Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

He looked up at Geinar Ombrikov through glazed and listless eyes.

"Why did you save me? Why didn't you let me die with my ship?"

Ombrikov could plainly see Pokofsky was suffering from severe shock, but he felt no pity for the man. Death was an element the KGB agent was trained to accept. His duty came before all consideration of compassion.

"I've no time for rituals of the sea," he said coldly. "The noble captain standing on the bridge saluting the flag as his ship sinks under him is so much garbage. State Security needs you, Pokofsky, and I need you to identify the American legislators."

"They're probably dead," Pokofsky muttered distantly.

"Then we'll have to prove it," Ombrikov snapped ruthlessly. "My superiors won't accept less than positive identification of their bodies. Nor can we overlook the possibility they may still be alive out there in the water."

Pokofsky placed his hands over his face and shuddered. "I can't-" Before the words were out of his mouth, Ombrikov roughly dragged him to his feet and shoved him out on the open deck.

"Damn you!" he shouted. "Look for them!"

Pokofsky clenched his jaws and stared at the appalling reality of the floating wreckage and hundreds of struggling men, women and children. He choked off a sound deep inside him, his face blanched.

"No!" he shouted. He leaped over the side so quickly, suddenly, neither Ombrikov nor his crew could stop him. He bit the water swimming and dove deep until the white of his uniform was lost to view on the surface.

The boats from the container ship hauled in the survivors as fast as they could reach them, quickly filling to capacity and unloading their human cargo before returning to the center of the flotsam to continue the rescue. The sea was filled with debris of all kinds, dead bodies of all ages, and those still fighting to live. Fortunately the water was warm and none suffered from exposure, nor did the threat of sharks ever materialize.

One boat jockeyed close to Giordino, who helped lift the mother and her two children onboard. Then he scrambled over the freeboard and motioned for the helmsman to steer toward Pitt and Loren. They were among the last few to be fished out.

As the boat slipped alongside, Pitt raised his hand in greeting to the short, stocky figure that leaned over the side.

"Hello," Pitt said, grinning winely. "Are we ever glad to see you."

"Happy to be of service," replied the steward Pitt had passed earlier at the elevator. He was also grinning, baring a set of large upper teeth parted by a wide gap.

He reached down, grasped Loren by the wrists and pulled her effortlessly out of the water and into the boat. Pitt stretched out his hand, but the steward ignored it.

"Sorry," he said, "we have no more room."

"What-what are you talking about?" Pitt demanded. "The boat is half empty."

"You are not welcome aboard my vessel."

"You damned well don't even own it."

"Oh, but I do."

Pitt stared at the steward in sheer incredulity, then slowly turned and took one long comprehensive look across the water at the container ship. The name of the starboard bow was Chalmette, but the lettering on the sides of the containers stacked on the main deck read "Bougainville." Pitt felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"Our confrontation is a lucky circumstance for me, Mr. Pitt, but I fear a misfortune for yourself."

Pitt stared at the steward. "You know me?"

The grin turned into an expression of hate and contempt. "Only too well. Your meddling has cost Bougainville Maritime dearly."

"Tell me who you are?" asked Pitt, stalling for time and desperately glancing in the sky for a Navy recovery helicopter.

"I don't think I'll give you the satisfaction," the steward said with all the warmth of a frozen food locker.

Unable to hear the conversation, Loren pulled at the steward's arm. "Why don't you bring him onboard? What are you waiting for?"

He turned and savagely backhanded her across the cheek, sending her stumbling backward, falling across two survivors who sat in stunned surprise.

Giordino, who was standing in the stern of the boat, started forward. A seaman produced an automatic shotgun from under a seat and rammed the wooden shoulder stock into his stomach. Giordino's jaw dropped open, he gasped for breath and lost his footing, dropping partially over the side of the boat, arms trailing in the water.