Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

At first it looked like a strange, primeval creature, but as it neared, they could see that it was an underwater craft designed like a porpoise with a horizontal fluke on the tail for control Two figures sat astride the sleek mini-sub, the man in the front saddle steering, while his partner navigated from behind. A small propeller churned the water behind the rear stabilizer and pushed the two men through the depths at a pace of about five knots. The craft and its passengers were headed directly toward the bridge of the Andrei Vyborg.

Pitt and Giordino pressed their bodies against the bulkhead beneath the window. It was too late to contain their breathing; they could do nothing but watch helplessly as their bubbles floated upward into the path of the sub. In a synchronized movement, they each unsheathed their knives and waited for the inevitable confrontation-the twin streams from their exhaust air were bound to give their presence away. The sub veered around the forward mast and approached the wheelhouse. It was so close now that Pitt could distinctly make out the small breathing units attached to the crew’s chests. His grip on the knife tightened; he braced his body to spring through the doorway, hoping to get in the first thrust, knowing his small blade was no match for the projectile guns. The moment of suspense ended. At the last possible instant, the sub’s bow tilted sharply upward, passing through the bubbles and disappearing over the bridge. The sound of the motor slowly diminished. Almost immediately its light was lost to sight and seconds later the last beat of the propeller died away.

Giordino switched on his light and Pitt could see him shrug his shoulders in a questioning, baffled gesture. Then it slowly dawned on Pitt. The Andrei Vyborg had not yet belched all of her air pockets. Everywhere along the hull and superstructure small trails of air and oil mingled and rose in lazy spurts to the ocean’s surfa

ce. Delphi’s men had simply ignored all signs of bubbles, knowing that a sunken ship takes months, sometimes years, to expel its trapped air.

Pitt tapped his watch and pointed in the direction of the retreating mini-sub. Giordino nodded and together they swam over the ship’s railing, dropped down to the seafloor, taking advantage of its grotesquely shaped rocks and vegetation for cover. As the dark hulk of the Andrei Vyborg receded behind them, Pitt threw her a last look over his shoulder. The Americans now knew the location of her grave, but the Russians, he was certain, would never be told where to find her.

Pitt’s depth gauge readings began rising. He led Giordino up a slope on the seamount The water was cold, far colder than it should have been for this part of the Pacific. Their eyes strained the length of their light’s rays, searching the bottom for signs of activity, but evidence that would betray the geometrical straight lines of human manufacture failed to materialize. There had to be an opening, Pitt thought The mini-sub must have come from somewhere.

They were past their time limit now. There was no chance of making it back to the safety of the Starbuck. They had no choice but to keep going until the air in the main tanks was nearly exhausted and then head for the surface in the impossible hope they might somehow be picked up before the concussion from the Monitor’s missile crushed their bodies to pulp.

Suddenly Pitt noticed a change in the water temperature. It had become warmer, perhaps by as much as five degrees. At the same moment, a powerful current rolled across the slope, sweeping the sand into small swirling clouds, stretching the weed growth on a wavering horizontal plane. The sudden surge of the current thrust its invisible mass against the two men, thrusting them over the seafloor like Ping-Pong balls in a hurricane. The vicious flow swept both men through a thrashing forest of seaweed, the fronds flaying their faces, leaving red lash marks across their cheeks and foreheads.

Pitt somersaulted and collided with a huge outcropping of rock that was coated with a thick blanket of marine growth. The green slime rubbed off in his hands and the sharp edges from a colony of shell creatures sliced into his rubber wet suit. He was pinned against the rocks for an instant, and then the unpredictable whim of the current jerked him back into its path. He felt something grasp his leg. It was Giordino’s arm, circled around Pitt’s thigh just under the crotch, holding on with all the force of a hydraulic vise.

Pitt looked into Giordino’s face mask and he could have sworn he saw one brown eye wink. The added weight of their combined bodies was already reducing the drag from the current, and more important, Giordino’s grip would keep them from becoming separated during their swirling journey through the tempest of exploding sand and seaweed.

Pitt became aware of a dull clanking noise. An odd tolling sound coming from his airtanks smashing against the rocks. He tumbled on his back for a fleeting moment and shined his light upward, briefly watching the surface shimmer back in the reflection. He reached out as if to touch it and then realized that his mind was wandering. He jerked his senses back to the moment just in time to throw up his arm and shield his face before ramming a massive barnacle-coated boulder.

What rescued him in those first jarring seconds was the quarter-inch rubber thickness of his wet suit. But it wasn’t enough to save him completely. The barbed growth cut past the rubber and nylon inner lining; Pitt was stabbed with pain as the water around his arm burst into a cloud of his blood. His face mask was ripped away and the swirling sand invaded his eyes and nostrils, scouring the delicate membranes. He tried to exhale through his nose to clear the sand, but only succeeded in adding to the irritation. His eyes stung from the combined attack of sand and saltwater; the sudden closure of the lids threw his brain into spinning blackness.

Then his head slammed into a low rock and a skyrocket soared and burst into a brilliant rainbow of color, sputtered out, and all was still.

Giordino felt Pitt’s body go limp and collapse; the dive light dropped from an open hand and fell to the bottom. Giordino shone his own light into Pitt’s face, perceiving the loss of consciousness. He satisfied himself that Pitt’s mouthpiece was still secured between the teeth and then tightened his stubby arms around Pitt’s leg and continued hanging on.

A stretch of sandy gravel passed under Giordino; he lashed out with his feet, desperately attempting to drag them as a brake. Both his fins were torn away and the skin flayed from his feet and ankles. He clenched his teeth on the mouthpiece of his airhose until the rubber split, and dug his bleeding feet deeper into the sand. It was a move born of desperation, and it failed. His feet merely gouged two grooves in the yielding sea bottom before losing their hold and breaking loose.

Suddenly, like a cat who tires of a mouse, the treacherous undercurrent spun them out of its mainstream and released them. Giordino quickly reached out and grabbed a handful of seagrass, pulling his unconscious burden toward a small, craterlike pocket on the bottom. Then he relaxed and drifted downward in the calm water, letting Pitt sink gently beside him.

It was quiet in the operations bunker at Pearl Harbor. The typewriters were mute; the computers sat silent and inoperative, their tape reels staring like great round unlidded eyes. Half the staff was grouped around the radio center, the men thoughtfully smoking and saying nothing, the women nervously pouring coffee, looking pale and drawn. The tenseness in the atmosphere lay heavily and drained everyone’s energies. Hunter and Denver sat on either side of the radio operator, looking at each other through tired, bloodshot eyes.

Denver pulled a small plastic vial from his breast pocket and idly toyed with it, rolling it back and forth on the table. Hunter studied him for a moment and then raised his eyebrows questioningjy.

“What’s that thing?”

Denver held it up. “Pitt gave it to me to have analyzed. It was originally in a hypodermic syringe.”

“Pitt gave it to you?” Hunter persisted. “What’s in it?”

“DG-10,” Denver said briefly. “One of the deadliest poisons around. Extremely difficult to detect. The body has all the appearances of a heart seizure.”

“What was he doing with it?”

Denver shrugged. “I don’t know. He was very sly about it. Said we’d know in the end.”

Hunter’s eyes were remote, unseeing. “An enigma, that man’s a don’t-give-a-damn enigma...”

“Telephone, Admiral.”

Hunter was interrupted by an officer who held out a receiver. “Who is it?”

The officer looked lost for a moment, then hesitantly said “It’s Aloha Willie, the late night disc jockey on radio station POPO.”

Hunter’s mouth dropped. “What is this, mister? I don’t want to talk to any damned disc jockey. How did he get on our private lines anyway?”

The officer looked extremely ill-at-ease. “He said it was urgent, sir. His contest riddle is: the Blackbird has come home to nest He said you’d win a prize if you knew the answer.”