"Dirk asked me to look up data on a lost ship", Yaeger finallyexplained. "I could wait until working hours, but I'm not much of aparty animal, so I thought I'd get a head start on the project."
"What ship?" the gray-haired man asked.
"The Waratah.
"Ah, yes, the passenger ship that vanished with nearly three hundredpeople off the west coast of South Africa in 1909."
Yaeger was impressed. "You know your ships."
"The Waratah was found by a NUMA South African team several years ago,"stated the intruder matter-of-factly.
"No NUMA team headed by Dirk Pitt found the Waratah that I'm aware of,"said Yaeger.
"Not Pitt's NUMA," said the intruder slowly.
"My NUMA."
"Right," Yaeger said sarcastically. He refocused his attention on themonitor, intending to read the information on the mystery ship as he haddocumented it.
But when he twisted around to correct the stranger, the man haddisappeared.
Yaeger stood and glanced around outside the aircraft, but his visitorwas nowhere to be found. "Nuttier than a fruitcake," he muttered underhis breath.
"Next he'll claim he found the Confederate submarine Hunley." Thestranger climbed the circular staircase to the apartment that rose farabove the hangar floor. He entered and made his way unerringly throughthe unique nautical furnishings into the kitchen. A small man whopeered from owlish eyes through horn-rim glasses was hunched over alarge glass dish he was filling with homemade saisa spooned from amixing bowl. A short man with curly black hair who was built like abeer keg stood over a stove, pan-frying a hamburger.
The intruder nodded at the well-done hamburger and said, "Does St.Julien know about this blasphemy?"
"My friend and I prefer something a little more gluttonous than thosefancy tidbits from St. Julien's highfalutin chef," said Albert Giordinowithout turning from the stove.
Ruth Gunn offered a bag of tortilla chips and held out the bowl of salsato the stranger. "Help yourself."
Between bites, his eyes watering from the abundance of chili peppers,the stranger said, "You two have known Dirk a long time."
"He and I go back to grammar school," said Albert Giordino, flipping thehamburger between two buns loaded with salsa.
"Al, Dirk and I were the first employees Admiral Sandecker hired when hebecame director of NUMA," Gunn said as he swished beer around in hismouth to reduce the heat. "We've been as close as bricks ever since."
"You've experienced many arduous adventures together."
"Tell me." Giordino grinned. "I've got the bruises and broken bones toprove it."
"You have enormous respect for him, don't you?"
"Dirk has carried us through some hairy times," said Gunn. "He neverfails to deliver. He's a man who can be trusted by men and womenalike."
"I'd follow him to hell," said Giordino. "Come to think of it, Ialready have."
"Your warm friendship is to be admired," said the gray-haired man.
Giordino stared into the stranger's eyes. "Don't I know you fromsomewhere?"
"Actually, you and I met twice."
"When and where?"
"No matter." The stranger waved a hand airily. "Iwanted to stop up here and find you, Mr. Giordino, because I understandyou fancy a fine cigar now and then."
"That I do."
Reaching into his breast pocket, the stranger produced a pair of largecigars and handed them to Giordino. Then, with a curt nod, he exitedthe kitchen and moved down the stairs.
Giordino studied the cigars, and his eyes widened as his mouth droppedopen. "My God!" he muttered.
"What is it?" asked Gunn. "You look like you've just seen the VirginMary."
"The cigars," Giordino said vaguely. "They bear the same label asAdmiral Sandecker's private stock. How the hell did he get them?"
He rushed to the window and peered down onto the floor below. He justcaught a glimpse of the gray-haired stranger as he reached the bottom ofthe staircase and melted into the crowd below.
A short, bantam-sized man with a flaming Van Dyke beard stood staring ata 1948 blue Talbot-Lago coupe with elegant bodywork by the French coachbuilder Saoutchik." He seemed lost in thought.
"Fabulous party," said the gray-haired man.
As if his mind were coming out of a fog, Admiral James Sandecker, thefeisty chief director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency,slowly turned.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"A fabulous party."
"Yes, indeed."
"A reunion of sorts, I understand."
Sandecker nodded. "You could call it a twenty-year celebration of NUMAand the people who built it."
"You and Dirk have enjoyed a long and illustrious career."
"We've seen our share of disasters and tragedies."
"But you've achieved some remarkable accomplishments."
"Yes, I must admit the trail has had its enjoyable moments."
"I wish you many more successful achievements in the future."
"I'm not sure I can keep up with the young people any longer," Sandeckersighed.
"You will. You're in better physical condition than most men your age."
"I'm not getting any younger."
"Neither am I," said the stranger. "Neither am I."
"Forgive me," said Sandecker, studying the stranger for the first time.
"But I can't seem to recall your name or where we met."
"We've never met," the gray-haired man said as he motioned to the bar.
"I'm going to freshen my drink.
Can I bring you back something?"
The admiral held up a half-full glass of tomato juice.
"I'm fine, thank you." He watched as the stranger cut through thethrong to the bar. How odd, he thought.
The guy acted as if we had been pals for years, but for the life of me,he doesn't look the least bit familiar.
"Another touch of Don Julio anejo?" asked the bartender, remembering.
"Yes, if you please," replied the uninvited guest.
He glanced to his side as Senator George Pitt stepped up to the bar.
Dirk's father, the senior senator from California, and the gray-hairedman were about the same age and could have almost passed as brothers.
"Enjoying the party?" asked Senator Pitt with a cordial smile.
"Especially the people. I feel as though I'm among old friends."
"Have you had a chance to sample the food? The quail patae and ostrichtartare are excellent."
"I understand you're going to run for your seat in the Senate again,Senator."
George Pitt looked surprised. "That's news to me.
I haven't made up my mind yet."
"You will," said the stranger.
"You sound as if you know me better than I know myself."
The man smiled. "I've known you for a very long time, as it turns out.
I guess you could say we were both there when Dirk was created."
"My memory is slipping," said the senator, at a loss.
"Were you my wife's obstetrician?"
"No, nothing like that." The stranger finished off his drink and setthe glass on the bar. "I wish you the best of luck on having yourprograms passed by Congress."
"Please forgive me, sir, but I can't seem to recall your name."
"In your position you meet too many people to remember them all," Thestranger paused to glance at his watch. "Nice talking to you, Senator,but I'm afraid I must move on."
There were two more guests the gray-haired man wished to meet. He foundone of them sitting in the rear seat of a 1932 Stutz DV-32 town car. Ofall the ladies, Congresswoman Loren Smith was the gray-haired man'sfavorite. He reveled in her incredible violet eyes and long cinnamonhair tastefully styled in a Grecian coiffure. Loren was exquisitelyproportioned with broad shoulders and long legs. She possessed an airof breezy sophistication, yet one could sense a tom boyish daring behindher eyes.
The uninvited guest leaned in the open door. "Good evening
, Loren.
You look pensive."
She tilted her head, unconcerned that an apparent stranger had used herfirst name and not referred to her as Congresswoman. She flashed adisarming smile and stared at him.
She recognized me, he thought. She actually recognized me.
"How is Mr. Periwinkle?" she asked.
"My burro? Last I saw him, he was running wild with a small herd in theMojave Desert. I imagine he's a father several times by now."
"You sold the Box Car Cafe?"
"It retreated under the desert sands."
"This is the last place I expected to meet you again," she said, tryingto read whatever was hidden in his eyes.
"I felt I had to be here, so I crashed the party."
"You didn't receive an invitation?"
"I must have been overlooked." He turned and scanned the crowd silentlyfor a few moments before turning his attention back to Loren.
"Have you seen Pitt?"
"I talked to him about twenty minutes ago. He must be mingling with theother guests."
"Perhaps I'll catch him on the way out."
"You're leaving so soon? The party is just beginning to getinteresting."
He hated to tear himself away from those violet eyes. "I must go.
Good to have seen you again, Loren."
"Give my regards to Mr. Periwinkle."
"If I see him, I shall."
She reached out and touched his arm. "Odd, but it feels as if I'veknown you most of my life."
He shook his head and smiled. "No, it is I who have known you. Thiswill be my only chance to tell you that you have been the girl of mydreams."
He left her in the Stutz alone with her memories and an expression ofnostalgia on her face as he merged with the guests and headed toward thedoor.
When he stopped to retrieve his overcoat, he paused and looked aroundthe floor of the hangar once more, at the wondrous cars, the fascinatingpeople, and wished he could stay longer. There were so many others inthe hangar he had known over the past thirty years, whom he didn't havetime to talk with. But he realized the illusion was fleeting and timewas short.
He was about to step out when Dirk Pitt walked in from outside.
"I thought I had missed you," said the stranger.
"One of my guests noticed one of his tires was flat when he arrived, soI changed it for him."
"Saint Dirk to the rescue."
"That's me," Pitt said jovially, "the salvation of lost animals andlittle old ladies who need to cross streets."
"You wouldn't be Dirk Pitt if you didn't betray a hint of compassion nowand then."
Pitt looked at the older man steadily. "Why is it that when we meet I'mnever supposed to remember who you are?"
"Because I plan it that way. It wouldn't do for us to become bosombuddies like you and Giordino. Better I make an occasional appearanceto set you back on course before quietly exiting stage right."
"I'm not sure I appreciate all you put me through.
I have more scars, physical and mental, than I care to count."
"Adventure takes its toll on heroes and villains," said the gray-hairedman philosophically.
"That's easy for you to say. I hope I fare better in the nextadventure."
"One only knows where the plot will take us."
"Will there be a next time? I hear talk of you retiring."
"The thought has crossed my mind. I'm finding it more difficult to becreative as the years pass."
"A lot of people are counting on us," Pitt said sincerely.
The gray-haired man's face had a sad look to it. it was almost as if hehated to leave. "Good-bye, Dirk Pitt. Until we meet again."
"Good-bye, Clive Cussler. Stay healthy, and never age."
Cussler laughed. "That's certainly something you'll never have to worryabout. When we started out together, we were the same age. And nowlook at us."
They shook hands. Then Cussler closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found himself standing on the empty roadbeneath the solitary light pole.
The hangar, the people, the cars were all gone, vanished as though theyhad never existed.
Within five minutes the cabbie returned and picked him up. Pulling thedoor closed, Cussler settled back into the seat as his mind traveledback over the years to 1965, when he first sat down at a typewriter.
He and his friends from the hangar had traveled every corner of theearth and weathered every adventure conceivable. The torment, actionand joy they had experienced were legendary. The people they had alltouched numbered in the millions. Perhaps it was time for a break, hethought. Maybe retirement was not such a bad idea after all.
"Where to?" asked the driver.
"The airport terminal. United Airlines. It's time for me to go home."
Shifting the cab into drive, the cabbie pulled onto the main roadleading to the security gate. The harvest moon had risen, and asCussler turned and looked back, he recreated the illusion of Pitt'shangar in his mind. No, he couldn't retire. Already the plot for thenext Pitt adventure was forming in his mind.
An Interview with Clive Cussler
CRAIG DIRGO: Let's talk about your early life for a moment.
CLIVE CUSSLER: I was born in Aurora, Illinois, on July 15, 1931, at 2:00A.M a habit I kept later in life when closing bars. I was the onlychild of Eric and Amy Cussler. My mother liked the name Clive, since itcame from a well-known British movie actor of the time, Clive Brook. Mymiddle name was Eric after my father. I'd like to think they never hadanother child because they thought it was highly unlikely they'd dobetter, but the truth of the matter was that many families had only onechild in those days simply because they couldn't afford to raise more.
It was the depths of the Depression, and Dad was only making eighteendollars a week. He workedout a deal with the baby doctor, paying him fifty cents a week againstthe twenty-five-dollar fee for my delivery. After one payment, thekindly old doctor told Dad to forget it, saying facetiously that hewould make it up on a rich widow patient from Chicago. Thus, I onlycost fifty cents to come into the world.
CRAIG DIRGO: Tell us about your parents.
CLIVE CUSSLER: My mother, the former Amy Hunnewell, was a beautifuldark-haired lady whose ancestors came to America from England in 1650and settled in Boston. She was born in 1901 in St. Joseph, Missouri.
Her father worked for the railroad and later retired to run a fishinglodge and a saloon in Minnesota, wisely selling the latter just twoweeks before Prohibition was voted in. Mom was vivacious and humorousand always teasing Dad and me. She also had a creative side that wasnever fully nurtured but was passed along to her son. She often told ofgoing to a carnival when she was sixteen with her bevy of girlfriendsand paying twenty-five cents to a Gypsy lady to tell their fortunes. Theobvious question among young girls was: Who will I marry? The Gypsyfortune-teller told Mom she would have a famous daughter. A near misson that one. As for her husband, the Gypsy said he was tall, dark andin the Army, wearing a gray uniform.
Mom and her friends laughed at the revelation.
America had just entered World War I, and they all knew that theAmerican doughboys, as soldiers were called then, wore khaki uniforms.
Little did Mom know that her future tall and dark husband was born andraised in Germany and was serving in the Kaiser's army on the WesternFront. And, oh yes, the Germans wore gray uniforms.
My dad, Eric Cussler, had a tough life when he was young. His fatherwas abusive and didn't want his young son under his feet, so he shippedhim off to military academy when he was only eleven years old. When Dadturned sixteen, he served in an infantry brigade as a sergeant, fightingin the trenches on the Western Front. After a leave home, he waspromoted to lieutenant and ordered to a hell hole called Verdun.
On the march back to the front, British aircraft strafed his column, andhe was hit by a bullet in the knee. In the hospital, he developedgangrene and came within an inch of dying. He owed his life to acaptured British surgeon who took a per
sonal interest in Dad due to hisyoung age.
Because his knee was irreparably damaged and Dad would always walk witha stiff leg, the British surgeon ingeniously operated and slightly bentthe frozen knee so that Dad's limp would not be nearly as pronounced asChester's in Gunsmoke. Dad recovered and after the war worked in a bankbefore attending Heidelberg University, where he received a degree inaccountancy. While working in the bank, he made a small but tidy nestegg on the European stock market.