There were four men in the room. Two he knew, two he did not. Admiral Hunter came forward to shake Pitt’s hand. He looked older, far older, far more weary than when Pitt had last seen him, only four days previously.
“Thank God you’re safe,” Hunter said warmly, surprising Pitt with a tone of intense sincerity. “How’s your leg?”
“Okay,” Pitt said briefly. He looked into the old man’s eyes. “I’m sorry about Captain Cinana... and Adrian. It was my fault. If only I’d been more alert.”
“Nonsense!” he said with a tight grin. “You got two of those bastards. It must have been quite a fight.”
Before Pitt could answer, Denver came up and thumped him on the back. “Good to see you. You look as rotten as ever.”
“Dog tired, maybe. Thirty minutes sleep out of twenty-four hours beats the hell out of my girlish complexion.”
“Sorry about that,” said Hunter. “But we’re running out of time. Unless we can raise the Starbuck damned quick, we can write her off for good.” The harsh edge of strain showed unmistakably in the lines around Hunter’s eyes. Tor what little time that is available, we have you to thank. Flooding the forward torpedo compartment was an act of genius.”
Pitt grinned. “The Martha Ann’s helmsman was dead sure we’d both wind up paying for damages out of our wages.”
Hunter allowed the bare hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “Come and sit down; but first let me introduce you to Dr. Elmer Chrysler, Chief of Research for Tripler Hospital.”
Pitt shook hands with a short little man who had a bony handgrip like a pair of pliers. The head was completely shaven and the ears held a giant pair of horned-rimmed glasses. The brown eyes in back of the lenses were beady, but the smile was large and genuine.
“And Dr. Raymond York, Head of the Marine Geology Department for the Eton School of Oceanography.” York didn’t look like a geologist; he looked more like a burly truck driver or longshoreman. He was big, just touching six feet, and wide in the shoulders. He flashed a set of perfectly spaced teeth.
As they were introduced, Pitt’s hand was crushed by five of the largest and meatiest fingers he’d ever seen.
Hunter motioned Pitt to a chair and then said “We’re anxious to have your account of the Martha Ann’s loss and the fight in your hotel room.”
Pitt relaxed and tried to force his tired mind into categorizing the events in their proper perspective. He knew they were all watching him closely, listening to every detail he could dredge up from memory.
Denver nodded. “Take your time and forgive us if we butt in every now and then with a question.”
Pitt began softly. “I suppose it all started when we discovered the rise on the seafloor, a rise not charted on our underwater topographical maps.”
Then Pitt told them everything. The two scientists took notes while Denver watched over a tape recorder. Occasionally one of the men seated around the conference table would interrupt and ask a question which Pitt would answer as best he could. His only omission concerned Summer; he lied, saying he had palmed a knife before Delphi’s men had bound him.
Hunter pulled the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes and wadded it in an ashtray. “What about this Delphi character? So far, Major Pitt’s verbal contact with this fellow is the only communication we’ve had with anyone connected, if indeed he is, to the Vortex.”
Dr. Chrysler leaned across the table. “Could you describe this man in detail?”
“Approximately six feet eight inches in height,” Pitt replied. “Well proportioned for his size; I’m not versed at guessing weight for someone that tall. Rugged, lined face, graying hair, and, of course, his most striking feature, yellow eyes.”
Chrysler’s brow furrowed. “Yellow?”
“Yes, almost gold.”
“That’s not possible,” Chrysler said. “An albino might have pink eyes with a slight orange tint to them. And certain types of diseases might alter the color to a pale sort of grayish-yellow. But a bright gold? Not likely. The iris of the eye simply does not contain the right pigments for such a hue.”
Dr. York took a pipe from his pocket and idly twisted it in his hand. “Most strange that you should describe a giant of a man with yellow eyes. There really was such a person.”
“The Oracle of Psychic Unity,” Chrysler said softly. “Of course, Dr. Frederick Moran.”
“I don’t recall the name,” said Hunter. “Frederick Moran was one of the century’s great classical anthropologists. He advocated the theory that the human mind would be the crucial factor in man’s eventual extinction.”
York nodded. “A brilliant but egocentric man. Disappeared at sea nearly thirty years ago.”
“The Delphi Oracle,” Pitt said to no one in particular.
Denver caught the connection immediately. “Of course. Delphi comes from the oracle of ancient Greece.”
“It’s not possible,” Chrysler said. “The man’s dead.”
“Is he?” Pitt questioned. “Maybe he found his Kanoli.”
“Sounds like a Hawaiian Shangri-la,” said Hunter. “Perhaps it is,” Pitt said. He related briefly his conversation with George Papaaloa at the Bishop Museum.
“I still find it hard to believe that a man of Dr. Moran’s stature,” said York, “could simply drop from sight for three decades and suddenly reappear as a murderer and kidnapper.”
“Did this Delphi say anything else that might tie him to Dr. Moran?” Chrysler asked.
Pitt smiled. “He implied that my intelligence fell far short of Lavella and Roblemann, whoever they might be.”
Chrysler and York stared at each other.
“Most strange,” York repeated. “Lavella was a physicist who specialized in hydrology.”
“And Roblemann was a renown surgeon.” Chrysler’s eyes suddenly widened and locked on Pitt. “Before Roblemann died, he was experimenting on a mechanical gill system so that humans would be able to absorb oxygen from water.”
Chrysler paused and walked over to a water cooler in one corner of the room. He filled a paper cup, creating deep, gurgling sounds from inside the glass bottle, and then returned to the table, downing the cup’s contents before continuing.
“As we all probably know, the primary function of any respiratory system is to obtain oxygen needs for the body and to cast off carbon dioxide. In animals and humans, the lungs hang loosely in the chest and must be inflated and deflated by means of the diaphragm and air pressure. Once the air is in the lungs, it is absorbed into the lining and then into the bloodstream. On the other hand, fish obtain their oxygen and expel the carbon dioxide through soft vascula tissues containing many tiny filaments. The device Roblemann supposedly created was a combination gill-lung that was surgically attached to the chest with connecting lines for the transportation of oxygen.”
“It sounds incredible,” said Hunter.
“Incredible, yes,” said Pitt. “But it explains why none of the men who boarded the Martha Ann carried diving gear.”
“Such a mechanism,” Chrysler added, “would hardly allow a human to remain underwater much more than half an hour.”
Denver shook his head in wonderment. “Maybe half an hour doesn’t seem like much, but it still beats the hell out of lugging the bulky equipment in use today.”
“Do you gentlemen know what became of Lavella and Roblemann?” asked Hunter.
Chrysler shrugged.
“They died years ago.”
Hunter picked up a phone. “Data Section? This is Admiral Hunter. I want details on the deaths of two scientists named Lavella and Roblemann. Pipe it through the minute it’s in your hands. Well, that’s a start. Dr. York, what do you make of the marine geology in the Vortex area?”
York opened a briefcase and laid several charts in front of him on the table. “After questioning the survivors from the Martha Ann’s instrument detection room, Commander Boland at the hospital, and listening to Pitt’s remarks, I’m forced to only one conclusion. The Vortex is n
othing more than a previously undiscovered seamount.”
“How is it possible that it was never found before now?” Denver queried.
“It’s not at all unusual,” said York, “when you consider that mountain peaks on land were being discovered right up until the late 1940s, and we have yet to map in any detail, ninety-eight percent of the ocean’s floors.”
“Aren’t most seamounts the remains of underwater volcanos?” Pitt probed.
York filled his pipe bowl from a tobacco pouch. “A seamount may be defined as an isolated elevation that rises from the seafloor, circular in dimension, with fairly steep slopes and a comparatively small summit area. But in answer to your question, most seamounts are of volcanic origin. However, until a scientific investigation proves otherwise, I might suggest a different approach.” He paused to tamp and light his pipe. “If we suppose the myth of Kanoli is true, and the island and its people did indeed sink beneath the sea during a cataclysmic disaster, then I might consider the theory that it was uplifted in the beginning and sank in the end by faulting rather than by vulcanism.”
“In other words, an earthquake,” said Denver.
“More or less,” York returned. “A fault is a fracture in the earth’s crust. As you can see by the charts, this particular seamount sits on the Fullerton Fracture Zone. It’s quite possible that heavy activity could build a rise of several hundred feet, pushing it above the sea’s surface during the span of a thousand years and then suddenly drop it back in a matter of days.” He was facing the window, his eyes turned inward, envisioning the step-by-step process of destruction. “Mr. Pitt’s report on the seabed rise and the cooler water temperature around the mount, also tends to support our fault theory. Cold, deep-bottom water often up-wells thousands of feet to the surface from extensive fractures along the seafloor, and this in turn explains the absence of coral; coral will not thrive in water temperatures of less than seventy degrees.”
Hunter stared thoughtfully a moment at the charts before speaking, “Since the people who boarded the Martha Ann had to come from somewhere, could they have come from the seamount itself?”
“I don’t understand,” York replied.
“Nothing showed on the Martha Ann’s radar. That eliminates another ship in the area. Except for the sunken wrecks, no other vessel was detected on sonar which eliminates a submarine. That leaves two choices. They either came from a man-made underwater living chamber, or from within the seamount itself.”
“I’d have to strike out the underwater chamber,” Pitt said. “We were attacked by a force of nearly two hundred men. It would take an immense facility to house that number underwater.” “Then we’re left with the seamount,” said Hunter. Chrysler rested his chin on his hands and looked across the table at Pitt. “I believe you said, Major, that you smelled eucalyptus when the fog surrounded the ship.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“Odd, most odd,” Chrysler murmured. He turned to Hunter. “As astounding as it might sound, Admiral, your suggestion of the seamount isn’t too farfetched at that.”
“How so?”
“Eucalyptus oil has been used for a number of years in Australia for purifying the air in mines. It is also known to lower the humidity within a closed area.
The phone buzzed; Hunter picked it up, saying nothing, only listening. When he replaced the receiver in the cradle, he wore a satisfied expression. “Drs. Lavella and Roblemann were lost at sea on board a research vessel named the Explorer. It was under charter to a Pisces Metals Company for an expedition to study deep-sea geology for a positive mining operation. The Explorer was last seen steaming north of Hawaii about.,.”
“Thirty years ago,” Denver finished. He looked up from a sheaf of papers in his hands. “The Explorer was the first ship to disappear in the Vortex.”
“A dime to a doughnut, Frederick Moran went down on the same ship,” said Pitt.
“Most likely the leader of the expedition,” Chrysler said flatly.
“The puzzle is taking shape,” York muttered. “Yes, by God, it figures.” He leaned back in his chair and looked up as if contemplating the ceiling. “Many of the islands where Pacific natives lived were honeycombed with caverns. They were used primarily for religious reasons. Burial caves, temples, idol rooms, and such. Now if the Vortex seamount was a volcano and disappeared in a shattering explosion, obviously nothing of the native civilization would be left. But if the island dropped beneath the surface due to a movement of the Fullerton Fracture, the likelihood is excellent that many of the caves survived.”
“What’s your point?” Hunter asked impatiently.
“Dr. Lavella’s field was hydrology. And hydrology, gentlemen, is the science dealing with the behavior of water in circulation on the land, in the air, and underground. In short, Dr. Lavella would have been one of the few people in the Western World who could have designed a system for pumping dry a network of caverns under the sea.”
Hunter’s tired eyes gazed at York steadily, but the doctor made no further comment. Hunter rapped his knuckles against the table and rose to his feet.
“Dr. York, Dr. Chrysler, you’ve been a great help. The Navy is in your debt... Now, if you’ll please excuse us...”
The two civilians shook hands, bid their good-byes, and left. Pitt rose and walked slowly over to the big map on the other end of the long room.
Denver slouched in his chair. “Now, at least, we know who we’re up against.”
“I wonder,” Pitt said quietly, staring at the red circle in the middle of the map. “I wonder if we’ll truly ever know.”
It was four hours later when Pitt released his hold on a comforting sleep and drifted awake. He waited a moment and then focused his eyes on two upright brown bars directly in front of his face. His foggy mind cleared in an instant as he recognized a pair of shapely, tanned feminine legs. He stretched out his hand and ran the back of a finger up one of the nylon-clad calves.
“Stop that!” the girl yelped. She was cute, and her face had a soft surprised expression. The figure was lush and was tightly enclosed in the chic uniform of a naval officer.
“Sorry, I must have been dreaming,” Pitt said, smiling.
Her face flushed with embarrassment as she unconsciously smoothed her skirt and demurely stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought you were already up and I brought some coffee.” Her eyes smiled nicely. “I can see now that you don’t need it.”
Pitt followed her snappy swivel action as she walked from the room. Then he sat up on the leather couch, stretching his arms as he glanced around the admiral’s paneled study.
It was obvious that Hunter was busy. The desk and floor were littered with charts and papers, and a huge ornate ashtray was filled to the hilt with cigarette butts. Pitt groped in his pockets for his cigarettes but couldn’t find them. He resigned himself to their loss and reached for the coffee. It was hot, but the acid taste restored his dulled senses to near normal. At that moment Hunter walked briskly into the room.
“My apologies for not allowing you more shut-eye, but we’ve made a couple of breakthroughs.”
“I take it you’ve found Delphi’s transmitter.”
Hunter’s eyebrows raised a notch. “You’re pretty perceptive for a man who just woke from a sound sleep.”
Pitt shrugged. “A logical guess.”
It took a recon plane all of two hours to spot it,” Hunter said. “A three-hundred-foot antenna mast doesn’t exactly lend itself to concealment.”
“Where is it located?”
“On a remote corner of the island of Maui, situated in an old abandoned Army installation built during World War Two for coast defense artillery. We checked through old records. The property was sold off years ago to an outfit called...”
“The Pisces Metal Company,” Pitt interrupted.
Hunter scowled good-naturedly. “Another logical guess?”
Pitt nodded.
Hunter gave him a wolfish grin. “
Did you know the Martha Ann will be docking in Honolulu about this time tomorrow?”
Pitt was properly surprised. “How is that possible?”
“Minutes after you airlifted the crew off the flight pad,” Hunter answered, “we programmed the computers to bring the ship back to Hawaii.”
“Smash a few instruments; cut a few wires,” said Pitt. “Surely Delphi’s men could have stopped the engines or knocked the steering equipment out of control.”
“You might think so,” Hunter replied. “But the Martha Ann’s override command system was designed with that very probability in mind. We work under the constant threat of capture and impoundment by a foreign government at odds, shall we say, with the 101st Fleet’s rather clandestine salvage operations. The engine room and navigational controls are automatically sealed off by electronic command with steel doors which would take at least ten hours to cut through. By that time, the ship is safely back in international waters and ready to raise wrecks another day.”
Is she running without crew?”
“No, we airlifted a crew at first light,” Hunter said. “Damned good thing too. The helicopter arrived just in time to see the Martha Ann run down a fishing boat. They managed to pull the skipper out of the drink only minutes before the sharks would have gotten him. It was a damn near thing.”
“Now that the Martha Ann is on her way home, what about the Starbuck?”
“We write her off,” Hunter answered tonelessly. “Orders from the Pentagon. The Joint Chiefs have firmed their decision; better to mangle the Starbuck as soon as possible so her missiles can’t be launched and then raise her later.”
“How do you intend to ‘mangle’ her?”
“At 0500 hours tomorrow morning the frigate Monitor will launch a Hyperion Missile on the position where you found the Starbuck. The concussion from the warhead’s detonation, combined with the water pressure, will collapse and inundate any air pockets inside the seamount, as well as destroy the submarine.”
“An overkill,” Pitt muttered.
“I agree. I presented my case for going back with a crack team of Navy Seals and recapturing the sub, but was voted down. Better safe than sorry, so sayeth the big brass on the Potomac. They’re afraid that if Delphi has computed the launching sequence, he could conceivably level thirty cities anywhere around the world.”