Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“Excuse me,” Pitt murmured self-consciously, “I’d like to see Admiral Hunter.”

The typist looked up casually, then his eyes almost burst from their sockets.

“My God, buddy, are you off your gourd? What are you trying to pull, coming here wearing nothing but a bathing suit? If the old man catches you, you’re dead. Now beat it quick or you’ll wind up in the brig.”

“I know I’m not dressed for an afternoon social,” Pitt spoke quietly and pleasantly, “but it’s damned urgent that I see the admiral.”

The seaman rose from the desk, his face turning red. “Stop clowning around,” he said loudly. “Either you go back to your quarters and sleep it off, or I’ll call the Shore Patrol.”

“Then call them!” Pitt’s voice was suddenly sharp.

“Look, buddy,” the seaman’s tone became one of controlled irritation. “Do yourself a favor. Go back to your ship and make a formal request to see the admiral through the chain of command.”

“That won’t be necessary, Yager.” The voice behind them carried the finesse of a bulldozer scraping a cement highway.

Pitt turned and found himself locking eyes with a tall wizened man standing stiffly within an inner office doorway. He was dressed in white from collar to shoes and trimmed in gold braid beginning at the arms and working up to the rank boards on the shoulders. The hair was bushy and white, very nearly matching the tired cadaverous face beneath. Only the eyes seemed alive, and they glared curiously at the canister in Pitt’s hand.

“I’m Admiral Hunter, and I’ll give you just five minutes, big boy, so you better make it worth my while. And bring that object with you,” he said, pointing to the canister.

“Yes sir,” was all Pitt could reply.

Hunter had already spun and was striding into his office. Pitt followed and if he wasn’t embarrassed before he stepped into the admiral’s office, there was no doubt of his discomfort now that he was inside. There were three other naval officers besides Hunter seated around an ancient, immaculately polished conference table. Their faces registered astonishment at the sight of Pitt standing half naked with the strange-looking package under one arm.

Hunter routinely made the introductions, but Pitt wasn’t fooled by the phony courtesy; the admiral was trying to frighten him with rank while studying Pitt’s eyes for a reaction. Pitt learned that the tall, blond lieutenant commander with the John Kennedy face was Paul Boland, the 101st Fleet’s Executive Officer. The heavyset captain who was perspiring profusely, possessed the odd name of Orl Cinana, the officer in command of Hunter’s small fleet of salvage ships. The short, almost gnomelike creature, who hurried over and pumped Pitt’s hand, introduced himself as Commander Burdette Denver, aide to the admiral. He stared at Pitt, as if trying to remember his face.

“Okay, big boy.” That term again. Pitt would have given a month’s pay to ram his knuckles against Hunter’s teeth. Hunter’s voice oozed with sarcasm. “Now if you will be so kind as to tell us who you are and what this interruption is all about, we will all be eternally grateful.”

“You’re pretty rude for someone anxious to know why I’m carrying this canister,” Pitt answered, settling his long body comfortably in a vacant chair, waiting for a reaction.

Cinana glared across the table, his face twisted in a clouded mask of malevolence. “You scum! How dare you come in here and insult an officer!”

“The man’s insane,” snapped Boland. He leaned toward Pitt, his expression cold and taut. He added, “You stupid bastard; do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Since we’ve all been introduced,” Pitt said casually, “the answer is a qualified yes.”

Cinana’s sweaty fist slammed to the table. “The Shore Patrol, by God. I’ll have Yager call the Shore Patrol and throw him in the brig.”

Hunter struck a light to a long cigarette, flipped the match at an ashtray, missing it by six inches, and stared at Pitt thoughtfully. “You leave me no choice, big boy.” He turned to Boland. “Commander, ask Seaman Yager to call the Shore Patrol.”

“I wouldn’t, Admiral” Denver rose from his chair, recognition flooding his face. “This man some of you have referred to as filth and a bastard and wish to cast into chains, is indeed Dirk Pitt, who happens to be the Special Projects Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, and whose father happens to be Senator George Pitt of California, Chairman of the Naval Appropriations Committee.”

Cinana uttered something short and unprintable.

Boland was the first to recover. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, Paul, quite certain.” He moved around the table and faced Pitt. “I saw him several years ago, with his father, at a NUMA conference. He’s also a friend of my cousin, wh

o’s also in NUMA. Commander Rudi Gunn.”

Pitt grinned happily. “Of course. Rudi and I have worked on several projects together. I can see the resemblance now. The only noticeable difference is that Rudi peers through horned-rimmed glasses.”

“Used to call him Beaver Eyes,” Denver laughed, “when we were kids.”

“Ill throw that at him next time I see him,” Pitt said, smiling.

“I hope you... you won’t take offense to... to what we said,” stuttered Boland.

Pitt tossed Boland his best cynical stare and simply said “No.”