Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“You landed her without us!” Giordino turned to Pitt. “Now, how did we miss that?”

“Guess we were too focused on the Coast Guard cutter. Nice work, Rudi. Did she give you any trouble coming up?”

“None at all. We just ran the sling cables from the submersible to the barge crane and hoisted away. She came up clean as a whistle, but I think you’ll want to take a look at her hull.”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Pitt said.

Gunn gathered some flashlights, and they motored in the inflatable to the bow of the barge. The vessel was ghostly quiet, its pilot asleep in his bunk with the dachshund curled at his feet.

The Cuttlefish stood tall above them. The hull’s sides were clean and dry, and the boat’s chrome sparkled bright under their lights, showing little indication it had been submerged for nearly a week.

Giordino let out a low whistle as they viewed a gaping hole ripped in the base of the hull. “She must have sunk in a heartbeat.”

“I guess the DARPA folks had reason to be suspicious,” Gunn said. “By the looks of it, this was no accident.”

“Our buddies in the cabin cruiser probably attached some explosives to the hull,” Giordino said. “Must have detonated prematurely, before they could lay their hands on the crate.”

“Actually, they planted the explosives inside the boat.” Pitt studied the damage with his flashlight. “The blast marks seem to indicate an internal explosion.”

Gunn put his hand on a serrated section next to the hole; it flared outward. “You’re right. The explosives must have been placed inside the cabin.”

Pitt knelt beneath the opening and shined his flashlight into the dark interior. The remnants of the boat’s galley were visible above him, with black-stained bulkheads and a crater-sized blast hole through the ceiling. Still, the interior damage was less severe than the breach in the hull.

Examining the damage, Pitt noticed a pair of frayed orange wires trailing from the hole. He traced the wires’ path across the galley to an aft corner bulkhead, where they rose through a drilled hole. Squeezing through the blast hole, Pitt climbed into the galley and stepped aft past the cramped dining area to a flight of steps. He followed them up to the wheelhouse, where he stopped and studied the helm. In front of the pilot’s seat, he pulled open a kick panel, which contained a rat’s maze of colored wires that powered the boat’s electronics. He soon found the orange wires. One was spliced to a power lead, while the other ran up to the throttle housing. A minute later, he found its terminus—a hidden toggle switch mounted beneath the helm panel.

Giordino and Gunn had walked around the Cuttlefish and climbed up its stern. Finding Pitt standing at the helm, lost in thought, Gunn asked what he had discovered.

“A slight twist in my theory,” Pitt said. “It wasn’t the Mexicans who blew up the Cuttlefish. It was Heiland himself.”

21

STEPPING INTO THE DRAKE’S MESS JUST AFTER SUNUP, Pitt was surprised to find Ann seated across from Gunn, finishing her breakfast. Grabbing a cup of coffee, he headed to their table.

“Good morning. Mind if I join you?”

Gunn waved him to a seat next to Ann. “Always interrupting my fun.”

Pitt looked to Ann. “Sleep well?”

“Just fine,” she said, softly averting his gaze.

Pitt smiled at her sudden sheepishness. Returning from the barge the night before, he had gone straight to his cabin to go to bed. He’d answered a light knock at his door to find Ann in the doorway, an expectant look on her face. She’d worn a loose-fitting ship’s bathrobe that failed to conceal the straps of her lingerie. Barefoot, she stood on her good leg, relieving the pressure on her wrapped and swollen left ankle.

“I was hoping you would stop by to say good night,” she whispered.

Pitt quelled an uneasy desire as he gazed into her needy eyes. “Negligence on my part,” he said with a smile.

He bent down and plucked her off her feet, holding her tight. She buried her head in his neck as he carried her down the narrow corridor and into her cabin. Setting her gently on the bunk, he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Good night, my dear,” he said softly. Before she could respond, he’d backed out of her cabin and closed the door behind him.

“Your cook is excellent,” Ann said to Gunn, now pushing away her empty plate while trying to change the subject.

“Food is a key element of shipboard morale, particularly on long voyages. We insist on highly trained chefs for all our vessels.” Gunn took a bite of toast and turned to Pitt. “Ann was just telling me how she put her college springboard experience to good use by diving from the bridge wing last evening.”

“I’d give her a 9.0.” Pitt winked. “Though I might raise my marks if she would dive into what this expedition was really all about.”

Ann gave a nervous cough into her napkin. “What do you mean?”