Vixen 03 Part 44

"Not possible. The divers who swam beside the wreck to the surface would have reported any debris falling free."

Steiger started to say something, but suddenly his eyes turned uncomprehending at a strangled gasping sound that emitted from the forward end of the compartment. "What in G.o.d's name is that?"

Pitt wasted no time in answering. He knew.

He found Admiral Ba.s.s lying on the wet floor, fighting for breath, his

skin bathed in cold sweat. The unbearable severity of the pain contorted his face into a tormented mask.

"His heart!" Pitt called out to Steiger. "Find Giordino and tell him to get that helicopter back here."

Pitt began tearing the clothing away from the admiral's neck and chest. Ba.s.s reached up and grasped Pitt's wrist. "The ... the warheads," he rasped.

"Rest easy. We'll soon have you on your way to a hospital."

"The warheads ..." Ba.s.s repeated.

"All safe in their canisters," Pitt rea.s.sured him.

"No ... no ... you don't understand." His voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper now. "The canisters ... I counted them ... twenty-eight."

Ba.s.s's words were becoming barely audible, and Pitt had to place his ear at the tremoring lips.

Giordino rushed up carrying several blankets. "Steiger gave me the word," he said tensely. "How is he?"

"Still hanging in there," Pitt said. He released the viselike grip from his wrist and gently squeezed Ba.s.s's hand. "I'll see to it, Admiral. That's a promise."

Ba.s.s blinked his dulled eyes and nodded in understanding.

Pitt and Giordino had covered him and cushioned his head with the blankets when Steiger reappeared, followed by two airmen carrying a stretcher. Only then did Pitt rise to his feet and step aside. The helicopter had already returned and landed when they carried the still-conscious Ba.s.s from Vixen 03.

Steiger took Pitt's arm. "What was he trying to tell you?"

"His inventory of the warhead canisters," Pitt answered. "He counted twenty-eight."

"I pray the old guy makes it," Steiger said. "At least he had the satisfaction of knowing the monstrosities were retrieved. Now all that's . left is to dump them in the ocean. End of horror story."

"No, I'm afraid it's only the beginning."

"You're talking in riddles."

"According to Admiral Ba.s.s, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twenty-eight warheads filled with the Quick Death agent."

Steiger sensed an icy dread in Pitt's tone. "But his inventory ... the count came to twenty-eight."

"He should have tallied thirty-six," Pitt said ominously. "Eight warheads are missing."

Part 4

No Return Ticket

Washington, D.C.- December 1988

The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective gla.s.s, rose thirty stories above an East Washington hill.

On the top floor Admiral James Sandecker sat behind an immense desk made from a refinished hatch cover salvaged from a Confederate blockade runner in Albemarle Sound. His private line buzzed.

"Sandecker."

"Pitt here, sir."

Sandecker pushed a switch on a small console that activated a holographic TV camera. Pitt's lifelike image materialized in three-dimensional depth and color in the middle of the office.

"Raise the camera from your end," said Sandecker. "You've chopped off your head."

Through the miracle of satellite holography Pitt's face seemed to grow from his shoulders, and his projected self, including voice and gestures, became identical to the original. The major difference, which never ceased to amuse Sandecker, was that he could pa.s.s a hand through the image because it was totally lacking in matter.

"That better?" asked Pitt.

"At least you're whole now." Sandecker wasted no more words. "What's the latest on Walter Ba.s.s?"

Pitt looked tired as he sat on a folding chair beneath a large pine tree, his ebony hair tossed by a stiff breeze.

"The heart specialist at the Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver reports his condition as stable. If he survives the next forty-eight hours, his chances for recovery look good. As soon as he's strong enough for the trip, they're going to transfer him to Bethesda Naval Hospital."

"What about the warheads?"

"We trucked them to a rail siding in Leadville," Pitt answered slowly. "Colonel Steiger volunteered to arrange shipment to Pier Six in San Francisco."

"Tell Steiger we're grateful for his cooperation. I've ordered our Pacific Coast research ship to be standing by. Instructions were given to the skipper to dump the warheads off the continental shelf in ten thousand feet of water." Sandecker hesitated at posing the next question. "Did you locate the missing eight?"

Pitt's negative expression answered him even before the image spoke.

"No luck, Admiral. A thorough search of the lake bed failed to turn up a trace."

Sandecker read the frustration on Pitt's face. "I fear the time has come to inform the Pentagon."

"Do you honestly think that a wise course?"

"What other options do we have?" Sandecker came back. "We don't have the means at our disposal for a large-scale investigation."

"All we need is a lead," Pitt said, pressing on. "Odds favor the warheads' being stored somewhere, gathering dust. It's even possible the thieves don't know what they really have on their hands."