Vixen 03 dp-5

by Clive Cussler

  An undercurrent of murmurs swept the room.

  "It is true," Lusana said, leveling his gaze at Loren, "I represent no established government. I do, however, represent the free soul of every black on the African continent."

  "Eloquently put," said Loren. "But rules are rules."

  "You cannot turn a deaf ear to the pleas of millions of my people over a technicality." Lusana sat immobile, his voice almost too soft for those in the back of the room to hear. "A man's most prized possession is his nationality. Without it he is nothing. In Africa we are in a fight to claim a nationality that rightfully belongs to us. I am here to beg for black dignity. I do not ask for money to buy arms. I do not ask for your soldiers to fight alongside ours. I plead only for the necessary funds to buy food and medical supplies for the thousands who have suffered in their war against inhumanity. "

  It was a masterful performance, but Loren was not suckered by it.

  "You are a clever man, General. If I argue your appea, I'd be condoning your presence at this hearing. My objection still stands."

  Daggat made an imperceptible nod to one of his aides in the background and turned to Earl Hunt. "Congresswoman Smith's protest is duly noted. How say you, Congressman Hunt?"

  While Daggat was polling Hunt and Roscoe Meyers for their opinions, his aide moved behind Loren and handed her a large white envelope.

  "What is this?"

  "I was told to tell you it is most urgent that you open the envelope now, ma'am." Then he hastily turned away and left the chamber through a side door.

  Loren undid the unsealed flap of the envelope and eased out one of several eight-by-ten photographs. It had captured her naked body entwined with Pitt's in one of a wild series of orgiastic positions. Quickly, she shoved the photo back in the envelope, her face gone white, reflecting fear and disgust.

  Daggat turned to her. "Congresswoman Smith, we seem to have a hung committee. Congressman Hunt and I agree that General Lusana should be heard. Congressman Meyers stands with you. As chairman of this hearing, may I prevail upon you in the interest of fair play to permit the general to speak his piece."

  Loren felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. Daggat was leering at her. It was all there in his expression: he was no stranger to the contents of the envelope. She struggled to contain the sickness that was rising in her throat, suddenly realizing that Felicia Collins had sold her out to Lusana's cause. Silently she cursed her stupidity in allowing herself to be set up as naively as a teenage runaway with a big-city pimp.

  "Congresswoman Smith?" Daggat said, prompting her.

  There was no out. Daggat controlled her now. She lowered her eyes and trembled.

  "Mr. Chairman," she said in total defeat, "I withdraw my objection."

  Barbara Gore, at forty-three, still cut the figure of a Vogue fashion model. She remained trim and had shapely legs, and her high-cheekboned features had yet to flesh with age. She had once had an affair with Dale Jarvis, but that had long since passed through the sexual phase, and now she was simply a good friend as well as his personal secretary.

  She sat across from his desk, those beautiful legs crossed at an angle comfortable only to women and showy to the male eye. Jarvis, however, took no notice of them. He sat engrossed in dictation. After a while he abruptly broke off and began probing through a mountainous batch of highly classified reports.

  "Perhaps if you tell me what it is you're looking for," Barbara said patiently, "I can help you."

  "A status check on all existing battleships. I was promised delivery for today."

  She sighed and reached into the pile and extracted a stapled sheaf of blue papers. "Been on your desk since eight this morning." There were times when Barbara was moved to exasperation over Jarvis's sloppy work habits, but she had long ago learned to accept his idiosyncrasies and flow with the tide.

  "What does it say?"

  "What do you want it to say?" she asked. "You haven't bothered to tell me what you're after."

  "I want to buy a battleship., of course. Who has one for sale?"

  Barbara shot him a dour expression and studied the blue papers. "I'm afraid you're out of luck. The Soviet Union has one left, which is used to train naval cadets. France has long since scrapped hers. Same with Great Britain, even though she still keeps one on the rolls for the sake of tradition."

  "The United States?"

  "Five of them have been preserved as memorials."

  "What are their present locations?"

  "They're enshrined in the states they were named after: North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, and Massachusetts."

  "You said five."

  "The Missouri is maintained by the Navy in Bremerton, Washington. Oh, I almost forgot: the Arizona is still sentimentally kept on naval rolls as a commissioned ship."

  Jarvis put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "I seem to recall the battlewagons Wisconsin and Iowa were tied up at the Philadelphia Navy Yard a few years back."

  "Good memory," said Barbar a. "According to the report, the Wisconsin went to the ship-breakers in 1984."

  "And the Iowa?"

  "Sold for scrap."

  Jarvis rose and walked to the window. He looked out, hands in pockets, for several moments. Then he said, "The Wild Rose folder."

  As if reading his thoughts, Barbara pointed to its cover. "I have it."

  "Send it over to John Gossard in the Africa Section and tell him the operation made damn fine reading."

  "Is that all?"

  Jarvis turned. "Yes," he said pensively. "All things considered, that's all there was to it."

  At the same moment, a small doubleender whaleboat dropped anchor a hundred yards off Walnut Point, Virginia, and swung slowly around until its bow split the incoming tide. Patrick Fawkes unfolded a worn old deck chair and erected it on the narrow stern deck, barely fitting the ends between the bulwarks. Next he propped a fishing pole against the helm and threw its hookless line over the side.

  He had just opened a picnic basket and was lifting out a large wedge of Cheshire cheese and a bottle of Cutty Sark when a tub towing three heavily laden trash scows acknowledged him with a passing signal blast from its whistle. Fawkes waved back and braced his feet as the wash from the plodding vessels rocked his little whaleboat. Fawkes noted the time of the tug's passing in a notebook.

  The battered deck chair creaked in protest as he lowered his huge body onto its cushioned slats. Then he ate a cut of the Cheshire and took a swig from the bottle.

  Every commercial ship or pleasure boat that passed by the seemingly drowsing fisherman was sketched into the notebook. The time of their appearance, heading, and speed were also recorded. One sighting interested Fawkes more than most. He kept a pair of binoculars trained on a Navy missile destroyer until it disappeared beyond the land point, carefully observing the empty missile mounts and the relaxed attitude of the deck crew.

  Toward late evening a light shower began to splatter against the scarred and paintcracked deck. Fawkes loved the rain. During storms at sea he'd often stood and faced their furies on his ship's bridge wing, later upbraiding his junior officers who preferred hot tea and the creature comforts of the control room. Even now, Fawkes ignored the shelter of a small cabin and elected to remain on deck, donning a slicker to protect his skin and clothes from the damp.

  He felt good; the rain cleansed the air in his lungs, the thick richness of the cheese filled his belly, and the scotch made his veins fairly glow. He allowed his mind to roam free, and soon it began flashing images of his lost family. The smells of his farm in Natal came to his nostrils and the sound of Myrna's voice calling him to dinner sounded clear and distinct to his ears.

  Four hours later he jerked his thoughts back to reality as the tug, its tow of scows now empty, came into view on a return heading. Quickly he stood and jotted down the number and position of the navigation lights. Then Fawkes weighed anchor, started the engine, and eased into the wake of the last scow in line as it slipped by.


  41

  The snow was falling heavily at Table Lake, Colorado, when the NUMA salvage divers, immune to the frigid water in their thermal suits, finished cutting away the wings and tail of Vixen 03. Then they manhandled two huge cradle slings under the mutilated fuselage.

  Admiral Bass and Abe Steiger arrived, followed by an Air Force-blue truck carrying several shivering airmen of the Remains Identity and Recovery Team along with five coffins.

  At ten A.M. everyone was assembled and Pitt waved his arms at the crane operators. Slowly the cables hanging from the floating derricks to beneath the wind-rippled surface of the lake tightened and quivered as the power-unit operators increased the tension. The derricks listed a few degrees with the strain and creaked at their bolted joints. Then, abruptly, as though a great weight had fallen from their unseen clutches, they straightened.

  "She's broken free of the mud," Pitt announced.

  In confirmation, Giordino, standing at his side, wearing radio earphones, nodded. "Divers report she is on her way up."

  "Tell whoever is operating the cradle sling around the nose section to keep it low. We don't want the canisters spilling out of the hole in the tail."

  Giordino relayed Pitt's orders through a tiny microphone attached to his headphones.

  The freezing mountain air was heavy with tension; every man stood motionless, numb with anticipation, his eyes locked on the water between the derricks. The only sounds came from the exhaust of the lift engines. They were a hard-bitten salvage crew, and yet no matter how many wrecks they had reclaimed from the sea, the same old tentacles of excitement during a lift operation never failed to wring their emotions dry.

  Admiral Bass found himself reliving that snowy night so many years ago. To him it seemed all but impossible to associate the image of Major Raymond Vylander in his memory with the fleshless bones he knew to be inside the wreck's cockpit. He moved closer to the water's edge until it lapped at his shoes, and he began to experience a burning sensation in his mid-chest and left shoulder.

  Then the water under the cables swirled from blue to muddy brown, and the curved roof of Vixen 03 arched into the daylight for the first time in thirty-four years. The onceshiny aluminum skin had corroded to a whitish gray and was streaked by slimy bottom weed. As the cranes lifted her higher into the air, the silt-laden water cascaded from the open wound at the rear of the fuselage.

  The blue and yellow insignia that ran across the top of the fuselage appeared surprisingly sharp, and the words MILITARY AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE were still quite legible. Vixen 03 no longer resembled an airplane. It was easier to picture her as a huge dead whale whose fins and tail had been clipped. The severed and twisted control cables, electrical wiring, and hydraulic lines dangling from the gaping wounds could be imagined as entrails.

  Abe Steiger was the first to break the hushed quiet.

  "Odds are that's the cause of her crash," he said, pointing at the gash in the cargo cabin just aft of the cockpit. "She must have thrown a prop blade."

  Bass stared at the ominous evidence, making no comment. The pain in his chest became more intense. With great force of will he put it from his mind while unconsciously massaging the ache on the inside of his left arm. He tried to peer through the plane's windshield glass, but the years of accumulated silt blocked out all view. The cranes had lifted the fuselage ten feet above the lake's surface when a thought struck him and he turned and gazed at Pitt questioningly.

  'I see no provisions for a makeshift barge. How do you expect to carry the wreckage to shore?"

  Pitt grinned. "This is where we send for a sky hook, Admiral." He gestured at Giordino. "Okay, signal Dumbo."

  Within two minutes, like some great pterodactyl flushed from its Mesozoic nest, an ungainly structured helicopter soared over the treetops, its two big rotors pounding the thin mountain air with peculiarsounding thumps.

  The pilot hovered the giant helicopter above the moored cranes. Two hooks gradually unreeled from the gaping belly and were rapidly attached to the hoist cradles by the derrick crews. Then the pilot took up the strain of the full weight and the connectors from the crane cables slackened and were released. The Dumbo clawed at the air, its turbines struggling under the massive load.

  Very tenderly, as if maneuvering a cargo of fragile crystal, the pilot eased Vixen 03 toward shore.

  Pitt and the others turned their backs as a cloud of spray, kicked up by the rotor blades, swirled in from the lake. Giordino, ignoring the gusting wetness, moved to where the pilot could plainly see him, motioning with his hands while directing the lowering operation over the earphone transmitter.

  Five minutes was all it took for the Dumbo to release its load and disappear again over the trees. Then they all stood there staring, no one making a move for the wreckage. Steiger murmured a command to his Air Force detail and they smartly marched to the truck and began unloading the coffins, setting them on the ground in an orderly row. One of Pitt's men produced a ladder and propped it against the exposed rear of the upper cargo deck. Pitt remained silent and indicated with his hand that Admiral Bass be the first to enter the aircraft.

  Once inside, Bass made his way around the canisters to the control-cabin doorway. He stood immobile for several seconds, looking pale and very ill.

  "Are you all right, sir?" Pitt asked, coming up behind him.

  The voice that answered was remote and far away. "I can't seem to bring myself to look at them."

  "It would serve no purpose," said Pitt gently.

  Bass leaned heavily against the bulkhead, the agony in his chest growing. "A minute to get my bearings. Then I'll take stock of the warheads."

  Steiger approached Pitt, gingerly stepping around the canisters as though he were afraid to touch them. "Whenever you give the word I'll bring my men on board to recover the remains of the crew."

  "Might as well begin with our unexplained guest." Pitt tilted his head at a jumble of loose canisters. "You'll find him strapped to the floor about ten feet to your right."

  Steiger searched in the area Pitt instructed and shrugged, his facial expression blank. "I don't find anything."

  "You're practically standing on top of him," Pitt said.

  "What gives, for Christ's sake?" Steiger demanded. "I'm telling you there's nothing here."

  "You must be blind." Pitt pushed Steiger aside and looked down. The straps were still attached to the cargo tie-down rings but the body in the old khaki uniform had vanished. Pitt stared dumbly at the space on the floor while his mind stumbled to grasp the reality of the missing remains. He knelt and picked up the rotting straps. They had been cut.

  Steiger's eyes reflected doubt. "That water was like ice the day you dived. Perhaps your mind saw something…" His voice trailed off but the implication was clear.

  Pitt rose to his feet. "He was here," he said, expecting no further argument and receiving none.

  "Could he have washed out the aft opening during the lift operation?" Steiger offered lamely.

  "Not possible. The divers who swam beside the wreck to the surface would have reported any debris falling free."

  Steiger started to say something, but suddenly his eyes turned uncomprehending at a strangled gasping sound that emitted from the forward end of the compartment. "What in God's name is that?"

  Pitt wasted no time in answering. He knew.

  He found Admiral Bass lying on the wet floor, fighting for breath, his skin bathed in cold sweat. The unbearable severity of the pain contorted his face into a tormented mask.

  "His heart!" Pitt called out to Steiger. "Find Giordino and tell him to get that helicopter back here."

  Pitt began tearing the clothing away from the admiral's neck and chest. Bass reached up and grasped Pitt's wrist. "The… the warheads," he rasped.

  "Rest easy. We'll soon have you on your way to a hospital."

  "The warheads…" Bass repeated.

  "All safe in their canisters," Pitt reassured him.

  "No… no… you don't und
erstand." His voice was a hoarse whisper now. "The canisters… I counted them… twenty-eight."

  Bass's words were becoming barely audible, and Pitt had to place his ear at the tremoring lips.

  Giordino rushed up carrying several blankets. "Steiger gave me the word." he said tensely. "How is he?"

  "Still hanging in there," Pitt said. He released the vise-like grip from his wrist and gently squeezed Bass's hand. "I'll see to it, Admiral. That's a promise."

  Bass blinked his dull eyes and nodded in understanding.

  Pitt and Giordino had covered him and cushioned his head with the blankets when Steiger reappeared, followed by two airmen carrying a stretcher. Only then did Pitt rise to his feet and step aside. The helicopter had already returned and landed when they carried the still-conscious Bass from Vixen 03.

  Steiger took Pitt's arm. "What was he trying to tell you?"

  "His inventory of the warhead canisters," Pitt answered. "He counted twenty-eight."

  "I pray the old guy makes it," Steiger said. "At least he had the satisfaction of knowing the monstrosities were retrieved. Now all that's left is to dump them in the ocean. End of horror story."

  "No, I'm afraid it's only the beginning."

  "You're talking in riddles."

  "According to Admiral Bass, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twentyeight warheads filled with the Quick Death agent."

  Steiger sensed an icy dread in Pitt's tone. "But his inventory… the count came to twenty-eight."

  "He should have tallied thirty-six," Pitt said ominously. "Eight warheads are missing."

  42

  Washington, D.C.

  December 1988

  The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective glass, rose thirty stories above an East Washington hill.

  On the top floor Admiral James Sandecker sat behind an immense desk made from a refinished hatch cover salvaged from a Confederate blockade runner in Albemarle Sound. His private line buzzed.

  "Sandecker."