Pacific Vortex Page 6

  It was a grisly sight It looked as though the driver had tried to leap clear before the old Dodge began its flight over the precipice. He’d missed the edge and had fallen, tumbling through the air for nearly two hundred feet before he struck a telephone pole perched in a concrete base. The body was impaled on a metal foot spike used by telephone repairmen for line maintenance. As Pitt stood entranced, the bottom section of the pole slowly turned from brown to red as if painted by some unseen hand; like a flank of beef hanging on a meathook.

  Pitt drove down Mount Tantalus past the Manoa Valley lookout until he reached the nearest house. He went up onto the vine-covered porch and asked an elderly Japanese woman if he might use her telephone to report the accident. The woman bowed endlessly and motioned Pitt to a phone in the kitchen. He dialed Admiral Hunter first, quickly relating the story and giving the location.

  The admiral’s voice came over the receiver like an amplified bullhorn, forcing Pitt to hold the blast a few inches from his ear. “Don’t call the Honolulu police,” Hunter bellowed. “Give me ten minutes to get our security men on the wreckage before the local traffic investigators foul up the area. You got that?”

  “I think I can manage it.”

  “Good!” Hunter went on without touching on Pitt’s saicasm. “Ten minutes. Then move your tail out to Pearl Harbor. We’ve got work to do.”

  Pitt acknowledged and hung up.

  Pitt waited ten minutes, answering a multitude of questions about the crash shot in rapid fire by the little Oriental woman. Then he picked up the phone again and asked the operator for the Honolulu police. When the gravel-throated voice requested his name after he volunteered the location, he said nothing and quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  He thanked the owner of the house and backed away into the safety of his car. He sat there behind the wheel for a good five minutes, sweating from the humidity of the tropical heat and the unyielding leather of the bucket seat.

  Something didn’t Jell; something he’d missed came back to tug at his mind, some line of thought that couldn’t be translated.

  Then suddenly he had it. He started the car quickly and left twin streaks of Goodyear rubber on the worn asphalt as he sped back toward the wreck site. Five minutes to the telephone, twenty minutes spent dawdling as though time meant nothing, three minutes back, twenty-eight minutes in all, wasted.

  He should have guessed there’d be more than one of them on his trail. The AC skidded to an abrupt stop and Pitt ran once more to the edge of the drop.

  The wreckage was just as he’d left it, all twisted and torn like a child’s smashed toy. The telephone pole was as he left it too, standing forlornly in the center of the palisade, its crossbars clutching wires that stretched off into infinity. The footspikes were still there too. But the driver’s body had disappeared. Only the red stain remained, clotting and crystalizing under the onslaught of the morning sun.

  A Quonset hut-it looked more like the dilapidated office of a salvage yard-was the saddest excuse for an operations building since the Civil War. The rusting corrugated roof and cracked, dust-coated windows were encompassed by an unkempt sea of weeds. But at the paint-chipped and weathered door, Pitt was barred by a marine sergeant armed with a bolstered automatic Colt .45.

  “Your identification, please.” It was more a demand than a request.

  Pitt held up his ID card. “Dirk Pitt. I’m reporting to Admiral Hunter.”

  “I’m afraid I must see your orders, sir.”

  Pitt wasn’t in the mood for gung ho procedure. Marines irritated him, all puffy-chested, eager for a fight, looking for any excuse to break out in a chorus of the “Marine Hymn.”

  I’ll show my papers to the officer in charge and no one else.”

  “My orders are...”

  “Your orders are to check identification cards against a list of people who may enter the building,” Pitt said coldly. “No one gave you permission to play hero and check papers.” Pitt motioned at the door. “Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

  The red-faced sergeant looked as though he could not decide whether to haul off and punch Pitt in the mouth. But he hesitated a moment, studied the icy expression on Pitt’s face, turned, opened the door behind him, and nodded for Pitt to follow.

  The interior of the Quonset hut was empty but for a couple of overturned chairs, a dusty file cabinet, and several faded newspapers scattered over the floor. The place smelled musty and cobwebs were dangling from the ceiling. Pitt was thoroughly puzzled until the sergeant stopped near the back of the deserted room and stomped twice on the wooded flooring. Hearing a muffled acknowledgment, he lifted a perfectly concealed trapdoor and motioned Pitt to descend down a dimly lit stairway. Then he stepped aside as the concealed door dropped behind him, barely missing Pitt’s descending head by a few inches.

  Shades of Edgar Allan Poe, Pitt thought At the bottom of the stairs he pushed aside a heavy curtain and stepped into a carnival of noisy activity. Before him was a large underground bunker stretching almost two hundred feet The overhead fluorescent lights revealed an operations room to end operations rooms. From paneled wall to paneled wall lay a thick beige carpet covered by desks, computers, and teletype machines that would have easily meshed into the plushest offices of Madison Avenue.

  A bevy of attractive girls in prim and proper naval uniforms unsmilingly manned most of the desks, some furiously typing away at their respective video displays, some moving with fluidlike grace around the row of computers that stood in the center of the room. Twenty male officers in Navy whites stood in isolated groups examining computer readout sheets or jotting down a series of complex notations on the green chalk boards which covered the walls. The whole scene looked like a high-class betting parlor. The only thing missing was the monotonous voice of a race announcer.

  Admiral Hunter caught sight of Pitt, straightened, smiled his sly fox-toothed smile, and strode forward with his hand outstretched.

  “Welcome aboard the new headquarters of the 101st, Mr. Pitt.”

  “Most impressive.”

  Hunter casually waved around the vast room. “Built during World War Two. Hasn’t been used since. I couldn’t bear to see it go to waste, so I moved in.”

  Hunter took Pitt’s arm and steered him over to a partitioned office in one corner of the bunker which they entered. The deeply set face, the authoritative expression, and the intense eyes made Hunter a perfect prototype for the gimlet-eyed task force commander who was about to attack an unseen enemy over the horizon. Which was precisely what he was.

  “You’re exactly two hours and thirty-eight minutes late,” Hunter said firmly.

  “Sorry, sir. The traffic got a bit sticky.”

  “So you told me over the phone. I wish to compliment you for your call. I’m grateful for the fact that you contacted me first. Good thinking.”

  “I’m only sorry I blew it by leaving the scene of the crash.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I doubt if we’d have learned much from the body except a possible identification. Most likely your friend in the truck was only a local hoodlum paid for the job of putting you in a cemetery.”

  “Still, there might have been something...”

  “Agents,” Hunter interrupted sarcastically, “seldom leave notes describing their operations pinned on the shirts of their hired help.”

  “By agents, you mean the Russians?”

  “Maybe. We have no proof as yet, but our intelligence people seem to think that the Russians have an organization nosing around the neighborhood trying to dig up the Starbuck’s final position so they can grab their hooks into her first.”

  “Admiral Sandecker mentioned such a possibility.”

  “A damn good man.” There was satisfaction in Hunter’s voice. “He showed me your personnel file this morning. I must admit in all honesty, I was caught unprepared by the contents. Distinguished Flying Cross with two clusters, Silver Star, plus several other commendations and a Purple Heart. Frankly, I had you down a
s a rip-off artist.”

  Hunter picked up a pack of cigarettes from his desk and offered them to Pitt

  The old bastard, Pitt thought, is actually making an attempt at courtesy. “You probably noted that there was no mention of a Good Conduct Medal.” Pitt passed on the cigarettes.

  Hunter regarded Pitt with searching eyes. “I noticed.” He took a cigarette and struck a light, then leaned over the desk and pushed a switch on his intercom. “Yager, round up Commanders Denver and Boland, and send them in here.” He broke off, turned, and jerked down a wall map of the North Pacific Ocean. “The Pacific Vortex, Major, ever hear of it?”

  “Not until this morning.”

  Hunter rapped his knuckles against a spot on the map north of Oahu. “Here, within a diameter of four hundred miles, almost forty ships have sailed into oblivion since 1956. Extensive search operations turned up nothing. Before then, the sinkings diminish to a normal loss factor of one or two every twenty years.” Hunter turned from the map and scratched his ear.

  “There’s been a lot of study on this one. We’ve run every available shred of information through the computers in hopes of coming up with a plausible solution. So far, we’ve only dredged up far-out theories. Cold hard facts are damn few and far between...”

  A soft knock on the door interrupted Hunter; he looked up as Denver and Boland walked into the room. They both stared blankly at Pitt for a moment, before recognition slowly stirred in their eyes.

  Denver was the first to react “Dirk, it’s good to have you on the team.”

  Pitt grinned. “This time, I dressed for the occasion.”

  Boland simply nodded in Pitt’s direction, mumbled a greeting, and sat down.

  Hunter pulled a linen handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed it to his mouth to remove a bit of tobacco from his tongue. After staring at the small brown particle for a moment, said “We haven’t had much time to get fully organized, Mr. Pitt, but we’ve pretty much got things running on an even keel Our computers are linked with every security agency in the country. I’m counting on you to coordinate our operation with your people in Washington. Well need answers and we’ll need them fast. If you require anything, request it from Commander Boland.”

  “There is one thing,” Pitt said.

  “Name it,” Hunter snapped back.

  “I’m only low man on the totem pole around here. Until this morning, I’d never heard of any of this. I’ll be of little service to you without some idea of what’s behind all this talk about a mysterious vacuum in the sea that gobbles up ships.”

  Hunter looked thoughtfully at Pitt. “My apologies.” He paused, then went on very quietly indeed. “I take it that you’re aware of the Bermuda Triangle.”

  Pitt nodded, muttering an affirmative.

  “The Triangle,” Hunter continued, “isn’t the only area in the world where unexplainable things happen. The Mediterranean Sea has its share. And though it has received less publicity, the Romondo region of the Pacific southeast of Japan has been claiming more ships over the last two centuries than most of the oceans combined. Which brings us to the last and most unusual area: the Pacific Vortex.”

  “Personally, I think it’s a lot of crap,” Pitt said sharply.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Boland replied. “There are a lot of respected scientists who feel there is something to it.”

  “So you’re a skeptic?” Hunter asked Pitt.

  “I’m strictly along for the ride. I believe only what I can see, smell, and touch.”

  Hunter looked and sounded resigned. “Gentlemen, it makes no damned difference what our opinions are. It’s the facts that count; and that’s what we’re going to pursue as long as I command the 101st Fleet Our job is to salvage. And right now, our primary job is to find and raise the Starbuck. We got entangled in this Pacific Vortex myth only because of the strange circumstances surrounding the message from Commander Dupree. If we can clear up the mystery of the Starbuck’s loss while solving the disappearance of other ships over the years, so much the better for the maritime freight and shipping industries. If the Russians or Chinese get their hands on her before we do, it’s going to piss off a lot of people in Washington.”

  “Particularly the Navy Department,” Boland added.

  Hunter nodded. “The Navy Department and every scientific research lab and engineering firm that worked for years planning and constructing the most advanced nuclear submarine afloat The people who poured their sweat and labor into the Starbuck won’t take it kindly if it turns up tied to a Soviet pier in Vladivostok.”

  “Are there any similarities between the Starbucks disappearance and the other ships and planes that have been lost?” Pitt asked.

  “I’ll answer your question, Major.” Boland’s tone was cutting. “To begin with, unlike the Bermuda Triangle, there are no instances of aircraft lost over the Pacific Vortex. And secondly, when there are no survivors, lifeboats, bodies, or floating debris, there is no way to make a connection. The only link between the submarine and the other missing vessels is that they all disappeared within a well-defined sector of the Pacific Ocean.”

  Denver leaned over and touched Pitt on the arm. “Except for the message capsule you discovered on the Kaena Point Beach, there is only one other piece of evidence seen by man.”

  Pitt said “Admiral Sandecker mentioned such an exception.”

  “The Lillie Marlene,” Hunter said quietly. “An incident that is even more extraordinary than the Mary Celeste.” Hunter opened a drawer and fumbled around for a moment. “There isn’t much to it, only a few pages.” He handed a file folder to Pitt and, in the same motion, hit the intercom and grunted into it “Yager, bring us some coffee.”

  Pitt settled into his chair, noted the title on the folder, and began reading:

  The Strange Disaster of the S.S. Littie Marlene. On the afternoon of July 10, 1968, the S.S. Little Marlene, a former British torpedo boat converted to a private yacht, left the port of Honolulu and set a course northwest of the island of Oahu for the express purpose of filming a lifeboat scene for a movie under the direction of Herbert Verhusson, internationally recognized film producer and registered owner of the ship. The sea was calm and the weather fair with a few scattered clouds; a wind blew from the northeast at approximately four knots.

  At 2050 hours on July 13, the Coast Guard station at Makapuu Point and the Naval Communications Center at Pearl Harbor, picked up a distress call from the ship, followed by a position. Air rescue at Hickam Field was alerted, and Naval and Coast Guard ships set out from Oahu. After the Mayday calls continued for twelve minutes, there was silence, broken by the final and mysterious words from the Lillie Marlene: “They come out of the mist. The captain, first mate dead. Crew fighting. No chance. Too many. Passengers first to go. No one, even women, spared.” Then came an incoherent sentence. “A ship sighted on the southern horizon. Oh God! If only it arrives in time. Mr. Verhusson dead. They’re coming for me now. No more time. They hear the radio. Do not blame the captain. He could not have known. They are pounding in the door now. Not much time. I do not understand. The ship is moving again. Help! For God’s sake, help us! Oh, sweet Jesus. They’re...” The final message ended here.

  The first ship on the scene was the Spanish freighter, the San Gabriel. It was only twelve miles away when it picked up the Lillie Marlene’s Mayday signal. It was, in fact, the ship the radio operator sighted before he fell silent. As the Spanish steamer pulled alongside, her crew noted that the yacht seemed to be in an undamaged condition and was underway at a slow speed, leaving a narrow wake behind her stern. Suddenly, and unexplicably, the Lillie Marlene stopped dead in the water, enabling the captain of the San Gabriel to send out a boarding party. They found a dead ship with a dead crew. The lifeless bodies of the passengers, the film technicians, the ship’s officers, and crew, were lying in scattered heaps about the decks and in the cabins below. In the radio room the corpse of the operator lay slumped over the transmitter, the red ON light still
blinking on the panel.

  The officer leading the boarding crew immediately radioed the captain of the San Gabriel. There was terror in his voice as he described what they had found. The victims’ bodies had turned green and their faces had been melted away, as if burned by a tremendous heat. A stench pervaded the ship, described as sulfurous in nature. The position of the bodies seemed to indicate that there had been a terrific struggle before they had died. Arms and legs were twisted in unnatural contortions, and the hideously burned faces all seemed to be facing north. Even a small dog, obviously one of the passenger’s, bore the same strange injuries.

  After a short conference in the wheelhouse, the boarding party signaled the captain of the San Gabriel for a towing rope. It was their intent to claim the Lillie Marlene as salvage and tow the yacht and her morbid cargo to Honolulu.

  Then suddenly, before the San Gabriel could come into position, a massive explosion ripped the Lillie Marlene from bow to stern. The force from the blast rocked the San Gabriel and hurled debris over a quarter of a mile.

  Horror-struck, the crew and captain of the San Gabriel stood by helplessly as the shattered remains of the Lillie Marlene settled and then plunged from sight, taking with it the entire boarding party.

  After studying the evidence and listening to eyewitnesses, the Coast Guard Board of Inquiry closed the case with the finding: “The death of the crew and passengers and the subsequent explosion and sinking of the yacht, the Lillie Marlene, can only be classified as caused by circumstances or persons unknown.”

  Pitt closed the folder and placed it on Hunter’s desk.

  “What we have there,” Hunter said somberly, “is the only known case of a distress call prior to the disaster, as well as eyewitness reports as to the condition of the personnel involved.”