“Then I suggest you start by securing the door to the engine room.”
“There is another way to add a few extra hours,” the helmsman said slowly.
“Which is?”
“Shut down the reactors.”
“No,” Pitt said firmly. “When we’re ready, we won’t be in a position to afford the luxury of reactor start-up time.”
The helmsman looked at Pitt without expression. “God help us if you screw up.” He turried to the other seaman. “Disconnect the pumps and throw open the inner torpedo tube doors. I’ll handle the vents and the exterior tube doors from the outside.” He faced Pitt. “Okay, Pitt, the evil deed is about to be done. But if you’re wrong, we’ll be the oldest men in Uncle Sam’s Navy before we’re through paying for this.”
Pitt grinned. “With a little luck, you may even get a medal.”
The helmsman offered a sour expression. “I doubt that, sir. I doubt that very much.”
Boland knew how to pick his men. The two salvage men went about their business as calmly and efficiently as if they were mechanics in the pits at the Indianapolis Speedway on Memorial Day. Everything went off smoothly. The helmsman went out through the escape hatch to open the outer torpedo tube doors and jam the exhaust vents, and it seemed to Pitt that he had barely wrapped his leg with a torn piece of blanket from an empty bunk when the helmsman was giving the prearranged all-finished tapping signal on the hatch. Then Pitt hauled Farris up into the escape tube while the other seaman began opening the valves to let the sea into the lower compartment. When the incoming water had reached equal pressure with only an air bubble two feet from the ceiling, he dove down and unclamped the torpedo tube doors. He was amusingly surprised to see a blue parrot fish swim nonchalantly out of the tube and into the compartment.
Pitt had to force Farris to don the air tank and regulator, and he slipped the face mask over the uncomprehending eyes.
“I’ll see that he makes it, sir.” The seaman had squeezed next to Farris and held him in a vicelike grip around the waist.
Pitt, grateful to be rid of the responsibility, merely nodded a thanks and donned his own diving gear, substituting a fresh air tank for the one he’d drained on the descent. Then the seaman tapped on the hatch with the butt end of a knife and let the helmsman have the honor of cracking the cover from the outside.
In theory, they could have all ridden to the surface in the air bubble as it escaped from the submarine, but theory doesn’t always allow for the unexpected, like Pitt’s air valve getting hung up on the lip of the escape hatch and being left behind. For a minute he was poised there, watching helplessly as the others shot to the surface, never once noticing that Pitt had missed their bubblelike elevator.
Pushing his weight downward until the valve came free was relatively easy, but when he swam out into the open sea, another unexpected threat came his way: a Sphyrna Levini, eighteen feet of hammerhead shark. For a moment Pitt thought the great gray two-thousand-pound bulk, one of the few species of sharks known to attack humans, was going to ignore him and pass overhead. But then in an unerased moment in time, he watched the broad, flattened head turn and approach, its mouth a mass of razor-sharp teeth curved into a vicious expression.
Pitt’s Barf was lying useless, back on the submarine; his only weapon, and a pitifully inadequate one at that, was the small, glove-shaped gun that had killed March. As the shark was homing in on the blood clouded around his leg, Pitt stared spellbound at the shark as it swam effortlessly toward him, curving slightly in a circle staring at him from one great eye on the end of the hammer.
It cut its arc even smaller, narrowing the gap until it brushed by him only a few inches away; Pitt lashed out with his left hand and rammed his fist against the monster’s gills. What a useless, almost comical gesture, he thought, but the unexpected contact surprised the shark, and Pitt felt the pressure of water as the shark spun and swam away. But then it made a U-turn and came back. Pitt kept facing it, kept kicking his fins frantically. He stole a look at the surface, no more than thirty feet away, but he wasn’t going to make it; the man-eater was on its second pass and Pitt was down to his last ace.
Pitt held out the gun and carefully aimed; the shark had but to open its mouth and Pitt’s hand would be clenched between its teeth. As the creature moved in, Pitt squeezed the button trigger and shot it squarely in the cold, tranquil left eye.
The shark rolled by and thrashed wildly, the rush of water whirling Pitt in a mad backward somersault as though he were being caught by a breaking surf. With all his strength he recovered and broke for the surface, keeping a wary eye on the shark, glancing skyward so he wouldn’t ram his head into the keel of the Martha Ann. A shadow fell across him; he peered up to see the helmsman twenty feet above, motioning Pitt in his direction. Pitt didn’t need an engraved invitation. He made the distance in ten seconds. Then he turned and waited for the next attack. The great board-headed murder machine had halted and staring menacingly out of its good right eye, its powerful fins barely propelling the massive body through the water. Suddenly it spun about and unpredictably swam off at incredible speed, disappearing in the dark blue of the water.
Exhausted and shaken, Pitt gratefully let himself be pulled up onto the diving platform where helping hands removed his diving gear. He was totally exhausted. Then he looked up and found Boland standing, grimly staring down at him.
“Where’s March?” Boland’s tone was edged with ice.
“Dead,” Pitt replied simply.
“These things happen,” he said, and walked away.
Pitt stared at the drink in his hand. His face was devoid of expression but his eyes were tired and red. The brilliant tropical sunset threw its final rays of the day through a porthole and sparkled off the ice floating in the Scotch. Pitt rolled the glass over his forehead, mingling the condensation with his perspiration. He had finished giving Boland the whole story. And now, when he should have relaxed, he somehow sensed that the terrible events of the past hour were only the beginning of something even more sinister.
“You’re not to blame yourself for March’s murder,” Boland said earnestly. ‘If you had become trapped in the escape chamber, and if he’d drowned, then it would have been on your hands. But God only knows there was no way you could have foreseen a pair of killers roaming the Starbuck!”
“Come off it, Paul,” Pitt said wearily. “I forced that boy to enter the sub. If I hadn’t been so eager to prove a point he’d be alive now.”
“Okay. A life has been lost, but the staggering importance of what you found more than offsets a single life. If it cost me every man in this crew to return the Starbuck safely to the security of Pearl Harbor, I wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice them all, and that includes you and me.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Paul,” said Pitt.
Boland smiled. “I’m a nice guy because of your influence with admirals. Beyond that, I think you’re a pretty shrewd operator. I believe your insane act of flooding the forward torpedo compartment has a Machiavellian scheme behind it. Got an explanation?”
“Simple,” Pitt said briefly. “I sabotaged the Starbuck to keep her on the bottom for a few days.”
“Go on,” Boland said. There was no smile now.
“To begin with, there were two armed men down there, and Seaman Farris, who was starved and mistreated. The Starbuck was his prison. He couldn’t escape because there was no place to go. Even the guards came on in shifts. From where, I can’t guess, but they didn’t live on the sub.”
“How can you say for sure?”
“The epicurean in me. I checked the galleys in the crew’s mess and the officer’s wardroom. There wasn’t a hint of groceries. The guards had to eat. Even Farris couldn’t last six months without food. Either there’s a McDonald’s in the neighborhood we don’t know about, or those guys go home for lunch. I strongly suspect the latter. Whoever they are and wherever they come from, they’re lurking around down there right now, waiting fo
r an opportune moment to grab the Martha Ann. If we disappear like the rest, the Navy Department can kiss off the Starbuck for good. That’s why I flooded the torpedo compartment. If our mystery pals get wise to the Martha Ann’s real intent, it stands to reason they’d move the Starbuck the hell out of the area before the Navy steamed over the horizon.”
“We could airlift a crew here inside of three hours.”
“Too late. We’ve been on borrowed time ever since we anchored. Whatever happened to those other ships will probably happen to us.”
Boland looked skeptical. “The whole idea sounds pretty fantastic. According to radar, there isn’t another vessel within five hundred miles, and sonar reports the area clear of any submarines. Where in God’s name can they come from?”
“If I knew the answer to that one,” Pitt said irritably, “I’d demand a raise in pay . . . and get it.”
“Unless you can come up with a tighter case than that,” Boland responded, “we’ll remain anchored here till morning. Then at dawn we’ll begin raising the Starbuck.”
“Wishful thinking,” Pitt said. “By dawn the Martha Ann will be lying beside the Starbuck.”
“You forget,” Boland persisted quietly, “I can radio Pearl Harbor and have air support overhead before dark.”
“Can you?” Pitt asked.
Boland thought he had an unnecessarily positive look in his penetrating green eyes, but with Pitt it was hard to be sure. Pitt’s expression showed exactly what Dirk Pitt wanted it to show and no more.
“Has Admiral Hunter acknowledged your calls?”
“We’ve only sent on maritime frequency, the same as you from the submarine.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Hunter hasn’t sent a communication concerning the discovery of the Starbuck? You said it yourself. My call from the submarine was heard by every transmitter within a thousand miles. How come none broke in to say ‘screw you,’ or ‘how’s the weather?’ Why haven’t Hunter or Gunn requested details? Chances are you’ll find nothing got through, even that phony bit about the burned propeller shaft bearing.”
Pitt struck home this time. Boland raised an eyebrow and then calmly touched one of several intercom switches and said “This is Commander Boland. Open communication to Pearl on Code Overland Six. Let me know as soon as they acknowledge.”
“Code Overland Six, yes sir,” replied the rough voice from the speaker.
“What makes you think we didn’t get through?” Boland asked.
“Except for the Lillie Marlene, no one else ever got off a message. Not even the Starbuck. It stands to reason that our unknown friends aren’t about to let the world know what we’ve found.”
“If you’re correct, then they must be jamming our transmissions.”
“You bet your life they’re jamming,” Pitt said seriously. “That explains why no signals ever came from the missing ships. They sent them out all right, but nothing was received at the maritime stations on Oahu. It also explains the fake position report from Dupree before the Starbuck supposedly vanished. Our unknown friends have a high-power radio transmitter stashed somewhere. Probably on one of the Hawaiian Islands. They’d need a land base to support an antenna tall enough to overpower signals from ships at sea.”
“Commander Boland?” a voice rasped from the speaker.
“Boland here. Let’s have it.”
“Nothing, just nothing, sir. They acknowledge all right, but not on Code Overland Six. I’ve repeated the call four times. All they do is send back a request for a message. Can’t figure it, Commander. The calls on the maritime channel came in letter perfect. Somebody is trying to get cute.”
Boland flicked off the intercom. Nobody said anything. It didn’t seem important that we were in contact, Pitt thought. All that mattered was that we were in contact with the wrong party.
“Not good,” said Boland, his expression grim.
“That answers one question. But what really happened to the Starbuck’s crew six months ago? And, if she’s sitting down there all prim and proper, why hasn’t she been put in operation?”
“We can scratch the Russians or any other foreign power,” said Boland. “No way they could have kept this a secret this long.”
“Crazy as it sounds,” said Pitt, “I don’t think the capture ot the Starbuck was a conspiracy, or a preconceived act.”
“You’re right. It sounds crazy,” Boland said evenly. “It’s not exactly the easiest trick in the world to unintentionally put the grab on a nuclear submarine in mid-ocean.”
“Somebody mastered it,” Pitt retorted. “March and I found nothing to indicate the slightest damage inside or out of the hull.”
“It won’t wash. An army couldn’t have gained entrance inside the sub. The array of sophisticated detection gear must have given off a warning. The Starbuck has automatic alarms that will wake up the dead when activated by open ventilators or hatches. Nothing but fish could have come within spitting distance.”
“Still, even modern submarines aren’t prepared to repel boarders.”
Before Boland could reply, he was interrupted by the intercom speaker. “Skipper?”
“Go ahead.”
“Could you please come to the bridge, sir. There’s something you ought to see up here.”
“Give me a clue.”
“Well... sir... it’s land of crazy...” “Come man,” Boland snapped, “spit it outl” The voice from the bridge hesitated. “Fog, Commander, Fog is coming up out of the water and covering the surface like an old Frankenstein flick. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s unreal.”
“I’ll be right there.” Boland stared grimly at Pitt.
What do you make of it?”
“I’d say,” Pitt murmured softly, “we’ve had it”
The fog was a thick white quilt rising over the water swirling in coils from the light breeze, opaque and oppressive in its clammy wetness. The men on the bridge strained their eyes, peering vainly into the billowing mist; they feared something beyond that can’t be seen or touched or understood. Already a shroud of moisture was crawling over the ship, and the visible light became an eerie mixture of orange and gray from the light refraction of the setting sun.
Boland rubbed the sweating beads from his forehead, took a reassuring glance through the wheelhouse windows, and said “It looks common enough; density is somewhat high.”
“There’s nothing common about that fog except the color,” Pitt said. Visibility barely took in the bows of the Martha Ann. “The high temperature, time of day, and a three-knot breeze hardly make for normal fog conditions.” He leaned past Boland and studied the radar, watching closely for nearly a minute, checking his wristwatch every so often while making a series of mental calculations. “It shows no signs of movement or dissipation; the wind hasn’t budged its mass. I doubt whether old Mother Nature could come up with a freak like this.”
They went out on the port bridge wing, two shaded silhouettes against the peculiar light of the mist. The ship rolled a scant degree or two under the gentle Pacific swells. It was as though time had ceased to exist. Pitt sniffed the air. He couldn’t place it at first, but then he became conscious of what he was trying to connect; a distant memory.
“Eucalyptus!”
“What did you say?” Boland asked.
“Eucalyptus,” Pitt said. “Don’t you smell it?”
Boland’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “I smell something but I don’t recognize it,”
“Where are you from and where did you grow up?” Pitt asked.
Boland looked at him, mesmerized by Pitt’s urgency. “Minnesota. Why?”
“God, I haven’t smelled this in years,” Pitt said. “Eucalyptus trees are common around Southern California. They have a distinct aroma and yield an oil used for inhalation purposes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree, but there’s no denying the fact that this fog reeks of eucalyptus.”
Boland flexed his fingers, spe
aking to Pitt without facing him. “What do you suggest?”
In simple English, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”
“My thoughts, exactly.” He stepped back into the wheelhouse and leaned over the intercom, “Engine room? How soon can we be underway?”
“Say when, Commander,” the voice down in the bowels of the ship echoed metallically.
“Now!” Boland said. He turned to a young officer on watch. “Up anchor, Lieutenant.”
“Up anchor,” the boyish watch officer affirmed.
“Detection room? This is Commander Boland. Any readings?”
“Stanley here, sir. All quiet. Nothing except a school of fish about a hundred yards off the starboard beam.”
“Ask him how many and how large,” Pitt said, his face set
Boland nodded silently and issued the request to the detection room.
“By rough count, over two hundred of them swimming at three fathoms.”
“Size, man. Size!” Boland snapped.
“Somewhere between five and seven feet in length.”
Pitt’s eyes shifted from the speaker to Boland. “Those aren’t fish. They’re men.”
It took a moment for Pitt’s words to hit. “Men?” Boland said flatly, as if trying to memorize it. “How can they attack from the surface? The Martha Ann has twenty feet of freeboard.”
“They’ll do it; you can be sure of that.”
“The hell they will,” Boland said harshly. He pounded his fist on the binnacle, snatched a microphone and Pitt could hear his voice echoing throughout the ship. “Lieutenant Riley; issue sidearms to the entire crew. We may have uninvited visitors.”
“It’ll take more than a few sidearms to turn back a horde that size,” Pitt said. “If they make it over the railings, there will be little fifteen men can do against two hundred.”
“Well stop them,” Boland said resolutely.
“You better be prepared to ditch the ship if the worst happens.”
“No,” Boland said calmly. “This decrepit-looking old gutbucket may not look like much, but she still belongs to the United States Navy. I’m not going to give her up without making somebody pay. Tell Admiral Hunter what happened here. Tell him...”