Pitt couldn’t combat his feelings of isolation and oppression. For the second time in the last hour he found himself forcing back the black veil that circled his vision. He reached out with his hand and lightly touched the shimmering blue light. His fingers met with a soft, smooth substance.
“A curtain,” he mumbled to no one. “A lousy curtain.”
He parted the folds and stumbled into a fairyland of gleaming black statuary and blue velvet-covered walls. The huge room was decorated with delicately sculptured fish in ebony stone imbedded in a deep indigo carpet. The carpet was unlike anything Pitt had ever seen. It encased his feet to the ankles. He looked up and saw that the entire fantastic setting was reflected in a gigantic mirror which spanned the ceiling from wall to wall. In the center of the room, elevated by four carved leaping sailfish, was a clam shell-shaped bed adorned by the body of a naked girl lying on a sparkling satin spread, her white skin contrasting vividly with the blue and black motif of the chamber.
She lay on her back with one knee drawn up and one hand palmed around a small white breast as though caressing it. Her face was enticingly hidden by long, sleek hair that glinted in the light as it trailed across the pillow. The rise and fall of her breathing distinctly showed that her stomach was hard and firm.
Pitt leaned unsteadily over the bed and brushed the hair away from her face. His touch awakened her and she moaned softly. Her eyes slowly opened and locked on Pitt, gazing unseeing for a moment until her sleep-dulled brain registered the sight of the bloody specter standing over her bed. Then her lovely face snapped into shock and her large, inviting lips opened for a scream that was never uttered.
“Hello, Summer,” Pitt muttered with a crooked smile. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.”
Then the door in Pitt’s skull slammed shut and he pitched backward onto the waiting carpet.
Pitt lost count of the number of times he straggled up from the dark mist, only to slip off the top rung of consciousness and fall back into the black void. People, voices, and scenes barreled through his mind in a disjointed swirl of kaleidoscopic confusion. He tried to slow down the blur of images, but the crazy vision persisted; when he opened his eyes to erase the nightmare from his mind, he saw the nightmare itself: the bestial yellow eyes of Delphi.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” Delphi said drily. The tone was courteous, but the hatred was manifest in the icy lines of the face. “I regret your injuries, but you can hardly sue for damages, can you?”
“You neglected to post NO TRESPASSING signs.” Pitt’s voice came through his ears like the halting speech of a senile man.
“An oversight. But then no one invited you to blunder into our power turbine’s exhaust current.”
“Power turbine?”
“Yes.” Delphi seemed to relish Pitt’s questioning look. “There are over four miles of tunnels here in my sanctuary, and as you’ve noticed, it can be rather cold. Therefore, we require an extensive heating and electrical supply as only steam turbines can produce.”
“All the comforts of home,” Pitt mumbled, still trying to clear his head. “I take it they’re responsible for the surface fog.”
“Yes, the vented heat from their power plants coming in contact with the cooler water causes a mist-like condensation. Presto: instant fog bank!”
Pitt pushed himself upright to a sitting position. He tried to read the hands on his watch but the dial was a blur.
“How long have I been out?”
“You were discovered in my daughter’s sleeping quarters precisely forty minutes ago.” Delphi stared speculatively at Pitt’s bruised and scarred body, betraying no degree of emotion or concern.
“A nasty habit of mine,” Pitt said, smiling. “Always showing up in ladies’ bedrooms at inconvenient times.”
Delphi maintained his bland expression. The silver-haired giant sat on a white, sculptured stone couch lined with red satin cushions while Pitt noted wryly that he was delegated to the cold, marble-smooth floor.
He ignored Delphi for a moment and took in the surroundings. It looked like one of those futuristic displays at world expositions. The room was of comfortable proportions, about twenty-five square feet, with walls decorated with original oil paintings of seascapes grouped in neat but casual array. Incandescent lighting came from rounded brass fixtures beamed at a white ceiling.
Toward the far wall was a broad walnut desk with a red leather top, handsome matching desk furniture, and a modern and expensive intercom. But the unique innovation that set the room apart from anything that might even slightly resemble it, was the large transparent portal into the sea. It was an arch nearly ten feet wide, and eight feet high; through the thick, clear crystal Pitt could see a garden of spiral- and mushroom-shaped rocks that were outlined by underwater lights. An eight-foot moray eel slithered along the lower edge of the portal and cast a stony eye at the occupants of the room. Delphi did not notice the eel; the golden eyes beneath his half-closed lids were still aimed at Pitt.
Pitt’s gaze wandered back to Delphi.
“You don’t seem talkative this morning.” Delphi smiled. “Perhaps you’re concerned with the fate of your friend?”
“Friend? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man with the injured feet. You left him in an abandoned passageway.”
“Litter is everywhere these days.”
“It’s stupid of you to continue your display of ignorance. My men have discovered your aircraft”
“Another bad habit. I double-park.”
Delphi ignored the remark. “You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Okay, I’ll tell all,” Pitt said randomly. “I chartered a plane to fly to Las Vegas on the special casino tour and we got lost. That’s all there is to it, I swear.”
“Very witty,” Delphi said wearily. “Later you’ll be begging for mercy.”
“I’ve always wondered how I’d bear up under torture.”
“Not you, Pitt. I wouldn’t consider causing you the slightest discomfort. There are several more refined methods of getting at the truth.” Delphi rose from the couch and bent over the intercom. “Bring me the other.” He straightened and offered Pitt a rigidly fixed and lifeless smile. “Make yourself comfortable. I promise the wait will be short.”
Pitt rose awkwardly to his feet He should have been reeling from dizziness and exhaustion. Yet, unaccountably, the adrenaline began to pump and his mind ran sharp.
He stole a glance at his watch. It read 0410. Fifty minutes until the marines attacked the transmitter on Maui. Fifty minutes until the Monitor blew the seamount into gravel There was little chance of getting out alive now. The sacrifice would be worth it, he thought grimly, if only Crowhaven got the Starbuck underway. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the Starbuck cutting a course through the ocean back to Hawaii, but somehow the picture wouldn’t come.
Crowhaven could not remember when he had seen so much blood. The deck of the control room was coated with it, while several places along the electrical panels were splattered wildly in the manner of a Jackson Pollock abstract painting.
Things had gone smoothly at first Too smoothly. The entry into the aft storage compartment had gone off without opposition; they’d even had time to remove their diving gear and take a short breather. But when the advance party of SEAL’s crept into the Starbuck’s control room, hell broke loose.
For Crowhaven, the next four minutes were the most frightening of his life. Four minutes of ear-splitting thunder spouting from the automatic weapons in the hands of the SEAL’s, four minutes of groans and cries that amplified and echoed around the steel-walled interior of the sunken submarine.
Delphi’s men were firing their strange silent guns until cut down by no less than six to eight solid hits from the SEAL’s rapid fire weapons. He wondered how it was possible for anyone to stand up to such punishment unless they had gone mad. Three men were killed outright and the other four
had died since his message to Hunter. Nothing could have saved them. As for his side, one SEAL was dead; one of those bastards tying on the deck had struck him through the left temple, and three more were wounded seriously. Gritting their teeth against the pain, they were secure in the knowledge that he, Crowhaven the Wizard, was going to raise this big steel deathtrap and get them proper medical treatment faster than a speeding bullet.
But he was already fourteen minutes behind schedule. He was sorry he’d put his foot in his mouth by promising Admiral Hunter to have the Starbuck underway by 0400. It was the suction-six months of lying on the bottom of the ocean had built up a staggering suction around the hull. All the ballast vents had been blown; but it hadn’t been enough to break away from the clutching grip of the seafloor. He began to wonder bleakly if they were going to meet the same fate as the Starbuck’s original crew.
His second in command, a scowling chief petty officer, approached.
“There’s nothing left to dump, Commander. Main ballast tanks are empty, and all diesel fuel and freshwater tanks have been blown. She still won’t budge, sir.”
Crowhaven kicked the chart table like an unruly child.
“No, by God, she’s going to move if I have to tear the guts out of her.” He stared at the chief with a withering gaze. “Full astern!”
The chiefs eyes widened. “Sir?”
“I ordered full astern, dammit”
“Begging the commander’s pardon, that’ll beat the hell out of the screws, sir. They’re half stuck in the seabed now. And there’s a good chance we’d shear a shaft.”
“It beats the hell out of dying,” Crowhaven said curdy. “We’ll kick this mother out of here as though she were a mule in a swamp. No more arguments, Chief. Give me full astern for five seconds and then jam her full ahead for five seconds. Keep repeating the process until we bust her into scrap or she breaks free.”
The chief shrugged in defeat and hurried off to the engine room.
After the turbines were engaged, it took only half a minute before the first dire report came into the control room.
“Engine room, Commander,” the chiefs voice carried through the speaker. “She can’t take much more. We’ve already bent the screw blades, twisting them into the sand. They’re out of balance and vibrating like crazy.”
“Keep at it,” Crowhaven snapped over the microphone. He didn’t have to be told; he could feel the deck shuddering beneath his feet as the giant propellers pounded themselves against the bottom.
Crowhaven stepped over to a young red-haired, freckle-faced man standing in front of several deck to ceiling control panels, intently studying the massive banks of gauges and colored lights. His face was pale and he was mumbling softly to himself; Crow-haven guessed he was praying. He put his hand on the technician’s shoulder and said “Next time we come up on full astern, blow all the forward torpedo tubes.”
“Think that will help, sir?” The voice was imploring.
“It’s only a drop in the bucket pressure wise, but I’m willing to snatch at any straw.”
The chiefs voice came through from the engine room again. “The starboard shaft just went, Commander. Broke clean through aft of the seal Took two bearings with it.”
“Maintain procedure,” Crowhaven came back.
“But sir,” the chiefs voice was pleading, desperate. “What if the port shaft goes? Even if we break free to the surface, how do we make headway?”
“We row,” Crowhaven said curtly. “I repeat, maintain procedure!”
If both propeller shafts were going to shear, they were going to shear. But until the port shaft went with the starboard, he’d rip it to pieces while he still had a chance at saving the Starbuck and his crew. God, he wondered, how could so much go so wrong at the very last minute?
Lieutenant Robert M. Buckmaster, U.S.M.C., unleashed a short burst from his automatic rifle at a concrete bunker and wondered the same thing. The best-laid plans of mice and men, he thought. The operation should have been simple: take the transmitter, his orders said. A group of Navy men were still hidden in the tropical underbrush waiting for word of the capture so they could commandeer the equipment and send the coded messages that Buckmaster didn’t understand. Marine lieutenants were seldom privy to classified information, he mused. It’s okay to get killed, but it’s not okay to know why.
The old Army installation on the northwest tip of Maui had looked deserted and innocent enough, but the instant his squad began infiltrating the perimeter, they’d run into more detection and warning gear than surrounded the gold depository at Fort Knox. Electrified wire, light beams which activated ear-blasting sirens, and bright flood lamps drenching the entire installation in a blinding, naked glare. Nothing in his briefing had prepared him for this, he thought angrily. Sloppy planning; no detailed warning of the obstacles. Lieutenant or not, he was personally going to read the riot act to his commanding officers for causing this mess.
From windows, doorways, and rooftops that had seemed empty only moments earlier, the defenders opened up with a heavy burst of automatic weapons fire, halting Buckmaster’s commando force in their tracks. The marines answered back and their aim had been deadly; bodies were beginning to pile up around the bunkerlike openings. At the height of the battle, a burly, grizzled-looking sergeant ran through the shadows cast by the flood lamps, and threw himself down on the ground next to Buckmaster.
“I pulled one of their guns off a dead body,” he shouted above the din. “It’s a Russian ZZK Kaleshrev”
“Russian?” Buckmaster echoed incredulously.
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant held up the automatic weapon in front of Buckmaster’s eyes. “It’s the newest light arm in the Soviet arsenal. Beat’s the hell out of me how these guys got hold of them.”
“Save it for the Intelligence Section.” Buckmaster turned his attention back to the transmitter buildings as the noise of firing increased in the darkness.
“Corporal Danzig and his squad are pinned down behind a retaining wall.” The sergeant broke off to fire a series of short bursts to draw some of the defenders’ attention. “I’d give up retirement for a ninety-millimeter tank buster,” he yelled between bursts.
“This was supposed to be a surprise assault, remember? They told us we wouldn’t need any heavy armament.
Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion; a huge cloud of dust billowed up and chunks of concrete fell over the area like hail. The shock of the concussion made Buckmaster gasp; then he slowly rose to his feet and stared at the shambles of the transmitter buildings.
“Radio!” he shouted. “Dammit, where’s the radio man?”
A marine with a blackened face clad in black and green camouflage fatigues, raced from the shadows. “Here, Lieutenant”
Lieutenant Buckmaster took the offered receiver, dreading what he had to say.
“Big Daddy... Big Daddy. This is Mad Chopper. Over.”
“This is Big Daddy, Mad Chopper. Go ahead. Over.” The voice in the receiver sounded as though it were coming from the bottom of a well.
“The gang down the block blew the deal right in our faces. I repeat, blew the deal right in our faces. We won’t tune in the news tonight”
“Big Daddy understands, Mad Chopper. He sends his regrets. Over and out”
Buckmaster jammed the receiver back in its cradle. He was mad and he didn’t care if they knew it all the way back to the Pentagon. Something had gone terribly wrong here tonight. The whole atmosphere had an ominous stink about it He vaguely wondered, as his men began regrouping, whether he would ever know who had gotten the short end of the stick.
The door opened and two men dragged Giordino into the room, dropping him roughly onto the floor. Pitt caught his breath. Al was in pitiful shape; his mangled feet hadn’t been treated; there wasn’t the least sign of disinfectant or bandages on them. Blood from a gash above his left eye had hardened, gluing his eye half shut, leaving an appalling malevolent expression that burned with the fires of unadult
erated defiance.
“Well now, Major Pitt,” Delphi said reproachfully. “Nothing to say to your boyhood friend? No? Perhaps you have forgotten his name? Does Albert Giordino ring a bell?”
“You know his name?”
“Of course. Does that surprise you?”
“Not really,” Pitt said easily. “I imagine Orl Cinana supplied you with a complete rundown on Giordino and myself.”
For one long moment the towering hulk behind the desk didn’t get it. Then Pitt’s words began to sink in and Delphi lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.
“Captain Cinana?” His voice was rock-steady, but Pitt detected a very slight touch of doubt. “You’re fishing in the wrong current You have nothing to...”
“Cut the theatrics,” Pitt sharply interrupted. “Cinana may have collected his captain’s pay from the United States Navy, but he played ball on your team. A nice setup: an informer sitting on the top level of your opposition. You knew what the 101st Fleet’s operational plans were before they were set down on paper. How did you recruit Cinana, Delphi? Money? Or was it blackmail? Judging from your track record, I’d say blackmail.”
“You’re very observant”
“Not really. An easy scent to pick up. The good captain had outlived his usefulness as a stool pigeon. He couldn’t live with the role of traitor any longer. Cinana began cracking; he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Add his little illicit affair with Adrian Hunter, and poor Cinana had to be eliminated before he spilled your organization. But you bungled his murder, Delphi. You bungled it beyond comprehension.”
Delphi looked at Pitt in bleak suspicion. “You’re guessing.”
“No guesswork,” Pitt said. “It was a chance meeting between us in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel Bar that fouled your plan. Cinana was waiting for Adrian Hunter when I wandered in the door. He, of course, had no idea I was another one of Adrian’s playmates, but he couldn’t run the risk of an embarrassing introduction-a rendezvous with an admiral’s daughter twenty years his junior, in a dark corner of a bar, might conjure up any number of nasty visions-so he ducked out before she showed up. Then when Summer stepped on stage for the assassination, she mistook me for Cinana. And why not? I fit the description. Neither Cinana nor I had worn our uniforms that night, and to top it off, I was conveniently drinking with Miss Hunter. There was no doubt in Summer’s mind. She took care of Adrian and then lured me onto the beach where she tried to pump me full of poison. It was only after she found herself in my apartment, that it began to dawn on her that she’d made a terrible mistake. My first hint came when she addressed me as Captain. And later, you yourself supplied the clincher when you admitted to having an informant. Two and two went together: the answer was Cinana. All in all, very elementary.”