Pacific Vortex! dp-1

by Clive Cussler

  Toward the far wall was a broad walnut desk with a red leather top, handsome matching desk furniture, and a modern and expensive intercom. But the unique innovation that set the room apart from anything that might even slightly resemble it, was the large transparent portal into the sea. It was an arch nearly ten feet wide, and eight feet high; through the thick, clear crystal Pitt could see a garden of spiral- and mushroom-shaped rocks that were outlined by underwater lights. An eight-foot moray eel slithered along the lower edge of the portal and cast a stony eye at the occupants of the room. Delphi did not notice the eel; the golden eyes beneath his half-closed lids were still aimed at Pitt.

  Pitt's gaze wandered back to Delphi.

  «You don't seem talkative this morning.» Delphi smiled. «Perhaps you're concerned with the fate of your friend?»

  «Friend? I don't know what you're talking about.»

  The man with the injured feet. You left him in an abandoned passageway.»

  «Litter is everywhere these days.»

  «It's stupid of you to continue your display of ignorance. My men have discovered your aircraft»

  «Another bad habit. I double-park.»

  Delphi ignored the remark. «You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me what you're doing here.»

  «Okay, 111 tell all,» Pitt said randomly. «I chartered a plane to fly to Las Vegas on the special casino tour and we got lost. That's all there is to it, I swear.»

  «Very witty,» Delphi said wearily. «Later you'll be begging for mercy.»

  «I've always wondered now Id bear up under torture.»

  «Not you, Pitt. I wouldn't consider causing you the slightest discomfort. There are several more refined methods of getting at the truth.» Delphi rose from the couch and bent over the intercom. «Bring me the other.» He straightened and offered Pitt a rigidly fixed and lifeless smile. «Make yourself comfortable. I promise the wait will be short.»

  Pitt rose awkwardly to his feet He should have been reeling from dizziness and exhaustion. Yet, unaccountably, the adrenaline began to pump and his mind ran sharp.

  He stole a glance at his watch. It read 0410. Fifty minutes until the marines attacked the transmitter on Maui. Fifty minutes until the Monitor blew the seamount into gravel There was little chance of getting out alive now. The sacrifice would be worth it, he thought grimly, if only Crowhaven got the Star-buck underway. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the Starbuck cutting a course through the ocean back to Hawaii, but somehow the picture wouldn't come.

  Crowhaven could not remember when he had seen so much blood. The deck of the control room was coated with it, while several places along the electrical panels were splattered wildly in the manner of a Jackson Pollock abstract painting.

  Things had gone smoothly at first Too smoothly. The entry into the aft storage compartment had gone off without opposition; they'd even had time to remove their diving gear and take a short breather. But when the advance party of SEAL's crept into the Starbuck's control room, hell broke loose.

  For Crowhaven, the next four minutes were the most frightening of his life. Four minutes of ear-splitting thunder spouting from the automatic weapons in the hands of the SEAL's, four minutes of groans and cries that amplified and echoed around the steel-walled interior of the sunken submarine.

  Delphi's men were firing their strange silent guns until cut down by no less than six to eight solid hits from the SEAL's rapid fire weapons. He wondered how it was possible for anyone to stand up to such punishment unless they had gone mad. Three men were killed outright and the other four had died since his message to Hunter. Nothing could have saved them. As for his side, one SEAL was dead; one of those bastards tying on the deck had struck him through the left temple, and three more were wounded seriously. Gritting their teeth against the pain, they were secure in the knowledge that he, Crowhaven the Wizard, was going to raise this big steel deathtrap and get them proper medical treatment faster than a speeding bullet.

  But he was already fourteen minutes behind schedule. He was sorry he'd put his foot in his mouth by promising Admiral Hunter to have the Starbuck underway by 0400. It was the suction — six months of lying on the bottom of the ocean had built up a staggering suction around the hull. All the ballast vents had been blown; but it hadn't been enough to break away from the clutching grip of the seafloor. He began to wonder bleakly if they were going to meet the same fate as the Starbuck's original crew.

  His second in command, a scowling chief petty officer, approached.

  «There's nothing left to dump, Commander. Main ballast tanks are empty, and all diesel fuel and freshwater tanks have been blown. She still won't budge, sir.»

  Crowhaven kicked the chart table like an unruly child.

  «No, by God, she's going to move if I have to tear the guts out of her.» He stared at the chief with a withering gaze. «Full astern!»

  The chiefs eyes widened. «Sir?»

  «I ordered full astern, dammit!»

  «Begging the commander's pardon, that'll beat the hell out of the screws, sir. They're half stuck in the seabed now. And there's a good chance we'd shear a shaft.»

  «It beats the hell out of dying,» Crowhaven said curdy. «We'll kick this mother out of here as though she were a mule in a swamp. No more arguments, Chief. Give me full astern for five seconds and then jam her full ahead for five seconds. Keep repeating the process until we bust her into scrap or she breaks free.»

  The chief shrugged in defeat and hurried off to the engine room.

  After the turbines were engaged, it took only half a minute before the first dire report came into the control room.

  «Engine room, Commander,» the chiefs voice carried through the speaker. «She can't take much more. We've already bent the screw blades, twisting them into the sand. They're out of balance and vibrating like crazy.»

  «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,<
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  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.»