Pacific Vortex! Part 33

"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, h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 sc.r.a.p 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 ma.s.sive 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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. G.o.d, 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 cla.s.sified information, he mused. It's okay to get killed, but it's not okay to know why.

The old Army installation on the northwest tip of Maui had looked deserted and innocent enough, but the instant his squad began infiltrating the perimeter,

they'd run into more detection and warning gear than surrounded the gold depository at Fort Knox. Electrified wire, light beams which activated ear-blasting sirens, and bright flood lamps drenching the entire installation in a blinding, naked glare. Nothing in his briefing had prepared him for this, he thought angrily. Sloppy planning; no detailed warning of the obstacles. Lieutenant or not, he was personally going to read the riot act to his commanding officers for causing this mess.

From windows, doorways, and rooftops that had seemed empty only moments earlier, the defenders opened up with a heavy burst of automatic weapons fire, halting Buckmaster's commando force in their tracks. The marines answered back and their aim had been deadly; bodies were beginning to pile up around the bunkerlike openings. At the height of the battle, a burly, grizzled-looking sergeant ran through the shadows cast by the flood lamps, and threw himself down on the ground next to Buckmaster.

"I pulled one of their guns off a dead body," he shouted above the din. "It's a Russian ZZK Kaleshrev"

"Russian?" Buckmaster echoed incredulously.

"Yes, sir." The sergeant held up the automatic weapon in front of Buckmaster's eyes. "It's the newest light arm in the Soviet a.r.s.enal. Beat's the h.e.l.l out of me how these guys got hold of them."

"Save it for the Intelligence Section." Buckmaster turned his attention back to the transmitter buildings as the noise of firing increased in the darkness.

"Corporal Danzig and his squad are pinned down behind a retaining wall." The sergeant broke off to fire a series of short bursts to draw some of the defenders' attention. "I'd give up retirement for a ninety-millimeter tank buster," he yelled between bursts.

"This was supposed to be a surprise a.s.sault, remember? They told us we wouldn't need any heavy armament.

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion; a huge cloud of dust billowed up and chunks of concrete fell over the area like hail. The shock of the concussion made Buckmaster gasp; then he slowly rose to his feet and stared at the shambles of the transmitter buildings.

"Radio!" he shouted. "Dammit, where's the radio man?"

A marine with a blackened face clad in black and green camouflage fatigues, raced from the shadows. "Here, Lieutenant"

Lieutenant Buckmaster took the offered receiver, dreading what he had to say.

"Big Daddy... Big Daddy. This is Mad Chopper. Over."

"This is Big Daddy, Mad Chopper. Go ahead. Over." The voice in the receiver sounded as though it were coming from the bottom of a well.

The gang down the block blew the deal right in our faces. I repeat, blew the deal right in our faces. We won't tune in the news tonight"

"Big Daddy understands, Mad Chopper. He sends his regrets. Over and out"

Buckmaster jammed the receiver back in its cradle. He was mad and he didn't care if they knew it all the way back to the Pentagon. Something had gone terribly wrong here tonigiht The whole atmosphere had an ominous stink about it He vaguely wondered, as his men began regrouping, whether he would ever know who had gotten the short end of the stick.