Dragon (Dirk Pitt 10)

The President grinned mildly. "That should put a small dent in the trade deficit."

"Good God," muttered the Vice President, shaking his head. "A frightening thought. A foreign ship smuggling a nuclear bomb into the United States."

"What do you recommend, Ray?" demanded the President.

"We dispatch field teams immediately. Preferably Navy deepsea salvage vessels to survey the sunken ships and learn which ship was transporting the bomb."

The President and Nichols exchanged knowing glances. Then the President stared at Jordan. "I think Admiral Sandecker and his ocean engineering people at NUMA are better suited for a deep-water operation. I'll leave it to you, Ray, to brief him."

"If I may respectfully disagree, Mr. President. We can keep a tighter security lid on the event with the Navy."

The President gave Jordan a smug look. "I understand your concern. But trust me. The National Underwater and Marine Agency can do the job without a news leak."

Jordan rose from the couch, professionally annoyed that the President knew something he didn't. He made a mental note to dig at his first opportunity. "If Dale will alert the admiral, I'll leave for his office immediately."

The President extended his hand. "Thank you, Ray. You and your people have done a superb job in so short a time."

Nichols accompanied Jordan as he left the Oval Office to head for the NUMA Building. As soon as they were in the hallway Nichols asked in a low voice, "Just between you and me and the furniture, who do you think is behind the bomb smuggling?"

Jordan thought for a moment and then replied in an even, disquieting tone. "We'll know the answer to that within the next twenty-four hours. The big question, the one that scares hell out of me, is why, and for what purpose.

The atmosphere inside the submersible had become rank and humid. Condensation was dripping from the sides of the sphere, and the carbon dioxide was rising into the lethal range. No one stirred and they seldom spoke, to conserve air. After eleven and a half hours, their life-preserving oxygen supply was nearly gone, and what little electrical power was left in the emergency batteries could not operate the CO, scrubbing unit much longer.

Fear and terror had slowly faded to resignation. Except for every fifteen minutes, when Plunkett switched on the lights to read the life-support systems, they sat quietly in the dark, alone with their thoughts.

Plunkett concentrated on monitoring the instruments, fussing with his equipment, refusing to believe his beloved submersible could refuse to respond to his commands. Salazar sat like a statue, slumped in his chair. He seemed withdrawn and barely conscious. Though he was only minutes away from falling into a final stupor, he could not see prolonging the inevitable. He wanted to die and get it over with.

Stacy conjured up fantasies of her childhood, pretending she was in another place, another time. Her past flew by in fleeting images. Playing baseball in the street with her brothers, riding her new bicycle Christmas Day, going to her first high school prom with a boy she didn't like but who was the only one who asked her. She could almost hear the strains of the music in the hotel ballroom. She forgot the name of the group, but she remembered the songs. "We May Never Pass This Way Again" from Seals and Crofts was her favorite. She had closed her eyes and imagined she'd been dancing with Robert Redford.

She cocked her head as if listening. Something was out of place. The song she heard in her mind wasn't from the mid-1970s. It sounded more like an old jazz tune than rock.

She came awake, opened her eyes, seeing only the blackness. "They're playing the wrong music," she mumbled.

Plunkett flicked on the lights. "What was that?"

Even Salazar looked up uncomprehendingly and muttered, "She's hallucinating."

"They're supposed to be playing `We May Never Pass This Way Again,' but it's something else."

Plunkett looked at Stacy, his face soft with compassion and sorrow. "Yes, I hear it too."

"No, no," she objected. "Not the same. The song is different."

"Whatever you say," said Salazar, panting. His lungs ached from trying to wrest what oxygen he could from the foul air. He grabbed Plunkett by the arm. "For God's sake, man. Close down the systems and end it. Can't you see she's suffering? We're all suffering."

Plunkett's chest was hurting too. He well knew it was useless to prolong the torment, but he couldn't brush aside the primitive urge to cling on to life to the last breath. "We'll see it through," he said heavily.

"Maybe another sub was airlifted to the Invincible."

Salazar stared at him with glazed eyes and a mind that was hanging on to a thin thread of reality.

"You're crazy. There isn't another deep-water craft within seven thousand kilometers. And even if one was brought in, and the Invincible was still afloat, they'd need another eight hours to launch and rendezvous."

"I can't argue with you. None of us wants to spend eternity in a lost crypt in deep ocean. But I won't give up hope."

"Crazy," Salazar repeated. He leaned forward in his seat and shook his head from side to side as if clearing the growing pain. He looked as though he was aging a year with each passing minute.