Deep Six Page 4

  They were beginning to experience the creeping grasp of weariness, yet they had only been on the bottom for eight minutes.

  Inch by inch they worked their way into a gaping hole on the starboard bow of the hulk. The planking that framed the cavern like opening was shattered and twisted as though a giant fist had rammed into the ship. They began to uncover artifacts: a shoe, the hinge from an old chest, brass calipers, tools, even a piece of cloth.

  It was an eerie sensation to touch man-made objects that no one had seen in 127 years.

  One of the men paused to check their air gauges. He calculated they could work another ten minutes and still have a safe supply of breathable air to reach the surface.

  They turned off the valve on the airlift, stopping the suction, while they waited for the river current to carry away the cloud of disturbed silt. Except for the exhaust of their breathing regulators, it became very still. A little more of the wreck became visible. The deck timbers were crushed and broken inward. Coils of rope trailed into the murk like mud-encrusted snakes. The interior of the hull seemed bleak and forbidding. They could almost sense the restless ghosts of the men who had gone down with the ship.

  Suddenly they heard a strange humming-not the sound made by the outboard motor of a small boat, but heavier, like the distant drone of an aircraft engine. There was no way of telling its direction. They listened for a few moments, as the sound grew louder, magnified by the density of the water. It was a surface sound and did not concern them, so they reactivated the airlift and turned back to their work.

  No more than a minute later the end of the suction pipe struck something hard. Quickly they closed off the air valve again and excitedly brushed away the mud with their hands. Soon they realized they were touching, not wood, but an object that was harder, much harder, and covered with rust.

  To the, support crew on the barge over the wreck site time seemed to have reversed itself. They stood spellbound as an ancient PBY Catalina flying boat made a sweeping bank from the west, lined up on the river and kissed the water with the ungainly finesse of an inebriated goose. The sun glinted on the aquamarine paint covering the aluminum bull, and the letters NUMA grew larger as the lumbering seaplane taxied toward the barge. The engines shut down; the co-pilot emerged from a side hatch and threw a mooring line to one of the men on the barge.

  Then a woman appeared and jumped lightly onto the battered wooden deck. She was slim, her elegant body covered by a narrow falling tan overskirt, worn long and loose, held low on the hip by a thin sash, over tapering pants in green cotton. She wore moccasin style boater shoes on her feet. In her min-forties, she was about five foot seven; her hair was the color of aspen gold and her skin a copper tan. Her face was handsome, with high cheekbones, the face of a woman who fits no mold but her own.

  She picked her way around a maze of cables and salvage equipment and stopped when she found herself surrounded by a gallery of male stares registering speculation mixed with undisguised fascination. She raised her sunglasses and stared back through plum brown eyes.

  "Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?" she demanded without preamble.

  A rugged individual, shorter than she was, but with shoulders twice the width of his waist stepped forward and pointed into the river.

  "You'll find him down there."

  She turned and her eyes followed the protruding finger. A large orange buoy swayed in the rippling current, its cable angling into the dirty green depths. About thirty feet beyond, she could see the diver's bubbles boil to the surface.

  "How soon before he comes up?"

  "Another five minutes."

  "I see," she said, pondering a moment. Then she asked, "Is Albert Giordino with him?"

  "He's standing here talking to you."

  Clad only in shabby sneakers, cutoff jeans and torn T-shirt, Giordino's tacky outfit was matched by his black, curly windblown hair and a two-week heard. He definitely did not fit her picture of NUMA's deputy director of special projects.

  She seemed; more amused than taken aback. "My name is Julie Mendoza, Environmental Protection Agency. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the two of you, but perhaps I should wait until Mr. Pitt surfaces."

  Giordino shrugged. "Suit yourself." He broke into a friendly smile. "We don't stock much in the way of creature comforts but we do have cold beer."

  "Love one, thank you."

  Giordino pulled a can of Coors from an ice bucket and handed it to her. "What's an EPA man-ah-woman doing flying around in a NUMA plane?"

  "A suggestion of Admiral Sandecker."

  Mendoza didn't offer more, so Giordino didn't press.

  "What project is this?" Mendoza asked.

  "The Cumberland."

  "A Civil War ship, wasn't she?"

  "Yes, historically very significant. She was a Union frigate sunk in 1862 by the Confederate ironclad Merrimack-or the Virginia, as she was known to the South."

  "As I recall, she went down before the Merrimack fought the Monitor, making her the first ship ever destroyed by one that was armored."

  "You know your history," said Giordino, properly impressed.

  "And NUMA is going to raise her?"

  Giordino shook his head. "Too costly. We're only after the ram."

  "Ram?"

  "A hell of a battle," Giordino explained. "The crew of the Cumberland fought until the water came in their gun barrels, even though their cannon shot bounced off the Confederate's casemate like golf balls off a Brink's truck. In the end the Merrimack rammed the Cumberland, sending her to the bottom, flag still flying. But as the Merrimack backed away, her wedge-shaped ram caught inside the frigate and broke off. We're looking for that ram."

  "What possible value can an old hunk of iron have?"

  "Maybe it doesn't put dollar signs in the eyes of people like treasure from a Spanish galleon, but historically it's priceless, a piece of America's naval heritage."

  Mendoza was about to ask another question, but her attention was diverted by two black rubber-helmeted heads that broke water beside the barge. The divers swam over, climbed a rusty lander and shrugged off their heavy gear. Water streamed from their dry suits, gleaming in the sunlight.

  The taller of the two pulled off his hood and ran his hands through a thick mane of ebony hair. His face was darkly tanned and the eyes were the most vivid green Mendoza had ever seen.

  He had the look of a man who smiled easily and often, who challenged life and accepted the wins and losses with equal indifference. When he stood at his full height he was three inches over six feet, and the rubber suit strained at the seams. Mendoza knew without asking that this was Dirk Pitt.

  He waved at the barge crew's approach. "We found it," he said with a wine grin.

  Giordino slapped him on the back delightedly. "Nice going, pal."

  Everyone began asking the divers a barrage of questions, which they answered between swallows of beer. Finally Giordino remembered Mendoza and motioned her forward.

  "This is Julie Mendoza of the EPA. She wants to have a chat with us."

  Dirk Pitt extended his hand, giving her an appraising stare.

  "Julie."

  "Mr. Pitt."

  "If you'll give me a minute to un-suit and dry off-"

  "I'm afraid we're running late," she interrupted. "We can talk in the air. Admiral Sandecker thought the plane would be faster than a helicopter."

  "You've lost me."

  "I can't take the time to explain. We have to leave immediately.

  All I can say is that you've been ordered to a new project."

  There was huskiness in her voice that intrigued Pitt, not masculine exactly, but a voice that would be at home in a Harold Robbins novel. "Why the mad rush?" He asked.

  "Not here or now," she said, glancing around at the salvage crew tuned in to the conversation.

  He turned to Giordino. "What do you think, Al?"

  Giordino faked a bemused look. "Hard to say. The lady looks pretty determined. On the other hand, I'
ve found a home here on the barge. I kind of hate to leave."

  Mendoza flushed in anger, realizing the men were toying with her.

  "Please, minutes count."

  "Mind telling us where we're going?"

  "Langley Air Force Base, where a military jet is waiting to take us to Kodiak, Alaska."

  She might as well have told them they were going to the moon.

  Pitt looked into her eyes, searching for something he wasn't sure he'd find. All he could read was her dead seriousness.

  "I think, to be on the safe side, I'd better contact the admiral and confirm."

  "You can do that on the way to Langley," she said, her tone unyielding. "I've seen to your personal affairs. Your clothes and whatever else you might need for a two-week operation have already been packed and loaded onboard." She paused and stared him squarely in the eye. "So much for small talk, Mr. Pitt. While we stand here, people are dying. You couldn't know that. But take my word for it. If you're half the man you're reported to be, you'll stop screwing around and get on the plane-now!"

  "You really go for the jugular, don't you, lady?"

  "If I have to."

  There was an icy silence. Pitt took a deep breath, then blew it out. He faced Giordino.

  "I hear Alaska is beautiful this time of year."

  Giordino managed a faraway look. "Some great saloons in Skagway we should check out."

  Pitt gestured to the other diver, who was peeling off his dry suit.

  "She's all yours, Charlie. Go ahead and bring up the Merrimack's ram and get it over to the conservation lab."

  "I'll see to it."

  Pitt nodded, and then along with Giordino walked toward the Catalina, talking between themselves as if Julie Mendoza no longer existed.

  "I hope she packed my fishing gear," said Giordino with a straight voice. "The salmon should be running."

  "I've a mind to ride a caribou," Pitt carried on. "Heard tell they can outrun a dog sled."

  As Mendoza followed them, the words of Admiral Sandecker came back to haunt her: "I don't envy you riding herd on those two devils, Pitt in particular. He could con a great white shark into becoming a vegetarian. So keep a sharp eye and your legs crossed."

  JAMES SANDECKER WAS considered a prime catch by the feminine circles of Washington society. A dedicated bachelor whose only mistress was his work, he seldom entered into a relationship with the opposite sex that lasted more than a few weeks. Sentiment and romance, the qualities women thrive on, were beyond him. In another life he might have been a hermit-or, some suggested, Ebenezer Scrooge.

  In his late fifties and an exercise addict, he still cut a trim figure.

  He was short and muscular, and his red hair and heard had yet to show a trace of gray. He possessed an aloofness and coarse personality that appealed to women. Many cast out lures, but few ever put a hook in him.

  Bonnie Cowan, an attorney for one of the city's most respected law firms, considered herself fortunate to have wrangled a dinner date with him. "You look pensive tonight, Jim," she said.

  He did not look directly at her. His gaze drifted over the other diners seated amin the quiet decor of the Company Inkwell restaurant.

  "I was wondering how many people would dine out if there were no seafood."

  She gave him a puzzled stare, then laughed. "After dealing with dull legal minds all day, I'll confess it's like inhaling mountain air to be with someone who wanders in aimless circles."

  His stare returned over the table's candle and into her eyes.

  Bonnie Cowan was thirty-five years old, and unusually attractive. She had learned long ago that beauty was an asset in her career and never tried to disguise it. Her hair was fine, silken and fell below her shoulders. Her breasts were small but nicely proportioned, as were the legs that were amply displayed by a short skirt. She was also highly intelligent and could hold her own in any courtroom.

  Sandecker felt remiss at his inattentiveness.

  "That's a damned pretty dress," he said, making a feeble attempt at looking attentive.

  "Yes, I think the red material goes well with my blond hair."

  "A nice match," he came back vaguely.

  "You're hopeless, Jim Sandecker," she said, shaking her head.

  "You'd say the same thing if I were sitting here naked."

  "Hmmmm?"

  For your information, the dress is brown, and so is my hair."

  He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "I'm sorry, but I warned you I'd be poor company."

  "Your mind is seemly something, a thousand miles away."

  He reached across the table almost shyly and held her hand.

  "For the rest of the evening, I'll focus my thoughts entirely on you. I promise."

  "Women are suckers for little boys who need mothering. And you are the most pathetic little boy I've ever seen."

  "Mind your language, woman. Admirals do not take kindly to being referred to as pathetic little boys."

  "All right, John Paul Jones, then how about a bite for a starving deckhand?"

  "Anything to prevent a mutiny," he said, smiling for the first time that evening.

  He recklessly ordered champagne and the most expensive seafood delicacies on the menu, as though it might be his last opportunity. He asked Bonnie about the cases she was involved with and masked his lack of interest as she relayed the latest gossip about the Supreme Court and legal maneuverings of Congress.

  They finished the entree and were attacking the pears poached in red wine when a man with the build of a Denver Bronco linebacker entered the foyer, stared around and, recognizing Sandecker, made his way over to the table.

  He flashed a smile at Bonnie. "My apologies, ma'am, for the intrusion." Then he spoke softly into Sandecker's ear.

  The admiral nodded and looked sadly across the table. "Please forgive me, but I must go."

  "Government business?"

  He nodded silently.

  "Oh, well," she said resignedly. "At least I had you all to myself until dessert."

  He came over and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. "We'll do it again."

  Then he paid the bill, asked the maitre d' to call Bonnie a cab and left the restaurant.

  The admiral's car rolled to a stop at the special tunnel entrance to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The door was opened by a sober-faced man wearing a formal black suit.

  "If you will please follow me, sir."

  "Secret Service?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Sandecker asked no more questions. He stepped out of the car and trailed the agent down a carpeted corridor to an elevator.

  When the doors parted, he was led along the tier level behind the box seats of the opera house to a small meeting room.

  Daniel Fawcett, his expression the consistency of marble, simply waved an offhand greeting.

  "Sorry to break up your date, Admiral."

  "The message emphasized 'urgent."' "I've just received another report from Kodiak. The situation has worsened."

  "Does the President know?"

  "Not yet," answered Fawcett. "Best to wait until the intermission. If he suddenly left his box during the second act of Rigoletto, it might fuel too many suspicious minds."

  A Kennedy Center staff member entered the room carrying a tray of coffee. Sandecker helped himself while Fawcett inaly paced the floor.

  The admiral fought off an overwhelming desire to light a cigar.

  After a wait of eight minutes, the President appeared. The audience applause at the end of the act was heard in the brief interval between the opening and closing of the door. He was dressed in black evening wear with a blue handkerchief nattily tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  "I wish I could say it was good seeing you again, Admiral, but every time we meet we're up to our butts in a crisis."

  "Seems that way," Sandecker answered.

  The President turned to Fawcett. "What's the bad news, Dan?"

  "The captain of an auto fer
ry disregarded Coast Guard orders and took his ship on its normal run from Seward on the mainland to Kodiak.

  The ferry was found a few hours ago grounded on Marmot Island. All the passengers and crew were dead."

  "Christ!" the President blurted. "What was the body count?"

  "Three hundred and twelve."