Very tenderly, as if maneuvering a cargo of fragile crystal, the pilot eased Vixen 03 toward shore.
Pitt and the others turned their backs as a cloud of spray, kicked up by the rotor blades, swirled in from the lake. Giordino, ignoring the gusting wetness, moved to where the pilot could plainly see him, motioning with his hands while directing the lowering operation over the earphone transmitter.
Five minutes was all it took for the Dumbo to release its load and disappear again over the trees. Then they all stood there staring, no one making a move for the wreckage. Steiger murmured a command to his Air Force detail and they smartly marched to the truck and began unloading the coffins, setting them on the ground in an orderly row. One of Pitt's men produced a ladder and propped it against the exposed rear of the upper cargo deck. Pitt remained silent and indicated with his hand that Admiral Bass be the first to enter the aircraft.
Once inside, Bass made his way around the canisters to the control-cabin doorway. He stood immobile for several seconds, looking pale and very ill.
"Are you all right, sir?" Pitt asked, coming up behind him.
The voice that answered was remote and far away. "I can't seem to bring myself to look at them."
"It would serve no purpose," said Pitt gently.
Bass leaned heavily against the bulkhead, the agony in his chest growing. "A minute to get my bearings. Then I'll take stock of the warheads."
Steiger approached Pitt, gingerly stepping around the canisters as though he were afraid to touch them. "Whenever you give the word I'll bring my men on board to recover the remains of the crew."
"Might as well begin with our unexplained guest." Pitt tilted his head at a jumble of loose canisters. "You'll find him strapped to the floor about ten feet to your right."
Steiger searched in the area Pitt instructed and shrugged, his facial expression blank. "I don't find anything."
"You're practically standing on top of him," Pitt said.
"What gives, for Christ's sake?" Steiger demanded. "I'm telling you there's nothing here."
"You must be blind." Pitt pushed Steiger aside and looked down. The straps were still attached to the cargo tie-down rings but the body in the old khaki uniform had vanished. Pitt stared dumbly at the space on the floor while his mind stumbled to grasp the reality of the missing remains. He knelt and picked up the rotting straps. They had been cut.
Steiger's eyes reflected doubt. "That water was like ice the day you dived. Perhaps your mind saw something…" His voice trailed off but the implication was clear.
Pitt rose to his feet. "He was here," he said, expecting no further argument and receiving none.
"Could he have washed out the aft opening during the lift operation?" Steiger offered lamely.
"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 God's name is that?"
Pitt wasted no time in answering. He knew.
He found Admiral Bass 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. Bass 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…" Bass repeated.
"All safe in their canisters," Pitt reassured him.
"No… no… you don't understand." His voice was a hoarse whisper now. "The canisters… I counted them… twenty-eight."
Bass'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 vise-like grip from his wrist and gently squeezed Bass's hand. "I'll see to it, Admiral. That's a promise."
Bass blinked his dull 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 Bass 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 Bass, Vixen 03 did not depart Buckley Field carrying twentyeight 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."
42
The National Underwater and Marine Agency building, a tubular structure sheeted in green reflective glass, 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 shoulder, 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 pass 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 Bass?"
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 Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver reports his condition as stable. If he survives the next fortyeight 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 thou sand 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."