Vixen 03 Read Free Page A

Units have combed every inch of land and sea for fifty miles along either
    side of Vixen O3’s plotted course.”
    “What’s your opinion?”
    “My guess is her remains are resting on the seabed of the Pacific Ocean,” answered Bass.
    “You feel she made it past the West Coast?”
    “I do.”
    “Let us pray you’re right, Admiral. God help us if she crashed on land.”
    “If she had, we’d have known by now,” Bass said.
    “Yes”-the President hesitated-“I guess we would at that.” Another pause. “Close the file on Vixen 03. Bury it, and bury it deep.”
    “I’ll see to it, Mr. President.”
    Bass set the receiver in its cradle and sank back in his chair, a defeated man at the end of a long and otherwise distinguished Navy career.
    He stared at the map again. “Where? ‘ he said aloud to himself. “Where are you? Where in hell did you go?”
    The answer never came. No clue to the disappearance of the illfated Stratocruiser ever turned up. It was as though Major Vylander and his crew had flown into oblivion.

1
Vixen 03
    Colorado-September 1988
    Dirk Pitt released his hold on sleep, yawned a deep, satisfying yawn, and absorbed his surroundings. It had been dark when he arrived at the mountain cabin and the flames in the great moss-rock fireplace along with the light from the pungent-smelling kerosene lamps had not illuminated the knotty-pine interior to its best advantage.
    His vision sharpened on an old Seth Thomas clock clinging to one wall. He had set and wound the clock the previous night; it had seemed the thing to do. Next he focused on the massive cobwebbed head of an elk that stared down at him through dusty glass eyes. Slightly beyond the elk was a picture window that offered a breathtaking vista of the craggy Sawatch mountain range, deep in the Colorado Rockies.
    As the last strands of sleep receded, Pitt found himself faced with his first decision of the day: whether to allow his eyes to bask in the majesty °f the scenery or to feast them on the smoothly contoured body of Colorado congresswoman Loren Smith, who sat naked on a quilted rug, engrossed in yoga exercises.
    Pitt discerningly opted for Congresswoman Smith.
    She was sitting cross-legged, in the lotus position, leaning back and
     
    resting her elbows and head on the rug. The exposed nest between her thighs and the small tautened mounds on her chest, Pitt decided, put the granite summits of the Sawatch to shame.
    “What do you call that unladylike contortion?” he asked.
    “The Fish,” she replied, without moving. “It’s for firming up the bosom.”
    “Speaking as a man,” Pitt said with mock pompousness, “I do not approve of rock-hard boobs.”
    “Would you prefer them limp and saggy?” Her violet eyes angled in his direction.
    “Well … not exactly. But perhaps a little silicone here and a little silicone there …”
    “That’s the trouble with the masculine mind,” she snapped, sitting up and brushing back her long cinnamon hair. “You think all women should have balloon-sized mammaries like those insipid drones on the centerfolds of chauvinist magazines.”
    “Wishing will make it so.”
    She threw him a pouting look. “Too bad. You’ll have to make do with my thirty-four B-cuppers. They’re all I’ve got.”
    He reached out, wrapped an iron arm around her torso, and dragged her half on, half off the bed. “Colossal or petite”-he leaned down and lightly kissed each nipple-“let no woman accuse Dirk Pitt of discrimination.”
    She arched up and bit his ear. “Four whole days alone together. No phones, no committee meetings, no cocktail parties, no aides to hassle me. It’s almost too good to be true.” Her hand crept under the covers and she caressed his stomach. “How about a little sport before breakfast?”
    “Ah, the magic word.”
    She threw him a crooked smile. ” ‘Sport’ or ‘breakfast’?”
    “What you said before, your yoga position.” Pitt leaped out of bed, sending Loren