Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex Read Free Page A

view. Pitt slowed the car as a uniformed guard came out of the office. Pitt pulled out his driver's license and his identification papers from his wallet, and signed in the visitors' logbook. The young marine simply saluted and waved Pitt through.
    Pitt then asked the guard for directions to Admiral Hunter's headquarters. The marine pulled a pad and pencil from his breast pocket and politely drew a map which he handed to Pitt. He saluted once more.
    Pitt pulled up and stopped in front of an inconspicuous concrete building near the dock area. He would have passed it but for a small, neatly stenciled sign that read: HEADQUARTERS, 101st SALVAGE FLEET.
    He turned off the ignition, picked up the damp package, and left the car. Passing through the entrance, Pitt mentally wished he'd had the foresight to carry a sport shirt and a pair of slacks with him to the beach. He stepped to a desk where a seaman in the Navy summer white uniform mechanically punched a typewriter. A sign on the desk read:
     SEAMAN G. YAGER.
    “Excuse me,” Pitt murmured self-consciously, Td like to see Admiral Hunter."
    The typist looked up casually, then his eyes almost burst from their sockets.
    “My God, buddy, are you off your gourd? What are you trying to pull, coming here wearing nothing but a bathing suit? If the old man catches you, you're dead. Now beat it quick or you'll wind up in the brig.”
    “I know I'm not dressed for an afternoon social,” Pitt spoke quietly and pleasantly, “but it's damned urgent that I see the admiral.”
    The seaman rose from the desk, his face turning red. “Stop clowning around,” he said loudly. “Either you go back to your quarters and sleep it off, or 1'll call the Shore Patrol.”
    “Then call them!” Pitt's voice was suddenly sharp.
    “Look, buddy,” the seaman's tone became one of controlled irritation. “Do yourself a favor. Go back to your ship and make a formal request to see the admiral through the chain of command.”
    “That won't be necessary, Yager.” The voice behind them carried the finesse of a bulldozer scraping a cement highway.
    Pitt turned and found himself locking eyes with a tall wizened man standing stiffly within an inner office doorway. He was dressed in white from collar to shoes and trimmed in gold braid beginning at the arms and working up to the rank boards on the shoulders. The hair was bushy and white, very nearly matching the tired cadaverous face beneath. Only the eyes seemed alive, and they glared curiously at the canister in Pitt's hand.
    “I'm Admiral Hunter, and I'll give you just five minutes, big boy, so you better make it worth my while. And bring that object with you,” he said, pointing to the canister.
    “Yes sir,” was all Pitt could reply.
    Hunter had already spun and was striding into his office. Pitt followed and if he wasn't embarrassed before he stepped into the admiral's office, there was no doubt of his discomfort now that he was inside. There were three other naval officers besides Hunter seated around an ancient, immaculately polished conference table. Their faces registered astonishment at the sight of Pitt standing half naked with the strange-looking package under one arm.
    Hunter routinely made the introductions, but Pitt wasn't fooled by the phony courtesy; the admiral was trying to frighten him with rank while studying Pitt's eyes for a reaction. Pitt learned that the tall, blond lieutenant commander with the John Kennedy face was Paul Boland, the 101st Fleet's Executive Officer. The heavyset captain who was perspiring profusely, possessed the odd name of Orl Cinana, the officer in command of Hunter's small fleet of salvage ships. The short, almost gnomelike creature, who hurried over and pumped Pitt's hand, introduced himself as Commander Burdette Denver, aide to the admiral. He stared at Pitt, as if trying to remember his face.
    “Okay, big boy.” That term again. Pitt would have given a month's pay to ram his knuckles against Hunter's