recovery site and Honolulu by ferrying the salvage crew and any needed parts and equipment.”
“A tidy little package,” Pitt admitted. “Though I'd sleep better if we had an armed escort.”
Denver shook his head. “Can't chance it. The Russians would smell a shady plot the minute they got wind of an old tramp steamer escorted by a Navy missile cruiser. They'd have the Andrei Vyborg on our tail by sunup.”
Pitt's eyebrows lifted. The “Andrei Vyborg?”
“A Russian oceanographic vessel classified by Navy Intelligence as a spy ship. She's shadowed the Star-buck's search operation for the last six months and she's still out there somewhere hovering around poking for the sub.” Boland paused for a swallow of coffee. “The 101st Fleet has spent too much time and effort to maintain our cover as a merchantman. We can't afford to have it blown now.”
“As you can see,” Denver said, “the Martha Ann is completely divorced from the Navy. She's listed under United States registry as a merchant ship. And we intend to keep it that way, nice and discreet.”
“Isn't the Navy concerned by the fact that the Andrei Vyborg is nosing around alone?”
“She's not alone,” Boland said seriously. “We've four ships still combing the northern search area. The Navy never gives up on a search, no matter how hopeless it seems for survivors. Call it Naval tradition if you will, Major, but it's a damn good feeling when you're floating in the sea, clutching a piece of flotsam after your ship has gone down, knowing that nothing is spared to make your rescue ...”
Boland's lecture was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in!” he shouted.
A young boy, no more than nineteen or twenty, stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a white butcher's cap on his head and a pair of blue coveralls. Ignoring Pitt and Denver, he spoke to Boland.
“Excuse me, sir, the chief engineer reports the engine room is in readiness and the bosun's mate has the crew standing by to cast off.”
Boland glanced at his watch. “Right. Pass the word to cast off and get underway in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir,” replied the young seaman. He saluted, turned, and disappeared into the pilothouse.
Boland smiled smugly at Denver. “Not bad. We're forty minutes ahead of schedule.”
“The copter tied down and secure?” asked Pitt.
Boland nodded. “She's snug. You can make your final flight checks when it's daylight.”
Pitt rose and walked over to the porthole, breathing deeply to cleanse his lungs of the stale smoke from Denver's cigarettes. The harbor air smelled sure in comparison to the stuffy chart room.
“Have you assigned accommodations for Dirk?” Denver asked Boland.
“There's a stateroom next to mine that we keep vacant for VTP's,” Boland replied, his lips curled in a sarcastic grin. “In Pitt's case, we'll make an exception.”
Pitt fixed a long hypnotic stare devoid of anger or animosity at the smoke curling up from the ashtray. He could shrug off a verbal dig with all the feeling of nipping a mosquito off an arm. Hunter was a clever old fox; placing two men with different temperaments together as a team.
“Well, I guess I'd best shove off,” Denver said, breaking the uneasy silence.
“We'll drop you a postcard from time to time,” Pitt said.
“You'd better do more than that,” Denver shot back, his lips curled in a tight smile, but his eyes hard. “I'm going to reserve the bar at the Reef Hotel for three weeks from today. And woe to the man who doesn't show up.” He turned to Boland. “You have the code, Paul. The admiral and I will track you by satellite. When you spot the Starbuck, simply radio under maritime transmission that you've stopped all engines to repair a burned shaft bearing. We'll have your exact position in a millisecond.”
Denver shook hands with Pitt and Boland. “Little else can be said but good luck!” Before the other two men could answer, Denver abruptly wheeled about and strode
“A tidy little package,” Pitt admitted. “Though I'd sleep better if we had an armed escort.”
Denver shook his head. “Can't chance it. The Russians would smell a shady plot the minute they got wind of an old tramp steamer escorted by a Navy missile cruiser. They'd have the Andrei Vyborg on our tail by sunup.”
Pitt's eyebrows lifted. The “Andrei Vyborg?”
“A Russian oceanographic vessel classified by Navy Intelligence as a spy ship. She's shadowed the Star-buck's search operation for the last six months and she's still out there somewhere hovering around poking for the sub.” Boland paused for a swallow of coffee. “The 101st Fleet has spent too much time and effort to maintain our cover as a merchantman. We can't afford to have it blown now.”
“As you can see,” Denver said, “the Martha Ann is completely divorced from the Navy. She's listed under United States registry as a merchant ship. And we intend to keep it that way, nice and discreet.”
“Isn't the Navy concerned by the fact that the Andrei Vyborg is nosing around alone?”
“She's not alone,” Boland said seriously. “We've four ships still combing the northern search area. The Navy never gives up on a search, no matter how hopeless it seems for survivors. Call it Naval tradition if you will, Major, but it's a damn good feeling when you're floating in the sea, clutching a piece of flotsam after your ship has gone down, knowing that nothing is spared to make your rescue ...”
Boland's lecture was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in!” he shouted.
A young boy, no more than nineteen or twenty, stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a white butcher's cap on his head and a pair of blue coveralls. Ignoring Pitt and Denver, he spoke to Boland.
“Excuse me, sir, the chief engineer reports the engine room is in readiness and the bosun's mate has the crew standing by to cast off.”
Boland glanced at his watch. “Right. Pass the word to cast off and get underway in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir,” replied the young seaman. He saluted, turned, and disappeared into the pilothouse.
Boland smiled smugly at Denver. “Not bad. We're forty minutes ahead of schedule.”
“The copter tied down and secure?” asked Pitt.
Boland nodded. “She's snug. You can make your final flight checks when it's daylight.”
Pitt rose and walked over to the porthole, breathing deeply to cleanse his lungs of the stale smoke from Denver's cigarettes. The harbor air smelled sure in comparison to the stuffy chart room.
“Have you assigned accommodations for Dirk?” Denver asked Boland.
“There's a stateroom next to mine that we keep vacant for VTP's,” Boland replied, his lips curled in a sarcastic grin. “In Pitt's case, we'll make an exception.”
Pitt fixed a long hypnotic stare devoid of anger or animosity at the smoke curling up from the ashtray. He could shrug off a verbal dig with all the feeling of nipping a mosquito off an arm. Hunter was a clever old fox; placing two men with different temperaments together as a team.
“Well, I guess I'd best shove off,” Denver said, breaking the uneasy silence.
“We'll drop you a postcard from time to time,” Pitt said.
“You'd better do more than that,” Denver shot back, his lips curled in a tight smile, but his eyes hard. “I'm going to reserve the bar at the Reef Hotel for three weeks from today. And woe to the man who doesn't show up.” He turned to Boland. “You have the code, Paul. The admiral and I will track you by satellite. When you spot the Starbuck, simply radio under maritime transmission that you've stopped all engines to repair a burned shaft bearing. We'll have your exact position in a millisecond.”
Denver shook hands with Pitt and Boland. “Little else can be said but good luck!” Before the other two men could answer, Denver abruptly wheeled about and strode
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