Giordino leaned over and tapped a wide dial in the middle of the instrument panel. "We might do it so long as that underwater position marker keeps beeping away."

Pitt glanced at the homing device and adjusted his course until the needle behind the circular gla.s.s settled between the proper markings.

"The signal should become stronger the closer we get"

"Just get us within five hundred yards," Giordino said hopefully. "And Selma Snoop will take us the rest of the way." He nodded toward a small blue watertight box, a battery-operated radio direction finder tightly strapped to the arm of his seat

"You sure Selma is checked out?" Pitt said.

"She works," Giordino said patiently. "Like I said, put us down within five hundred yards of the beeper and ni put us down on the Starbuck"

Pitt smiled. In spite of his indolent att.i.tude, Giordino was a perfectionist who rose to every occasion with a style that always amazed Pitt He motioned silently to Giordino and lifted his hands from the control column. Giordino nodded, and took over command of the aircraft as Pitt unreeled from the cramped pilot's seat, left the c.o.c.kpit, and moved aft into the pa.s.senger section of the fuselage.

Seated in the plush comfort of the general's private transport were twenty men-probably, Pitt mused, twenty of the most resigned men on the face of the earth. They were resigned to death; there was no other way to describe it. True, they volunteered, but the prospect of adventure had overridden their desire for a long and fruitful life. Each man was incased in a black rubber wet suit with the zipper pulled open to allow cool air to evaporate the sweat oozing from his skin. Behind them, lashed to cargo rings on the floor, rested an a.s.sortment of equipment and variously shaped bundles. And toward the rear of the fuselage was a row of air tanks, firmly secured and shielded to prevent them from hurtling across the compartment during the touchdown.

The nearest diver, a blond man with Scandinavian features, gazed up at Pitt's arrival. "Madness, sheer madness."

Lieutenant Commander Samuel Crowhaven was definitely a very unhappy man. "A promising career in the submarine service and I have to throw it away by smashing into the ocean in the middle of the night."

"No great danger. It's really no different than driving a car into a garage," Pitt said soothingly. "I wouldn't worry too much..."

Crowhaven was genuinely surprised. "Like driving a car into a... you've got to be kidding."

"Easing this bird down on the water is my responsibility, Commander. If I were you, I'd worry about what comes next."

"I'm an engineering officer on a submarine," Crow-haven said morosely. I'm not cut out to play commando."

"I promise not to murder you and your men on landing," Pitt said quietly. "And Giordino will get you to the Starbuck. After that, it's your show."

"Are you sure she's dry?"

"Except for the forward torpedo compartment, she was dry when I left her."

If nothing's been touched, I can have the torpedo room pumped clean and the sub underway inside of four hours."

"The schedule allows for four and a half. That only leaves you a safety margin of thirty minutes."

"Not much time."

"It's all you've got."

Crowhaven shook his head sorrowfully. "Suicidal, that's what it is."

"You realize, of course, that you may have to fight your way into the sub."

"As I've said, I'm no commando. That's why I invited those steely eyed killers from the SEAL's."

Pitt looked at tibe five men Crowhaven jerked his thumb at. Members of the Navy's select security force. There was no denying that they were a hard-looking lot They sat off by themselves, constantly checking and rechecking their equipment and weapons- big, silent, purposeful-looking men, highly trained for fighting on land or underwater. Pitt turned back to Crowhaven.

"And the others?"

"Submariners," Crowhaven said proudly. "Not many to operate a submarine the size of the Starbuck, but if anyone can bring it back to Pearl Harbor, they can. Providing one of the reactors is doing its thing. If we have to start cold, well never get her clear in time." "You'll have a reactor," Pitt said confidently. He put up a calm front. In truth, there was no way of knowing whether the sub was still there, or if the port reactor was still pounding its atoms. Wait and hope: the phrase crossed his mind again. There was little else he could do except face the obstacles when the time came. "But if you have problems, get your men out of there by 0430."

"I'm no hero," Crowhaven said dolefully. Pitt patted him on the shoulder, turned, and walked back to the c.o.c.kpit

Admiral Hunter glanced at his watch for the twentieth time in the last hour. He mashed out the cigarette he'd been nervously puffing, rose from his chair, and crossed the busy operations room to peer at the huge map covering the wall. Behind him Denver was slouched in a stiff-backed chair, his feet balanced on the back of another chair. Denver didn't fool Hunter for a moment with his display of indifference. When the message came on the progress of the aircraft, he jerked upright almost instantly.

"Big Daddy, this is the Kid. Do you read? Over." Pitt's voice crackled through the amplifier mounted over the radio set.

Hunter and Denver were both leaning over the operator before he acknowledged.

"Big Daddy here, Kid. Go ahead. Over."

"Prepare crew for pit stop. Am going for the checkered flag. Over." It was Pitt's signal that he was descending to wave top level and beginning his final dash prior to ditching the plane in the water over the seamount

The operator answered in the microphone. "Trophy awaits winner. Over."

"See you in the winner's circle, Big Dad ..."

The voice over the speaker stopped in midword.

Hunter s.n.a.t.c.hed the microphone. "Come in, Kid. This is Big Daddy. Over."

There was a pause. Then the voice came in stronger with a slight change in tone. "Sorry, Big Daddy, for the delay. What are your instructions? Over."

"Instructions?" asked Hunter slowly. "You request instructions?"

"Yes, please comply."

As if in a trance, Hunter set the microphone down and switched off the transmission switch.

"Dear G.o.d, they're onto us," he said mechanically.

Denver couldn't hide his shock. "That wasn't Pitfs voice," he said incredulously. "Delphi's transmitter must have invaded the frequency."

Hunter slowly sunk into a chair. 1 should have never gone along on this insane scheme. Now there's no way Crowhaven can communicate with us once he's entered the Starbuck."

"He could transmit in code through the communications computers," Denver offered.

"Have you forgotten?" Hunter said impatiently. The communications computers weren't installed in time for the Starbuck's sea trials. The radio can only be operated on standard frequencies. Until the marines move in on Delphi's transmitter, he'll be monitoring every open frequency on the air. Even if Delphi isn't wise to our exact plans as of this moment, h.e.l.l know he's been had the instant Crowhaven begins sending..."

"And attack the Starbuck or blow it to pieces," Denver finished.

Hunter's voice dropped until it was barely distinguishable. "G.o.d help them," he murmured. "He's the only one who can now."

Pitt ripped off his earphones and hurled them on the c.o.c.kpit floor. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's cut us off," he snapped. "If Delphi guesses what we're about, he'll lay a trap sure as h.e.l.l."

"A wonderful feeling knowing that Tve got friends like you," Giordino said with a sarcastic smile.