Iceberg (Dirk Pitt 3)

suspicious of military aircraft milling about an area of open sea where few, if any, ships ever travel. On the other hand, National Underwater and Marine Agency aircraft are commonly known to conduct scientific projects in desolate waters."

"And your qualifications?"

"I'm experienced at flying a helicopter in Arctic weather," Pitt answered. "Dr. Hunnewell is, with little doubt, the world's leading authority on ice formations."

"I see," Koski said slowly. "Dr. Hunnewell will study the berg before the intelligence boys crash the party."

"You have it," Hunnewell acknowledged. "If that really is the Novgorod under the ice, it's up to me to determine the most expedient method for entering the ship's hull. I'm sure you're aware, Commander, icebergs are a tricky lot to play with. It's like cutting a diamond; a miscalculation by the cutter, and the prize is lost. Too much thermite in the wrong place, and the ice can crack and split apart. Or, sudden and excessive melting might cause a change in the center of gravity, forcing the berg to topple upside-down. So you see, it is imperative the ice mass be analyzed before the Novgorod can be entered with any degree of safety."

Koski leaned back and noticeably relaxed. His eyes locked on Pitts for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Lieutenant Dover!"

"Sir?"

"Kindly oblige these gentlemen and lay a course for 47'36'N-43017'W, full ahead. And signal District Command in New York of our intent to depart station."

He watched for a change of expression on Pitts face.

There was none.

"No offense," Pitt said equably. "I suggest you drop that signal to your District Command."

"I'm not suspicious or anything, Major," Koski offered apologetically. "It's just that I'm not in the habit of cruising all over the North Atlantic without letting the Coast Guard know where their property is."

"Okay, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention our destination." Pitt snuffed out his cigarette. "Also, please notify the NUMA office in Washington that Dr. Hunnewell and I have arrived safely on board the Catawaba and will continue our

flight to Reykjavik when the weather clears."

Koski raised an eyebrow. "Reykjavik, Iceland?"

"Our final destination," Pitt explained.

Koski started to say something, thought better of it, then shrugged. "I'd better show you to your quarters, gentlemen." He turned to Dover. "Dr. Hunnewell can bunk with our engineering officer. Major Pitt can move in with you, Lieutenant.

Pitt grinned at Dover, then stared back at Koski.

"The better to keep an eye on me?"

"You said it, not me," Koski replied, surprised at the pained expression that crossed Pitts face.

Four hours later Pitt was dozing on a cot that had been squeezed into the iron womb Dover called his cabin. He was tired, almost to the aching point, but too many thoughts were running through his mind to allow him entry into the paradise of deep sleep. One week ago at this time he had been sitting with a gorgeous, sexmad redhead on the terrace of the Newporter Inn, overlooking the picturesque waterfront of Newport Beach, California. He fondly remembered caressing the girl with one hand while holding a scotch-rocks in the other, contentedly watching the ghost-like pleasure yachts glide across the moonlit harbor.

Now he was alone and regrettably suffering on a plank-hard folding cot aboard a tossing Coast Guard cutter somewhere in the refrigerated North Atlantic Ocean. I must be a cardcarrying masochist, he thought, to volunteer for every madcap project that Admiral Sandecker keeps dreaming up. Admiral James Sandecker, Chief Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, would have shied at the term madcap project-damned bung twister would have been more his style.

"Damned sorry to drag you from sunny California, but this damned bung twister has been dumped in our lap." Sandecker, a small, fire-haired, griffon-faced man, waved a seven-inch cigar in the air like a baton. "We're supposed to be engaged in scientific underwater research. Why us? Why not the Navy? You'd think the Coast Guard could handle its own problems." He shook his head in irritation, puffed on the cigar. "Anyway, we're stuck with it."

Pitt finished reading and then laid a yellow folder marked confidential on the admiral's desk. "I didn't think it was possible for a ship to freeze up in the middle of an iceberg."

"It's extremely strange o it couldn't happen."

"Finding the right berg might prove difficult; it's already been four days since the Coast Guard's sighting.

That overgrown ice cube could have drifted halfway to the Azores by now."

Dr. Hunnewell has charted the current and drift rate to within a thirty-square-mile area. If your vision is good, you shouldn't have any trouble spotting the berg, particularly since the Coast Guard dropped a red dye marker on it."

"Spotting it is one thing," Pitt said thoughtfully, r, "landing a helicopter on it is another. Wouldn't it be more convenient and less dangerous to arrive by-"