Acclaimed for his exploits on land and under the sea that include his discoveries of the pre-Columbian Byzantine shipwreck Serapis off Greenland, the incredible cache from the Library of Alexandria, and the La Dorada treasure in Cuba, among others, Pitt also directed the raising of the Titanic.
The son of Senator George Pitt of California and his wife, Susan, Pitt was born and raised in Newport Beach, California. He attended the Air Force Academy, where he played quarterback on the Falcon football team, and graduated twelfth in his class. Becoming a pilot, Pitt remained in active service for ten years, rising to the rank of major. He then became permanently attached to NUMA at the request of Admiral James Sandecker.
The admiral said briefly yesterday that Dirk Pitt was an extremely resourceful and audacious man.
During the course of his career, he had saved many lives, including those of Sandecker himself and the President during an incident in the Gulf of Mexico. Pitt never lacked for ingenuity or creativity. No project was too difficult for him to accomplish.
He was not a man you can forget.
Sandecker sat on the running board of the Stutz in Pitt's hangar and stared sadly at the obituary in the newspaper. "He did so much, it seems an injustice to condense his life to so few words."
Giordino, his face expressionless, walked around the Messerschmitt Me-262A-la Luftwaffe jet fighter.
True to his word, Gert Halder had looked the other way when Pitt and Giordino had smuggled the aircraft out of the bunker, hauled it on a truck under canvas, and arranged for it to be hoisted on board a Danish cargo ship bound for the States. Only two days earlier the ship had arrived in Baltimore, where Giordino had waited to transport the aircraft to Pitt's hangar in Washington. Now it sat on its tricycle landing gear amid the other classic machinery of Pitt's collection.
"Dirk should have been here to see this," Giordino said heavily. He ran his hand across the nose of the mottled green fuselage with its light gray underbelly and stared at the muzzles of the four thirty-millimeter cannon that poked from the forward cowl. "He'd have loved to get his hands on it."
It was a moment neither of them had foreseen, could never imagine. Sandecker felt as though he'd lost a son, Giordino a brother.
Giordino stopped and stared up at the apartment above the classic autos and aircraft. "I should have been in the DSMV with him."
Sandecker looked up. "Then you would be missing and maybe dead too."
"I'll always regret not being with him," Giordino said vaguely.
"Dirk died in the sea. It's the way he'd have wanted it."
"He might be standing here now if one of Big Ben's manipulators had been fitted with a scoop instead of cutting tools," Giordino persisted.
Sandecker gave a weary shake of his head. "Allowing your imagination to run riot won't bring him back."
Giordino's eyes lifted to Pitt's living quarters. "I keep thinking all I have to do is yell for him, and he'll come down."
"The same thought has crossed my mind," Sandecker admitted.
Suddenly the door of the apartment opened, and they momentarily stiffened, then relaxed as Toshie emerged carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. With incredible supple grace, she delicately wound down the iron circular stairway and glided toward Sandecker and Giordino.
Sandecker wrinkled his brows in puzzlement. "A mystery to me how you sweet-talked Jordan into having her committed into your custody."
"No mystery." Giordino grinned. "A trade-off. He made her a present to me in return for keeping my mouth shut about the Kaiten Project."
"You're lucky he didn't encase your feet in cement and throw you in the Potomac."
"I was bluffing."
"Ray Jordan is no dummy," Sandecker said dryly. "He knew that."
"Okay, so she was a gift for services rendered."
Toshie set the tray on the running board of the Stutz next to the admiral. "Tea, gentlemen?"
"Yes, thank you," Sandecker said, rising to his feet.
Toshie smoothly settled to her knees and performed a brief tea ceremony before passing the steaming cups. Then she rose and admiringly stared at the Messerschmitt.
"What a beautiful airplane," she murmured, overlooking the grime, the flattened tires, and the faded paint.
"I'm going to restore it to its original state," said Giordino quietly, mentally picturing the dingy aircraft as it looked when new. "As a favor to Dirk."
"You talk like he's going to be resurrected," Sandecker said tightly.
"He's not dead," Giordino muttered flatly. Tough though he was, his eyes grew moist.
"May I help?" asked Toshie.
Giordino self-consciously wiped his eyes and looked at her curiously. "I'm sorry, pretty lady, help me what?"
"Repair the airplane."
Giordino and Sandecker exchanged blank glances. "You're a mechanic?" asked Giordino.
"I helped my father build and maintain his fishing boat. He was very proud when I mended his ailing engine.
Giordino's face lit up. "A match made in heaven." He paused and stared at the drab dress Toshie was given when she was released from Jordan's custody. "Before you and I start to tear this baby apart, I'm going to take you to the best boutiques in Washington and buy you a new wardrobe."
Toshie's eyes widened. "You have much, much money like Mr. Suma?"
"No," Giordino moaned sorrowfully, "only lots of credit cards."
Loren smiled and waved over the lunch crowd as the maitre d' of Washington's chic restaurant Twenty-One Federal led Stacy through the blond wood and marble dining room to her table. Stacy had her hair tied back in a large scarf and was more informally dressed in an oatmeal cashmere turtleneck sweater under a gray wool shawl with matching pants.
Loren wore a plaid wool checked jacket over a khaki blouse with a taupe wool faille skirt. Unlike most women, who would have remained seated, she rose and offered her hand to Stacy. "I'm glad you could come."
Stacy smiled warmly and took Loren's hand. "I've always wanted to eat here. I'm grateful for the opportunity."
"Will you join me in a drink?"
"That cold wind outside stings. I think I'd like a manhattan straight up to take the chill off."
"I'm afraid I couldn't wait. I already went through a martini."
"Then you'd better have another to fight the cold when we leave." Stacy laughed pleasantly.
Their waiter took the order and went off toward the elegant bar.
Loren replaced her napkin in her lap. "I didn't have a proper chance to thank you on Wake Island, we were all so rushed about."
"Dirk is the one we all owe."
Loren turned away. She thought she had cried herself out after hearing the news of Pitt's death, but she still felt the tears behind her eyes.
Stacy's smile faded, and she looked at Loren with sympathy. "I'm very sorry about Dirk. I know you two were very close."
"We had our ups and downs over the years, but we never strayed very far from each other."
"Was marriage ever considered?" asked Stacy.
Loren gave a brief shake of her head. "The subject never came up. Dirk wasn't the kind of man who could be possessed. His mistress was the sea, and I had my career in Congress."
"You were lucky. His smile was devastating, and those green eyes-- God, they'd make any woman melt."
Suddenly Loren was nervous. "You'll have to forgive me. I don't know what's come over me, but I have to know." She hesitated as if afraid to continue and fidgeted with a spoon.
Stacy met Loren's eyes evenly. "The answer is no," she lied. "I came to his place late one night, but it was on orders from Ray Jordan to give Dirk instructions. Nothing happened. I left twenty minutes later.
From that moment until we parted on Wake Island it was strictly business."
"I know this must sound silly. Dirk and I often went our own ways when it came to seeing other men and women, but I wanted to be sure I was the only one near the end."
"You were more deeply in love with him than y
ou thought, weren't you?"
Loren gave a little nod. "Yes, I realized it too late."
"There will be others," Stacy said in an attempt to be cheerful.
"But none to take his place."
The waiter returned with their drinks. Stacy held up her glass. "To Dirk Pitt, a damned good man."
They touched glasses.
"A damned good man," Loren repeated, as the tears fell. "Yes. . . he was that."
<<75>>
In the dining room of a safe house somewhere in the Maryland countryside, Jordan sat at a table having lunch with Hideki Suma. "Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?" asked Jordan.
Suma paused, savoring the delicate flavor of a noodle soup with duck and scallions accented by radish and gold caviar. He spoke without looking up. "There is one favor."
"Yes?"
Suma nodded at the security agent standing guard by the door and at his partner who served the meal.
"Your friends will not allow me to meet the chef. He is very good. I wish to offer him my compliments."
"She apprenticed at one of New York's finest Japanese restaurants. Her name is Natalie, and she now works with the government on special assignments. And no, I'm sorry but you cannot be introduced."
Jordan examined Suma's face. There was no hostility in it, no frustration at being isolated in heavily guarded confinement-- nothing but a supreme complacency. For a man who had been subtly drugged and then forced to endure long hours of interrogation over four weeks, he showed almost no sign of it.
The eyes were still as hard as onyx under the shock of graying hair. But that was as it should have been.
Through post-hypnotic suggestion from Jordan's expert interrogators, Suma did not recall, nor did he realize he had provided a team of curious engineers and scientists a wealth of technical data. His mind was probed and scrutinized as neatly as by professional thieves, who after searching a house left everything as they found it.
It had to be, Jordan mused, one of the few times American intelligence actually obtained foreign industrial secrets that could prove profitable.
"A sadness." Suma shrugged. "I would have liked to hire her when I leave."
"That won't be possible," Jordan said frankly.
Suma finished the soup and pushed the bowl aside. "You cannot continue holding me like a common criminal. I am not some peasant you arrested out of the gutter. I think you would be wise to release me without further delay."
No hard demand, merely a veiled threat from a man who was not informed that his incredible power had vanished with his announced death throughout Japan. Ceremonies had been performed, and already his spirit was enshrined at Yasukuni. Suma had no idea that as far as the outside world was concerned, he no longer existed. Nor was he told of the deaths of Tsuboi and Yoshishu, and the destruction of the Dragon Center. For all he knew, the Kaiten Project's bomb cars were still safely hidden.
"After what you attempted," said Jordan coldly, "you're lucky you're not up before an international tribunal for crimes against humanity."
"I have a divine right to protect Japan." The quiet, authoritative voice came to Jordan as if it was coming from a pulpit.
Irritation flushed Jordan's temples. "Besides being the most insular society on earth, Japan's problem with the rest of the world is that your business leaders have no ethics, no principles of fair play in the Western sense. You and your fellow corporate executive officers believe in doing unto other nations as you would not allow others to do unto you."
Suma picked up a teacup and drained it. "Japan is a highly honorable society. Our loyalties run very deep."
"Sure, to yourselves, at the expense of outsiders, such as foreign nationals."
"We see no difference between an economic war and a military war," Suma replied pleasantly. "We look upon the industrial nations merely as competitors on a vast battlefield where there are no rules of conduct, no trade treaties that can be trusted."
The lunacy, combined with the cold reality of the situation, suddenly seemed ridiculous to Jordan. He saw it was useless trying to make a dent in Suma. Perhaps the madman was right. America ultimately would become divided into separate nations governed by race. He brushed the uncomfortable thought from his mind and rose from the table.
"I must go," he announced curtly.
Suma stared at him. "When can I return to Edo City?"
Jordan regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "Tomorrow."
"I would like that," said Suma. "Please see that one of my private planes will be waiting at Dulles Field."
The guy had gall, Jordan thought. "I'll make arrangements through your embassy."
"Good day, Mr. Jordan."
"Good day, Mr. Suma. I trust you will forgive me for any inconvenience you've suffered."
Suma's lips compressed in a thin menacing line and he squinted at Jordan through halfclosed eyes.
"No, Mr. Jordan, I do not forgive you. Please rest assured you will pay a stiff price for my captivity."
Then Suma seemingly dismissed Jordan and poured another cup of tea.
Kern was waiting as Jordan stepped past the armored doors separating the entry hall from the living room. "Have a nice lunch?"
"The food was good but the company was lousy. And you?"
"I listened in while eating in the kitchen. Natalie made me a hamburger."
"Lucky you."
"What about our friend?"
"I told him he would be released tomorrow."
"I heard. Will he remember to pack?"
Jordan smiled. "The thought will be erased during tonight's interrogation session."
Kern nodded slowly. "How long do you think we can keep him going?"
"Until we know everything he knows, unlock every secret, every memory in his gray matter."
"That could take a year or two." So.
"And after we've sucked him dry?"
"What do you mean?"
"We can't keep him hidden from the world forever. And we'd be cutting our own throats if we set him free and allowed him to return to Japan."
Jordan stared at Kern without a flicker of change in his expression. "When Suma has no more left to give, Natalie will slip a little something extra into his noodle soup."
"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but in your Western idiom, my hands are tied."
The President looked across the cabinet room conference table at the smiling little man with the short-trimmed white hair and defiant brown eyes. He seemed more a military commander of a tough infantry battalion than the political leader of Japan.
Prime Minister Junshiro, who had come to Washington on an official state visit, sat flanked by two of his ministers and five staff aides. The President sat opposite with only his interpreter by his side.
"I'm sorry too, Prime Minister, but if you think you're simply going to sweep the tragedies of the past weeks under the rug, you've got another think coming."
"My government was not responsible for the alleged actions of Hideki Suma, Ichiro Tsuboi, and Korori Yoshishu. If, as you accuse, they were indeed behind the nuclear bombs that exploded in your State of Wyoming and on the high sea, they acted for their own ends in secret."
This meeting between the heads of state was not going to be pleasant. Junshiro and his cabinet had stonewalled any investigation and had indignantly reacted as if the Western intelligence services had fabricated the entire tragedy.
The President's hard stare swept the other side of the table. The Japanese could never negotiate without a committee. "If you would be so kind as to ask your ministers and staff, with the exception of your interpreter, to leave the room, I would be grateful. Considering the delicate nature of our talk, I believe it will prove more beneficial if we hold it in private."
Junshiro's face darkened as the request was translated. He clearly did not like what he heard. The President was smiling, but there was no humor in his eyes. "I must ask you to reconsider. I'm certain we can accomplish more with my advisers present."
"As you can see," the President replied, gesturing around the kidney-shaped mahogany table, "I have no advisers."
The Prime Minister was confused, as the President expected. He conversed in rapid-fire Japanese with the men who huddled around him voicing their objections.
The President's interpreter smiled ever so slightly. "They don't like it," he murmured. "It's not their way of doing business. They think you're being unreasonable and very undiplomatic."
"How about barbaric?"
"Only in their tone, Mr. President, only in their tone."
At last Junshiro turned back to the President. "I must protest this unusual protocol, Mr. President."
When he heard the translation, the President replied, his voice cold, "I'm through playing games, Prime Minister. Either your people leave or I do."
After a moment of thought, Junshiro made a deep nod of his head. "As you wish." Then he motioned his advisers to the door.
After the door closed, the President looked at his interpreter and said, "Translate exactly as I speak, no niceties, no syrup over the harsh words."
"Understood, sir."
The President fixed a hard stare on Junshiro. "Now then, Prime Minister, the facts are that you and members of your cabinet were fully aware and informally approved of Suma Industries' manufacture of a nuclear arsenal. A project funded in part by an underworld organization known as the Gold Dragons.
This program in turn led to the Kaiten Project, a hideous international blackmail plan, conceived in secrecy and now veiled by lies and phony denials. You knew of it from the beginning, and yet you condoned it by your silence and nonintervention."
Once he heard the translation, Junshiro pounded the table with angered indignation. "This is not true, none of it. There is absolutely no foundation for these absurd charges."
"Information from a variety of intelligence sources leaves little doubt of your involvement. You secretly applauded while known underworld criminals were building what they called thènew empire.' An empire based on economic and nuclear blackmail."
Junshiro's face paled, but he said nothing. He saw the handwriting on the wall, and it spelled out political disaster and great loss of face.