Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“So?” Hunter’s tone was icy.

“Don’t you see? Your search pattern was supposed to be right in the middle of the Pacific Vortex. Maybe you didn’t hit on the Starbuck, but you should have stumbled on to something. After all, you had nearly thirty other sunken derelicts to choose from.”

“Damn!” Hunter’s self-confidence was shaken. It never occurred to us ...”

“I see your point,” Boland said. “But what does it prove?”

“It proves,” Pitt replied, “that you searched the wrong area. It proves that Dupree’s message was a clever counterfeit And it proves that the Starbuck’s last radioed positions were an even cleverer case of fraud. In short, gentlemen, the place to find your missing submarine is not to the northeast, but a one-hundred-eighty-degree reverse course to the southwest.”

Hunter, Boland, and Denver stared at Pitt in stunned silence, enlightenment spreading across their features.

Denver spoke first. It fits,” he said simply. Hunter’s face began to glow with an enthusiasm that he hadn’t shown for months. He gazed long and hard at the wall map for nearly half a minute. Then, he swung abruptly and fastened his gaze on Boland. “How soon can the Martha Ann get underway?”

“Hoist the helicopter on board, finish refueling, make a final check of the detection instruments; I’d say 2100 hours this evening, sir.”

Hunter glanced at his watch. “That doesn’t leave us much time to plot a search area.” He turned to Denver. “This is your realm. I suggest you begin programming a search grid immediately.”

“The primary data is already on the tapes, Admiral. It’s only a matter of reversing the location input”

Hunter rubbed his eyes. “Okay, gentlemen, it’s all yours. I’d give up half these stripes to come with you.

By the way, Mr. Pitt, I hope you won’t mind taking an extended ocean voyage?”

Pitt smiled at him. “I have nothing else planned at the moment.”

“Good.” Hunter rolled a cigarette around in his mouth. “Tell me something; how did an Air Force officer ever become a departmental head of the government’s top oceanographic agency?”

“I shot down Admiral Sandecker and his staff over the China Sea.”

Hunter stared at Pitt with a strange believing look indeed. With this man, almost anything is possible, Admiral Sandecker had told him earlier.

It was one hour after sunset when the AC slipped into a parking stall in the Honolulu dock area. As the front wheels made contact with a wooden tire stop, the engine died and the headlights blinked out. Pitt swung the door open and gazed across the harbor into the inky water.

As the breeze changed direction it carried a heavy odor to his nostrils: the undeniable bouquet of the waterfront. It smelled of oil, gasoline, tar, and smoke, with a tinge of saltwater thrown in. It exhilarated Pitt, carrying the nostalgic sensation of faraway exotic ports.

Pitt pulled himself from the car and glanced about the parking lot in search of any sign of human activity. There was none. Only a seagull, perched on a wooden piling, returned his stare. Pitt reached into the car and pulled the towel-wrapped Mauser from behind the seat Then he inhaled the harbor night air, tucked the gun under his arm, and began walking along the pier.

If anyone had been loitering around the docks they would hardly have noticed anything unusual about Pitt’s appearance. He was dressed in a well-worn khaki shirt over a faded pair of gabardine pants. His feet were encased by a pair of badly scuffed brogans, tied with heavy twine. The cast-off clothing, a gift from the 101st Fleet’s Security Officer, was a size too small and bulged at the seams. He felt like a toss-up between a bindle stiff and a skid row derelict. A quart of muscatel in a brown paper bag was all that was missing. Or better yet, a bottle of Grand Marnier Yellow Ribbon: just the right touch of class to go with the rags.

One hundred yards later, Pitt stopped and looked up at the huge black hulk that loomed in the darkness. The only light that beamed down on the weathered and tarred planking came from a few scattered green-shaded lamps that hung awkwardly from the corrugated metal sides of an old warehouse. The eerie glow of the lamps, coupled with the deathly stillness of the evening, only added to the already ghostlike appearance of the monster in the water.

She was an old ship with a straight up-and-down bow and a square, boxlike shape to her superstructure; this was topped by an old-fashioned vertical smokestack that sported a faded blue stripe. Rising from her decks stood a maze of cluttered derricks and masts. At some time in the distant past she had been painted black with the usual red waterline, but now she was grimy, dirty, and rusty. Pitt moved closer until he was standing under her stern. She was large, probably in the neighborhood of twelve thousand tons. He stared up at the dim white lettering just below the fantail. The name was so battered and streaked with rust he could barely make it out in the dim light: MARTHA ANN-SEATTLE.

The gangplank looked like a tunnel leading upward into a forbidding void. Only the muted hum of the generators deep within the hull, and a thin wisp of smoke curling from the funnel betrayed human presence.

Pitt placed his hand on the coarse railing rope of the gangplank and, leaning forward to compensate for the thirty-degree angle, began the ascent to the Martha Ann’s deck. The fading light from the warehouse lamps ceased at the last step of the ramp. Pitt hesitated upon reaching the seemingly deserted deck and peered into the shadows.

“Mr. Pitt?” came a voice from the gloom.

“Yes, I’m Pitt”

“May I see your identification, please?”

“You may, if only I could see who in hell to hand it to.”

“Please lay your ID on the deck, sir, and step back.”

Pitt grumbled to himself. He was aware that it was normal military procedure to examine identification papers during alerts and emergencies, but why all the fuss to come aboard this old rivet-dangling sea bucket? Setting the Mauser gently on the deck, he pulled out his wallet and groped for his ID. His eyes could not penetrate the blackness so he ran his fingers over a stack of assorted plastic cards until he found one that lacked the telltale raised lettering of a credit card and threw it a few paces in front of his feet. A pencil-thin shaft of light beamed on the card and then touched Pitt’s face.