Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“What about our passengers?”

“Nobody begged them to come. They’re probably back there writing their obituaries anyway. Why disappoint them?”

“Okay, we’ll go for it.” Pitt reached around the control column and tapped the altimeter. The small white needles lay idly on the bottom pegs. He turned on the landing lights and watched the water hurtle under the fuselage as the air speed indicator quivered at two hundred seventy knots. Then he pulled on a second set of earphones and listened intently for a few moments. “The signals from the underwater marker are nearing their peak,” he said. “We had best run over the final landing check.”

Giordino sighed lazily, unbuckled his seat belt, moved back to the engineer’s panel, and passed the checklist to Pitt “Read it back to me.”

Pitt read off the numbered items on the printed card while Giordino acknowledged.

“Spark advance selector switches?”

“Twenty percent normal,” Giordino answered.

“Mixture levels?”

“Check.”

Pitt droned on through the tedious but necessary routine while diverting a cautious eye every few seconds on the sea a bare fifty feet below. Finally he reached the last item on the card.

“Center wing tank line valve and boost switches?”

“Closed and off.”

“That’s it,” Pitt said, flipping the check card over his shoulder onto the cabin floor. “Nobody will need that again.”

Giordino bent over the controls and pointed. “The stars near the horizon straight ahead... they’re fading out.”

Pitt nodded. “The fog bank.”

An ominous smudge soon appeared against the black horizon line. Pitt gradually closed the throttles until the air speed indicator read one hundred twenty knots.

“This is the magic moment,” Pitt said quietly. He glanced briefly into Giordino’s dark eyes-his friend’s face, though unsmiling, was calm and unworried.

“Give me one-hundred-degree flaps,” Pitt said. “Then get back in the main cabin with the others and act like a bored streetcar conductor.”

“Ill entertain them with a series of my best yawns.” Giordino leaned over the copilot’s seat and held the ON position of the flaps switch until it registered one hundred degrees. “So long, pal. See you after the bash.” He gave Pitt’s arm a gentle squeeze, then he turned, and left the cockpit cabin.

There was a crosswind; Pitt crabbed the C-54 to compensate for the drift As the plane settled a few feet lower, he could clearly make out the height of the swells in the brilliance from the landing lights.

He silently wished he could have layed her on the surface with no beams showing, but that would have been impossible. Not yet, not yet, he said over and over in his mind. Three more miles. It would take split second timing to ease the plane down short of the marker and the fog and still have momentum left to cany it well into the target area. The air speed was dropping past one hundred five knots. “Easy, baby; don’t stall on me just yet” Pitt concentrated on keeping the wings level-if one of the tips dug into a wave crest, the plane would be transformed into a giant cartwheel. He gently nudged the plane lower, dropping behind the rows of waves, attempting to land on the downward side of one, using its slope to slacken the impact The propellers were throwing up huge billows of spray behind the engine nacelles, and the fog was beginning to enshroud the cockpit windshield when the first impact came.

It was like a dap of thunder, only louder. A round, red auxiliary fire extinguisher broke loose from its mounting and sailed over Pitt’s shoulder, crashing into the instrument panel Pitt was just recovering from the shock when the plane bounced over the water like a skipping stone and smacked its aluminum belly for the second time. Then the nose dug into the backside of a swell and the C-54 stopped abruptly in the middle of a great splash.

Pitt stared dazedly through the dripping windshield at the mist. He did it. He had brought her down in one piece. The plane was gently rising up and down with the swells. It would float, maybe for a few minutes, maybe for days, depending on how badly the underbelly was ruptured. He exhaled a tremendous sigh and relaxed, noting with satisfaction that the batteries had survived the impact and were keeping the interior of the cabin bathed in a soft light. He flicked off the ignition switches and the landing lights to conserve the battery cells, tore off his seat belt, and hurried through the door to the main cabin.

He found a far more confident group of men this time. Crowhaven was the first to slap his back. The rest whistled and applauded; all, that is, except for the five SEAL’s. They were already efficiently going about their business removing the escape hatch and checking each man’s equipment

“Good show, Dirk.” Giordino grinned broadly. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“Coming from you, that’s a blue-ribbon compliment.” Pitt quickly donned his diving gear, slipping on an air tank and adjusting a face mask. “How long will she float?” asked Crowhaven. “I checked the lower deck,” said Giordino as he examined the air tanks on Pitts back. “There’s only minor seepage.”

“Shouldn’t we chop a hole in her so she’ll sink?” Crowhaven persisted.

“Not a wise move,” Pitt answered. “When Delphi discovers an abandoned aircraft floating around with no crew, he’ll think we took to the life rafts. That’s why I left all the rescue equipment back at Hickam. It would never do for him to find the life rafts safe and sound and unopened. Hopefully, hell be searching for us on the surface while we’re below.”

“There must be an easier way to make admiral,” Crowhaven said acidly.

Pitt went on. “When you get the sub underway, communicate with Admiral Hunter on twelve hundred fifty kilocycles.”