Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (19 page)

“Have you forgotten?” Hunter said impatiently. The communications computers weren't installed in time for the Starbuck's sea trials. The radio can only be operated on standard frequencies. Until the marines move in on Delphi's transmitter, he'll be monitoring every open frequency on the air. Even if Delphi isn't wise to our exact plans as of this moment, hell know he's been had the instant Crowhaven begins sending..."

“And attack the Starbuck or blow it to pieces,” Denver finished.

Hunter's voice dropped until it was barely distinguishable. “God help them,” he murmured. “He's the only one who can now.”

Pitt ripped off his earphones and hurled them on the cockpit floor. “The bastard's cut us off,” he snapped. “If Delphi guesses what we're about, he'll lay a trap sure as hell.”

“A wonderful feeling knowing that Tve got friends like you,” Giordino said with a sarcastic smile.

“You are lucky.” There was no answering smile on Pitt*s face. “Chances are, Admiral Hunter is praying we'll abort the mission.”

“No way,” Giordino said seriously. “You people overestimated this big yellow-eyed clown. Bet you a case of good booze we get in and out before it dawns on him that he's been hit by the two greatest submarine thieves in the Pacific.”

“If you say so.”

“Face it,” Giordino said loftily. “Nobody in their right mind would voluntarily ditch an aircraft in the sea during the dead of night—except you, that is. This Delphi guy probably thinks we're only on a reconnaissance flight. He won't suspect anything before daylight.”

“I like your optimism.”

“Mom always said I had a way with words.”

“What about our passengers?”

“Nobody begged them to come. They're probably back there writing their obituaries anyway. Why disappoint them?”

“Okay, we'll go for it.” Pitt reached around the control column and tapped the altimeter. The small white needles lay idly on the bottom pegs. He turned on the landing lights and watched the water hurtle under the fuselage as the air speed indicator quivered at two hundred seventy knots. Then he pulled on a second set of earphones and listened intently for a few moments. “The signals from the underwater marker are nearing their peak,” he said. “We had best run over the final landing check.”

Giordino sighed lazily, unbuckled his seat belt, moved back to the engineer's panel, and passed the checklist to Pitt “Read it back to me.”

Pitt read off the numbered items on the printed card while Giordino acknowledged.

“Spark advance selector switches?”

“Twenty percent normal,” Giordino answered.

“Mixture levels?”

“Check.”

Pitt droned on through the tedious but necessary routine while diverting a cautious eye every few seconds on the sea a bare fifty feet below. Finally he reached the last item on the card.

“Center wing tank line valve and boost switches?”

“Closed and off.”

“That's it,” Pitt said, flipping the check card over his shoulder onto the cabin floor. “Nobody will need that again.”

Giordino bent over the controls and pointed. “The stars near the horizon straight ahead... they're fading out.”

Pitt nodded. “The fog bank.”

An ominous smudge soon appeared against the black horizon line. Pitt gradually closed the throttles until the air speed indicator read one hundred twenty knots.

“This is the magic moment,” Pitt said quietly. He glanced briefly into Giordino's dark eyes—his friend's face, though unsmiling, was calm and unworried.

“Give me one-hundred-degree flaps,” Pitt said. “Then get back in the main cabin with the others and act like a bored streetcar conductor.”

“Ill entertain them with a series of my best yawns.” Giordino leaned over the copilot's seat and held the ON position of the flaps switch until it registered one hundred degrees. “So long, pal. See you after the bash.” He gave Pitt's arm a gentle squeeze, then he turned, and left the cockpit cabin.

There was a crosswind; Pitt crabbed the C-54 to compensate for the drift As the plane settled a few feet lower, he could clearly make out the height of the swells in the brilliance from the landing lights.

He silently wished he could have layed her on the surface with no beams showing, but that would have been impossible. Not yet, not yet, he said over and over in his mind. Three more miles. It would take split second timing to ease the plane down short of the marker and the fog and still have momentum left to cany it well into the target area. The air speed was dropping past one hundred five knots. “Easy, baby; don't stall on me just yet” Pitt concentrated on keeping the wings level—if one of the tips dug into a wave crest, the plane would be transformed into a giant cartwheel. He gently nudged the plane lower, dropping behind the rows of waves, attempting to land on the downward side of one, using its slope to slacken the impact The propellers were throwing up huge billows of spray behind the engine nacelles, and die fog was beginning to enshroud the cockpit windshield when the first impact came.

It was like a dap of thunder, only louder. A round, red auxiliary fire extinguisher broke loose from its mounting and sailed over Pitt's shoulder, crashing into the instrument panel Pitt was just recovering from the shock when the plane bounced over the water like a skipping stone and smacked its aluminum belly for the second time. Then the nose dug into the backside of a swell and the C-54 stopped abruptly in the middle of a great splash.

Pitt stared dazedly through the dripping windshield at the mist He did it He had brought her down in one piece. The plane was gently rising up and down with the swells. It would float, maybe for a few minutes, maybe for days, depending on how badly the underbelly was ruptured. He exhaled a tremendous sigh and relaxed, noting with satisfaction that the batteries had survived the impact and were keeping the interior of the cabin bathed in a soft light. He flicked off the ignition switches and the landing lights to conserve the battery cells, tore off his seat belt, and hurried through the door to the main cabin.

He found a far more confident group of men this time. Crowhaven was the first to slap his back. The rest whistled and applauded; all, that is, except for the five SEAL's. They were already efficiently going about their business removing the escape hatch and checking each man's equipment.

“Good show, Dirk.” Giordino grinned broadly. 1 couldn't have done better myself."

“Coming from you, that's a blue-ribbon compliment” Pitt quickly donned his diving gear, slipping on an air tank and adjusting a face mask. “How long will she float?” asked Crowhaven. “I checked the lower deck,” said Giordino as he examined the air tanks on Pitts back. “There's only minor seepage.”

“Shouldn't we chop a hole in her so she'll sink?” Crowhaven persisted.

“Not a wise move,” Pitt answered. “When Delphi discovers an abandoned aircraft floating around with no crew, he'll think we took to the life rafts. That's why I left all the rescue equipment back at Hickam. It would never do for him to find the life rafts safe and sound and unopened. Hopefully, hell be searching for us on the surface while we're below.”

“There must be an easier way to make admiral,” Crowhaven said acidly.

Pitt went on. “When you get the sub underway, communicate with Admiral Hunter on twelve hundred fifty kilocycles.”

Crowhaven's eyes narrowed. “You're putting me on. That's a commercial frequency. I could get my tail in a sling with the Federal Communications Commission if I transmitted over twelve hundred fifty.”

“Very likely,” Pitt agreed wearily. “But Delphi's got a monitoring system that won't quit He's already invaded our preplanned frequency. Twelve-fifty is your only chance of getting through. Well worry about where the chips fall if we're lucky enough to enjoy the next sunrise.”

Pitt pulled on his fins and checked his breathing regulator. Then he leaned out the open hatch and peered into the blackness. The swells were washing across the leading edge of the wings as the plane took on a slight nose downward attitude. He turned to Giordino.

“Ready with your magic box?”

Giordino held up the signal detector.

“Shall we?”

“Yes, let's.”

“Go find us a submarine,” Pitt said, nodding out the hatch.

Giordino sat with his back facing the water for a moment while he adjusted his mouthpiece. Then he threw a jaunty wave to Pitt and disappeared backward into the sea.

Silently, one by one, five SEAL's and Crowhaven followed by his men, splashed into the darkness outside the aircraft. Each went through the door grim-faced. Pitt glanced below him and observed the underwater dive lights blinking on and wavering into the distance as each man aimed his beam on the man ahead and began swimming downward into the depths.

Pitt was the last to leave. He took one last look around the interior of the aircraft, and, like a man leaving the house for a weekend vacation, he dutifully opened the cover to the cabin circuit box and switched off the lights.

The dark, tepid Pacific water closed over Pitt's head; he momentarily allowed his body to go limp in the weightless dimension of the sea. The circular beam c from his dive light illuminated the diver twenty feet below, who was looking over his shoulder to see if Pitt was trailing his kicking fins. It suddenly occurred to Pitt that being last man in line might be dangerous. The suffocating blackness plunged him into a profound sense of anxiety; he was certain that every type of predator imaginable was sneaking into position for a quick bite of his legs. Every few seconds he spun around, flashing the light in all directions, but met no monsters of the night. The only odd-looking creature in his field of vision was his fellow human swimming unconcerned below.

Pitt's apprehension eased somewhat when the bottom loomed up through his face mask—for all he knew he might have been swimming upside down. The rocks took on morbid shapes with ghostlike faces, but they seemed like old friends when he reached down and touched their coarse, solid features. A nervous squid, the first sign of sealife, dashed across his narrow angle of sight and vanished. Then the rock formations tapered away and the seafloor became sandy; Pitt's adrenaline surged through his body as a huge black shape rose up under the swaying concert of light beams.

The Starbuck lay just as he'd left her, looking like a great spectral monster in the blackness. Kicking his fins, Pitt swam past the Navy men to the head of the line and, grasping Giordino by the arm, peered into his friend's face mask. The face inside was softly distorted by the dive light but Giordino's eyes were bright and, in spite of the mouthpiece, his grin was clear and distinct as he gave a “thumbs up” sign.

Pitt wrote some words on his message board, motioned to Crowhaven, and held it up.

THIS IS WHERE WE GET OFF. SHE'S ALL YOURS.

Crowhaven nodded, his blond hair drifting in loose strands. He quickly began distributing his men: four submariners and one SEAL were to enter through the flooded forward torpedo compartment and close the vents and valves left open by the Martha Anns divers. The rest of the men were to drop througji the aft escape chamber into the dry section of the submarine and make their way to the control room.

The submariners' fear had left them now. The time had come for them to rely on their own skills and experience. The men forward entered in one group, but the crew aft had to divide into three shifts due to the chamber's compact interior. Pitt closed the hatch after the last five men dropped into the sub and waited until he felt the surge from the exhaust vents as the water was expelled from inside the escape compartment Then he pounded the butt of his knife against the hull three times. Almost immediately three muffled knocks came from inside, signaling no problems so far. Pitt swam along the narrow top deck to the bow where he repeated his poundings. The reply came back much slower this time with more of a muted sound due to the acoustics of the flooded torpedo room. Pitt wrote again on the board.

ENTRANCE AROUND SOMEWHERE. 18 MINUTES.

Giordino understood. Eighteen minutes of air; that's all the time they would have to search for the entrance to the seamount. Pitt tapped him on the shoulder and darted off to the right. Giordino followed Pitt's slithering form as they silently glided over the eerie seascape, bound together by the fragile glow of their lights.  They  didn't bother memorizing landmarks; instead they placed their trust in the compass strapped to Pitt's left wrist as the only means of rediscovering the Starbuck before their air ran out.

Their first encounter was with another victim of the Vortex, slowly materializing in the twin shafts of their lights. The plates on the side of the hull were smooth and clean, and there was no sign of weed growth; it was a fresh wreck. Pitt was at a loss; he had studied the list of missing ships and except for the Starbuck, no new disappearance had been reported in the last six months. How could a ship this size vanish without being reported overdue in port?

She was sitting upright as though she were still floating on the surface, refusing to concede her fate. They swam past the deserted decks and saw that she had once been a trawler, a large one. A pity, Pitt thought She was certainly a fine ship. The bulwarks gleamed and the superstructure fairly bristled with the latest design in electronic scanners and antennae.

So far, there was no sign of Delphi's men, but just to be on the safe side, Pitt gestured for Giordino to stand watch while he searched the bridge. Giordino waved a hand in acknowledgment, stationing himself at a bulkhead below the starboard bridge wing where he switched off his light and instantly melted into the black depths.

Pitt snaked through the open door of the wheel-house and into its ominous, cryptlike interior. He shined his light about, rooted to the spot by the strange surroundings. His eye caught an ugly transparent snake that wiggled across the ceiling and dissolved into an open vent, then another long reptilian form that slithered into a ceiling corner and then slowly meandered into the vent. The snakes were streams of his own exhaust bubbles that had risen to the top of the cabin before discovering an escape route to the surface.

Pitt didn't know what he expected to discover in the ship, but what he found gave him nightmares for many years to come. The charts, folding back and forth from the current, lay on the table, still firm to the touch as though they had been immersed just the day before. The spokes of the wheel were thrown out in a pathetic circle of despair, as if knowing that no hands would ever grip their contour again. The brass on the binnacle gleamed in the faint light and the compass needle still faithfully pointed toward some forgotten course, while the arrows on the telegraph were settled forever on the ALL STOP position. Pitt bent closer; something was out of loiter. The letters beneath the signal lever weren't printed in English. He studied them intently for a moment and then swam back to the binnacle, aiming his light at the nameplate screwed flush above the compass opening. His knowledge of the Russian language consisted of less than twenty words, but he could make out enough of the backward alphabet to decipher the ship's name: ANDREI VYBORG.

So the Russian spy trawler had found the Starbuck, Pitt reflected. Only to die and rest beside her, courtesy of Delphi and his pirates. Pitt didn't have time to reflect further. Just then something touched him on the back of his shoulder. Pitt spun around, beaming his light into the face of a man.

It was a face that was frighteningly unnatural and twisted with an ungodly expression. The white blur of teeth shone through a mouth that was agape, and he stared unblinkingly out of one eye; the other eye was hidden by a small crab that had eaten itself halfway into the socket. The man swayed and motioned like a drunken scarecrow, his arms lifting and falling as if beckoning under the silent, unrelenting force of the current. The terrifying wraith hovered four feet from the deck and moved against Pitt who was rooted to the spot, frozen immobile at the sight Pitt savagely shoved the dead body away, watching it float toward the inner doorway of the wheelhouse where it dissolved into the curtain of black beyond.

There was nothing more to be seen or accomplished on the Soviet trawler. It was time to get the hell out; there were only a few minutes left before he and Giordino would be on their reserve air.

Giordino was still standing his vigil under the bridge wing when he heard the sound waves off in the distance. He swam up to the wheelhouse and motioned for Pitt, who was just exiting, to douse his light Pitt complied; they both crouched below the port window, listening to the approaching whirr of an electric motor several seconds before the dim glow of a light came into view.

At first it looked like a strange, primeval creature, but as it neared, they could see that it was an underwater craft designed like a porpoise with a horizontal fluke on the tail for control Two figures sat astride the sleek mini-sub, the man in the front saddle steering, while his partner navigated from behind. A small propeller churned the water behind the rear stabilizer and pushed the two men through the depths at a pace of about five knots. The craft and its passengers were headed directly toward the bridge of the Andrei Vyborg.

Pitt and Giordino pressed their bodies against the bulkhead beneath the window. It was too late to contain their breathing; they could do nothing but watch helplessly as their bubbles floated upward into the path of the sub. In a synchronized movement, they each unsheathed their knives and waited for the inevitable confrontation—the twin streams from their exhaust air were bound to give their presence away. The sub veered around the forward mast and approached the wheelhouse. It was so close now that Pitt could distinctly make out the small breathing units attached to the crew's chests. His grip on the knife tightened; he braced his body to spring through the doorway, hoping to get in the first thrust, knowing his small blade was no match for the projectile guns. The moment of suspense ended. At the last possible instant, the sub's bow tilted sharply upward, passing through the bubbles and disappearing over the bridge. The sound of the motor slowly diminished. Almost immediately its light was lost to sight and seconds later the last beat of the propeller died away.

Giordino switched on his light and Pitt could see him shrug his shoulders in a questioning, baffled gesture. Then it slowly dawned on Pitt. The Andrei Vyborg had not yet belched all of her air pockets. Everywhere along the hull and superstructure small trails of air and oil mingled and rose in lazy spurts to the ocean's surface. Delphi's men had simply ignored all signs of bubbles, knowing that a sunken ship takes months, sometimes years, to expel its trapped air.

Pitt tapped his watch and pointed in the direction of the retreating mini-sub. Giordino nodded and together they swam over the ship's railing, dropped down to the seafloor, taking advantage of its grotesquely shaped rocks and vegetation for cover. As the dark hulk of the Andrei Vyborg receded behind them, Pitt threw her a last look over his shoulder. The Americans now knew the location of her grave, but the Russians, he was certain, would never be told where to find her.

Pitt's depth gauge readings began rising. He led Giordino up a slope on the seamount The water was cold, far colder than it should have been for this part of the Pacific. Their eyes strained the length of their light's rays, searching the bottom for signs of activity, but evidence that would betray the geometrical straight lines of human manufacture failed to materialize. There had to be an opening, Pitt thought The mini-sub must have come from somewhere.

They were past their time limit now. There was no chance of making it back to the safety of the Starbuck. They had no choice but to keep going until the air in the main tanks was nearly exhausted and then head for the surface in the impossible hope they might somehow be picked up before the concussion from the Monitor's missile crushed their bodies to pulp.

Suddenly Pitt noticed a change in the water temperature. It had become warmer, perhaps by as much as five degrees. At the same moment, a powerful current rolled across the slope, sweeping the sand into small swirling clouds, stretching the weed growth on a wavering horizontal plane. The sudden surge of the current thrust its invisible mass against the two men, thrusting them over the seafloor like Ping-Pong balls in a hurricane. The vicious flow swept both men through a thrashing forest of seaweed, the fronds flaying their faces, leaving red lash marks across their cheeks and foreheads.