Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

"You're talking in riddles."

"According to Admiral Bass, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twenty-eight warheads filled with the Quick Death agent."

Steiger sensed an icy dread in Pitt's tone. "But his inventory . . . the count came to twenty-eight."

"He should have tallied thirty-six," Pitt said ominously. "Eight warheads are missing."

4

No Return Ticket

42

Washington, D.C.- December 1988

The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective glass, rose thirty stories above an East Washington hill.

On the top floor Admiral James Sandecker sat behind an immense desk made from a refinished hatch cover salvaged from a Confederate blockade runner in Albemarle Sound. His private line buzzed.

"Sandecker."

"Pitt here, sir."

Sandecker pushed a switch on a small console that activated a holo-graphic TV camera. Pitt's lifelike image materialized in three-dimensional depth and color in the middle of the office.

"Raise the camera from your end," said Sandecker. "You've chopped off your head."

Through the miracle of satellite holography Pitt's face seemed to grow from his shoulders, and his projected self, including voice and gestures, became identical to the original. The major difference, which never ceased to amuse Sandecker, was that he could pass a hand through the image because it was totally lacking in matter.

"That better?" asked Pitt.

"At least you're whole now." Sandecker wasted no more words. "What's the latest on Walter Bass?"

Pitt looked tired as he sat on a folding chair beneath a large pine tree, his ebony hair tossed by a stiff breeze.

"The heart specialist at the Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver reports his condition as stable. If he survives the next forty-eight hours, his chances for recovery look good. As soon as he's strong enough for the trip, they're going to transfer him to Bethesda Naval Hospital."

"What about the warheads?"

57

"We trucked them to a rail siding in Leadville," Pitt answered slowly. "Colonel Steiger volunteered to arrange shipment to Pier Six in San Francisco."

"Tell Steiger we're grateful for his cooperation. I've ordered our Pacific Coast research ship to be standing by. Instructions were given to the skipper to dump the warheads off the continental shelf in ten thousand feet of water." Sandecker hesitated at posing the next question. "Did you locate the missing eight?"

Pitt's negative expression answered him even before the image spoke.

"No luck, Admiral. A thorough search of the lake bed failed to turn up a trace."

Sandecker read the frustration on Pitt's face. "I fear the time has come to inform the Pentagon."

"Do you honestly think that a wise course?"

"What other options do we have?" Sandecker came back. "We don't have the means at our disposal for a large-scale investigation."

"All we need is a lead," Pitt said, pressing on. "Odds favor the warheads' being stored somewhere, gathering dust. It's even possible the thieves don't know what they really have on their hands."

"I'll accept that," Sandecker said. "But who would want them in the first place? Christ, they weigh nearly a ton each, and they're easily recognizable in exterior appearance as obsolete naval shells."