and throw him in the brig.»
Hunter struck a light to a long cigarette, flipped the match at an ashtray, missing it by six inches, and stared at Pitt thoughtfully. «You leave me no choice, big boy.» He turned to Boland. «Commander, ask Seaman Yager to call the Shore Patrol.»
«I wouldn't, Admiral» Denver rose from his chair, recognition flooding his face. «This man some of you have referred to as filth and a bastard and wish to cast into chains, is indeed Dirk Pitt, who happens to be the Special Projects Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, and whose father happens to be Senator George Pitt of California, Chairman of the Naval Appropriations Committee.»
Cinana uttered something short and unprintable.
Boland was the first to recover. «Are you certain?»
«Yes, Paul, quite certain.» He moved around the table and faced Pitt. «I saw him several years ago, with his father, at a NUMA conference. He's also a friend of my cousin, who's also in NUMA. Commander Rudi Gunn.»
Pitt grinned happily. «Of course. Rudi and I have worked on several projects together. I can see the resemblance now. The only noticeable difference is that Rudi peers through horned-rimmed glasses.»
«Used to call him Beaver Eyes,» Denver laughed, «when we were kids.»
«Ill throw that at him next time I see him,» Pitt said, smiling.
«I hope you… you won't take offense to… to what we said,» stuttered Boland.
Pitt tossed Boland his best cynical stare and simply said: «No.»
Hunter and Cinana exchanged looks that Pitt had no difficulty in deciphering. If they tried to ignore their uneasiness at having the son of a United States senator sitting in their midst, they failed badly at concealing it, «Okay, Mr. Pitt, it's your quarter. We assume you're here because of the canister. Would you explain how you got it?»
«I'm only an errand boy,» Pitt said quietly. «I discovered this while sunbathing on the beach this afternoon. It belongs to you.»
«Well well,» Hunter said heavily. Tm honored. Why me?»
Pitt looked at the three men speculatively, and set the cylinder, still covered with the bamboo beach mat, on the table. «Inside, youTl find some papers. One has your name on it.»
There wasn't a flicker of curiosity in Hunter's expression.
«Where did you find this thing?»
«Near the tip of Kaena Point.»
Denver hunched forward. «Washed up on the beach?»
Pitt shook his head. «No, I swam out beyond the breakers and towed it in.»
Denver looked puzzled. «You swam beyond the breakers at Kaena Point? I didn't think it possible.»
Hunter gave Pitt a very thoughtful look indeed, but he passed it off. «May we see what you have there?»
Pitt nodded silently and unwrapped the cylinder, paying scant notice to the damp sand that spilled on the conference table. Then he passed it to Hunter.
«This yellow plastic cover was what caught my eye.»
Hunter took the cylinder in his hands and held it up for the other men to examine. «Recognize it, gentlemen?»
The others nodded.
«You've never served on a submarine, Mr. Pitt, or you'd know what a communications capsule looks like.» Hunter set the package down and touched it lightly. «When a submarine wishes to remain underwater and communicate with a surface ship following in her wake, a message is inserted in this aluminum capsule.» As he spoke he gently pulled away the yellow pfastic. ''The capsule, with a reef dye marker attached, is then ejected through the submarine's hull by means of a pneumatic tube. When the capsule reaches the surface, the dye is released, staining several thousand square feet of water, making it visible to the chase ship.»
«The fine threads on the cap,» Pitt said slowly, «they were machined to prevent leakage under extreme pressure.»
Hunter gazed at Pitt expectantly. «You read the contents?»
Pit nodded. «Yes, sir.»
Neither Boland, Cinana, nor Denver comprehended, or even saw, the sickness, the despair, in Hunter's eyes.
«Would you mind describing what you saw?* Hunter asked, knowing with dread certainty what the answer would be.
Several seconds passed as Pitt silently wished to hell he had never seen that damned capsule, but there was no avenue of escape. One last sentence and he would be rid of the whole discomforting scene. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly.
«Inside you will find a note addressed to you, Admiral. You will also find twenty-six pages torn from the logbook of the nuclear submarine Starbuck.»
The following is a summary of Commander Dupree's comments, narrated by Admiral Hunter:
There is no explaining the hell of the last five days. I alone am responsible for the change in course that brought my ship and crew to what surely must seem a strange and unholy end. Beyond that, I can only describe as best I can, the circumstances of the disaster — my mind is not functioning as it should.
The fact that Dupree was not in full command of his mental faculties is an astonishing confession from a man whose reputation was built upon a computerlike mind.
At 2040 hours, June 14, we entered the fog bank. Shortly thereafter, with the seabed only ten fathoms beneath our keel, an explosion ripped the ship's bow, and a roaring torrent of water burst into the forward torpedo compartment, flooding it almost instantly.
The commander did not reveal, if indeed he knew, whether the explosion came from inside or outside the Starbuck's hull.
Of the full crew, twenty-six had the good fortune to die within seconds. The three still on the bridge, Lieutenant Carter, Seaman Farris, and Metford, we hoped had gotten clear before the ship settled beneath the surface. Tragic events proved otherwise.
If, as Dupree indicates, the Starbuck was riding on the surface, it seems odd that Carter, Farris, and Metford could not clear the bridge and go below in less than thirty seconds. It is inconceivable that he would have secured the hatches and left the men to their fate. It is just as inconceivable that there was no time to save them — it was not a likely possibility that the Starbuck sank like a stone.
Meanwhile, we sealed off the hatches and vents. I then ordered all ballast blown and hard rise on the planes; it was too late; title tearing sounds and groans forward meant the ship had plowed into the sea bottom bow on.
It seems reasonable to assume that with all ballast tanks blown, and the bow buried in only one hundred sixty feet of water, the stern section of the Starbuck's three-hundred-twenty-foot hull might still extend above the surface. Such was not the case.
We now lie on the bottom. The deck canted eight degrees to starboard with a down angle of two degrees. Except for the forward torpedo room, all other compartments are secure and showing no signs of water. We are all dead now. I have ordered the men to resign the game. My folly killed us all.
The most fantastic mystery yet. Allowing twenty-five feet from keel to topside, the distance from the aft escape hatch to the surface was one hundred thirty-five feet; a moderate ascent for a man with a self-contained breathing apparatus, a device carried on all submarines for crew members. During World War n, eight men from the sunken submarine Tang, swam one hundred eighty feet to the surface, surviving on nothing but lung power.
The last few sentences are all the more bewildering. What precipitated Dupree's madness? Was he overwhelmed by the stress of the whole nightmarish situation? He further retreated from reality.
Food gone, air only good for a few hours at best. Drinking water gone after the third day.
Impossible! With the nuclear reactor operable — and there's no reason to believe it wasn't — the crew could survive for months. The freshwater distillation units could easily provide a more than ample supply of drinking water, and with a few precautionary measures, the life support system which purified the sub's atmosphere and produced oxygen, would have sustained sixty-three men comfortably until it ceased to function, an unlikely event. Only the food presented a long-range problem. Yet, since the Starbuck was outward bound the food stock should
