Dragon (Dirk Pitt 10)

We've another sub about to surface."

"I hear you."

Within five minutes of the exchange, all of the NUMA crew were standing on the deck of the junk, all except the geologist with the bad ankle who was being lifted by a net over the side. The man who had hailed them walked up and spread out his hands apologetically.

"God, I'm sorry you lost your vessel. We didn't see you until it was too late."

"Not your fault," said Giordino, stepping forward. "We came up almost under your keel. Your lookouts were more alert than we had any right to expect."

"Was anyone lost?"

"No, we're all accounted for."

"Thank God for that. This has been one crazy day. We picked another man out of the water not twenty kilometers to the west. He's in a bad way. Says his name is Jimmy Knox. He one of your men?"

"No," Giordino said. "The rest of my people are following in another submersible."

"I've ordered my crew to keep their eyes peeled."

"You're most courteous," Giordino said mechanically, his mind taking one step at a time.

The stranger who seemed to be in command glanced around the open sea, a puzzled look on his face.

"Where are you all coming from?"

"Explanations later. Can I borrow your radio?"

"Of course. By the way, my name is Owen Murphy."

"Al Giordino."

"Right through there, Mr. Giordino," said Murphy, wisely putting his curiosity on hold. He motioned toward a doorway in the large cabin on the quarterdeck. "While you're occupied, I'll see your men get into some dry clothes."

"Much obliged," Giordino threw over his shoulder as he hurried aft.

More than once, after the narrow escape from the submersible, the picture of Pitt and Plunkett standing helpless as millions of tons of water thundered down on them flashed through Giordino's mind.

He was coldly aware that he was probably already too late, the chances of their being alive were somewhere between zero and nonexistent. But the thought of abandoning them, giving them up for dead, was never remotely considered. If anything, he was more determined than ever to return to the seabed, regardless of the nightmare he might find.

The NUMA submersible piloted by Dave Lowden surfaced half a kilometer off the junk's beam.

Thanks to the skilled ship handling of Murphy's helmsman, Shanghai Shelly came to a smart stop less than two meters from the sub's hatch tower. This time, all the submersible's crew, except Lowden, stepped aboard dry.

Giordino rushed back on deck after alerting Admiral Sandecker of the situation and advising the pilot of the flying boat to land alongside the junk. He stared straight down at Lowden, who was standing half in and half out of the sub.

"Stand by," hailed Giordino. "I want to take her back down."

Lowden waved negatively. "No can do. We developed a leak in the battery casing. Four of them shorted. Not nearly enough power left for another dive."

Lowden's voice trailed away in icy silence. In the blank numbness of total failure, Giordino struck his fist against the railing. The NUMA scientists and engineers, Stacy and Salazar, even the crew of the junk, stared mutely into the beaten expression that lined his face.

"Not fair," he muttered in a sudden seething anger. "Not fair."

He stood there a long time, staring down into the unsympathetic sea as if penetrating its depths. He was still standing there when Admiral Sandecker's aircraft appeared from the clouded sky and circled the drifting junk.

Stacy and Salazar were shown to the cabin where Jimmy Knox lay barely conscious. A man with balding gray hair and a warm twinkle in his eyes rose from a chair by the bed and nodded.

"Hello, I'm Harry Deerfield."