Poseidon's Arrow

boat.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“We have no specific reason to think so,” Fowler said, “but Eberson was involved with some of the Navy’s most sensitive research programs. We need closure on what happened to him. We have no reason to suspect that he defected, but an abduction has been viewed as a possibility.”

“What you really want is a body,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately, if the boat sank and he drowned with his buddies, his body could be halfway to Tahiti by now. Or inside the stomach of a great white shark.”

“That’s why we’d like you to help us find the boat,” Ann said, a hint of pleading in her eyes.

“Sounds more like a job for the San Diego Police Department.”

“We’d like to recover the boat so our investigators can try to determine if Eberson was aboard,” Fowler said. “We’re told the waters could be rather deep, so that’s beyond the police department’s capability.”

Pitt turned to Sandecker. “Where’s the Navy in all this?”

“As it happens, the Navy’s West Coast salvage fleet is engaged in a training exercise in Alaska. On top of that, the bodies were found in Mexican territorial waters. Things will be a lot less complicated if an oceanographic research ship handled the search and recovery.”

Sandecker walked to his desk and peered at a memo. “It just so happens that the NUMA survey vessel Drake presently is docked in San Diego, awaiting assignment.”

Pitt shook his head. “I’ve been done in by my own kind.”

Sandecker’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve still got a few friends over in your building.”

“Well, then,” Pitt said, giving Ann a sideways glance, “it would seem that I’m your man.”

“Exactly how will you go about the search?” Cerny asked.

“The Drake has several different sonar systems aboard, as well as a small submersible. We’ll set up a survey grid and perform a thorough sweep of the area with sonar to try and locate the Cuttlefish. Once we find her, we’ll investigate with scuba divers or send down the submersible, depending on the depth. If the boat’s still intact, we’ll see about raising her.”

“Ann will be joining you to observe the operations,” Fowler said. “We would, of course, appreciate an urgent resolution to this matter. How soon do you think you can get started?”

“About as soon as I can find a flight to San Diego . . . and Agent Bennett can rustle up some boat clothes.”

Pitt was thanked for undertaking the project and departed the meeting. After he left the room, Sandecker turned to Cerny.

“I don’t like leaving him in the dark. There’s not a man alive I trust more.”

“Presidential orders,” Cerny said. “It’s best that nobody knows what we’ve potentially lost.”

“Can he do it?” Fowler asked. “Can he find the boat if it sank?”

“It’ll be a piece of cake for Pitt,” Sandecker said, blowing a thick ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “What I’d worry about is what, exactly, he finds aboard.”

10

THE MAN STROLLED ACROSS THE DECK WITH A PAIR of scuba tanks under each arm, showing all the strain of carrying a feather comforter. His arms were almost as thick as his legs, while his chest bulged like an overinflated tractor tire. Al Giordino’s brown eyes and dark curly hair reflected his Italian heritage, while his sharp brows and upturned mouth hinted at his devilish wit.

He broke stride when he spotted Pitt and Bennett approach and met them at the gangway, still clutching the dive tanks.

“Greetings, Kemosabe,” he said to Pitt, “welcome back to the salt air. You have a good flight?”

“Quite. The Vice President fixed it so we could hop a Navy Gulfstream that was flying a couple of admirals to Coronado.”

“And I always end up on a Greyhound bus.” Giordino gazed at Bennett and smiled. “Another attempt to add beauty and sophistication to the crew?”

“Ann Bennett, this is Albert Giordino, NUMA’s Director of Technology—and occasional leering deckhand. Miss Bennett is with the NCIS and is joining us on the search.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Giordino.”

“Please, call me Al.” He rattled the tanks. “We can shake hands later.”

“I don’t think we’ll need those on this hunt,” Pitt said. “The water will likely be too deep.”

“Rudi only said that we had an underwater recovery job. He didn’t say what it was.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know. Is he aboard?”

“Yes. We all just returned from the funeral this morning.”

“Buddy Martin?”

Giordino nodded. Martin, the Drake’s captain, had died unexpectedly from a sudden illness.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in time,” Pitt said. “Buddy was a man of true loyalty and a dear pal. He’ll be sorely missed.”

“He bled turquoise,” Giordino said, referring to the color all NUMA craft were painted. “But now Rudi has taken temporary command of the ship. A regular Captain Bligh, if you ask me.”

Pitt turned to Ann. “I usually try to keep Rudi as close to Washington as possible, in order to safeguard the NUMA budget.”

“You’ll find him in the lab,” Al said, “tending to his flock of deepwater fish.”

Pitt and Ann found a pair of empty cabins and tossed their travel gear in them, then went hunting for Rudi Gunn. The search didn’t take long for the Drake was compact, both the newest and smallest in the NUMA fleet. Barely over a hundred feet, the research ship was designed for inshore survey work but was also more than capable in blue water. Her cramped deck carried a three-man submersible and an autonomous underwater vehicle. Any enclosed space not devoted to her small crew was configured as research labs.

They entered one of the labs and found it nearly pitch-black. With the lights off and the windows sealed, the only illumination was cast by a few tiny blue bulbs overhead. Pitt figured the lab’s air-conditioning unit must have been working nonstop as the temperature felt like the low fifties.

“Keep the door closed, please.”

As their eyes adjusted, they spotted the voice’s owner, a thin man in a jacket hunched over a large tank that almost filled the room. He wore a set of night vision goggles and was staring intently into the tank.

“Spying on the mating habits of the grunion again, Rudi?” Pitt asked.

Recognizing the voice, the man bolted upright and spun to greet the intruders.

“Dirk, I didn’t know it was you.” Gunn tore off the goggles and replaced them with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A brainy ex–Navy commander, Gunn served as NUMA’s Deputy Director. Like his boss, he escaped the confines of the Washington headquarters at every opportunity.

Pitt introduced Gunn to Ann.

“Why the cold, dark room?” she asked.

“Come take a look.” Gunn handed her the night vision goggles.

He guided her to the edge of the tank, where she slipped on the goggles and peered inside. A half dozen small fish swam in a lazy circle, glowing blue under the augmented light. But they were unlike any fish Ann had ever seen—flat translucent bodies, giant protruding eyes, and multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth jutting from their open mouths. She took a quick step back from the tank.

“What are those things? They’re hideous.”

“Rudi’s pet creatures of the deep,” Pitt said.

“Evermannella normalops is their scientific name,” Gunn said, “but we call them sabertooths. They’re an unusual species found only in very deep water. We discovered a large school of them thriving around a deepwater thermal vent near Monterey and decided to try and capture a few to study. Took quite a few dives with the submersible, but we brought up twenty of them. These are the last few we haven’t moved to