Vixen 03

by Clive Cussler

  Folsom shrugged. "So much for fantasy. Now then, getting back to the Chenago . . ."

  Pitt's eyes intently followed the diagrams Folsom began drawing on a blackboard. The diving program, the air tanks, the ships on the surface, and the sunken ironclad all took shape in conjunction with Folsom's running commentary on the planned lift operation.

  To all appearances, Pitt seemed keenly interested, but nothing he saw was relayed to his memory cells; his mind was two thousand miles away, deep in a Colorado lake.

  Just as Folsom was describing the proposed towing procedure once the wreck reached sunlight for the first time in 125 years, a Visalia crewman poked his head through the hatchway and gestured toward Pitt.

  "There's a shore-to-ship call for you, sir."

  Pitt nodded, reached behind him, and picked up a phone sitting on a bulkhead shelf.

  41

  "This is Pitt."

  "You're harder to track down than the abominable snowman," said a voice through the background static.

  "Who is this?"

  "Talk about shabby treatment," said the voice sarcastically, "I slave over a messy desk until three in the morning doing you a favor and you don't even remember my name."

  "I'm sorry, Paul," Pitt said, laughing, "but your voice sounds about two octaves higher over the radiophone."

  Paul Buckner, a longtime pal of Pitt's and an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, lowered his pitch to his belt buckle.

  "There, is that any better?"

  "Much. Got any answers for me?"

  "Everything you asked for, and then some."

  "I'm listening."

  "Well, to start with, the rank of the man you think authorized the flight orders for Vixen 03 obviously was not correct."

  "But 'General' was the only title that fit."

  "Ain't necessarily so. The title was a seven-letter word. All that was readable was the fifth character, which was an^?. Quite naturally, it was assumed that since Vixen 03 was an Air Force plane piloted by an Air Force crew, its flight orders could only be authorized by an Air Force officer."

  "So tell me something I don't know."

  "Okay, wiseass, I admit it threw me, too, particularly the part where a search through Air Force personnel files failed to find any name that matched up with the known characters of our mystery officer's name. Then it occurred to me: 'admiral' is also a seven letter word, and its fifth character is also an R."

  Pitt felt as though the reigning heavyweight champion had suddenly rammed a right hand into his lower gut. "Admiral"-the word ricocheted through his mind. Nobody had thought to consider that an Air Force plane might have been carrying naval hardware.

  Then a sobering thought brought Pitt back to earth.

  "A name?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer. "Were you able to come up with a name?"

  "All very elementary for a prying mind like mine. The first name was easy. Six letters with three known, two blanks with LT

  followed by another blank and then an R. That gave me 'Walter.' Now comes the piece de resistance: the surname. Four letters beginning with B and ending with 5. And, since 'Bullshit' didn't fit and I already had the guy's rank and first name, a computer search through Bureau files and Navy records quickly made a match: 'Admiral Walter Horatio Bass.' "

  Pitt probed further. "If Bass was an admiral back in 1954, he must be either past eighty years old or dead-most likely dead."

  "Pessimism will get you nowhere," said Buckner. "Bass was a whiz kid. I read his file. It's most impressive.. He got his first star when he was still thirty-eight years old. For a while it looked like he was headed for Naval Chief of Staff. But then he must have pulled a no-no or mouthed off to a superior, because he was suddenly transferred and placed in command of a minor boondocks fleet base in the Indian Ocean, which is like being exiled to the Gobi Desert to an ambitious naval officer. He then retired in October of 1959. He'll be seventy-seven next December."

  "Are you telling me Bass is still around?" asked Pitt.

  "He's listed on the Navy's retirement rolls."

  "How about an address?"

  "Bass owns and operates a country inn just south of Lexington, Virginia, called Anchorage House. You know the kind-no pets or kids allowed. Fifteen rooms complete with antique plumbing and four-poster beds, all slept in by George Washington."

  "Paul, I owe you one."

  "Care to let me in on it?"

  "Too early."

  "You sure it's not some hanky-panky the Bureau should know about?"

  "It's not in your jurisdiction."

  "That figures."

  "Thanks again."

  "Okay, buddy. Write when you find work."

  Pitt hung up the receiver and took a slow breath and grinned. Another veil of the enigma had been pulled aside. He decided not to contact Abe Steiger, not just yet. He looked up at Folsom.

  "Can you cover for me over the weekend?"

  Folsom grinned back. "Far be it from me to insinuate the boss isn't essential to the operation, but what the hell, I think we can muddle through the next forty-eight hours without your exalted presence. What you got cooking?"

  "A thirty-four-year-old mystery," said Pitt. "I'm going to dig out the answers while relaxing in the peace and quiet of a quaint country inn."

  Folsom peered at him for several seconds, and then, seeing nothing behind Pitt's green eyes, gave up and turned back to the blackboard.

  31

  On the morning flight into Richmond, Pitt looked like any one of a dozen other passengers who seemed to be dozing. His eyes were closed, but his mind was churning over the enigma of the plane in the lake. It was unlike the Air Force to sweep an accident under the rug, he thought. Under normal circumstances, a full-scale investigation would have been launched to determine why the crew had strayed so far off the charted course. Logical answers eluded him, and he opened his eyes when the Eastern Airlines jet touched down and began taxiing up to the terminal.

  Pitt rented a car and drove through the Virginia countryside. The lovely, rolling landscape imparted mingled aromas of pine and fall rains. Just past noon he turned off Interstate Eighty-one and drove into Lexington. Not pausing to enjoy the quaint architecture of the town, he angled south on a narrow state highway. He soon came to a sign picturesquely out of place with the rural surroundings, designed with a ». nautical anchor welcoming guests and pointing up a gravel road toward the inn.

  42

  There was no one behind the desk and Pitt was reluctant to break the silence in the neat and meticulously dusted lobby. He was about to say the hell with it and hit the bell when a tall woman, almost as tall as he in her riding boots, entered carrying a high-backed chair. She looked to be in her early thirties and wore jeans and a matching denim blouse with a red bandana tied over her ash-blond hair. Her skin displayed almost no evidence of a summer tan but had the smoothness of a fashion model's. Something about her unruffled expression at abruptly noticing a stranger suggested to him a woman who was high bred, the kind who is taught to act reserved under any circumstances short of fire and earthquake.

  "I'm sorry," she said, setting the chair down beside a beautifully proportioned candle stand. "I didn't hear you drive up."

  "That's an interesting chair," he said. "Shaker, isn't it?"

  She looked at him approvingly. "Yes, made by Elder Henry Blinn, of Canterbury."

  "You have many valuable pieces here."

  "Admiral Bass, the owner, "gets the credit for what you see." She moved behind the desk. "He's quite an authority on antique collecting, you know."

  "I wasn't aware of that."

  "Do you wish a room?"

  "Yes, for tonight only."

  "A pity you can't stay longer. A local stock theater opens in our barn the evening after next."

  "I've a knack for poor timing," Pitt said, smiling.

  Her return smile was thin and formal. She spun the register around for him and he signed it.

  "Room fourteen. Up the stairs a
nd three doors to your left, Mr. Pitt."

  She had read his name upside down as he signed it. "I'm Heidi Milligan. If you need anything, just push the buzzer by your door.

  I'll get the message sooner or later. I hope you won't mind carrying your own luggage up."

  "I'll manage. Is the admiral handy? I'd like to talk to him about . . . about antiques."

  She pointed through a double screen door at the end of the lobby. "You'll find him down by the duck pond, clearing away lily pads."

  Pitt nodded and headed in the direction Heidi Milligan had indicated. The door opened onto a footpath that meandered down a gently sloping hill. Admiral Bass had wisely chosen not to landscape Anchorage House. The surrounding grounds had been left to nature and were covered with pines and late-blooming wildflowers. For a moment Pitt forgot his mission and soaked up the scenic quiet that hemmed in the trail to the pond.

  He found an elderly man, in hip boots and brandishing a pitchfork, aggressively attacking a circular growth of water lilies about eight feet from shore. The admiral was a big man and he threw the tangled root stocks onto the bank with the ease of someone thirty years younger. He wore no hat under the Virginia sun and the sweat rolled free from his bald head and trickled off the ends of his nose and chin.

  "Admiral Walter Bass?" Pitt said, hailing him.

  The pitchfork stopped in mid-throw. "Yes, I'm Walter Bass."

  "Sir, my name is Dirk Pitt, and I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

  "Sure, go right ahead," said Bass, finishing the toss. "Pardon me if I keep after these damned weeds, but I want to clear out as much as I can before dinner. If I didn't do this at least twice a week before winter, they'd choke off the whole pond come spring."

  Pitt stepped back as a flying wad of tuberous stems and heart-shaped leaves splattered at his feet. To him, at least, it was an awkward situation, and he wasn't sure how to handle it. The admiral's back was to him, and Pitt hesitated. He took a deep breath and plunged. "I'd like to ask you several questions concerning an aircraft with the code designation Vixen 03."

  Bass kept at his labor without a pause, but the whitened knuckles around the handle of the pitchfork did not go unnoticed by Pitt.

  "Vixen 03," he said, and shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell. Should it?"

  "It was a Military Air Transport Service plane that vanished back in 1954."

  "That was a long time ago." Bass stared vacantly at the water. "No, I can't recall any connection with a MATS aircraft," he said finally. "Not surprising, though. I was a surface officer throughout my thirty years in the Navy. Heavy ordnance was my specialty."

  "Do you recall ever meeting a major in the Air Force by the name of Vylander?"

  "Vylander?" Bass shook his head. "Can't say as I have." Then he looked at Pitt speculatively. "What was your name again? Why are you asking me these questions?"

  "My name is Dirk Pitt," he said again. "I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I found some old papers that stated you were the officer who authorized Vixen 03's flight orders."

  "There must be a mistake."

  "Perhaps," said Pitt. "Maybe the mystery will be cleared up when the wreck of the aircraft is raised and thoroughly inspected."

  "I thought you said it vanished."

  "I discovered the wreckage," Pitt answered.

  Pitt studied Bass closely for any discernible reaction. There was none. He decided to leave the admiral alone to collect his thoughts.

  "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Admiral. I must have gotten my signals mixed."

  Pitt turned and began walking up the path back to the inn. He'd covered nearly fifty feet when Bass yelled after him.

  "Mr. Pitt!"

  Pitt turned. "Yes?"

  "Are you staying at the inn?"

  "Until tomorrow morning. Then I must be on my way."

  The admiral nodded. When Pitt reached the pines bordering Anchorage House, he took another look toward the pond. Admiral Bass was calmly forking the lily pads onto the bank, as if their brief conversation had simply been about crops and the weather.

  32

  Pitt enjoyed a leisurely dinner with the other guests at the inn. The dining room had been designed in the style of an eighteenth-43

  century country tavern, with old flintlock rifles, pewter drinking cups, and weathered farm implements hanging on the walls and rafters.

  The food was about as homemade as any Pitt had ever tasted. He ate two helpings each of the fried chicken, brandied carrots, baked corn, and sweet potatoes, and barely had room for the three-inch-thick wedge of apple pie.

  Heidi moved about the tables, serving coffee and making small talk with the guests. Pitt noted that most were of social-security age. Younger couples, he mused, probably found the peaceful serenity of a country inn boring. He finished an Irish coffee and stepped out onto the porch. A full moon rose in the east and turned the pines to silver. He eased into a vacant bentwood rocker and propped his feet on the porch railing and waited for Admiral Bass to make the next move.

  The moon had arched overhead nearly twenty degrees when Heidi came out and wandered slowly in his direction. She stood in back of him for a moment and then said, "There is no moon so bright as a Virginia moon."

  "You won't get an argument from me," said Pitt.

  "Did you enjoy your dinner?"

  "I'm afraid my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I gorged myself. My compliments to your chef. His down-home cooking style is poetry to the palate."

  Heidi's smile went from friendly to beautiful in the glow of the moon. "She'll be happy to hear it."

  Pitt made a helpless gesture. "A lifetime of chauvinistic tendencies is hard to suppress."

  She settled her tightly packed bottom on the railing and faced him, her expression suddenly turning serious. "Tell me, Mr. Pitt, why did you come to Anchorage House?"

  Pitt stopped rocking and stared squarely into her eyes. "Is this a survey to check the effectiveness of your advertising or are you just plain inquisitive?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but Walter seemed very upset when he returned from the pond this evening. I thought that maybe-"

  "You think it was because of something I said," Pitt said, finishing for her.

  "I don't know."

  "Are you related to the admiral?"

  It was the magic question, for she began talking about herself. She was a lieutenant commander in the Navy; she was assigned to the Norfolk Navy Yard; she had enlisted out of Wellesley College and had eleven years to go to retirement; her ex-husband had been a colonel in the Marines and had ordered her about like a recruit; she'd had a hysterec-tomy, so no children; no, she was not related to the admiral; she had met him when he was a guest lecturer at a Naval College seminar, and she came down to Anchorage House whenever she could sneak off from her duties; she made no bones about the fact that she and Bass had a May-December affair going. Just when it was getting interesting, she stopped and peered at her watch.

  "I'd better run along and see to the other guests." She smiled, and again that transformation. "If you get tired of just sitting, I suggest you take a stroll to the top of the rise beside the inn. You'll find a lovely view of the lights of Lexington."

  Her tone, it seemed to Pitt, was more one of command than of suggestion.

  Heidi had been only half right. The view from the rise was not only lovely: it was breathtaking. The moon illuminated the entire valley and the streetlights of the town twinkled like a distant galaxy. Pitt had been standing there only a minute when he became aware of a presence behind him.

  "Admiral Bass?" he inquired casually.

  "Please raise your hands and do not turn around," Bass ordered brusquely.

  Pitt did as he was told.

  Bass did not make a full body search but instead slipped out Pitt's wallet and beamed a flashlight on its contents. After a few moments he clicked off the light and returned the wallet to Pitt's pocket.

  "You may lower your hands, Mr. Pitt, and turn aroun
d if you wish."

  "Any reason for the melodramatics?" Pitt tilted his head at the revolver poised in Bass's left hand.

  "It seems you've exhumed an excessive amount of information about a subject that belongs buried. I had to be certain of your identity."

  "Then you're satisfied that I'm who I say I am?"

  "Yes, I called your boss at NUMA. Jim Sandecker served under my command in the Pacific during World War Two. He gave me an impressive list of your credentials. He also wanted to know what you were doing in Virginia when you were supposed to be on a salvage tender off the coast of Georgia."

  "I've not made Admiral Sandecker privy to my findings."

  "Which, as you claimed earlier, at the pond, were the remains of Vixen 03."

  "She exists, Admiral. I've touched her."

  Bass's eyes flashed with hostility. "You're not only bluffing, Mr. Pitt, but you're also lying. I demand to know why."

  "My case is not built on lies," said Pitt evenly. "I have two other reputable witnesses and videotaped pictures as proof."

  A look of incomprehension shadowed Bass's face. "Impossible! She disappeared over the ocean. We spent months searching for her and didn't find a trace."

  "You looked in the wrong place, Admiral. Vixen 03 lies under a mountain lake in Colorado."

  Bass's tough facade seemed to dissolve, and in the moonlight Pitt suddenly saw him as a tired, worn old man. The admiral lowered the pistol and swayed drunkenly toward a bench at the edge of the overlook. Pitt reached out a hand to steady him.

  Bass nodded thanks and sank onto the bench. "I suppose it had to happen someday. I wasn't fool enough to think the secret could last forever." He looked up and clutched Pitt's arm. "The cargo. What of the cargo?"

  "The canisters have broken their moorings, but otherwise they seemed reasonably intact."

  "Thank God for that, at least," sighed Bass. "Colorado, you say. The Rocky Mountains. So Major Vylander and his crew never made it out of the state."

  "The flight originated in Colorado?" asked Pitt.