«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.»
«An extremely complicated procedure. He'd have to reprogram their guidance controls to strike targets outside of Russia.»
«Doesn't matter where he might send the warheads. The Joint Chiefs are afraid he's learned how to do it.» «I disagree. If Delphi has been sitting on the thirty nuclear missiles for six months without letting anyone know about them or if he was threatening to use them, it's obvious that he hasn't figured out the launch systems.»
«You're probably right, but it won't change anything. I have my orders and I intend to obey them.» Pitt gave Hunter a long stare. «Are your superiors aware of Adrian's abduction?»
Hunter shook his head slowly. «Ill not confuse the issue with a personal problem.»
If she and Delphi are still on the island and can be tracked down before tomorrow morning…»
«I know your train of thought. Capture Delphi and the crisis is over. A good script, but it won't play. Unfortunately they're both at the seamount» «You can't know that for certain.» «My people sifted through all the licensed private aircraft in the islands. They discovered a jet seaplane registered to our old friend, the Pisces Metal Company. A team of security men surrounded the dock
where it was kept, but they were too late. Witnesses said that two hours before a giant man and a dark- haired woman climbed on board and took off. We then picked it up on satellite recon and tracked it to the Starbuck's position.»
«Then we must assume Adrian is with him at the seamount.»
Hunter nodded without answering.
Pitt pulled up a chair opposite Hunter's desk. «Erasing the Starbuck and the seascape around her is a grave mistake. We don't know anything about Delphi and his setup. He may have other bases scattered around the globe. Is he a front for a foreign government? What if the crew of the submarine are still alive out there? There are too many unanswered questions at stake to let the whole thing be blown away. Give me one bona fide reason why we should sit around like zombies while a bunch of conference table intellectuals seven thousand miles away dictate our actions from a few scraps out of a data processor. I say we ought to…»
«That will do!» Hunter's voice was authoritative. 1 do what I'm told, and so will you.»
«No, I won't!» Pitt's tone was quiet. «I refuse to stand idle while a terrible mistake is being committed.»
A subordinate had never refused to obey Hunter in his thirty years in the Navy. He was at a loss as how to react. «1 can have you locked up till you cool off,» was his only retort.
«You can damn well try,» Pitt said coldly. «I'm right and you have no sound argument. If we eliminate Moran or Delphi, or whatever he calls himself, and another ship disappears, we'll always wonder. And if more vanish over the next few years, we'll have to
start from scratch. There'd be nothing to go on but a nagging doubt that we failed.»
Hunter gazed at Pitt. Twenty years ago it would have been Hunter on the other side of the table, staking his life on a conviction, ready to gamble away a service career on something he believed in. Giving up a ship, in this case, the Starbuck, ran counter to the traditions he had served since his first day at the Naval Academy. Yet, he had never disobeyed an order in his life, and there were times he wished he had. There might be a chance, an almost hopeless, impossible chance. Something that Admiral Sandecker had said about Pitt came back to him. «With this man, almost anything is possible.»
He made his decision. «Okay,» he said, «you bought yourself a show. There'll be hell to pay in Washington; but well worry about that later. Whatever plan you've got, it had better be good.»
Pitt relaxed. «Simply put; we put a trained submarine crew inside the Starbuck and order a squad of marines to shut down Delphi's transmitter before 0500 hours tomorrow.»
«Easier said than attempted,» muttered Hunter. «We've less than fifteen hours.»
For several moments Pitt was silent When he spoke, he sounded cold and grim.
«There's a solution. It'll cost the taxpayers a few bucks. But it has a better than fifty-fifty chance at succeeding.»
Hunter stirred uneasily as Pitt explained his plan. He reluctantly gave his permission, thinking that either the plan was insane, or that Pitt hadn't told him all of it. He guessed the latter.
The ancient Douglas C-54 aircraft sat poised on the runway, aiming its bow down the black asphalt between the bordering rows of colored marker lights. The wings and fuselage quivered in symphony with the four vibrating engines as their prop wash hurled dust and debris under the horizontal stabilizer into the night. Then the plane began to move forward, gathering speed with agonizing slowness as the runway lights reflected off the shiny aluminum surface and flickered across the windows. Finally it lifted off the concrete and swept elegantly over the lights of Honolulu, making a wide left bank over Diamond Head and heading north into the tradewinds. Soon Pitt's hand eased the four-throttle arms back and cocked an ear to the roaring engines as he checked the RPM and torque gauges, satisfied that the shuddering and noisy relic would get him where he wanted to go.
Tve been meaning to ask you, Ace. Have you ever ditched an airplane in the drink?» This from a short, barrel-chested man in the copilot's seat.
«Not lately,» Pitt replied.
The dark, curly-haired little man threw his arms in the air and faked a pained facial expression. «Oh, Lord, why did I let myself get conned into this insane comedy?» He turned and offered Pitt a crooked smile.
«I guess I'm fust so good-natured at heart that everybody takes advantage of me.»
«Don't hand me that crap,» Pitt blurted. I've known you since kindergarten — no one's ever taken advantage of you.»
Al Giordino slouched down in his seat and brushed a straggling lock of black hair from one eye. «Is that so? What about the time I worked for months selling violets on street corners so I could take that gorgeous little blond cheerleader to the high school prom?»
«Well, what about it?»
«God, what gall… well, what about it?» he mimicked. «You bastard. When we got to the dance you told her I had the clap… she wouldn't have anything to do with me for the rest of the evening.»
«Ah yes, now I remember,» chuckled Pitt. «She even insisted I take her home.» He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, reminiscing. «What a soft, cuddly little creature she was. It's too bad you two didn't hit it off.»
Giordino's face registered blank astonishment «Talk about cavalier treatment.»
Pitt and Giordino were close friends; they were classmates in both high school and college. Giordino held his hands aloft and stretched. He was short, no more than five feet four in height, his skin dark and swarthy, and his Italian ancestry clearly evident in his black curly hair. Complete opposites in appearance, Pitt and Giordino were ideally suited to one another; one of the primary reasons why Pitt had insisted that Giordino become his Assistant Special Projects Director. Their escapades, much to the chagrin of Admiral Sandecker, were already legend throughout the ocean-ographic agency.
«Won't Hickam Field's commanding officer be a mite irritated when he finds out we broke his private airplane?» asked Giordino.
«He can't wait. As soon as this old museum piece lands in the drink, the good general will put in a requisition for a new jet transport.»
Giordino sighed wistfully. «Ah, to own your own airplane. I'd like an antique B-17 Flying Fortress with a king- sized bed and a wet bar stocked with booze.»
«And you can paint out the Air Force insignia on the wings and replace it with a pair of bunnies.»
