Dragon

Meeker looked at him unwaveringly, then smiled. “Your ground intelligence hasn’t got a clue where they’re making them either.

“True,” Jordan admitted. “The Japs have accomplished an incredible cover-up. I’ve a hunch their government leaders are in the dark as well.”

“If their production facility was aboveground, our new satellite detection array would have nailed it.”

“Odd there are no areas of unusual radioactivity.’

“We’ve detected nothing outside their electrical power reactors and a nuclear waste dump near a coastal town called Rokota.”

“I’ve seen the reports,” said Jordan. “They sank a four-thousand-meter shaft to throw their waste. Could it be we’ve overlooked something?”

Meeker gave a negative shake of his head. “We’ve yet to detect indications of extensive construction or the right type of traffic in and out of the area.”

“Damn!” Jordan snapped. “Japan freely sails the oceans with nuclear bombs destined for United States ports while we sit on our thumbs without knowing the site where they’re manufactured, their final destinations, or the plan behind the whole operation.”

“You did say ‘bombs,’ plural?” asked Meeker.

“The readings from the seismographic center in Colorado show there was a second detonation a millisecond after the first.”

“Too bad you couldn’t have launched a major operation to find the answers ten years ago.”

“With what funding?” Jordan grunted. “The last administration gutted intelligence-gathering budgets. All that politicians are interested in are Russia and the Middle East. The last people the State Department will allow us to probe are our good buddies in Japan. Two retired agents we’ve had to keep under contract are all we’re allowed there. Israel is another nation that’s off limits. You wouldn’t believe the times we were ordered to look the other way while the Mossad pulled off deceptions the Arabs took the blame for.”

“The President will have to give you full discretionary power when you show him the seriousness of the situation.”

“I’ll know first thing in the morning after I brief him.” Jordan’s smooth, polished mask was showing a tiny crack, and his voice turned ice cold. “No matter how we attack this thing, we’ll be playing catch-up. What scares me, really puts the fear of God in me, is that we’re already too late to cut off the plot in midstream.”

The sounds of voices came through the door. The play was over and the audience was flowing into the lobby.

Jordan came to his feet. “I’ll have to break off and make an appearance or my wife will play iceberg on the ride home. Thanks for alerting me to your bird’s discovery.”

“There is one more thing,” said Meeker. He slipped another photograph out of the file folder and held it up to the light.

Jordan peered at an object in the center of the photo. “Looks like some kind of big farm tractor. What’s the significance?”

“What you see is an unknown deep-sea vehicle driving over the sea bottom five thousand meters below the surface, not more than twenty kilometers from the explosion area. You know who owns it or what it’s doing there?”

“Yes…” Jordan said slowly. “I didn’t, but I do now. Thank you, Curtis.”

Jordan turned from a totally mystified Meeker, opened the door, and melted into the throng leaving the theater.

15

TRUE TO HIS WORD, Pitt drove the mauled DSMV free of its buried prison. The metal tracks shrieked as they ground their way through the lava rock, a centimeter at a time. With tortured sluggishness the great vehicle clawed its way to the surface of the sea bottom, shook off the stone and ooze that trailed in a huge cloudy river from its rear end, and rolled onto the barren terrain.

“We’re clear,” Plunkett cried in delight. “Jolly well done.”

“Jolly well done,” Pitt mimicked. He switched on computer control and called up a series of geographical displays on the monitor. “A miracle we broke out with no pressure leaks or mechanical damage.”

“My dear fellow, my faith in you is as deep as the sea… ah, we’re under. I didn’t doubt your fortitude for a minute.”

Pitt spared him a curious stare. “If you’re taken in that easily, I have a bridge in New York I’d like to sell you.”

“What was that about a bridge’?”

“Do you play?”

“Yes, I’m quite good. Won more than a few tournaments. And you?”

“I deal a mean hand of Old Maid.”

The exchange was slightly less than bizarre considering their predicament, but they were men absorbed in their element and well aware of the danger of being trapped in the abyssal depths. If either Pitt or Plunkett felt any fear, he didn’t show it.

“Now that we’ve escaped the landslide, what’s the plan?” asked Plunkett as calmly as if he was requesting another cup of tea.

“The plan is to go up,” Pitt answered, pointing toward the roof.

“Since this magnificent old crawler has no buoyancy and we’ve a good five kilometers of ocean above us, how do you expect to accomplish the impossible?”

Pitt grinned.

“Just sit back and enjoy the seascape. We’re going to take a little ride through the mountains.”

“Welcome aboard, Admiral.” Commander Morton gave a razor-edge salute and extended his hand, but the greeting was purely official. He was not happy and made no attempt at hypocrisy. “A rare occasion when we’re ordered to surface at sea during a cruise to take on visitors. I have to tell you I don’t like it.”

Sandecker smothered a smile as he stepped from the Shanghai Shelly’s launch onto the bridge of the partially surfaced sail tower of the Tucson. He shook Morton’s hand with a casual unconcern and a dominating posture that, if anything, made his presence seem like an everyday affair.

“I didn’t pull strings to have you deviate from operational procedure so I could drop in for cocktails, Commander. I’m here on presidential order. If it’s an inconvenience, I’ll be happy to return to the junk.”

A pained expression crossed Morton’s face. “No offense, Admiral, but Soviet satellites—”

“Will photograph us in vivid color for the entertainment of their intelligence analysts. Yes, yes, but we don’t really care what they see or think.” Sandecker turned as Giordino climbed aboard. “My assistant project director, Al Giordino.”

Unconsciously almost, Morton acknowledged Giordino with a half salute and showed them through a hatch down to the control center of the sub. They followed the commander into a small compartment with a transparent plotting table with a recessed interior that provided a three-dimensional sonar view of the seabed.

Lieutenant David DeLuca, the Tucson’s navigation officer, was leaning over the table. He straightened as Morton made the introductions and smiled warmly. “Admiral Sandecker, this is an honor. I never missed your lectures at the academy.”

Sandecker beamed. “I hope I didn’t put you to sleep.

“Not at all. Your accounts of NUMA projects were fascinating.

Morton flicked a glance at DeLuca and nodded down at the table. “The admiral is most interested in your discovery.”

“What can you show me, son?” Sandecker said, placing a hand on DeLuca’s shoulder. “The message was you’ve picked up unusual sounds on the seabed.”

DeLuca faltered for a moment. “We’ve been receiving strange music—”