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He entered the immense, equipment-laden communications room, which covered fifteen thousand square feet and was manned by a staff of forty-five engineers and technicians. Six satellites, dispersed in hovering orbits above the earth, interconnected the agency with weather stations, oceanographic research expeditions, and a hundred other ongoing marine projects around the world.
The communications director looked up at Sandecker's entry. He was quite familiar with the admiral's routine.
"Projection room B, if you please, Admiral."
Sandecker acknowledged with a curt nod and stepped into what appeared to be a small movie theater.
He sank into a soft chair and patiently waited until an image began to focus on the screen.
A tall, lanky man three thousand miles away stared out of the screen from piercing eyes. His hair was black and he grinned from a face that looked like a rock that dared ocean surf to crash over it.
Dirk Pitt was sitting tilted back in a chair with his feet planted irreverently on an electronic console. He held up a sandwich that displayed a missing bite and made an open gesture. "Sorry, Admiral, you caught me in the middle of a snack."
"You've never stood on formality before," Sandecker grumbled goodnaturedly. "Why start now?"
"It's colder than a polar bear's rectum inside this floating abortion. We burn off a ton of calories just trying to keep warm.
"The Doodlebug is not a cruise ship."
Pitt set the sandwich aside. "Maybe so, but next trip the crew would appreciate a little more thought being given to the heating system."
"How deep are you?"
Pitt consulted a dial. "Seven hundred and thirty feet. Water temperature is twenty-nine degrees.
Conditions not exactly conducive to a game of water polo."
"Any problems?"
"None," Pitt answered, his grin still in place. "The Doodlebug is performing like a perfect lady."
"We're running out of time," said Sandecker evenly. "I expect a call from the new president at any moment, demanding to know what we're up to."
"The crew and I will stick around until the fuel is gone, Admiral. I can promise you no more."
"Any mineral contacts?"
"We've passed over large iron deposits, commercially obtainable uranium, thorium, gold and manganese.
Almost every mineral except our primary target."
"Does the geology still look promising?"
"Strengthening indications, but nothing that looks like a structural uplift, anticline or salt dome."
"I'm hoping for a stratigraphic trap. It's got the greatest potential."
"The Doodlebug can't produce a paying sandbar, Admiral, only find one."
"Not to change the subject, but keep a sharp eye in your rearview mirror. I can't bail you out if you're caught trespassing on the wrong side of the street."
"I've been meaning to ask you, what's to stop an audience from triangulating my video transmissions?"
"One shot in forty."
"Sir?"
"NUMA's satellite communications network has a direct link with forty other stations. They all receive and instantaneously relay your transmissions. The lag is less than a millisecond. To anyone tuned into this sending frequency your voice and image come from forty different locations around the globe. There is no way they can single out the original."
