Folsom shrugged. 'So much for fantasy. Now then, getting back to the
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.
'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 long time 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 R. 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
Pitt probed further. 'If Bass was an admiral back in 1954, he must be either past eighty years old or dead — most likely ead.'
'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 fourposter 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. 'Tar 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 fight 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.
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 highbacked 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
