The light grew steadily brighter until he could read the numbers of his dive watch without the aid of the dying beam from the lamp. The hands on the orange dial read ten minutes after five o'clock. Was it early morning or afternoon? How long since he dove into the river? He couldn't remember if it was ten minutes or fifty. His mind sluggishly puzzled over the answers.
The clear, transparent emerald green of the river water turned more blue and opaque. The current was fading and his ascent slowed. There was a distant shimmer above him. At last the surface itself appeared.
He was in the Gulf. He had exited the river passage and was swimming in the Sea of Cortez. Pitt looked up and saw a shadow looming far in the distance. One final check of his air pressure gauge. The needle quivered on zero. His air was almost gone.
Rather than suck in a huge gulp, he used what little was left to partially inflate his buoyancy compensator so it would gently lift him to the surface if he blacked out from lack of oxygen.
One last inhalation that barely puffed out his lungs and he relaxed, exhaling small breaths to compensate for the declining pressure as he rose from the depths. The hiss of his air bubbles leaving the regulator diminished as his lungs ran dry.
The surface appeared so close he could reach out and touch it when his lungs began to burn. It was a spiteful illusion. The waves were still 20 meters (66 feet) away.
He put some strength into his kick as a huge elastic band seemed to tighten around his chest. Soon, the desire for air became his only world as darkness started seeping around the edges of his eyes.
Pitt became entangled in something that hindered his ascent. His vision, blurred without a dive mask, failed to distinguish what was binding him. Instinctively, he thrashed clumsily in an attempt to free himself. A great roaring sound came from inside his brain as it screamed in protest. But in that instant before blackness shut down his mind, he sensed that his body was being pulled toward the surface.
"I've hooked a big one!" shouted Joe Hagen joyously,
"You got a marlin?" Claire asked excitedly, seeing her husband's fishing pole bent like a question mark.
"He's not giving much fight for a marlin," Joe panted as he feverishly turned the crank on his reel. "Feels more like a dead weight."
"Maybe you dragged him to death."
"Get the gaff. He's almost to the surface."
Claire snatched a long-handled gaff from two hooks and pointed it over the side of the yacht like a spear. "I see something," she cried. "It looks big and black."
Then she screamed in horror.
Pitt was a millimeter away from unconsciousness when his head broke into a trough between the waves. He spit out his regulator and drew in a deep breath. The sun's reflection on the water blinded eyes that hadn't seen light in almost two days. He squinted rapturously at the sudden kaleidoscope of colors.
Relief, joy of living, fulfillment of a great accomplishment-- they flooded together.
A woman's scream pierced his ears and he looked up, startled to see the Capri-blue hull of a yacht rising beside him and two people staring over the side, their faces pale as death. It was then that he realized he was entangled in fishing line. Something slapped against his leg. He gripped the line and pulled a small skipjack tuna, no longer than his foot, out of the water. The poor thing had a huge hook protruding from its mouth.
Pitt gently gripped the fish under one armpit and eased out the hook with his good hand. Then he stared into the little fish's beady eyes.
"Look, Toto," he said jubilantly, "we're back in Kansas!"
Commander Maderas and his crew had moved out of San Felipe and resumed their search pattern when the call came through from the Hagens.
"Sir," said his radioman, "I just received an urgent message from the yacht The First Attempt."
"What does it say?"
"The skipper, an American by the name of Joseph Hagen, reports picking up a man he caught while fishing."
Maderas frowned. "He must mean he snagged a dead body while trolling."
"No, sir, he was quite definite. The man he caught is alive."
Maderas was puzzled. "Can't be the one we're searching for. Not after viewing the other one. Have any boats in the area reported a crew member lost overboard?"
The radioman shook his head. "I've heard nothing."
"What is The First Attempt's position?"
"Twelve nautical miles to the northwest of us."
Maderas stepped into the wheelhouse and nodded at Hidalgo. "Set a course to the northwest and watch for an American yacht." Then he turned to his radioman. "Call this Joseph Hagen for more details on the man they pulled from the water and tell him to remain at his present position. We'll rendezvous in approximately thirty-five minutes."
Hidalgo looked at him across the chart table. "What do you think?"
Maderas smiled. "As a good Catholic, I must believe what the church tells me about miracles. But this is one I have to see for myself."
The fleet of yachts and the many boats of the Mexican fishing fleets that ply the Sea of Cortez have their own broadcast network. There is considerable bantering among the brotherhood of boat owners, similar to the old neighborhood telephone party lines. The chatter includes weather reports, invitations to seaboard social parties, the latest news from home ports, and even a rundown of items for sale or swap.
The word went up and down the Gulf about the owners of The First Attempt catching a human on a fishing line. Interest was fueled by those who embellished the story before passing it on through the Baja net. Yacht owners who tuned in late heard a wild tale about the Hagens catching a killer whale and finding a live man inside.
Some of the larger oceangoing vessels were equipped with radios capable of reaching stations in the United States. Soon reports were rippling out from Baja to as far away as Washington.
The Hagen broadcast was picked up by a Mexican navy radio station in La Paz. The radio operator on duty asked for confirmation, but Hagen was too busy jabbering away with other yacht owners and failed to reply. Thinking it was another of the wild parties in the boating social swing, he noted it in his log and concentrated on official navy signals.
When he went off duty twenty minutes later, he casually mentioned it to the officer in charge of the station.
"It sounded pretty loco," he explained. "The report came in English. Probably an intoxicated gringo playing games over his radio."
"Better send a patrol boat to make an inspection," said the officer. "I'll inform the Northern District Fleet Headquarters and see who we have in the area."
Fleet headquarters did not have to be informed. Maderas had already alerted them that he was heading at full speed toward The First Attempt. Headquarters had also received an unexpected signal from the Mexican chief of naval operations, ordering the commanding officer to rush the search and extend every effort for a successful rescue operation.
Admiral Ricardo Alvarez was having lunch with his wife at the officers' club when an aide hurried to his table with both signals.
"A man caught by a fisherman." Alvarez snorted. "What kind of nonsense is this?"
"That was the message relayed by Commander Maderas of the G-21," replied the aide.
"How soon before Maderas comes in contact with the yacht?"
"He should rendezvous at any moment."
"I wonder why Naval Operations is so involved with an ordinary tourist lost at sea?"
"Word has come down that the President himself is interested in the rescue," said the aide.
Admiral Alvarez gave his wife a sour look. "I knew that damned North American Free Trade Agreement was a mistake. Now we have to kiss up to the Americans every time one of them falls in the Gulf."
So it was that there were more questions than answers when Pitt was transferred from The First Attempt soon after the patrol vessel came alongside. He stood on the deck, partially supported by Hagen, who had stripped off the torn wet suit and lent Pitt a golf shirt and a pair of shorts. Claire had replaced the
bandage on his shoulder and taped one over the nasty cut on his forehead.
He shook hands with Joseph Hagen. "I guess I'm the biggest fish you ever caught."
Hagen laughed. "Sure something to tell the grandkids."
Pitt then kissed Claire on the cheek. "Don't forget to send me your recipe for fish chowder. I've never tasted any so good."
"You must have liked it. You put away at least a gallon."
"I'll always be in your debt for saving my life. Thank you."
Pitt turned and was helped into a small launch that ferried him to the patrol boat. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, he was greeted by Maderas and Hidalgo before being escorted to the sick bay by the ship's medical corpsman. Prior to ducking through a hatch, Pitt turned and gave a final wave to the Hagens.
Joe and Claire stood with their arms around each other's waist. Joe turned and looked at his wife with a puzzled expression and said, "I've never caught five fish in my entire life and you can't cook worth sour grapes. What did he mean by your great-tasting fish chowder?"
Claire sighed. "The poor man. He was so hurt and hungry I didn't have the heart to tell him I fed him canned soup doused with brandy."
Curtis Starger got the word in Guaymas that Pitt had been found alive. He was searching the hacienda used by the Zolars. The call came in over his Motorola Iridium satellite phone from his office in Calexico. In an unusual display of teamwork, the Mexican investigative agencies had allowed Starger and his Customs people to probe the buildings and grounds for additional evidence to help convict the family dynasty of art thieves.
Starger and his agents had arrived to find the grounds and airstrip empty of all life. The hacienda was vacant and the pilot of Joseph Zolar's private plane had decided now was a good time to resign. He simply walked through the front gate, took a bus into town, and caught a flight to his home in Houston, Texas.
A search of the hacienda turned up nothing concrete. The rooms had been cleaned of any incriminating evidence. The abandoned plane parked on the airstrip was another matter. Inside, Starger found four crudely carved wooden effigies with childlike faces painted on them.
"What do you make of these?" Starger asked one of the agents, who was an expert in ancient Southwest artifacts.
"They look like some kind of Indian religious symbols."
"Are they made from cottonwood?"
The agent lifted his sunglasses and examined the idols close up. "Yes, I think I can safely say they're carved out of cottonwood."
Starger ran his hand gently over one of the idols. "I have a suspicion these are the sacred idols Pitt was looking for."
Rudi Gunn was told while he was lying in a hospital bed. A nurse entered his room, followed by one of Starger's agents.
"Mr. Gunn. I'm Agent Anthony Di Maggio with the Customs Service. I thought you'd like to know that Dirk Pitt was picked up alive in the Gulf about half an hour ago."
Gunn closed his eyes and sighed with heavy relief. "I knew he'd make it."
"Quite a feat of courage, I hear, swimming over a hundred kilometers through an underground river."
"No one else could have done it."
"I hope the good news will inspire you to become more cooperative," said the nurse, who talked sweetly while carrying a long rectal thermometer.
"Isn't he a good patient?" asked Di Maggio.
"I've tended better."
"I wish to hell you'd give me a pair of pajamas," Gunn said nastily, "instead of this peekaboo, lace-up-the-rear, shorty nightshirt."
"Hospital gowns are designed that way for a purpose," the nurse replied smartly.
"I wish to God you'd tell me what it is."
"I'd better go now and leave you alone," said Di Maggio, beating a retreat. "Good luck on a speedy recovery."
"Thank you for giving me the word on Pitt," Gunn said sincerely.
"Not at all."
"You rest now," ordered the nurse. "I'll be back in an hour with your medication."
True to her word, the nurse returned in one hour on the dot. But the bed was empty. Gunn had fled, wearing nothing but the skimpy little gown and a blanket.
Strangely, those on board the Alhambra were the last to know.
Loren and Sandecker were meeting with Mexican Internal Police investigators beside the Pierce Arrow when news of Pitt's rescue came from the owner of a luxurious powerboat that was tied up at the nearby fuel station. He shouted across the water separating the two vessels.
"Ahoy the ferry!"
Miles Rodgers was standing on the deck by the wheelhouse talking with Shannon and Duncan. He leaned over the railing and shouted back. "What is it?"
"They found your boy!"
The words carried inside the auto deck and Sandecker rushed out onto the open deck. "Say again!" he yelled.
"The owners of a sailing ketch fished a fellow out of the water," the yacht skipper replied. "The Mexican navy reports say it's the guy they were looking for."
Everyone was on an outside deck now. All afraid to ask the question that might have an answer they dreaded to hear.
Giordino accelerated his wheelchair up to the loading ramp as if it were a super fuel dragster. He apprehensively yelled over to the powerboat. "Was he alive?"
"The Mexicans said he was in pretty poor shape, but came around after the boat owner's wife pumped some soup into him."
"Pitt's alive!" gasped Shannon.
Duncan shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe he made it through to the Gulf!"
"I do," murmured Loren, her face in her hands, the tears flowing. The dignity and the poise seemed to crumble. She leaned down and hugged Giordino, her cheeks wet and flushed red beneath a new tan. "I knew he couldn't die."
Suddenly, the Mexican investigators were forgotten as if they were miles away and everyone was shouting and hugging each other. Sandecker, normally taciturn and reserved, let out a resounding whoop and rushed to the wheelhouse, snatched up the Iridium phone and excitedly called the Mexican Navy Fleet Command for more information.
Duncan frantically began poring over his hydrographic charts of the desert water tables, impatient to learn what data Pitt had managed to accumulate during the incredible passage through the underwater river system.
Shannon and Miles celebrated by breaking out a bottle of cheap champagne they had found in the back of the galley's refrigerator, and passing out glasses. Miles reflected genuine joy at the news, but Shannon's eyes seemed unusually thoughtful. She stared openly at Loren, as a curious envy bloomed inside her that she couldn't believe existed. She slowly became aware that perhaps she had made a mistake by not displaying more compassion toward Pitt.
"That damned guy is like the bad penny that always turns up," said Giordino, fighting to control his emotions.
Loren looked at him steadily. "Did Dirk tell you he asked me to marry him?"
"No, but I'm not surprised. He thinks a lot of you."
"But you don't think it's a good idea, do you?"
Giordino slowly shook his head. "Forgive me if I say a union between you two would not be made in heaven."
"We're too headstrong and independent for one another. Is that what you mean?"
"There's that, all right. You and he are like express trains racing along parallel tracks, occasionally meeting in stations but eventually heading for different destinations."
She squeezed his hand. "I thank you for being candid."
"What do I know about relationships?" He laughed. "I never last with a woman more than two weeks."
Loren looked into Giordino's eyes. "There is something you're not telling me."
Giordino stared down at the deck planking. "Women seem to be intuitive about such things."
"Who was she?" Loren asked hesitantly.
"Her name was Summer," replied Giordino honestly. "She died fifteen years ago in the sea off Hawaii."
"The Pacific Vortex affair. I remember him telling me about it."
"He went crazy trying to save her, but she was lost."
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"And he still carries her in his memory," said Loren.
Giordino nodded. "He never talks about her, but he often gets a faraway look in his eyes when he sees a woman who resembles her."
"I've seen that look on more than one occasion," Loren said, her voice melancholy.
"He can't go on forever longing for a ghost," said Giordino earnestly. "We all have an image of a lost love who has to be put to rest someday."
Loren had never seen the wisecracking Giordino this wistful before. "Do you have a ghost?"
He looked at her and smiled. "One summer, when I was nineteen, I saw a girl riding a bicycle along a sidewalk on Balboa Island in Southern California. She wore brief white shorts and a soft green blouse tied around her midriff. Her honey-blond hair was in a long ponytail. Her legs and arms were tanned mahogany. I wasn't close enough to see the color of her eyes, but I somehow knew they had to be blue. She had the look of a free spirit with a warm sense of humor. There isn't a day that goes by I don't recall her image."
"You didn't go after her?" Loren asked in mild surprise.
"Believe it or not, I was very shy in those days. I walked the same sidewalk every day for a month, hoping to spot her again. But she never showed. She was probably vacationing with her parents and left for home soon after our paths crossed."
"That's sad," said Loren.
"Oh, I don't know." Giordino laughed suddenly. "We might have married, had ten kids and found we hated each other."
"To me, Pitt is like your lost love. An illusion I can never quite hold on to."
"He'll change," Giordino said sympathetically. "All men mellow with age."
Loren smiled faintly and shook her head. "Not the Dirk Pitts of this world. They're driven by an inner desire to solve mysteries and challenge the unknown. The last thing any of them wants is to grow old with the wife and kids and die in a nursing home."
The small port of San Felipe wore a festive air. The dock was crowded with people. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of excitement as the patrol boat neared the entrance to the breakwaters forming the harbor.
Maderas turned to Pitt. "Quite a reception."
Pitt's eyes narrowed against the sun. "Is it some sort of local holiday?"
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