"I can only try. Beyond that, I promise nothing."
"That's not good enough," said Pitt.
Jarvis was too tired to argue. He shrugged listlessly, as though he no longer gave a damn. "Sorry, but that's the way it is." Then he slammed the door, showed his pass to the guard at the gate, and was gone.
Pitt turned the car around and swung onto Vermont Avenue. A couple of miles on he spotted an all-night coffee shop and slipped into a parking stall. After ordering a cup of coffee from a yawning waitress, he found the pay phone and made two calls. Then he downed the coffee, paid, and left.
54
Heidi Milligan met Pitt when he entered Bethesda Naval Hospital. Her blond hair was half hidden under a scarf, and despite the weariness around her eyes, she looked vibrant and strangely youthful.
"How is Admiral Bass?" Pitt asked her.
She gave him a strained look. "Walt is hanging in there. He's tough; he'll pull through."
Pitt didn't believe a word of it. Heidi was clinging to a slowly parting thread of hope and putting up a valiant front. He put his arm around her waist and led her gently down the corridor.
"Can he talk to me?"
She nodded. "The doctors aren't keen on the idea, but Walt insisted after I gave him your message."
"I wouldn't have intruded if it wasn't important," Pitt said.
She looked up into his eyes. "I understand."
They came to the door and Heidi opened it. She motioned Pitt toward the admiral's bed.
Pitt hated hospitals. The sickening sweet smell of ether, the depressing atmosphere, the businesslike attitude of the doctors and nurses, always got to him. He had made up his mind long ago: when his time came, he would die in his own bed, at home.
His resolve was further braced by his first look at the admiral since Colorado. The waxen paleness of the old man's face seemed to blend with the pillow, and his rasping breathing came in unison with the respirator's hiss. Tubes ran into his arms and under the sheets, supplying sustenance and draining his body wastes. His once-muscular body looked withered.
A doctor stepped forward and touched Pitt on the arm. "I doubt if he has the strength to speak."
Bass's head rolled slightly in Pitt's direction and he made a feeble gesture with one hand. "Come closer, Dirk," he muttered hoarsely.
The doctor gave a shrug of surrender. "I'll stay close, just in case." Then he stepped into the hall and closed the door.
Pitt pulled a chair up to the bed and bent over Bass's ear.
"The Quick Death projectile," Pitt said. "How does it operate during its trajectory?"
"Centrifugal force . . . rifling."
"I understand," Pitt replied in a hushed tone. "The spiral rifling inside the bore of the gun rotates the shell and sets up a centrifugal force."
"Activates a generator ... in turn activates a small radar altimeter."
"You must mean a barometric altimeter."
"No . . . barometric won't work," Bass whispered. "Heavy naval shell has high velocity with a flat trajectory . . . too low for accurate barometric reading . . . must use radar to bounce signal from ground."
"It doesn't seem possible a radar altimeter can survive the high g-forces when the gun is fired," Pitt said.
Bass forced a faint smile. "Designed the package myself. Take my word for it. . . the instrument survives the initial surge when the powder charge is detonated."
The admiral closed his eyes and lay still, exhausted by his efforts. Heidi moved forward and put her hand on Pitt's shoulder.
"Perhaps you should come back in the afternoon." Pitt shook his head. "By then it will be too late." "You'll kill him," Heidi said, her eyes welling with tears, her expression angry.