Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“Yes sir,” replied the young seaman. He saluted, turned, and disappeared into the pilothouse.

Boland smiled smugly at Denver. “Not bad. We’re forty minutes ahead of schedule.”

“The copter tied down and secure?” asked Pitt.

Boland nodded. “She’s snug. You can make your final flight checks when it’s daylight.”

Pitt rose and walked over to the porthole, breathing deeply to cleanse his lungs of the stale smoke from Denver’s cigarettes. The harbor air smelled pure in comparison to the stuffy chart room.

“Have you assigned accommodations for Dirk?” Denver asked Boland.

“There’s a stateroom next to mine that we keep vacant for VIP’s,” Boland replied, his lips curled in a sarcastic grin. “In Pitt’s case, we’ll make an exception.”

Pitt fixed a long hypnotic stare devoid of anger or animosity at the smoke curling up from the ashtray. He could shrug off a verbal dig with all the feeling of nipping a mosquito off an arm. Hunter was a clever old fox; placing two men with different temperaments together as a team.

“Well, I guess I’d best shove off,” Denver said, breaking the uneasy silence.

“We’ll drop you a postcard from time to time,” Pitt said.

“You’d better do more than that,” Denver shot back, his lips curled in a tight smile, but his eyes hard. “I’m going to reserve the bar at the Reef Hotel for three weeks from today. And woe to the man who doesn’t show up.” He turned to Boland. “You have the code, Paul. The admiral and I will track you by satellite. When you spot the Starbuck, simply radio under maritime transmission that you’ve stopped all engines to repair a burned shaft bearing. We’ll have your exact position in a millisecond.”

Denver shook hands with Pitt and Boland. “Little else can be said but good luck!” Before the other two men could answer, Denver abruptly wheeled about and strode from the room.

A few minutes later Denver stood on the dock, leaning against a piling as he watched the crew slip the ship’s lines and hoist the gangplank. He idly studied the starboard side of the Martha Ann as she moved slowly into the channel toward the mouth of the silent harbor. He stared at the navigation lights until the gentle throbbing beat of the ship’s engines gradually diminished into the darkness. Then he flipped his cigarette into the calm, oily water, shoved his hands in his pockets, and wearily made his way along the dock to the parking lot

Pitt stood at the rail of the fantail and idly watched the Martha Ann’s propellers churn out their wake. The frothing blue and white mass swirled, slowly diminishing a quarter of a mile behind the stern before the sea relentlessly closed over and covered her as though healing a giant scar. The weather was warm and the sky was clear; a solid breeze rushed past from the northeast.

What a crazy group he’d run across in the last two days, he thought despairingly. A devious-minded girl who tried to ram a hypodermic needle into his back, an assassin with tobacco-stained teeth, a bastard of an admiral, a lieutenant commander with a ridiculous tattoo, and a little commander who was apparently the smartest of them all.

But yet, this group wasn’t able to haunt the dim reaches of his mind. That was left for another character of the drama, a character who had yet to step on the stage; a giant of a man with golden eyes.

What was his reason for researching the lost island of Kanoli so many years ago? Could he have simply been a scholar trying to unearth a lost civilization, or an occult delving into myths and legends? Or someone with even stranger goals in mind? What was there in the tale of Kanoli that couldn’t be found in half the drivel written about the lost continent of Mu, or in the overabundance of fiction dealing with Atlantis? The mysteries of the Pacific Vortex and the Bermuda Triangle were real enough. There had to be a logical solution to the riddles lying about somewhere, Pitt figured restlessly. A key that was so obvious that it was entirely overlooked.

“Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt’s mental gymnastics were broken by the young man in coveralls.

Pitt smiled. “What can I do for you?”

The seaman was about to salute. He appeared flustered at how to act before a civilian, particularly one on a Navy ship.

“Commander Boland requests your presence on the bridge.”

“Thank you. I’m on my way.”

Pitt swung around and walked across the steel deck past the tarp-covered hatches. Beneath his feet the engines pounded away with a rhythmic beat as the ship ploughed into the calm water, throwing a white salty mist over the railings and onto the superstructure, coating the paint with a glistening layer of dripping wetness.

Pitt climbed the ladder that led to the bridge. Boland was standing in front of the helmsman, gazing through binoculars over the bow at the stark blue horizon. He dropped his glasses a moment, wiping the smudges on the bottom of his T-shirt. Then he returned them to his eyes and again studied the vast emptiness ahead.

“What’s up?” Pitt queried. He looked through the window but he could see nothing.

“Thought you’d like to know,” Boland said, “we’ve just entered the new search area.” He set the glasses on the bulkhead shelf, touched a transmitter switch, and spoke sharply in a staccato tone.

“Lieutenant Harper, this is the skipper. Stop all engines. We’re heaving to.” He looked at Pitt. “Now we go to work.”

Boland motioned him down a companion stair that led to an alleyway beneath the bridge. After they had passed several cabin doors, Boland hesitated at one and opened it.

“The heart of the operation,” he announced. “Our Flash Gordon Room. Four tons of electronic gimmickry. Please observe the scientific marvels of the 101st at work.” He pointed to a long bank of instruments within a large compartment about eight hundred square feet.