Pitt mentally measured the distance from the bomber to the spot marked on the slope of the underwater trench for the detonation. He judged it to be about twenty-eight kilometers. An incredible distance to drag an unstable forty-eight-year-old atomic bomb across rugged and unknown terrain.
“After the party,” wondered Pitt, “what happens to us?”
“You drive Big Ben onto the nearest shore, where a Special Forces team will be waiting to evacuate you.”
Pitt sighed heavily.
“Do you have a problem with any part of the plan?” Sandecker asked him.
Pitt’s eyes reflected an undercurrent of doubt. “This has to be the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard in my life. In fact it’s worse than that. It’s damn right suicidal.”
66
RUNNING AT ITS MAXIMUM cruising speed of 460 knots per hour, the C-5 Galaxy ate up the kilometers as darkness fell over the North Pacific. In the cargo bay, Giordino ran through a checklist of Big Ben’s electronic and power systems. Sandecker worked in the office compartment, providing updates on information and responding to questions raised by the President and his National Security Council, who were sweating out the operation in the Situation Room. The admiral was also in constant communication with geophysicists who supplied new data on seafloor geology, along with Payload Percy, who answered Pitt’s inquiries on the bomb removal from the aircraft and its detonation.
To anyone observing Pitt during the final hour of the flight, his behavior would have seemed most peculiar. Instead of a final attempt to cram a thousand and one details into his head or inspecting the DSMV with Giordino, he collected all the box lunches he could beg and buy from the crew. He also borrowed every drop of available drinking water, thirty liters, and the entire production of the aircraft’s coffee maker, four liters, and stashed it all in Big Ben.
He huddled with the Air Force flight engineer, who knew the C-5 better than anyone on board. Together they rigged up a cable used for tying down cargo and a small electric winch above the small compartment that held the crew’s toilet. Pleased with his unscrupulous handiwork, he entered the DSMV and sat in the operator’s chair and silently contemplated the almost hopeless mission ahead of him.
Cutting the bomb free of the B-29 and detonating it was bad enough, but attempting to drive twelve kilometers over unknown terrain to escape the blast was a very iffy proposition indeed.
Less than a minute after the Air Force transport landed at Langley Field, Loren and Mike Diaz were quickly swept away by a limousine with an armed escort and driven to the White House, while Suma and Toshie were hustled into a bland-colored sedan and driven to a secret destination in Maryland.
Upon arrival, Loren and Diaz were ushered down to the Situation Room. The President rose from his end of the table and came forward.
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” he said, beaming. He gave Loren a light hug and a kiss on the cheek, then embraced Diaz as if the senator was a close relative.
The tense atmosphere lightened as everyone greeted the recently escaped hostages. Jordan moved in and softly asked them to step into an adjoining office. The President accompanied them and closed the door.
“I apologize for rushing you like this,” he said, “and I realize you must need a good rest, but it’s extremely vital for Ray Jordan to debrief you while an operation is underway to eliminate the threat of the Kaiten Project.”
“We understand,” Diaz said, happy to be back amid the tumult of political action. “I’m sure I speak for Congresswoman Smith when I say we’re only too glad to help.”
The President courteously turned to Loren. “Do you mind?”
Loren felt in desperate need of a good soaking bath. She wore no makeup, her hair was tousled, and she was dressed in pants and slacks a size too small that she had borrowed from an aircraft maintenance man’s wife on Wake Island. Despite that and the exhaustion, she still looked remarkably beautiful.
“Please, Mr. President, what would you like to know?”
“If we can skip the details of your abductions, your treatment by Hideki Suma, and your incredible escape until later,” said Jordan with quiet firmness, “we’d like to hear what you can tell us about Suma’s operations and the Dragon Center.”
Loren and Diaz silently exchanged tense glances that conveyed more fearfully than words the spectrum of menacing horrors that were being created in Edo City and under Soseki Island. She nodded in deference to Diaz, who spoke first.
“From what we saw and heard, I’m afraid that the threat from Suma’s bomb-car program is only the tip of the iceberg.”
“Fifteen minutes to drop, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the cargo bay speakers.
“Time to mount up,” said Sandecker, his face taut.
Pitt put his hand on Giordino’s shoulder. “Let’s hit the john before we go.”
Giordino looked at him. “Why now? There’s a waste system on Big Ben.”
“A safety procedure. No telling how hard we’re going to strike the water. Formula One and Indianapolis Five Hundred drivers always drain their bladders before a race to prevent internal injury in case they’re in an accident.”
Giordino shrugged. “If you insist.” He walked over to the closetlike toilet for the crew that was stationed behind the cockpit and opened the door.
He had no sooner entered when Pitt made a gesture to the flight engineer. A brief nod in reply and several strands of cable dropped and encircled the toilet and were then winched tight, sealing the door.
Giordino sensed immediately what had happened. “Dirk, no! God, don’t do this!”
Sandecker also realized what was happening. “You can’t make it alone,” he said, grasping Pitt’s arm. “The procedures call for two men.”
“One man can operate Big Ben. Stupid to risk two lives.” Pitt winced as Giordino’s efforts to escape the privy became more frenzied. The little Italian could have easily kicked out the aluminum, but the wrapped steel cable bound it tight. “Tell AI I’m sorry and that someday I’ll make it up to him.”
“I can order the crew to release him.”
Pitt smiled tightly. “You can, but they’d have to fight me to do it.
“You realize you’re jeopardizing the operation. What if you were injured during impact? Without Al, you have no backup.”
For a long moment Pitt stared at Sandecker. Then finally he said, “I don’t want the fear of losing a friend on my mind.”
Sandecker knew there was no moving his Special Projects Director. Slowly he took Pitt’s hand in both of his. “What would you like waiting for you when you get back?”
Pitt gave the admiral a warm smile. “A crab louis salad and a tequila on the rocks.” Then he turned and climbed through the DSMV’s hatch and sealed it.
The C-5 had been specially modified for aerial drops. In the cockpit the co-pilot pulled a red handle on his side of the instrument panel, activating the electric motors that swung open a large section of the cargo deck.
Sandecker and two crew members stood in front of the DSMV, their bodies harnessed to safety straps that clipped to tie-down rings. They leaned forward against the wind that swept through the massive opening, their eyes drawn to Pitt seated in Big Ben’s control cabin.
“Sixty seconds to drop zone,” the pilot’s voice came over the headsets clamped on their heads. “Surface wind holding at five knots. Skies clear with a three-quarter moon. Sea maintaining a slight chop with four-foot swells. No surface ships showing on radar.”
“Conditions acceptable,” Sandecker confirmed.