bishop Museum. He remembered your father. But that was only the beginning. The pieces are all there, Delphi, and they all neatly finish the puzzle.“ Pitt walked over and knelt down beside Giordino. Then he faced Delphi again. ”You kill because of greed, nothing else. You've even imbedded the same cold-blooded philosophy in your own daughter. Your father might have been a pacifist, but what Dr. Moran began for strictly scientific and humanitarian reasons, unwittingly became, in your hands, the slickest hijack operation in maritime history."

“Don't stop,” Delphi said grimly. “I want to hear it all.”

“You want to hear it told from the other side?” Pitt asked, his tone neutral “Want to hear how you're put down in the files? Very well. Before continuing, however, I'd appreciate it if you could make Giordino here a bit more comfortable. If s embarrassing for him to have to lie on the floor like an animal.”

Delphi nodded reluctantly to the guards, who lifted Giordino by the arms and carried him to the red-cushioned couch. Only when Giordino was sitting more comfortably did Pitt continue. The next few minutes wouldn't make much sense unless he could guess enough of the plot behind Delphi's strange organization. If they were to have even one chance in a hundred of escaping the crush of the coming explosion, he'd have to get Giordino and Summer out of that room. The great crystal portal would be the first to go, unleashing a million gallons of seawater. He could only pray for an interruption. He took a deep breath, hoped his imagination was operating in high gear, and began.

"The Explorer, your father's ship, had outlived her usefulness by the time the scientists had made the seamount livable. Dr. Moran needed money to buy equipment in order to continue underwater construction, so he resorted to the world's most common con game—taking an insurance company. Screwing the establishment out of a few bucks in the name of science consoled his conscience. And what the hell did he care? He and Lavella and Roblemann had dropped out of society anyway. So he sailed the Explorer to the States, loaded the holds with worthless junk, insured the ship and cargo to the hilt, all this under a different name and registry, of course. Then he sailed the ship back to Kanoli where he opened the sea cocks and became the first victim of the Vortex. He immediately applied for the insurance.

"The scheme worked so smoothly, Delphi, that you couldn't resist opening up for business in a big way

after the good scientists died off and could offer no objections. Only this time, you refined the operation. You used ships that didn't belong to you. There was more loot in this method, as you weren't out the original cost of the ship. It must have been one hell of a profitable scheme. And still is, for that matter. It's almost ridiculously simple. You arrange for a few of your men to sign on as crew members on a merchantman heading west from the mainland to the Indies and the Orient. Why always west? The western steamer lane cuts right over your backyard, and not only does Kanoli lie near its path, but goods stamped MADE IN THE U.S.A. are easier to sell in the backwater black markets. All your clandestine crew had to do was deviate the ship a few degrees off its course, signal 'All Stop' to the engine room, and then stand by while you and your merry band of pirates climbed aboard and murdered the loyal crew.

“No trace of the vessel is ever found. How could it be? The bodies were weighted and dumped over the side, the hull was repainted from stem to stem, a few prominent areas of its superstructure were altered, and presto, you had a new ship. Then it was only the small matter of selling the cargo—unless it was easily traceable and too hot to handle, in which case it was expediently dropped in the sea. You made a few honest trade runs under a new registry before you then reinsured it, and then you sunk it on the summit of the seamount so you could always get at the remains for spare parts needed to make phony modifications on future acquisitions to your ill-gotten fleet God, how all the buccaneers of the Spanish Main would have envied your organization, Delphi. Next to you, they were nothing but a gang of muggers. Why hell, you've got half the world fooled into thinking there's almost thirty ships out there on the bottom, when in reality, there's only half that many. Every one of them was listed as missing twice. Once under their original name, and again when you scuttled them under yours.”