Текст книги "Vixen 03"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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29

Loren Smith rose from behind her desk and held out her hand as Frederick Daggat was ushered into her office. He smiled his best politician's smile. "I hope you'll forgive my intrusion… ah… Congresswoman."

Loren grasped his hand firmly. It never failed to amuse her to see a man stumble over her title. They never seemed to get the hang of saying "Congresswoman."

"I'm happy for the interruption," she said, motioning him toward a chair. To his surprise, she held out a box of cigars. He took one.

"This is indeed a treat. I hardly expected… do you mind if I light up?"

"Please do," she said, smiling. "I grant that it looks a bit incongruous for a woman to pass out cigars, but the practical value becomes apparent when you consider that my male visitors outnumber the females by twenty to one."

Daggat expelled a large blue cloud toward the ceiling and fired his first broadside. "You voted against my initial proposal to budget aid to the African Army of Revolution. "

Loren nodded. She didn't speak, for she was waiting for Daggat to make his full pitch.

"The white government of South Africa is on the verge of self-destruction. The nation's economy has plummeted in the last few years. Its treasury is exhausted. The white minority have cruelly and ruthlessly treated the black majority as slaves far too long. For ten years, in the time since blacks took over the government in Rhodesia, Afrikaners have become hardened and completely merciless in their dealings with their Bantu citizens. Internal riots have taken over five thousand lives. This bloodbath must not continue any longer. Hiram Lusana's AAR is the only hope for peace. We must support it, both financially and militarily."

"I was under the impression that Hiram Lusana was a communist."

Daggat shook his head. "I'm afraid you labor under a misapprehension, Congresswoman Smith. I admit that Lusana allows the use of Vietnamese military advisers, but I can personally assure you that he is not and never has been a pawn of international communism."

"I'm glad to hear that." Loren's voice was toneless. In her mind Daggat was trying to sell a bill of goods and she was determined not to buy.

"Hiram Lusana is a man of high ideals," Daggat continued. "He does not permit the slaughter of innocent women and children. He does not condone indiscriminate bloodthirsty attacks on cities and villages, as do the other insurgent movements. This war is aimed strictly against government installations and military targets. 1, for one, feel that Congress should back the leader who conducts his affairs with virtuous rationality."

"Come down off the cross, Congressman. You know it and I know it. Hiram Lusana is a rip-off artist. I've examined his FBI file. It reads like a biography of a Mafia hit man. Lusana spent half his life in prison for every crime from rape to assault, not to mention draft dodging and a plot to bomb the state capitol of Alabama. After an extremely lucrative armored-car robbery, he went into the dope-peddling business and made a fortune. Then he skipped the country to beat paying taxes. I think you'll agree he's not exactly an all-American hero."

"He was never legally charged with the armored-car holdup."

Loren shrugged. "Okay, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. But his other crimes hardly qualify him to lead a holy crusade to free the downtrodden masses."

"What's history is history," Daggat said, pressing on. "Regardless of his shady past, Lusana is still our only hope of providing a stable government after the blacks take over the South African Parliament. You cannot deny that it is in the best interests of Americans to claim him as a friend."

"Why back any side?"

Daggat's eyebrow shot up. "Do I detect a leaning toward isolationism?"

"Look what it got us in Rhodesia," continued Loren. "Within a few months after our former secretary of state's ingenious plan to transfer white-minority rule to the black majority took effect, civil war broke out between the radical splinter factions and set the country's progress back ten years. Can you promise that we won't see a repeat performance when South Africa bows to the inevitable?"

Daggat did not like being forced into a corner by a woman, any woman. He came out of his chair and leaned across Loren's desk. "If you do not throw your support to my proposal and the bill for aid which I intend to submit to the House, then, dear Congresswoman Smith, I fear you will be digging a grave so big and so deep for your Political career that you may never get out in time for the next election."

To Daggat's amazement and anger, Loren broke out in laughter. "Good God, this is rich. Are you actually threatening me?"

"Fail to come out in favor of African nationalism and I can promise you the loss of every black vote in your district."

"I don't believe this."

"You'd better, because you will also see rioting like you've never seen before in this country if we don't stand solidly behind Hiram Lusana and the African Army of Revolution."

"Where do you get your information?" Loren demanded.

"I'm black and I know."

"You're also full of shit," Loren said. "I've conferred with hundreds of blacks in my district. They're no different from any other American citizen. Each is concerned with high taxes, the rising costs of groceries and energy, the same as whites, Orientals, Indians, and Chicanos. You're only kidding yourself, Daggat, if you think our blacks give a damn about how African blacks mess up their countries. They don't, and for the simple reason that Africans don't give a damn about them."

"You are making a sad error."

"No, it is you who is making the error," snapped Loren. "You are stirring up trouble where it need not exist. The black race will find equal opportunity through education, just like everyone else. The Nisei did it after World War Two. When they returned from the internment camps, they worked in the Southern California fields to send their sons and daughters through UCLA and USC to become attorneys and doctors. They arrived. Now it's the blacks' turn. And they'll do it, too, provided they're not hindered by men like you, who rabble-rouse at every opportunity. Now I'll thank you to get the hell out of my office."

Daggat stared at her, his face a mask of anger. Then his lips cracked slowly into a grin. He held the cigar at army s length and let it drop onto the carpet. Then he turned and stormed from the office.

"You look like a boy who just had his bicycle stolen," said Felicia Collins. She was sitting in one corner of Daggat's limousine, filing her long nails.

Daggat slid in beside her and motioned for the driver to move on. He stared stonily ahead, his face blank.

Felicia slipped the emery board back in her purse and waited, her eyes apprehensive. Finally she broke the silence. "I take it Loren Smith turned you down."

"The foulmouthed white bitch." he said. almost spat. "She thinks she can treat me like some nigger stud on a pre-Civil War plantation."

"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked, surprised. "I know Loren Smith. She hasn't got a prejudiced bone in her body."

Daggat turned. "You know her?"

"Loren and I were high-school classmates. We still get together from time to time." A hardness came over Felicia's face that had not been there before. "You have something evil on your crafty mind, Frederick. What is it?"

"I've got to have Congresswoman Smith's support if I am to push through my bill to send arms and aid to the AAR."

"Would you like me to talk to Loren? Lobby on Hiram's behalf?''

"That and more."

She tried to read his thoughts. "More?"

"I want you to get something on her. Something I can use to twist her to our way of thinking."

Felicia stared at him, stunned. "Blackmail Loren? You don't know what you're asking. I can't spy on a good friend. No way."

"Your choice is clear: a girlish school friendship in exchange for the freedom of millions of our brothers and sisters who are enslaved by a tyrannical government."

"And if I can't dig any dirt?" Felicia said, searching for an out. "It's no secret her political career is unblemished."

"Nobody is perfect."

"What would I look for?"

"Loren Smith is an attractive single woman. She must have a sex life."

"What if she does?" Felicia argued. "Every single girl has her share of love affairs. And as long as she has no husband, you can't manufacture a scandal out of adultery."

Daggat smiled. "How astute of you. We shall do exactly that – manufacture a scandal."

"Loren deserves better."

"If she throws her support to our cause, she needn't worry about her secrets going public."

Felicia bit her lip. "No, I will not stab a friend in the back. Besides, Hiram would never pardon such a malignity."

Daggat refused to play her game. "Indeed" You may have slept with the savior of Africa. but I doubt if you ever truly read the man beneath the skin. Look up his past sometime. Hiram Lusana makes AI Capone and Jesse James look like sissies. It gets thrown in my face every time I stand up for him." Then Daggat's eyes narrowed. "Aren't you forgetting how he literally sold you to me?"

"I haven't forgotten."

Felicia turned away and stared out the window.

Daggat squeezed her hand. "Don't worry," he said, smiling. "Nothing will happen that will leave any scars."

She raised his hand and kissed it, but she didn't believe his words, not for an instant.

30

Unlike her famous parent ship the Monitor,the Chenagowas virtually unknown to all but a handful of naval historians. Commissioned during June of 1862 in New York, she was immediately ordered to join the Union fleet blockading the entrance to Savannah. The unfortunate Chenagonever had a chance to fire her guns: an hour away from her assigned station she met a heavy sea and foundered, entombing her entire crew of forty-two men ninety feet below the waves.

Pitt sat in the conference room of the NUMA salvage ship Visaliaand studied a stack of underwater photos taken by divers of the Chenago'sgrave. jack Folsom, the brawny salvagemaster, chewed a massive wad of gum and looked on, waiting for the inevitable questions.

Pitt didn't disappoint him.

"Is the hull still intact?"

Folsom shifted the gum. "No noticeable transverse cracks that we can tell. Can't see it all, of course, since seven feet of keel is under the seafloor and the interior is filled with a yard of sand. But I'm guessing that chances of a longitudinal break are slim. I'll lay odds that we can lift her in one piece."

"What method do you propose?"

"Dollinger variable air tanks," answered Folsom. "Sink them in pairs beside the hulk. Then attach and fill with air. Same basic principle that hoisted the old submarine F-fourafter she sank off Hawaii way back in 1915.11

"You'll have to use suction pumps to remove the sand. The lighter she is – ' the less chance she'll pull apart. The thick iron plate seems to have stood up well, but the heavy oak planking behind has long since rotted away its strength."

"We can also remove the guns." said Folsom. "They're accessible."

Pitt examined a copy of the Chenago'soriginal designs. The Monitor'sfamiliar sh pe contained just one circular gun turret. but the Chenagopossessed two, one at each end of her hull. From within both turrets extended twin thirty-centimeter Dahlgren smoothbore cannon, weighing several tons apiece.

"The Dollinger tanks," said Pitt, suddenly thoughtful, "how efficient are they for lifting sunken aircraft?"

Folsom stopped in mid-chew and stared at Pitt. "How big?"

"A hundred and seventy or eighty thousand pounds, including cargo."

"How deep?"

"One hundred forty feet."

Pitt could almost hear the gears whirring in Folsom's brain. Finally the salvagemaster resumed chewing and said, "I'd recommend derricks."

"Derricks?"

"Two of them on stable platforms could easily lift that much weight," said Folsom. "Besides, an aircraft is a fragile piece of hardware. If you used the Dollinger tanks and they got the least bit out of synchronization during the lift, they could tear the plane apart." He paused and looked at Pitt questioningly. "Why all the hypothetical questions?"

Pitt smiled a pondering smile. "You never know when we might have to bring up an airplane."

Folsom shrugged. "So much for fantasy. Now then, getting back to the Chenago…"

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 piece de resistance:the surname. Four letters beginning with B and ending with S. And, since 'Bullshit' didn't fit and I already had the guy's rank and first name, a computer search through Bureau files and Navy records quickly made a match: 'Admiral Walter Horatio Bass.`

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 drive up."

"That's an interesting chair," he said "Shaker, isn't it?"

She looked at him approvingly. "Yes, made by Elder Henry Blinn, of Canterbury."

"You have many valuable pieces here."

"Admiral Bass, the owner, gets the credit for what you see." She moved behind the desk. "He's quite an authority on antique collecting, you know."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Do you wish a room?"

"Yes, for tonight only."

"A pity you can't stay longer. A local stock theater opens in our barn the evening after next."

"I've a knack for poor timing," Pitt said, smiling.

Her return smile was thin and formal. She spun the register around for him and he signed it.

"Room fourteen. Up the stairs and three doors to your left, Mr. Pitt." She had read his name upside down as he signed it. "I'm Heidi Milligan. If you need anything, just push the buzzer by your door. I'll get the message sooner or later. I hope you won't mind carrying your own luggage up."

"I'll manage. Is the admiral handy? I'd like to talk to him about… about antiques."

She pointed through a double screen door at the end of the lobby. "You'll find him down by the duck pond, clearing away lily pads."

Pitt nodded and headed in the direction Heidi Milligan had indicated. The door opened onto a footpath that meandered down a gently sloping hill. Admiral Bass had wisely chosen not to landscape Anchorage House. The surrounding grounds had been left to nature and were covered with pines and late-blooming wildflowers. For a moment Pitt forgot his mission and soaked up the scenic quiet that hemmed in the trail to the pond.

He found an elderly man, in hip boots and brandishing a pitchfork, aggressively attacking a circular growth of water lilies about eight feet from shore. The admiral was a big man and he threw the tangled root stocks onto the bank with the ease of someone thirty years younger. He wore no hat under the Virginia sun and the sweat rolled free from his bald head and trickled off the ends of his nose and chin.

"Admiral Walter Bass?" Pitt said., hailing him.

The pitchfork stopped in mid-throw. "Yes, I'm Walter Bass."

"Sir, my name is Dirk Pitt, and I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

"Sure, go right ahead," said Bass, finishing the toss. "Pardon me if I keep after these damned weeds, but I want to clear out as much as I can before dinner. If I didn't do this at least twice a week before winter, they'd choke off the whole pond come spring."

Pitt stepped back as a flying wad of tuberous stems and heart-shaped leaves splattered at his feet. To him, at least, it was an awkward situation, and he wasn't sure how to handle it. The admiral's back was to him, and Pitt hesitated. He took a deep breath and plunged. "I'd like to ask you several questions concerning an aircraft with the code designation Vixen 03."

Bass kept at his labor without a pause, but the whitened knuckles amend the handle of the pitchfork did not go unnoticed by Pitt.

"Vixen 03," he said, and shrugged.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Should it?"

"It was a Military Air Transport Service plane that vanished back in 1954."

"That was a long time ago." Bass stared vacantly at the water. "No, I can't recall any connection with a MATS aircraft," he said finally. "Not surprising, though. I was a surface officer throughout my thirty years in the Navy. Heavy ordnance was my specialty."

"Do you recall ever meeting a major in the Air Force by the name of Vylander?"

"Vylander?" Bass shook his head. "Can't say as I have." Then he looked at Pitt speculatively. "What was your name again? Why are you asking me these questions?"

"My name is Dirk Pitt," he said again.

"I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I found some old papers that stated you were the officer who authorized Vixen 03's flight orders."

"There must be a mistake."

"Perhaps," said Pitt. "Maybe the mystery will be cleared up when the wreck of the aircraft is raised and thoroughly inspected."

"I thought you said it vanished."

"I discovered the wreckage," Pitt answered.

Pitt studied Bass closely for any discernible reaction. There was none. He decided to leave the admiral alone to collect his thoughts.

"I'm sorry to leave troubled you, Admiral. I must have gotten my signals mixed."

Pitt turned and began walking up the path back to the inn. He'd covered nearly fifty feet when Bass yelled after him.

"Mr. Pitt!"

Pitt turned. "Yes?"

"Are you staying at the inn?"

"Until tomorrow morning. Then I must be on my way."

The admiral nodded. When Pitt reached the pines bordering Anchorage House, he took another look toward the pond. Admiral Bass was calmly forking the lily pads onto t e bank, as if their brief conversation had simply been about crops and the weather.