Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“We’re the last.”

“Commander Boland?”

“A whole gang of those naked bastards jumped him and Lieutenant Stanley just aft of the bridge.” Harper’s voice was apologetic. “I’m afraid they got ‘em both.”

“Get the kid into the copter and see what can be done to stop the bleeding,” Pitt ordered. “And have the men form a firing line with what weapons you have left. I’m going to make one last check for wounded.”

“Watch your step, sir. You’re the only pilot we got.”

Pitt didn’t wait to answer. He jumped off the pad and lunged blindly across the deck, his feet slipping on the wet plates, his breath coming in short deep pants. Shapes loomed up in the mist and Pitt opened up with the Mauser and cut them apart Three men from the sea went down like wheat beneath a scythe. Pitt kept his finger on the trigger, spraying a path in front of him. His foot caught on a rope and he fell sprawling on the deck, the raised rivets marking a neat pattern of bruises in his chest. He lay there a moment, his injured leg throbbing in sledgehammer blows of pain. It was quiet, far too quiet; no shouting voices or gun flashes arose from the fog.

He crept along the deck, keeping to the gunwales, using the lifeboats for cover. The Mauser, he was certain, was down to its last few shells. He stuck his hand in something slimy wet. Without looking, he knew what it was. It trailed off into the gloomy void so he followed it. The stain became a trickle in some places and enlarged to a pool in others. It ended at the still, dead form of Lieutenant Stanley, the detection room officer.

Pitt felt nothing but pure anger, yet his mind was sharp and decisive. His face tightened in a mask of frustration at his impotency to do anything for Stanley. He forced himself to push on, driven by some subconscious urge that told him Boland wasn’t dead yet. And then he stopped, listening. A muffled moan came from somewhere directly in front of him.

Pitt almost came upon him before his vision did. Boland was crawling on his stomach, pulling his body across the deck, while a four-foot shaft from a fish spear protruded from his shoulder. His head was bowed and his fists were clenched; the T-shirt that covered his chest and shoulders was drenched in red.

He looked up at Pitt dazedly, his face distorted with pain. “You came back?”

“I lost my head,” Pitt said with a tight grin. “Brace yourself; that spear has to come out.” He shoved the ‘Mauser into his belt and then

gently dragged Boland to a more comfortable position against a bulkhead, keeping his eyes peeled for any more killers. He grasped the spear shaft in both hands. “Ready on the count of three.”

“Make it quick, you sadist,” Boland said, his eyes filled with pain.

Pitt increased his grip and said “One.” He placed Ms foot on Boland’s chest. “Two.” Pitt put his muscles into play and yanked hard. The blood-red spear slid free from Boland’s shoulder.

Boland lurched forward and groaned. Then he fell back against the bulkhead and stared up at Pitt through glazed eyes. “You son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “You didn’t say three.” Then his eyes rolled upward and he passed into unconsciousness.

Pitt cast the dripping spear over the side and picked up Boland’s limp body, hoisting it over his shoulder. He crouched low and ran as fast as the weight of his load and his stiffening leg would allow, using the cargo hatches and loading derricks as cover. Twice he had to freeze when he heard indistinct sounds coming from the fog. Weakly, dizzily, he pushed himself on, with the knowledge that eleven men would die if he didn’t get the helicopter off the Martha Ann’s deck. At last, his breath coming in fiery pants, he tottered onto the edge of the flight pad.

“Pitt coming through,” he gasped as loud as his tortured lungs would allow.

The strong arms of Lieutenant Harper lifted Boland from Pitt’s shoulder and carried the unconscious commander to the helicopter. Pitt pulled the Mauser from his belt and pointed the muzzle in the direction of the bows, firing till the last shell casing completed its arc and dropped to the deck. Then he climbed into the cockpit and threw himself in the pilot’s seat, certain that he had beat the odds.

Pitt didn’t bother to clasp his safety belt; he eased the throttle from idle, manuevering the helicopter cautiously upward as the rotor blades increased their humming and the landing skids lifted slowly from the flight pad. The copter rose several feet into the fog before Pitt dipped it forward and deserted the Martha Ann.

Once clear of the ship, Pitt kept his eyes on the TURN AND BANK indicator until the little ball held steady within the center of its dial. Where’s the sky? he shouted in his mind. Where? Where?

Suddenly it was there. The helicopter shot into the evening moonlight. The beating rotor blades rose higher as Pitt gained altitude, and lazily, like a homing gooney bird, the lumbering craft leveled its aluminum beak and began chasing its mooncast shadow toward the distant green palms of Hawaii.

Henry Fujima was the last of a dying breed, a fourth generation Japanese-Hawaiian, whose father, his father before him, and his father before him, had all been fishermen. For forty years during good weather, Henry doggedly pursued the elusive tuna in his hand-built sampan. The sampan fleets that Hawaii had known for so many years, were gone now. Increasing competition from the international fisheries and from irregular catches, had taken their toll of the fleet until only Henry was left to cast his solitary bamboo pole over the upper skin of the great Pacific.

He stood on the rear platform of his solid little craft, his bare feet planted stiffly against the wood, stained through the years from the oil of thousands of dead fish. He cast his line in the early morning marching swells, his mind wandering back to the old days when he fished with his father. He longingly recalled the charcoal smell of the hibachis and the laughter as the said bottles were passed from sampan to sampan when the fleet met and tied up together for the night. He closed his eyes, seeing the long dead faces, hearing the voices that spoke no more. When he opened them again, they were drawn to a smudge on the horizon.

He watched it grow and magnify into a ship, a rusty old tramp that surged through the sea. Henry had never seen a large merchantman cut through the waves so quickly. Judging from the white froth that burst nearly to the hawseholes, the ship’s speed was close to twenty-five knots. Then he froze.

The ship was holding her course and Henry was directly in her track. He tied his shirt to the fishing pole and frantically waved it back and forth. In terror he watched the bow grow over him like a monster about to swallow a fly. He screamed, but no one appeared over the high bulwarks; the bridge was empty. He stood in helpless bewilderment as the great corroded ship tore into his sampan, shattering the tired little boat into a spray of wooden splinters.

Henry struggled underwater, the barnacled plates slicing his arms as they slid past. The propellers thrashed by and only his desperate struggles kept him from being sucked into their murderous rotating blades. Reaching the surface, he was fighting to catch his breath between the swirling, chopping waves from the ship’s wake. At last he managed to keep his head above the surface, slowly treading water and rubbing the salty sting from his eyes, the blood flowing from his torn arms.

It was after ten in the morning when Pitt finally let himself into his apartment He was tired and his eyes smarted when he closed them. He limped slightly, his leg had been rebandaged, and other than a trace of stiffness, he felt nothing. All he wanted more than anything in the world was to fall into bed and forget the past twenty-four hours.

He had ignored orders to land the crew of the Martha Ann at either Pearl Harbor or on the heliport at Hickam Field. Instead he had set the helicopter down neatly on the lawn not more than two hundred feet from the emergency receiving entrance of Tripler Military Hospital, that great concrete edifice perched on a hill overlooking the south coast of Oahu. He had stood by until Boland and the young wounded seaman were quickly wheeled on their way to the operating tables before he allowed a helpful Army doctor to stitch up the gash in his leg. Then he unobtrusively slipped out a side exit, hailed a cab, and peacefully dozed during the ride to Waikiki Beach.

He couldn’t have been asleep in the familiar comfort of his own bed more than half an hour when someone began pounding on the door. At first it seemed like a distant echo in the back of his head and he tried to tune it out Then he struggled out of bed and weaved across the suite to the door and opened it.

There is a strange sort of beauty in a woman caught in the throes of fear, as though a long hidden animalistic instinct makes her fervently alive. She wore a short muumuu emblazoned with red and yellow flowers that barely covered her hips. Her chestnut eyes gazed up at him, wide, dark, and afraid.