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Hunter gazed at Pitt. Twenty years ago it would have been Hunter on the other side of the table, staking his life on a conviction, ready to gamble away a service career on something he believed in. Giving up a ship, in this case, the Starbuck, ran counter to the traditions he had served since his first day at the Naval Academy. Yet, he had never disobeyed an order in his life, and there were times he wished he had. There might be a chance, an almost hopeless, impossible chance. Something that Admiral Sandecker had said about Pitt came back to him. “With this man, almost anything is possible.”
He made his decision. “Okay,” he said, “you bought yourself a show. There’ll be hell to pay in Washington; but we’ll worry about that later. Whatever plan you’ve got, it had better be good.”
Pitt relaxed. “Simply put; we put a trained submarine crew inside the Starbuck and order a squad of marines to shut down Delphi’s transmitter before 0500 hours tomorrow.”
“Easier said than attempted,” muttered Hunter. “We’ve less than fifteen hours.”
For several moments Pitt was silent When he spoke, he sounded cold and grim.
“There’s a solution. It’ll cost the taxpayers a few bucks. But it has a better than fifty-fifty chance at succeeding.”
Hunter stirred uneasily as Pitt explained his plan. He reluctantly gave his permission, thinking that either the plan was insane, or that Pitt hadn’t told him all of it. He guessed the latter.
The ancient Douglas C-54 aircraft sat poised on the runway, aiming its bow down the black asphalt between the bordering rows of colored marker lights. The wings and fuselage quivered in symphony with the four vibrating engines as their prop wash hurled dust and debris under the horizontal stabilizer into the night. Then the plane began to move forward, gathering speed with agonizing slowness as the runway lights reflected off the shiny aluminum surface and flickered across the windows. Finally it lifted off the concrete and swept elegantly over the lights of Honolulu, making a wide left bank over Diamond Head and heading north into the tradewinds. Soon Pitt’s hand eased the four-throttle arms back and cocked an ear to the roaring engines as he checked the RPM and torque gauges, satisfied that the shuddering and noisy relic would get him where he wanted to go.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ace. Have you ever ditched an airplane in the drink?” This from a short, barrel-chested man in the copilot’s seat.
“Not lately,” Pitt replied.
The dark, curly-haired little man threw his arms in the air and faked a pained facial expression. “Oh, Lord, why did I let myself get conned into this insane comedy?” He turned and offered Pitt a crooked smile.
“I guess I’m just so good-natured at heart that everybody takes advantage of me.”
“Don’t hand me that crap,” Pitt blurted. I’ve known you since kindergarten-no one’s ever taken advantage of you.”
Al Giordino slouched down in his seat and brushed a straggling lock of black hair from one eye. “Is that so? What about the time I worked for months selling violets on street corners so I could take that gorgeous little blond cheerleader to the high school prom?”
“Well, what about it?”
“God, what gall... well, what about it?” he mimicked. “You bastard. When we got to the dance you told her I had the clap ... she wouldn’t have anything to do with me for the rest of the evening.”
“Ah yes, now I remember,” chuckled Pitt. “She even insisted I take her home.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, reminiscing. “What a soft, cuddly little creature she was. It’s too bad you two didn’t hit it off.”
Giordino’s face registered blank astonishment “Talk about cavalier treatment.”
Pitt and Giordino were close friends; they were classmates in both high school and college. Giordino held his hands aloft and stretched. He was short, no more than five feet four in height, his skin dark and swarthy, and his Italian ancestry clearly evident in his black curly hair. Complete opposites in appearance, Pitt and Giordino were ideally suited to one another; one of the primary reasons why Pitt had insisted that Giordino become his Assistant Special Projects Director. Their escapades, much to the chagrin of Admiral Sandecker, were already legend throughout the ocean-ographic agency.
“Won’t Hickam Field’s commanding officer be a mite irritated when he finds out we broke his private airplane?” asked Giordino.
“He can’t wait. As soon as this old museum piece lands in the drink, the good general will put in a requisition for a new jet transport.”
Giordino sighed wistfully. “Ah, to own your own airplane. I’d like an antique B-17 Flying Fortress with a king-sized bed and a wet bar stocked with booze.”
“And you can paint out the Air Force insignia on the wings and replace it with a pair of bunnies.”
“Not bad,” Giordino said. “Just for that, I might even let you borrow it now and then, for a small fee, of course.”
Pitt gave up. He looked out the side cockpit window at the sea below and spotted the lights of a merchantman headed in a northeasterly direction toward San Francisco.
He could discern no whitecaps; the black ocean seemed smooth and unbroken. A calm sea is best for impact, he reflected, but it also makes it difficult to judge height.
“How much further to your mysterious playground?” asked Giordino.
“Another five hundred miles,” Pitt replied.
“At the rate you’re pushing this old whale, we should be there in less than two hours.” Giordino propped his feet on the instrument panel “We’re already at twelve thousand feet. When do you want to start your descent?”
“In about an hour and forty minutes,” Pitt answered. “I want to take the last leg on the deck. I’m not taking any chances on detection until we set this baby right on the front porch.”
