Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

Giordino let out a low whistle. “Sounds like we’ll have to pick a winner on the first pass.”

“We won’t get a second chance.”

Giordino leaned over and tapped a wide dial in the middle of the instrument panel. “We might do it so long as that underwater position marker keeps beeping away.”

Pitt glanced at the homing device and adjusted his course until the needle behind the circular glass settled between the proper markings.

“The signal should become stronger the closer we get”

“Just get us within five hundred yards,” Giordino said hopefully. “And Selma Snoop will take us the rest of the way.” He nodded toward a small blue watertight box, a battery-operated radio direction finder tightly strapped to the arm of his seat

“You sure Selma is checked out?” Pitt said.

“She works,” Giordino said patiently. “Like I said, put us down within five hundred yards of the beeper and I’ll put us down on the Starbuck”

Pitt smiled. In spite of his indolent attitude, Giordino was a perfectionist who rose to every occasion with a style that always amazed Pitt. He motioned silently to Giordino and lifted his hands from the control column. Giordino nodded, and took over command of the aircraft as Pitt unreeled from the cramped pilot’s seat, left the cockpit, and moved aft into the passenger section of the fuselage.

Seated in the plush comfort of the general’s private transport were twenty men-probably, Pitt mused, twenty of the most resigned men on the face of the earth. They were resigned to death; there was no other way to describe it. True, they volunteered, but the prospect of adventure had overridden their desire for a long and fruitful life. Each man was incased in a black rubber wet suit with the zipper pulled open to allow cool air to evaporate the sweat oozing from his skin. Behind them, lashed to cargo rings on the floor, rested an assortment of equipment and variously shaped bundles. And toward the rear of the fuselage was a row of air tanks, firmly secured and shielded to prevent them from hurtling across the compartment during the touchdown.

The nearest diver, a blond man with Scandinavian features, gazed up at Pitt’s arrival. “Madness, sheer madness.”

Lieutenant Commander Samuel Crowhaven was definitely a very unhappy man. “A promising career in the submarine service and I have to throw it away by smashing into the ocean in the middle of the night.”

“No great danger. It’s really no different than driving a car into a garage,” Pitt said soothingly. “I wouldn’t worry too much...”

Crowhaven was genuinely surprised. “Like driving a car into a... you’ve got to be kidding.”

“Easing this bird down on the water is my responsibility, Commander. If I were you, I’d worry about what comes next.”

“I’m an engineering officer on a submarine,” Crow-haven said morosely. “I’m not cut out to play commando.”

“I promise not to murder you and your men on landing,” Pitt said quietly. “And Giordino will get you to the Starbuck. After that, it’s your show.”

“Are you sure she’s dry?”

“Except for the forward torpedo compartment, she was dry when I left her.”

“If nothing’s been touched, I can have the torpedo room pumped clean and the sub underway inside of four hours.”

“The schedule allows for four and a half. That only leaves you a safety margin of thirty minutes.”

“Not much time.”

“It’s all you’ve got.”

Crowhaven shook his head sorrowfully. “Suicidal, that’s what it is.”

“You realize, of course, that you may have to fight your way into the sub.”

“As I’ve said, I’m no commando. That’s why I invited those steely eyed killers from the SEAL’s.”

Pitt looked at tibe five men Crowhaven jerked his thumb at. Members of the Navy’s select security force. There was no denying that they were a hard-looking lot. They sat off by themselves, constantly checking and rechecking their equipment and weapons - big, silent, purposeful-looking men, highly trained for fighting on land or underwater. Pitt turned back to Crowhaven.

“And the others?”

“Submariners,” Crowhaven said proudly. “Not many to operate a submarine the size of the Starbuck, but if anyone can bring it back to Pearl Harbor, they can. Providing one of the reactors is doing its thing. If we have to start cold, well never get her clear in time.”

“You’ll have a reactor,” Pitt said confidently. He put up a calm front. In truth, there was no way of knowing whether the sub was still there, or if the port reactor was still pounding its atoms. Wait and hope: the phrase crossed his mind again. There was little else he could do except face the obstacles when the time came. “But if you have problems, get your men out of there by 0430.”