Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“Any final orders from the old man?” he asked.

Denver shook his head. “Same as he told you. At the first sign of danger, get the hell out and hotfoot it back to Pearl Harbor.”

“That’s if we’re lucky,” Boland said. “None of the other missing vessels had time for a Mayday signal, much less time to cut ass.”

“Then Pitt here is your insurance. And the helicopter.”

“It takes time to warm up a helicopter,” Boland said doubtfully.

“Not that bird,” Pitt said briefly. “I can put her in the air in forty seconds flat.” He stood and stretched, his large hands touching the metal ceiling. “One question. That copter can only carry fifteen men. Either the Navy provided us with a crew of midgets, or we’re sailing damned shorthanded.”

“Under normal standards, we’re sailing short-handed,” Denver said. He smiled at Boland and winked. “You couldn’t know, Dirk, but the Martha Ann is not the decrepit old scow she seems. A large crew is unnecessary because she’s equipped with the most advanced and highly automated centralized control system of any ship afloat. She practically runs herself.”

“But the scale on the hull. The rust...”

“Prettiest fake scenery you ever saw,” Denver admitted. “A clever chemical coating that looks like the real thing. Can’t tell it from rust under bright sunlight from a foot away.”

“Then why the elaborate equipment?” Pitt asked.

“There’s more to the Martha Ann than meets the eye,” Boland said with a hesitant degree of modesty.

“You’d never know it to look at her, but she’s crammed from keel to topside with salvage equipment.”

“A disguised salvage ship?” Pitt said slowly. “That’s a new twist.”

Denver smiled. “The masquerade comes in handy for the, shall we say, more delicate reclamation projects.”

“Admiral Sandecker mentioned a few of your delicate accomplishments,” Pitt said. “Now I see how you carried them off.”

“No job too large, no job too small,” Boland said, laughing. “We could almost raise the Andrea Doria if they turned us loose on it”

“Suppose we do find the Starbuck, even with your automated gadgetry, you could never bring her to the surface with such a small crew.”

“Purely precautionary, my dear Pitt,” answered Denver. “Admiral Hunter insisted on a skeleton crew during the search operation. No sense in wasting lives if the Martha Ann should meet the same fate as the others. On the other hand, if we get lucky and discover the Starbuck, you and your whirlybird then begin a shuttle service between the recovery site and Honolulu by ferrying the salvage crew and any needed parts and equipment.”

“A tidy little package,” Pitt admitted. “Though I’d sleep better if we had an armed escort.”

Denver shook his head. “Can’t chance it. The Russians would smell a shady plot the minute they got wind of an old tramp steamer escorted by a Navy missile cruiser. They’d have the Andrei Vyborg on our tail by sunup.”

Pitt’s eyebrows lifted. The “Andrei Vyborg?”

“A Russian oceanographic vessel classified by Navy Intelligence as a spy ship. She’s shadowed the Starbuck’s search operation for the last six months and she’s still out there somewhere hovering around poking for the sub.” Boland paused for a swallow of coffee. “The 101st Fleet has spent too much time and effort to maintain our cover as a merchantman. We can’t afford to have it blown now.”

“As you can see,” Denver said, “the Martha Ann is completely divorced from the Navy. She’s listed under United States registry as a merchant ship. And we intend to keep it that way, nice and discreet.”

“Isn’t the Navy concerned by the fact that the Andrei Vyborg is nosing around alone?”

“She’s not alone,” Boland said seriously. “We’ve four ships still combing the northern search area. The Navy never gives up on a search, no matter how hopeless it seems for survivors. Call it Naval tradition if you will, Major, but it’s a damn good feeling when you’re floating in the sea, clutching a piece of flotsam after your ship has gone down, knowing that nothing is spared to make your rescue ...”

Boland’s lecture was i

nterrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in!” he shouted.

A young boy, no more than nineteen or twenty, stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a white butcher’s cap on his head and a pair of blue coveralls. Ignoring Pitt and Denver, he spoke to Boland.

“Excuse me, sir, the chief engineer reports the engine room is in readiness and the bosun’s mate has the crew standing by to cast off.”

Boland glanced at his watch. “Right. Pass the word to cast off and get underway in ten minutes.”