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Knight waved a greeting and climbed on board, exhaling clouds of vapor.
He reached inside his parka and produced a leather-covered flask.
"A little something from the sick bay. Cognac. Can't begin to guess the brand. Thought you might find a good use for it."
"I think you just sent Giordino to heaven," Pitt said, laughing.
"I'd rather be in hell," Giordino muttered. He tipped the flask and savored the brandy as it trickled into his stomach. Then he raised his hand again and made a fist. "I I'm cured."
"Might as well settle in," said Knight. "We've been ordered to remain on station for the next twenty-four hours. If you'll pardon the awful pun, they want to keep us on ice until the cleanup is over."
"How are the survivors doing?" inquired Pitt.
"Miss Kamil is resting comfortably. Incidentally, she asked to see you.
Something about having dinner together in New York. "
"Dinner?" asked Pitt innocently.
"fullny thing," Knight continued. "Just before Doc Gale surgically repaired the flight attendant's torn knee ligaments, she mentioned a dinner date with you too."
Pitt had a pure-as-the-driven-snow expression on his face. "I guess they must be hungry."
Giordino rolled his eyes and tilted the flask again. "I I've heard this song before."
"And the steward?"
"Rough shape," Knight replied. "But Doc thinks he'll pull through. His name is Rubin. While he was slipping under the anesthetic he babbled some wild story about the pilot murdering the first and second officers and then vanishing in flight."
"Maybe not so wild," said Pitt. "The pilot's body has yet to be found."
"Not my territory," Knight shagged. "I've got enough to worry about without getting bogged down in an unsolved air mystery.
"Where do we stand on the Russian sub?" asked Giordino.
"We keep the lid on our discovery until we can report face to face with the big brass at the Pentagon. Stupid to fumble away the ball away through a communications leak. A piece of luck, for us at any rate, the plane crashing. Gives us the logical excuse to set a course for home and our dock in Portsmouth as soon as the survivors can be airlifted to a stateside hospital. Let's hope the unexpected diversion will confuse Soviet intelligence analysts enough to get them off our back."
"Don't count on it," Giordino said, his face beginning to glow. "If the Russians had the slightest suspicion we struck pay dirt, and they're paranoid enough to think our side caused the plane crash as a diversion, they'll come charging in with salvage ships, a protective fleet of warships, a swarm of covering aircraft and, when they pinpoint the sub, raise and tow it back to their station at Severomorsk on the Kola Peninsula."
"Or blow it into smithereens," Pitt added.
"Destroy it?"
"The Soviets don't have major salvage technology. Their prime objective would be to make certain no one else laid hands on it."
Giordino passed the cognac to Pitt. "No sense debating the cold war here. Why don't we return to the ship, where it's nice and warm?"
"Might as well," said Knight. "You two have already done more than your share."
Pitt stretched and began zipping up his parka. "Think I'll take a hike."
"You're not coming back with us?"
"In a bit. Thought I'd look in on the archaeologists and see how they are."
"Wasted trip. Doc sent one of his medics over to their camp. He's already reported back. Except for a few bruises and strains they were all fine."
"Might find it interesting to see what they've dug up," Pitt persisted.
