During his years in the Navy, he was infected with dedication. There was little time for a deep relationship with a woman, and he counted few good friends, mostly Navy acquaintances. He built a wall around him between superiors and subordinates and walked the middle ground. He made flag rank before he was fifty, but he was stagnating.
When Congress approved his appointment as chief of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, he came back to life. He formed warm friendships with three unlikely people, who looked up to him with respect but treated him no differently than the man on the next bar stool.
The challenges facing NUMA had drawn them together. Al Giordino, an extrovert who took a strange glee in volunteering for the dirtiest projects and stealing Sandecker's expensive cigars. Rudi Gunn, driven to accomplish nothing less than perfection, a natural at organizing programs, who couldn't make an enemy if he tried. And then there was Pitt, who had done more than anyone to revive Sandecker's creative spirit. They soon became as close as father and son.
Pitt's freewheeling attitude toward life and his sarcastic wit trailed behind him like a comet's tail. He couldn't enter a room without livening it up. Sandecker tried but failed to blot out the memories, to unchain himself from the past. He leaned back in the desk chair and closed his eyes and gave
in to the sorrow. To lose all three of them at one time stunned him beyond comprehension.
While Pitt was in his thoughts, the light blinked and a muted chime came from his private phone line.
He massaged his temples briefly and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Jim, is that you? I got your private number from a mutual friend at the Pentagon."
"I'm sorry. My mind was wandering. I don't recognize the voice."
"This is Clyde. Clyde Monfort."
Sandecker tensed. "Clyde, what's up?"
"A signal from one of our attack subs returning from the Jamaican landing exercise just came across my desk."
"How does that concern me?"
"The sub's commander report's picking up a castaway no more than twenty minutes ago. Not exactly standard procedure for our nuclear sub forces to take strangers on board, but his guy claimed he worked for you and got pretty nasty when the skipper refused to allow him to send a message."
"Pitt!"
"You got it," answered Monfort. "That's the name he gave. Dirk Pitt. How'd you know?"
"Thank God!"
"Does he check out?"
"Yes, yes, he's bona fide," Sandecker said impatiently. "What about the others?"
"No others. Pitt was alone in a bathtub."
"Say again."
"The skipper swears it was a bathtub with an outboard motor."
Knowing Pitt, Sandecker didn't doubt the story for a second. "How soon can you have him picked up by helicopter and dropped at the nearest airfield for transport to Washington?"
"You know that's not possible, Jim. I can't have him cleared and released until after the sub docks at its base in Charleston."
"Hang on, Clyde. I'll call the White House on another line and get the authorization."
"You got that kind of clout?" Monfort asked incredulously.
"That and more."
"Can you tell me what's going down, Jim?"
"Take my word for it. You don't want to get involved."