Dirk Pitt Quotes

Giordino...simply sighed in resignation. "Who else," he asked no one in particular, "but Dirk Pitt could tramp off into a blizzard on an uninhabited backwater island in the Antarctic and discover a beautiful girl?

Americans have an annoying habit of accomplishing what they set out to do.

A grief-stricken man is driven to defy the gods.

When power is up for grabs,” Pitt said, “the first casualty is often liberty.

A man accepts the thankless burden of responsibility. We women do not. To us, life is a game we play one day at a time.

Not to worry,” said Giordino with humorous detachment. “If the inscriptions prove ancient, they’re probably nothing but a book of ancient recipes.” “Recipes for what?” inquired Helm. “Goat,” said Giordino moodily. “A thousand and one ways to serve goat.

Take away the clothes of the greatest living man, his father once told him, and you behold a very embarrassed, naked and defenseless animal.

Readers, A few years ago, while I was writing Flood Tide, I realized that Dirk Pitt needed some help on a particular assignment, and so I dreamed up Juan Cabrillo. Cabrillo ran a ship called the Oregon, on the outside completely nondescript, but on the inside packed with state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering equipment. It was a completely private enterprise, available for any government agency that could afford it. It went where no warship could go, transported secret cargo without suspicion, plucked

They who await no gifts from chance, conquer fate.

Giordino, on the other hand, simply sighed in resignation. “Who else,” he asked no one in particular, “but Dirk Pitt could tramp off into a blizzard on an uninhabited backwater island in the Antarctic and discover a beautiful girl?

We’ve been through all this a thousand times. I won’t subject myself to the indignities of pregnancy. I won’t swish crap-laden diapers around in a toilet bowl ten times a day. Let someone else populate the earth. I’m not about to split off my soul, like some damned amoeba.

Two unarmed men against six loaded for bear. We need to even the odds.” “Got a plan?” asked Giordino. “I certainly do.” Giordino gave the little man with the academic, nerdy look a bemused stare. “Is it evil, rotten, and sneaky?” Gunn nodded, with an impish grin. “All that, and more.”   THE

Yes, Istanbul does live up to its nickname as the ‘Queen of Cities.’ Born to the Greeks, raised by the Romans, and matured under the Ottomans.

A season with the herd and you’ll be riding like an arat,” Noyon said, referring to the local horsemen. “A season in that saddle and I’d be ready for traction,” Giordino grumbled.

Yes, I am aware of the enticements required to obtain them,” Kang replied with distaste. “I believe the Russians could teach the West a thing or two about capitalistic extortion.

Iceland, the land of frost and fire, rugged glaciers and smoldering volcanoes,

Don’t give up on Jim Sandecker,” said Gunn. “He may have been blocked by the White House in securing the Roosevelt, but I’ll bet you a dinner with soft lights and music that he’ll come up with a replacement.” “You’re on,” she said, smiling thinly. “That’s a bed I’ll gladly lose.” He looked up curiously. “I beg your pardon?” “A Freudian slip.” She laughed tiredly. “I meant ‘bet.

The captain moniker derived from a tired blue hat he wore on his head. It was the classic captain’s hat favored by rich yachtsmen, sporting crossed gold anchors on its prow. Dahlgren’s hat, however, looked like it had been run over by an M-1 tank.

Now, he thought, a satanic grin on his lips, I’ll show you an Immelmann. He threw the aircraft into a half loop and then snapped it over in a half roll, heading on a direct course toward the helicopter. “Write your will, sucker!” he shouted, his voice drowned out by the rush of wind and the roar of the engine’s exhaust. “Here comes the Red Baron.

Josh Thomas was sitting in Egan’s study, reading a chemical analysis journal, when he froze in fright. The rug in the center of the room suddenly rose from the floor as if a ghost were inside and then flew aside. A trapdoor beneath swung open and Pitt’s head popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “Sorry to intrude,” said Pitt with a cheery smile. “But I just happened to be passing by.

As they exited the conference room, Summer tugged at Dirk’s elbow. “So what did the data from Perlmutter cost you?” she chided, knowing the gourmet historian’s penchant for culinary blackmail. “Nothing much. Just a jar of pickled sea urchins and an eighty-year-old bottle of sake.” “You found those in Washington, D.C.?” Dirk gave his sister a pleading look of helplessness. “Well,” she laughed, “we do have six more hours in port.

This is Lugovoy." "Who?" "Aleksei Lugovoy." "Is Willie dere?" asked a voice, heavy with the New York City accent that always grated on Lugovoy's ears. "There is no Willie here," Lugovoy said brusquely. "You must have the wrong number." Then he abruptly hung up. Lugovoy's face was expressionless, but a faint pallor was there that was missing before. He flexed his fists, inhaled deeply and eyed the phone, waiting. The light blinked and the phone chimed again. "Lugovoy." "You sure Willie ain't dere?" "WILLIE AIN'T HERE!" he replied, mimicking the caller's accent. He slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

The guards made a cursory inspection of the boat, and had no desire to stain their starched and neatly pressed uniforms in the engine room after seeing Giordino looking like James Dean after the oil well came in in Giant.

Giordino looked at Pitt like he was crazy, then followed his gaze up the ravine. Overhead was a dark mass of rock buried beneath a thin layer of ice. Surveying the hillside, Giordino suddenly felt his jaw drop. It wasn’t a mound of rock at all, he realized with astonishment. Above them, embedded in the ice, the men found themselves staring at the wooden black hull of a nineteenth-century sailing ship. 80 THE EREBUS STOOD LIKE A FORGOTTEN RELIC OF a bygone era.

There are rattlesnakes around here.” His partner grinned in the dark. “Juan, that would be the least of our problems.” A minute later, the handheld radio on his belt chirped with two static transmissions. “That’s him. Let’s move.” They arose and put on light backpacks. Lights from the mine buildings were sprinkled across the hillside in front of them, casting a pale glow over the barren desert. They hiked a short distance to a chain-link fence that encircled the complex. The taller man knelt and rummaged through his pack for a pair of wire cutters. “Pablo, I think we can get through without cutting,” his partner whispered, then pointed to a dry wash that ran beneath the fence. The sandy ground was soft in the middle of the creek bed, and he easily pushed some of it aside with his foot. Pablo joined him in scraping away the loose soil until they had excavated a small hole beneath the fence. Pushing their packs under it, they quickly

If a satellite in space ever mapped the myriad of lone tracks and trails across Mongolia, it would resemble a plate of spaghetti dropped on the floor.

previous afternoon. His heartbeat increased as he measured his opportunities of escape if he was discovered. They flat didn’t exist. A swimmer stood little chance of outrunning a pair of personal watercraft with a top speed of thirty miles per hour. Unless they were prepared to come after him underwater, all they had to do was outwait him until he exhausted

Take away the clothes of the greatest living man, his father once told him, and you behold a very embarrassed, naked and defenseless animal. Pitt

Go like hell and go to the grave satisfied.” He

Arthur’s program of discounting diamonds throughout his vast chain of

Time is on our side. Not only will we erode America from the outside, but with the help of your own countrymen we will eventually cause it to crumble from within.

could have cared less

When one loves one’s work, time and inconvenience have little meaning.

The name on an envelope that was sticking out of his pocket read ‘Clive Cussler.’ ” “That is an odd name. Yet it sounds vaguely familiar.

no

a simple thank you would have done nicely. Instead, your mouth flows with a diarrheal discharge of rudeness and sarcasm.

the desert nomads in air-fighting

People are like old tools that are used and then thrown away or destroyed when they have no more purpose. I pity men like you who are burdened with morals and principles. You are doomed to chase a mirage, a perfect world that never was and never will be.

Then you best go rouse the captain.

Laboratory, then waved Hagen

lit white tanks of oil refineries and petrochemical plants. “Well,” said Giordino without any particular expression in his voice, “is now a good time for a chorus of ‘Old Man River’?” “The Mississippi,” Pitt muttered. “That’s Baton Rouge to the north across the river. The end of the line. Why dig a canal to this particular spot?” “Who knows what weird machinations lurk in the mind of Qin Shang?” Giordino said philosophically. “Maybe he has plans to access the highway.” “What for? There’s no turnoff. The road shoulder is barely wide enough to hold one car.

I can’t conceive of five dollars a gallon or more for gas,

unlocked the AC Cobra, shoved the Mauser into a narrow

Hospitals are nightmares in white.

IF GOD MEANT TEXANS TO SKI, HE’D HAVE MADE COWSHIT WHITE.

its

I tenenti dei marine non venivano quasi mai messi al corrente delle informazioni riservate. Avevano il dovere di farsi ammazzare, ma non il diritto di conoscerne il motivo.

interest

The bartender/cook looked as if he might have been a fixture of the desert even before the rails were laid. He had the worn look of a man who had seen more than he should and heard a thousand stories that remained in his head, classified and indexed as drama, humor, or horror. There was also an unmistakable aura of style about him, a sophistication that said he didn't belong in a godforsaken roadside tavern on a remote and seldom-traveled road through the desert. For a fleeting instant, Pitt thought the old cook looked vaguely familiar. On reflection, though, Pitt figured the man only resembled someone he couldn't quite place.

I must have entered a time warp or I've fallen into the Twilight Zone. Which is it?" "Neither. You're at the harbor in San Felipe, and you're looking at your home for the next two weeks." "Good lord, an honest-to-God steamboat with a walking beam engine and side paddlewheels." "I must admit it does have an air of Mark Twain about it." "What do you want to bet it ferried Grant's troops across the Mississippi to Vicksburg?

Deep Fathom, this is NUMA. Our position is just south of the Magic Castle between Jungleland and the Pirates of the Caribbean." "Please repeat your position," came the voice of the flustered mercenary who had broken in on Pitt's call to Stucky. "What's this, a radio commercial for Disneyland?" Stucky's familiar voice popped over the speaker. "Well, well, the genuine article. What took you so long to answer, Stucky?" "I was listening to what my alter ego had to say. You guys landed in Chiclayo yet?" "We were sidetracked and decided to head home," said Pitt. "Is the skipper handy?" "He's on the bridge playing Captain Bligh, lashing the crew in an attempt to set a speed record. Another knot and our rivets will start falling out.

What do you expect me to do, leap across space and brain them with the jawbone of an ass? Or maybe they'll go away if I throw ricks at them?

Picture writing, as in Egyptian hieroglyphics?" "Very similar." "What we might call an illustrated comic strip." "Only without the panels. The panels were never fully deciphered.

Intruders can rig your private elevator easier than stealing a Mercedes-Benz.

That madwoman threatened to shoot off my testicles.

You can't drive down the middle of the Mall!" "I damned well can and will so long as we live to tell about it!

If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name.

Julia looked at her watch. "Lunchtime," she announced, opening the picnic basket she had packed at the bed and breakfast. "Anybody besides me hungry?" "I'm always hungry," Giordino called out from the back of the boat. "Amazing." Pitt shook his head incredulously. "At twelve feet away, outside in a breeze with the roar of the outboard motor, he can still hear the mere mention of food." "What delicacies have you prepared?" Giordino asked Julia, having dragged himself to the cabin doorway. "Apples, granola bars, carrots, and herbal ice tea. You have your choice between hummus and avocado sandwiches. It's what I call a healthy lunch." Every man on the boat looked at each of the others with utter horror. She couldn't have received a more unpalatable reaction if she had said she was volunteering their services as diaper changers at a day care center. Out of deference to Julia none of the men said anything negative, since she went to the bother of fixing lunch. The fact that she was a woman and their mothers had raised them all as gentlemen added to the dilemma. Giordino, however, did not come from the old school. He complained vociferously. "Hummus and avocado sandwiches," he said disgustedly. "I'm going to throw myself off the boat and swim to the nearest Burger King...

We came within minutes of drowning in the chamber." "We know. That was the plan." "Plan? What plan?" "You were all supposed to die.

The motorcycle crashed into the wine cellar of the hotel's restaurant. There must be a hundred broken bottles of vintage wine flowing down a drain in the floor.

I never got Dad's name." "The name on an envelope that was sticking out of his pocket read 'Clive Cussler.'" "That IS an odd name. Yet it sounds vaguely familiar." "Whoever.

No oil or water leaks. Don't push the Stutz too hard. We may have rebuilt the engine, but it's over sixty years old. And you can't buy spare Stutz parts at Pep Boys.

When the Hispano-Suiza pulled alongside, Pitt walked over and introduced himself as the driver stepped from behind the wheel to recheck his hood latches. "I guess we'll be competing against each other. My name is Dirk Pitt." The driver of the Hispano, a big man with greying hair, a white beard, and blue-green eyes, stuck out a hand. "Clive Cussler." Pitt looked at him strangely. "Do we know each other?" "It's possible," replied Cussler, smiling. "Your name is familiar, but I can't place your face." "Perhaps we met at a party or a car club meet." "Perhaps.

How's your current air supply?" "Enough to get us home if we don't stop for pizza.

Call it theft of Mr. Spock's logic.

Plunkett gave Pitt a dry look. "Even death would be a treat if I didn't have to hear that blasted tune again." "You don't care for 'Minnie the Mermaid'?" Pitt asked in mock surprise. "After hearing the chorus for the twentieth time, no." "With the telephone housing smashed, our only contact with the surface is the acoustic radio transmitter. Not nearly enough range for conversation, but it's all we've got. I can offer you Strauss waltzes or the big band sounds of the forties, but they wouldn't be appropriate." "I don't think much of your musical inventory," Plunkett grunted. Then he looked at Pitt. "What's wrong with Strauss?" "Instrumental," Pitt answered. "Distorted violin music can sound like whales or several other aquatic mammals through water. Minnie is a vocal. If anyone on the surface is listening, they'll know someone down here is still sucking air. No matter how garbled, there's no mistaking good old human babble." "For all the good that will do," said Plunkett. "If a rescue mission is launched, there's no way we can transfer from this vehicle to a submersible without a pressure lock. A commodity totally lacking on your otherwise remarkable tractor. If I may speak realistically, I fail to see anything in the near future but our inevitable demise." "I wish you wouldn't use the word 'demise.

Those who lie deep in the Atlantic Sea Are recalled by shrines, wreaths, & poetry But those who lie in the Pacific Sea Lie forgotten for all eternity

We fight a losing battle as it is with illegals pouring across our border with Mexico, many who come from as far away as Chile and Argentina,

We might as well hold back ocean surf with kitchen sieves.

Loren held out her hand. "It's been fun listening to your stories, Mr...." The old cook smiled. "Cussler, Clive Cussler. Mighty nice to have met you, ma'am." When they were on the road again, the Pierce Arrow and its trailer smoothly rolling toward the border crossing, Pitt turned to Loren. "For a moment there, I thought the old geezer might have given me a clue to the treasure site." "You mean Yaeger's far-out translation about a river running under an island?" "It still doesn't seem geologically possible." Loren turned the rearview mirror to reapply her lipstick. "If the river flowed deep enough it might conceivably pass under the Gulf." "Maybe, but there's no way in hell to know for certain without drilling through several kilometers of hard rock." "You'll be lucky just to find your way to the treasure cavern without a major excavation." Pitt smiled as he stared at the road ahead. "He could really spin the yarns, couldn't he?" "The old cook? He certainly had an active imagination." "I'm sorry I didn't get his name." Loren settled back in the seat and gazed out her window as the dunes gave way to a tapestry of mesquite and cactus. "He told me what it was." "And?" "It was an odd name." She paused, trying to remember. Then she shrugged in defeat. "Funny thing...I've already forgotten it.

I didn't know we received CNN this deep in the Andes.

Drawing in seawater from the Mediterranean, the plant produced 165 million gallons of fresh water a day, more than twenty percent of Israel’s municipal drinking water. The fenced

You should see the latest computer-generated movies featuring the long-gone old stars with the new. I've watched the video of Arizona Sunset at least a dozen times." "Who plays the leads?" "Humphrey Bogart, Lionel Barrymore, Marilyn Monroe, Julia Roberts, and Tom Cruise. It's so real, you'd swear they all acted together on the set.

Are you under surveillance?" "I was told I'd be closely watched, but I have yet to catch anyone at it." "You're not very observant. We have a car following us now." "This J2X Allard looks like a fast car. Why don't you simply speed away from them." "Speed away from them? The car following us...that's a Cadillac STS behind us. with a 300+ horsepower engine that will hurl it upwards of 260 kilometers an hour. This old Allard also has a Cadillac engine, with dual four-throat carburetors and an Iskenderian three-quarter cam." "Which means nothing to me." "I'm making a point. This was a very fast car nearly fifty years ago. It's still fast, but it won't go over 210 kilometers an hour, and that's with a tailwind. The bottom line is that he's got us outclassed in horsepower and top speed." "You must be able to do something to lose them." "There is, but I'm not sure you're going to like it.

I knew it. We've expired and gone to Disneyland.

Giordino: I've been wanting to say this, but you look vaguely familiar. The Kid: Can't imagine why. I don't recall meeting up with you fellas before. Giordino: Would I offend you if I asked you your real name? The Kid: Not at all, I don't take offense easily. It's an odd name. Never used it much. It's Clive Cussler. Giordino: You're right, it is an odd name.

You wouldn't happen to have some of that good Aussie beer with you by chance?" "You like our beer?" "I keep a case of Castlemaine from Brisbane on hand for special occasions." "We don't have any Castlemaine, but I can offer you a bottle of Fosters." "I'd be much obliged.

This guy is the spitting image of Lincoln," Giordino remarked conversationally. "That IS Abraham Lincoln," came Perlmutter's subdued voice from the doorway. He slowly sank to the deck, his back against the bulkhead, like a whale settling to the seabed. His eyes were locked on the corpse in the rocking chair as if hypnotically fixed. Pitt stared at Perlmutter with concern and obvious skepticism. "For a renowned historian, you've taken a wrong turn, haven't you?" Giordino knelt beside Perlmutter and offered him a drink from a water bottle. "The heat must be getting to you, big buddy." Perlmutter waved away the water. "God oh God, I couldn't bring myself to believe it. But Lincoln's Secretary of War, Edwin McMasters Stanton, DID reveal the truth in his secret papers." "What truth?" asked Pitt, curious. He hesitated, and then his voice came almost in a whisper. "Lincoln was not shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre. That is him sitting in that rocking chair.

Sandecker picked out a cigar from a humidor on the bedside table and lit it. Even though the trade embargo with Cuba had been lifted in 1985, he still preferred the milder flavor and looser wrap of a Honduras over the Havana. He always felt that a good cigar kept the world at bay.

Hi there, this is Captain Nemo of the Submarine Nautilus speaking. Over." "You're who?" "The guy in Twenty Zillion Leagues Under the Sea. You know. Great flick. Saw it when I was a kid in Seattle. Best part was the fight with the giant squid.

For more than forty years the ZMC-2 languished in an abandoned hangar along the runway of a deserted naval air station near Key West, Florida. Then in 1988, the property was sold by the government to a financial conglomerate headed by a wealthy publisher, Raymond LeBaron, who intended to develop it as a resort. Shortly after arriving from his corporate headquarters in Chicago to inspect the newly purchased naval base, LeBaron stumbled onto the dusty and corroded remains of the ZMC-2 and became intrigued. Charging it off to promotion, he had the old lighter-than air craft reassembled and the engines rebuilt, calling her the Prosperteer after the business magazine that was the base of his financial empire, and emblazoning the name in huge red letters on the side of the envelope.

It seems apparent, Mrs. Seagram," Ashley said sweetly, "one of us will be searching for a new dress designer first thing in the morning." "Oh, I couldn't switch," Dana replied innocently. "I've been going to Jacques Pinneigh since I was a little girl." Ashley Fleming's penciled brows raised questioningly. "Jacques Pinneigh? I've never heard of him." "He's more widely known as JCPenney," Dana smiled sweetly. "His downtown store is having a clearance sale next month. Wouldn't it be fun if we shopped together? That way we wouldn't wind up as lookalikes.

Ashley Fleming's face froze in a mask of indignation as the President went into a coughing spasm. Seagram nodded weakly, grabbed Dana's arm, and quickly hustled her away into the mainstream of the crowd. "Did you have to do that?" he growled. "I couldn't resist it. That woman is nothing but a glorified hooker." Then Dana's eyes looked up at him in bewilderment. "He propositioned me," she said, unbelieving. "The President of the United States propositioned me." "Warren G. Harding and John F. Kennedy were rumored to be swingers. This one is no different. He's only human." "A lecher for a President. It's disgusting." "Are you going to take him up on it?" Seagram grinned. "Don't be ridiculous!" she snapped back.

It's like asking a gang of kids to lift a Patton tank out of Lake Erie with a few ropes and a raft.

No offense," Sandecker said equably. "I have a sinking feeling, if you'll pardon the pun, that my lack of faith is going to cost me a case of Robert Mondavi Chardonnay 1984." "1981," Silverstein said, grinning. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a schmuck with good taste." "Think how common the world would be without us.

If Pitt tells you there's a Santa Claus, hang your stocking on the mantel, because you better believe it.

What does it say?" "What do you want it to say?" she asked. "You haven't bothered to tell me what you're after." "I want to buy a battleship, of course. Who has one for sale?" Barbara shot him a dour expression and studied the blue papers. "I'm afraid you're out of luck. The Soviet Union has one left, which is used to train naval cadets. France has long since scrapped hers. Same with Great Britain, even though she still keeps one on the rolls for the sake of tradition." "The United States?" "Five of them have been preserved as memorials." "What are their present locations?" "They're enshrined in the states they were named after: North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, and Massachusetts." "You said five." "The Missouri is maintained by the Navy in Bremerton, Washington. Oh, I almost forgot: the Arizona is still sentimentally kept on naval rolls as a commissioned ship." Jarvis put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. "I seem to recall the battlewagons Wisconsin and Iowa were tied up at the Philadelphia Navy Yard a few years back." "Good memory," said Barbara. "According to the report, the Wisconsin went to the ship-breakers in 1984." "And the Iowa?" "Sold for scrap.

Pitt suddenly remembered something. "I'd like the use of a telephone." "Sorry, not possible." "Mind if I ask why?" "Have you forgotten you're supposed to be dead?" Alice asked matter-of-factly. "One phone call to a friend or a lover and you could blow the entire operation." "Yes, 'The slip of a lip may sink a ship,'" Pitt said cynically. "Look, I need some information from a total stranger. I'll hand him a phony name." "Sorry, not possible." A scratched phonograph record came to Pitt's mind. "Give me a phone or I'll do something nasty." She looked at him quizzically. "Like what?" "Go home," he said simply. "Mr. Brogan's orders. You're not to leave the building until your flight to our camp in San Salvador. He'd have you in a straightjacket before you reached the front door.

Pitt flashed his best politician's smile and said, "I beg your pardon, may I borrow your phone?" "If you work here, you know that using an unauthorized phone is against agency regulations." "Then I'm safe," said Pitt. "I don't work here." "You'll never get an outside line," said old White Hair. "Watch me." "Pitt picked up the phone and asked the operator for Martin Brogan's office. In a few seconds Brogan's private secretary came on the line. "My name is Dirk Pitt. Please inform Mr. Brogan that if I don't get the use of a telephone in one minute I'm going to cause a terrible scene." "Who is this?" "I told you.

How's that for self-sufficiency?" said Steinmetz. "Chateau Lunar Chardonnay, 1989. Not exactly a premier vintage. Only had enough grapes to make four bottles. Should have allowed the vines in the greenhouses to mature another year, but we got impatient." "I see you even made your own bottle," observed Hudson. "Yes, our pilot chemical plant is in full operation now. We've increased our output to where we can process almost two tons of lunar-soil materials into two hundred pounds of a bastard metal or five hundred pounds of glass in fifteen days.

Here is a detailed report from the Walter Reed pathology lab. Their examination was most helpful in giving us a lead for identification." The President looked at him in surprise. "You identified them?" "It was the analysis of the borscht paste that opened the door." "Borscht what?" "You recall that the Dade County coroner fixed death by hypothermia, or freezing?" "Yes." "Well, borscht paste is a godawful food supplement given to Russian cosmonauts. The stomachs of the three corpses were loaded with the stuff." "You're telling me that Raymond LeBaron and his crew were exchanged for three dead Soviet cosmonauts?" Emmett nodded. "We were even able to put a name on them through a defector, a former flight surgeon with the Russian space program. He'd examined each of them on several occasions." "When did he defect?" "He came over to our side in August of '87." "A little over two years ago." "That's correct," Emmett acknowledged. "The names of the cosmonauts found in LeBaron's blimp are Sergei Zochenko, Aleksandr Yudenich, and Ivan Ronsky. Yudenich was a rookie, but Zochenko and Ronsky were both veterans with two space flights apiece.

Is this a good time to raise the question of seat belts?" asked Giordino with his feet raised and wedged against the dashboard of the L-29 Cord town car. Pitt shook his head. "Not optional equipment in 1930.

No one knew the Sounder could drive so hard. Her decks trembled with the straining throb of her engines and the hull shuddered as it pounded into the swells. Launched at a shipyard in Boston during the summer of 1961, she had spend almost three decades chartering out to oceanographic schools for deep-water research projects in every sea of the world. After her purchase by NUMA in 1990, she had been completely overhauled and refitted. Her new 4,000-horsepower diesel engine was designed to push her at a maximum of fourteen knots, but Stewart and his engineers somehow coaxed seventeen out of her. The Sounder was the only ship on the trail of the Lady Flamborough, and she stood as much chance of closing the gap as a basset hound after a leopard. Wartships of the Argentine Navy and British naval units stationed in the Falkland Islands might have intercepted the fleeing cruise ship, but they were not alerted.

During their brief history the newly formed Special Operations Forces had already achieved a notable record, but they had yet to tackle a major rescue of the magnitude of the Lady Flamborough hijacking. The orphan child of the Pentagon, the Special Operations Forces were not molded into a single command until the fall of 1989. At that time the Army's Delta Force, whose fighters were drawn from the elite Ranger and Green Beret units and a secret aviation unit known as Task Force 160, merged with the top-of-the-line Navy SEAL Team Six and the Air Force's Special Operations Wing. The unified forces cut across service rivalries and boundaries and became a separate command, numbering twelve thousand men, headquartered at a tightly restricted base in southeast Virginia. The crack fighters were heavily trained in guerrilla tactics, parachuting, wilderness survival and scuba diving, with special emphasis on storming buildings, ships and aircraft for rescue missions.

Gene Seagram was a tall lanky man, with a quiet voice and a courteous manner, and, except for a large, flattened nose, he could almost have passed as an unbearded Abe Lincoln.

I hate hospitals. The nurses all have icy hands and the color on the goddamned TV is always changing.

How in hell did this old rust bucket, the Pilottown, jam herself in here?" "She probably drifted into what was a shelving inlet before 1987," replied Pitt. "According to Mendoza, that was the year the volcano last erupted. The explosion gases must have melted the ice around the mantle, forming millions of gallons of water. The mudflow, along with the cloud of ash, poured down the mountain until it met the sea and buried the ship." "Funny the stern wasn't spotted before now." "Not so remarkable," Pitt answered. "So little is showing it was next to impossible to detect from the air, and beyond a mile from shore it blends into the rugged shoreline and becomes nearly invisible. Erosion caused by recent storms is the only reason she's uncovered now.

Several years ago an attack cargo transport called the Hobson was a part of the Navy's reserve mothball fleet at Philadelphia. She was decommissioned and sold to a commercial shipping company, a cover for the CIA. They spared no expense in rebuilding her to outwardly resemble a common cargo carrier, while her interior was filled with concealed armament, including a new missile system, highly sophisticated communications and listening gear, and a facility for launching fast patrol and landing boats through swinging bow doors. She was manned and ready on station during Iran's disastrous invasion of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in 1985. Flying the maritime flag of Panama, she secretly sank two Soviet spy ships in the Persian Gulf. The Russians could never prove who did it, because none of our navy ships were within range. They still think the missiles that destroyed their ships came from the Saudi shore.

Julia tensed as she looked through the steering wheel of the Model J Duesenberg and saw the needle creep up and waver at seventy miles an hour. "This car doesn't have seat belts." "They didn't believe in them in 1929.

As they stood on the curb Giordino turned and looked back over his shoulder at the bar and grill. "Did that old fisherman look familiar to you?" "Now that you mention it, there was something about him that struck a chord." "We never did get his name." "Next time we see him," said Pitt, "we'll have to ask if we've ever met." Back in Charlie's Fish Dock restaurant and bar, the old fisherman glanced up at the bar as the bartender yelled across the room at him. "Hey, Cussler. You want another beer?" "Why not?" The old man nodded. "One more brew before I hit the road won't hurt.