Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (20 page)

Pitt somersaulted and collided with a huge outcropping of rock that was coated with a thick blanket of marine growth. The green slime rubbed off in his hands and the sharp edges from a colony of shell creatures sliced into his rubber wet suit. He was pinned against the rocks for an instant, and then the unpredictable whim of the current jerked him back into its path. He felt something grasp his leg. It was Giordino's arm, circled around Pitt's thigh just under the crotch, holding on with all the force of a hydraulic vise.

Pitt looked into Giordino's face mask and he could have sworn he saw one brown eye wink. The added weight of their combined bodies was already reducing the drag from the current, and more important, Giordino's grip would keep them from becoming separated during their swirling journey through the tempest of exploding sand and seaweed.

Pitt became aware of a dull clanking noise. An odd tolling sound coming from his airtanks smashing against the rocks. He tumbled on his back for a fleeting moment and shined his light upward, briefly watching the surface shimmer back in the reflection. He reached out as if to touch it and then realized that his mind was wandering. He jerked his senses back to the moment just in time to throw up his arm and shield his face before ramming a massive barnacle-coated boulder.

What rescued him in those first jarring seconds was the quarter-inch rubber thickness of his wet suit But it wasn't enough to save him completely. The barbed growth cut past the rubber and nylon inner lining; Pitt was stabbed with pain as the water around his arm burst into a cloud of his blood. His face mask was ripped away and the swirling sand invaded his eyes and nostrils, scouring the delicate membranes. He tried to exhale through his nose to clear the sand, but only succeeded in adding to the irritation. His eyes stung from the combined attack of sand and saltwater; the sudden closure of the lids threw his brain into spinning blackness.

Then his head slammed into a low rock and a skyrocket soared and burst into a brilliant rainbow of color, sputtered out, and all was still.

Giordino felt Pitt's body go limp and collapse; the dive light dropped from an open hand and fell to the bottom. Giordino shone his own light into Pitt's face, perceiving the loss of consciousness. He satisfied himself that Pitt's mouthpiece was still secured between the teeth and then tightened his stubby arms around Pitt's leg and continued hanging on.

A stretch of sandy gravel passed under Giordino; he lashed out with his feet, desperately attempting to drag them as a brake. Both his fins were torn away and the skin flayed from his feet and ankles. He clenched his teeth on the mouthpiece of his airhose until the rubber split, and dug his bleeding feet deeper into the sand. It was a move born of desperation, and it failed. His feet merely gouged two grooves in the yielding sea bottom before losing their hold and breaking loose.

Suddenly, like a cat who tires of a mouse, the treacherous undercurrent spun them out of its mainstream and released them. Giordino quickly reached out and grabbed a handful of seagrass, pulling his unconscious burden toward a small, craterlike pocket on the bottom. Then he relaxed and drifted downward in the calm water, letting Pitt sink gently beside him.

It was quiet in the operations bunker at Pearl Harbor. The typewriters were mute; the computers sat silent and inoperative, their tape reels staring like great round unlidded eyes. Half the staff was grouped around the radio center, the men thoughtfully smoking and saying nothing, the women nervously pouring coffee, looking pale and drawn. The tenseness in the atmosphere lay heavily and drained everyone's energies. Hunter and Denver sat on either side of the radio operator, looking at each other through tired, bloodshot eyes.

Denver pulled a small plastic vial from his breast pocket and idly toyed with it, rolling it back and forth on the table. Hunter studied him for a moment and then raised his eyebrows questioningjy.

“What's that thing?”

Denver held it up. “Pitt gave it to me to have analyzed. It was originally in a hypodermic syringe.”

“Pitt gave it to you?” Hunter persisted. “What's in it?”

“DG-10,” Denver said briefly. “One of the deadliest poisons around. Extremely difficult to detect The body has all the appearances of a heart seizure.”

“What was he doing with it?”

Denver shrugged. “I don't know. He was very sly about it Said we'd know in the end.”

Hunter's eyes were remote, unseeing. “An enigma, that man's a don't-give-a-damn enigma...”

“Telephone, Admiral.”

Hunter was interrupted by an officer who held out a receiver. “Who is it?”

The officer looked lost for a moment, then hesitantly said: “It's Aloha Willie, the late night disc jockey on radio station POPO.”

Hunter's mouth dropped. “What is this, mister? I don't want to talk to any damned disc jockey. How did he get on our private lines anyway?”

The officer looked extremely ill-at-ease. “He said it was urgent, sir. His contest riddle is: the Blackbird has come home to nest He said you'd win a prize if you knew the answer.”

“What nonsense is this?” Hunter fairly exploded. “You tell that nut to...” Suddenly Hunter's lips froze and his eyes widened. “My God, Crowhaven.”

He snatched the receiver and talked rapidly with the voice on the other end of the line. Then he thrust the receiver back at the stunned officer and turned to Denver.

“Crowhaven is sending over the frequency of a Honolulu radio station.”

Denver's expression was one of abject bewilderment “I don't understand.”

“It's brilliant Positively brilliant,” Hunter said excitedly. “Delphi would never think to monitor the frequency of a commercial broadcast station, especially a rock 'n roll program. Nobody but a handful of kids would be tuned in at this time of the morning.” He leaned over the radio operator. “Set your frequency to 1250.”

At first the concrete walls were greeted by a loud blast of music which assaulted the eardrums of everyone in the bunker. Then, before the confused staff crowded around the radio fully absorbed the shock, a high-pitched voice that spit words like a machine gun broke through the speaker.

“Hi-ho there, you early morning birdwatchers. This is Aloha Willie with the top forty tunes rockin* your way across the tropical airwaves with some really great sounds for you disc hounds. Time now, three-fifty. Okay, are you ready, group? Glue your ears to the transistors and listen now as we play the flip side of the latest comedy record by Big Daddy and His Gang. Take it away Big Daddy.”

The radio operator in the bunker pushed the transmit button and cut in on the program. “Big Daddy calling Our Gang. Come in please. Over.”

“This is Our Gang, Big Daddy. Do you read? Over.”

Denver leaped to his feet. “That's Crowhaven. He's done itl He's calling from inside the Starbuck”

“We read you, Our Gang. Over.”

“Here is the final score. Visitors: one run, one hit, three errors. Home Team: no runs, three hits, four errors.”

Hunter gazed emptily at the speaker. “The code for casualties. Crowhaven had taken control of the submarine but it cost him one dead and three wounded.”

“We acknowledge the score, Our Gang,” droned the radio man. “Our congratulations to the visiting team for their win. When can they leave the ballpark?”

The reply came back without hesitation. “The showers are steaming and the locker room should be emptied in another hour. Will load bus and leave stadium by 0400.”

Denver rapped the table with his fist and a big smile widened across his cherubic face. “The reactors are generating steam to the turbines and they'll have the forward torpedo compartment pumped dry in an hour. Thank God, they're ahead of schedule.”

Hunter reached over and took the microphone from the operator.

“Our Gang, this is Big Daddy. Where is the Kid?” “The Kid and his sidekick went over the hill in search of a lost gold mine. No word since then. Assume they became lost in the desert and ran out of water.”

Hunter silently set down the microphone. There was no need to translate. The message was all too clear.

“Well bring you up-to-date on the sports at 0500,” Crowhaven's voice continued. “Our Gang, out.”

Aloha Willie cut back in without missing a beat.

“There you have it, group. Now for number twelve on the charts: Avery Anson Pants singing The Great Bikini Ripoff...”

The radio operator switched off the speaker. “That's it, sir, until 0500.”

Admiral Hunter moved slowly away and sank in a chair. He stared dully at the wall.

“A high price to pay,” Hunter said softly.

“Pitt should have stayed with Crowhaven,” Denver said bitterly. “He should have never gone off in search of your daughter...” Denver caught himself too late.

Hunter looked up. “I did not give Pitt permission to look for Adrian.”

“I know, sir,” Denver shrugged helplessly. “I tried to discourage him., but he insisted on making the attempt. He does what he wants to do.”

“Did what he wanted to do,” Hunter said hopelessly, his voice trailing off softly.

“Welcome back to the land of the walking dead.”

Pitt slowly focused his eyes and looked up into the ever-grinning face of Giordino.

“Who's walking?” Pitt muttered. He wished he were unconscious again, wished the burning ache in his gashed arm and the throb from his bruised head belonged to someone else. He didn't move; he just lay there and soaked up the sea of pain.

Tor a while there I thought you'd need a casket,** Giordino said casually.

He held out his hand and Giordino pulled him to a sitting position. Pitt blinked his eyes to remove the sand and saltwater. “Where in hell are we?”

“An underwater cave,” Giordino answered. “I found it right after you blacked out and we escaped from that god-awful current.”

Pitt looked around the small chamber, lit dimly by Giordino's dented dive light. It was about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, and the ceiling was between five and ten feet high. Three quarters of the floor was water while the remainder consisted of the rocky shelf that he and Giordino rested on. The walls of the semi-flooded gallery were smooth and covered by a score of tiny crabs that scooted about the ledge like frightened ants.

“I wonder how deep we are,” Pitt murmured.

“My depth gauge read eighty feet outside the entrance.”

Pitt longed for a cigarette. He dragged his sore body across the shelf to one wall and leaned against it, staring in dumb fascination at the blood that splotched his black rubber wet suit

“A pity I don't have a camera,” said Giordino. “You'd make a great human interest story.”

“Looks worse than it really is,” Pitt lied. He nodded at Giordino's feet “I'm sorry I can't say the same about your bug-crushers.”

“Yeah, I don't think any of my piggies will be going to market for a while.” Giordino coughed up mucus and spat it in the water. “Now what?”

“We can't go back outside,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “With all this blood, we'd draw every shark within ten miles.” He paused, glanced at his watch, and then stared at the water. “We've got nearly two hours before the Monitor cuts loose. What say we spend it looking around?”

Giordino's expression was devoid of enthusiasm. “We're hardly in prime condition to go exploring caves.”

“You know how easily I get bored sitting around.”

Giordino wearily shook his head. “The things I do for a friend.” He took careful aim at a crab, spat, and missed. “I guess anything beats an evening with these guys.”

“What's the status of our equipment?” “Td hoped you wouldn't ask,” Giordino said. “All in about the same shape I'm in. Except for our air tanks, which are, if you'll pardon the expression, on their last gasp, we have exactly one face mask, forty feet of nylon line, one flipper, and this light which has just about had it”

“Forget the air tanks. I'll try a free dive first” Pitt slipped the fin on a foot and took the nylon cord, wrapping one end around his waist “You rest easy and hold on to the other end of the line. When you feel three jerks, get out of there fast. Two jerks, pull like hell. One jerk, follow me in.”

“It'll be lonesome here,” Giordino sighed. “Just me and the crabs.”

Pitt grinned. “You won't be lonely long.”

Pitt picked up the light and sat on the edge of the shelf. He inhaled and exhaled several times, hyperventilating to purge the carbon dioxide from his system. Finally, satisfied that his lungs could hold no more, he slid into the gloomy water and stroked toward the bottom of the cavern.

Pitt was an excellent diver. He could stay underwater, holding his breath, for nearly two minutes. His muscles ached and the bloody cuts in his skin smarted from the saltwater, but he plunged downward with one hand touching the smooth surface of the wall, while the other gripped and aimed the light. The wall sloped on a broken angle for fifteen feet and then leveled out into a confining shaft Pitt came to a mound of fallen rock that nearly blocked his forward progress, but he managed to snake over the obstacle and found that the walls began expanding away from his line of vision. He pulled his body through into the new chamber and made a gliding ascent, slowly waving the one flipper.

In a matter of seconds, he popped into sweet air and a gallery that was flooded by a soft yellow glow. It was a golden world, a world of yellow where even the shadows were cast in matching hues. The roof was at least twenty feet high and glistened with a mass of tiny stalactites which trickled water in small splashing drops throughout the interior.

Pitt breast-stroked through the gold-tinted water to a rock-carved grand stairway which stretched into a long curving tunnel with odd-looking triangular-grooved notches imbedded in the steps. Two effigies of square-bearded men with fishtails instead of legs, crouched in a sphinxlike fashion on each side of the landing. The statues were deeply eroded from the dripping water and appeared to be extremely old.

He hoisted his buttocks onto the bottom step of the landing and removed his mask, blinking his eyes to adjust to the eerie strangeness of the light The tightness of the wetsuit began to irritate his arm. Tenderly, favoring the gashes on his arm, he managed to slip it from his body. When he unwrapped the nylon cord from around his waist he noticed a scant three feet of slack. He gave the cord one sharp tug and as soon as it became taut, he hauled it in hand over hand until Giordino's curly head popped to the surface.