The Mediterranean Caper (Dirk Pitt 2)

“OK, you win,” he said wearily. "I'll no doubt regret this decision at my court-martial. Its a small satisfaction to know what I'll go out with a blaze of headlines.”

Pitt laughed. "No such luck, my friend. Whatever happens, you merely ordered a routine hunt to collect marine specimens from a shelf under the cliffs. If we stumble into an embarrassing incident, you can say it was by pure accident.”

“I hope Washington will buy that.”

“Don’t worry, I think we both know Admiral Sandecker well enough to be assured that he’ll stand by us rega

rdless of the consequences.”

Gunn pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his face and neck. “Well, where do we go from here?

“Round up your volunteers,” Pitt said briefly.

“Assemble them and the equipment on the fantail at noon. I'll explain their mission with a few well chosen words and then we’ll go from there.”

Gunn glanced at his watch. “It’s 9:00 now. I can have them ready to dive in fifteen minutes. Why wait three hours?”

“I need the extra time to catch up on my sleep,”

Pitt said grinning. “I don’t want to doze off sixty feet below the surface.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Gunn said seriously.

“You look like the morning after New Year’s Eve.” He turned and started through the cabin door, then stopped. “By the way, do me a favor and send that girl ashore as soon as possible. I’m going to be in enough hot water as it is without being accused of operating a floating bordello.”

“Not until I return from the dive. It’s vital that she remain on board where someone can keep an eye on her.”

“OK let’s have it.” Gunn said quietly in a defeated tone. “You’re holding out on me again. Who is she?”

“Would you believe von Till’s niece?"

“Oh no,” Gunn looked stricken. “That’s. all I need.”

“Don’t work yourself into a coronary,” Pitt said

softly. “Everything will work out. You have my word on it.”

“I hope so,” Gunn sighed. He looked skyward and shrugged in helpless despair. “Why me, God?”

Then he was gone.

Pitt stared out the empty doorway for a long moment at the blue uneven sea. The radio operator was bent over the big Bendix set, transmitting. but Pitt didn’t hear him. He was lost in the inner silence of concentration and the silence that comes with the blistering heat and its energy sapping partner, humidity. His body Was numb -numb from too little sleep and numb from too much mental strain. His nerves were stretched like the support wires of a suspension bridge; if one snapped the rest would part strand by strand until the whole Structure swayed and dropped into oblivion. Like a gambler who has bet his last big stake on a ten-to-one horse, he felt his heart pound against his rib cage, driven beyond its regular beat by the deep fear of uncertainty.

“Excuse me, Major.” The radioman’s low, resonant voice seemed far away. “These communications are for you.”

Pitt said nothing. He merely extended his hand and took the messages.

“The one from Munich came in at 6:00.” The black man’s tone was hesitating and unsteady. “It was followed at 7:00 by two transmissions from Berlin.”

“Thank you,” Pitt murmured woodenly. “Anything else?”

“This last one, sir, it’s . . . well It’s really weird.

No call sign. no repeat, no sign off, just the message.”

Pitt stared down ‘at the top paper. A grim smile slowly moved his lips.

‘Major Dirk Pitt, NUMA ship First Attempt. One hour down, nine to go. H.Z.’