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, 111 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 now Id 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 Star-buck 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 Tm 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
