Vixen 03 Part 12

"Off and on for twenty-two years."

"Can you tell me what part of the lake eats the most bait?"

"Come again?"

"Is there a section of Table Lake where fishermen frequently lose their lures?"

"Over toward the dam there's a submerged log that does a pretty good job of it."

"What depth?"

"Eight, maybe twelve feet."

"I'm looking for a spot that's deeper, much deeper," said Pitt.

The old angler thought a moment. "Up toward the big marsh at the north end of the lake there's this big hole. Lost two of my best spinners in it last summer while trolling deep. A lot of the big fish swim deep during hot weather. I don't recommend trying your luck there, though. Not unless you own part interest in a tackle shop."

"Much obliged for your help," Pitt said, and waved. "Good luck!"

"Same to you," said the old angler. He went back to his casting and within a few moments his pole arched with a strong bite.

"You heard, Al?"

Giordino looked longingly at the dock and then at the lake's north end, a quarter of a mile away. Resigning himself to the ch.o.r.e, he raised the camera to keep it from creeping into the lake bed and then adjusted his

gloves and took up the oars again. Steiger gave Pitt a four-letter stare but raised the white flag.

A half hour of fighting a gusting cross chop pa.s.sed with agonizing slowness. Steiger and Giordino went about their labor in silence; Gior-dino on blind faith in Pitt's judgment, Steiger because he was d.a.m.ned if he'd let Giordino outendure him. Pitt stayed glued to the monitor, every so often calling out depth adjustments to Giordino.

The bottom of Table Lake began to rise the closer to the marsh they rowed. Then, abruptly, the silt and weed began dropping away, and the water darkened. They halted to lower the camera and then resumed the stroke.

They had moved only a few yards when a curved object edged onto the screen. The form was not sharply defined; nor did it have a natural contour.

"Stop rowing!" Pitt ordered tersely.

Steiger slumped on his seat, grateful for the break, but Giordino looked piercingly across the narrow distance separating the two boats. He'd heard that tone of voice from Pitt before.

Down in the cold depths the camera slowly drifted closer to the object materializing on the monitor. Pitt sat as though turned to oak as a large white star on a dark-blue background crept into his view. He waited for the camera to continue its probe, the inside of his mouth as dry as Kansas dust.

Giordino had rowed over and was holding the two boats together. Steiger became aware of the tension, raised his head, and looked inquiringly at Pitt.

"You got something?"

"An aircraft with military markings," Pitt said, controlling the excitement he felt.

Steiger crawled astern and peered unbelievingly into the monitor. The camera had floated over the wing and was now falling back along the fuselage. A square port came into view as above it the words MILITARY AIR transport SERVICE marched by.

"Sweet Jesus!" Giordino gasped. "A MATS transport."

"Can you tell what model?" Steiger asked feverishly.

Pitt shook his head. "Not yet. The camera angle missed the more easily identifiable engines and nose section. It came across the left wing tip and, as you can see, is now moving toward the tail."

"The serial number should be painted on the vertical stabilizer," Steiger said softly, as though in prayer.

VixenThey sat absorbed as the unearthly scene unfolded below. The plane had settled deeply in the mud. The fuselage had cracked open aft of the wings, the tail section twisted on a slight angle.

Giordino gently dipped his oars and towed the camera on a new course, correcting its vie wing field. The resolution was so clear that they could almost make out the flush rivets in the aluminum skin. It was all so strange and incongruous. It was difficult for them to accept the image the television equipment relayed to their eyes.

Then they held their breaths as the stenciled serial number on the vertical stabilizer began entering from stage right. Pitt zoomed in the camera lens ever so slightly so there would be no mistaking the aircraft's identification. First a 7, then a 5, and a 4, followed by 03. For a moment Steiger stared at Pitt; the shattering effect of what he now knew to be true but was unable to accept turned his eyes as glazed as those of a somnambulist.

"My G.o.d, it's 03. But that's impossible."

"What you see is what you get," said Pitt.

Giordino reached over and shook Pitt's hand. "Never a doubt, partner."

"Your confidence in me is duly noted," Pitt said.

"Where do we go from here?"

"Drop a marker buoy over the side and we'll call it a day. Tomorrow morning we'll go down and see what we can find inside the wreck."

Steiger sat there, shaking his head and repeating, "It's not supposed to be here ... it's not supposed to be here."

Pitt smiled. "Apparently the good colonel refuses to trust his own eyes."

"It's not that," Giordino said. "Steiger has this psychological problem."

"Problem?"

"Yeah, he doesn't believe in Santa Claus."

In spite of the chilling morning air, Pitt was sweating inside the wet suit. He checked his breathing regulator, gave the thumbs-up sign to Giordino, and dropped over the side of the boat.

The icy water, surging between his skin and the interior lining of his three-sixteenths-inch-thick neoprene suit, felt like an electric shock. He hung suspended just below the surface for several moments, suffering the stabbing agony, waiting for his body heat to warm the entrapped water layer. When the temperature became bearable, he cleared his ears

and kicked his fins, descending into an eerie world where wind and air were unknown. The line from the marker buoy angled off into the beckoning depths and he swam along beside it.

The bottom seemed to rise up and meet him. His right fin trailed through the mud before he leveled off, creating a gray cloud that mushroomed like smoke from an oil-tank explosion.

Pitt checked the depth gauge on his wrist. It read one hundred forty feet. That meant approximately ten minutes' bottom time without worrying about decompression.

His primary enemy was the water temperature. The icy pressure would drastically affect his concentration and performance. His body heat would soon be drained by the cold, pushing his endurance beyond its borders and into the realm of excessive fatigue.

Visibility was no more than eight feet, but that factor did not hinder him. The marker buoy had missed the sunken plane by mere inches and he had but to extend a hand and touch the metal surface. Pitt had wondered what sensations would course through him. He was certain fear and apprehension would raise their tentacles. But they did not appear. Instead, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It was as though he'd come to the end of a long and exhausting journey.

He swam over the engines, the blades of their propellers gracefully bent backward, like the curled petals of an iris, the finned cylinder heads never to feel the heat of combustion again. He swam past the windows of the c.o.c.kpit. The gla.s.s was still intact but coated with slime, cutting off any view of the interior.