«Suddenly, one afternoon, the cracking stopped and he began receiving a tapping sound, as if something was rapping a pencil on the underwater microphone. At first he figured he'd only run onto a fish with a previously unrecorded sound. But it slowly dawned on him that the tapping was in some kind of code. The ship's radio operator was hastily called and he deciphered it as a mathematical formula. Then the noise stopped and a shrieking laughter, eerily distorted by the density of the water, burst from the listening room speakers. Shaking off disbelief, the crew quickly lowered a TV camera. They were about ten seconds too late. The fine bottom silt had been stirred up by a rapid movement, leaving an impenetrable cloud of muck. It took an hour before the bottom cleared. And there, in front of the cameras, was a set of odd-looking indentations in the silt going off into the black void.»
«Were they able to make anything out of the formula?» asked Denver.
«Yes, it was a simple equation for finding the water pressure at the depth the microphone was located.»
«And the answer?»
«Nearly two and a half tons per square inch.»
Silence fell on the chart room, a long, chilling silence. Pitt could hear the water below the ports gently lapping the hull.
«Any coffee around?» Pitt asked.
Denver's mind still roamed the mysterious abyss of the sea. Then with a marked degree of effort, he shrugged it away. «Be assured,» he said with a grim smile, «when you take an ocean cruise on the Martha Ann, you travel under the finest service in the Pacific.» He picked up an old blackened pot and poured the coffee into a battered tin cup. «There you are, sir, and enjoy your trip.»
They were sitting at the chart table just beginning to savor the coffee when the door swung open and Boland entered. He wore a soiled T-shirt, faded Levi's, and a pair of brogans in worse condition than Pitt's. The thin shirt showed off Boland's muscular shoulders, and for the first time, Pitt noticed a tattoo on one of his arms. The picture of a knife piercing the skin and oozing blood, adorned his right forearm, and underneath the gruesome illustration in blue lettering, read the words:
DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR.
«You two look like you just received Dear John letters,» Boland's voice was mocking, yet firm. «What goes?»
«We were just solving the mysteries of the universe,» Denver answered. «Here, Paul, have a shot of my world-renowned brew.» He pushed a steaming cup toward Boland, spilling a few brown drops on the deck
Boland took the dripping mug from Denver's hand and looked thoughtfully at Pitt, and when Pitt stared back at him, he slowly cracked a smile, lifted the cup, and sipped at the hot contents.
«Any final orders from the old man?» he asked.
Denver shook his head. «Same as he told you. At the first sign of danger, get the hell out and hotfoot it back to Pearl Harbor.»
«That's if we're lucky,» Boland said. «None of the other missing vessels had time for a Mayday signal, much less time to cut ass.»
«Then Pitt here is your insurance. And the helicopter.»
«It takes time to warm up a helicopter,» Boland said doubtfully.
«Not that bird,» Pitt said briefly. «I can put her in the air in forty seconds flat.» He stood and stretched, his large hands touching the metal ceiling. «One question. That copter can only carry fifteen men. Either the Navy provided us with a crew of midgets, or we're sailing damned shorthanded.»
«Under normal standards, we're sailing short-handed,» Denver said. He smiled at Boland and winked. «You couldn't know, Dirk, but the Martha Ann is not the decrepit old scow she seems. A large crew is unnecessary because she's equipped with the most advanced and highly automated centralized control system of any ship afloat. She practically runs herself.»
«But the scale on the hull. The rust…» «Prettiest fake scenery you ever saw,» Denver admitted. «A clever chemical coating that looks like the real thing. Can't tell it from rust under bright sunlight from a foot away.»
«Then why the elaborate equipment?» Pitt asked.
«There's more to the Martha Ann than meets the eye,» Boland said with a hesitant degree of modesty.
«You'd never know it to look at her, but she's crammed from keel to topside with salvage equipment.»
«A disguised salvage ship?» Pitt said slowly. «That's a new twist.»
Denver smiled. «The masquerade comes in handy for the, shall we say, more delicate reclamation projects.»
«Admiral Sandecker mentioned a few of your delicate accomplishments,» Pitt said. «Now I see how you carried them off.»
«No job too large, no job too small,» Boland said, laughing. «We could almost raise the Andrea Doria if they turned us loose on it»
«Suppose we do find the Starbuck, even with your automated gadgetry, you could never bring her to the surface with such a small crew.»
«Purely precautionary, my dear Pitt,» answered Denver. «Admiral Hunter insisted on a skeleton crew during the search operation. No sense in wasting lives if the Martha Ann should meet the same fate as the others. On the other hand, if we get lucky and discover the Starbuck, you and your whirlybird then begin a shuttle service between the recovery site and Honolulu by ferrying the salvage crew and any needed parts and equipment.»
«A tidy little package,» Pitt admitted. «Though I'd sleep better if we had an armed escort.»
Denver shook his head. «Can't chance it. The Russians would smell a shady plot the minute they got wind of an old tramp steamer escorted by a Navy missile cruiser. They'd have the Andrei Vyborg on our tail by sunup.»
Pitt's eyebrows lifted. The «Andrei Vyborg?»
«A Russian oceanographic vessel classified by Navy Intelligence as a spy ship. She's shadowed the Star-buck's search operation for the last six months and she's still out there somewhere hovering around poking for the sub.» Boland paused for a swallow of coffee. «The 101st Fleet has spent too much time and effort to maintain our cover as a merchantman. We can't afford to have it blown now.»
«As you can see,» Denver said, «the Martha Ann is completely divorced from the Navy. She's listed under United States registry as a merchant ship. And we intend to keep it that way, nice and discreet.»
«Isn't the Navy concerned by the fact that the Andrei Vyborg is nosing around alone?»
«She's not alone,» Boland said seriously. «We've four ships still combing the northern search area. The Navy never gives up on a search, no matter how hopeless it seems for survivors. Call it Naval tradition if you will, Major, but it's a damn good feeling when you're floating in the sea, clutching a piece of flotsam after your ship has gone down, knowing that nothing is spared to make your rescue…»
Boland's lecture was interrupted by a knock on the door. «Come in!» he shouted.
A young boy, no more than nineteen or twenty, stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a white butcher's cap on his head and a pair of blue coveralls. Ignoring Pitt and Denver, he spoke to Boland.
«Excuse me, sir, the chief engineer reports the engine room is in readiness and the bosun's mate has the crew standing by to cast off.»
Boland glanced at his watch. «Right. Pass the word to cast off and get underway in ten minutes.»
«Yes sir,» replied the young seaman. He saluted, turned, and disappeared into the pilothouse.
Boland smiled smugly at Denver. «Not bad. We're forty minutes ahead of schedule.»
«The copter tied down and secure?» asked Pitt.
Boland nodded. «She's snug. You can make your final flight checks when it's daylight.»
Pitt rose and walked over to the porthole, breathing deeply to cleanse his lungs of the stale smoke from Denver's cigarettes. The harbor air smelled sure in comparison to the stuffy chart room.
«Have you assigned accommodations for Dirk?» Denver asked Boland.
«There's a stateroom next to mine that we keep vacant for VTP's,» Boland replied, his lips curled in a sarcastic grin. «In Pitt's case, we'll make an exception.»
Pitt fixed a long
hypnotic stare devoid of anger or animosity at the smoke curling up from the ashtray. He could shrug off a verbal dig with all the feeling of nipping a mosquito off an arm. Hunter was a clever old fox; placing two men with different temperaments together as a team.
«Well, I guess I'd best shove off,» Denver said, breaking the uneasy silence.
«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 ship'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 ship'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 mass swirled, slowly diminishing 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 assassin with tobacco-stained teeth, a bastard 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 flustered at how to act before a civilian, particularly one on a Navy ship.
«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 ship 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 glasses a moment, wiping the smudges on the bottom of his T-shirt. 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 glasses 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 passed 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 ship 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 ship.»
«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 knobs standing atop a wide-set keyboard. «Latitude-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 mass of transistors will run the ship.» «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 ship around, and bring it back to port. He may lose the crew, but the 101st Fleet gets its super salvage ship 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 passing 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 ships. 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 ship.»
«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 glass 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. «32°10/ N, 151°17′ W.»
«That puts us over the Fullerton Fracture Zone,» said Pitt slowly.
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