The Mediterranean Caper by Clive Cussler Read Free Book Online Page A

neck, walked back along the deserted road toward the main gate, whistling, “It’s a Long Road to Tipperary.”

3
    The young blond crewman cast off the lines, and the little twenty-six-foot double-ended whaleboat surged sluggishly away from the makeshift dock near Brady Field, setting a course over the blue carpet of water toward the First Attempt . The throbbing four-cylinder Buda engine pushed the sturdy boat along at eight knots and cast the familiar nautical stink of diesel fumes over the deck. It was a few minutes to nine now, and the sun was hotter and even a slight breeze from the sea offered no relief.
    Pitt stood and watched the shore recede until the dock became a dirty speck on the surf line. Then he hoisted his one hundred and ninety pounds onto the high tubular railing that circled the stern and sat with his buttocks hanging precariously over the boat’s frothing white wake. From his unusual position he could feel the pulsations from the shaft, and by looking straight down, he could see the propeller drill its way through the water. The whaleboat was only a quarter of a mile from the First Attempt when Pitt noticed the young crewman at the helm eyeing him with a mild look of respect.
    â€œExcuse me, sir, but you look like you’ve spent some time in a double-ender.” The blond crewman nodded at Pitt’s seat on the railing. The young man had an academic air about him that implied scientific intelligence. Well tanned from the Aegean sun, he wore Bermuda shorts and nothing else except a long, sparse, yellow beard.
    Pitt wrapped a hand around the stern light staff for support and groped in a breast pocket with his other hand for a cigarette. “I used to have one when I was in high school,” he said casually.
    â€œYou must have lived near the water,” said the young crewman.
    â€œNewport Beach, California.”
    â€œThat’s a great place. I used to drive up there all the time when I was taking post-graduate courses at Scripps in La Jolla.” The young crewman cracked a crooked smile. “Man oh man, was that ever a great place for girls. You must have had a ball growing up there.”
    â€œI could think of worse places to go through puberty.”
    As long as the young man was talking freely, Pitt switched the subject. “Tell me, what sort of trouble have you been having on the project?”
    â€œEverything went fine for the first couple of weeks, but as soon as we found a promising location to investigate, things turned sour and we’ve had nothing but rotten luck since.”
    â€œFor instance?”
    â€œMostly equipment failure; broken cables, missing and damaged parts, generator breakdowns, you know, things like that.”
    They were nearing the First Attempt now and the young crewman turned back to the helm and maneuvered the small boat alongside of the boarding ladder.
    Pitt stood and looked up at the larger vessel, surveying its outward appearance. By maritime standards she was a small ship; eight hundred twenty tons, one hundred fifty-two feet in length overall. Her keel was originally laid on an oceangoing tug in the Dutch shipyards of Rotterdam before World War II. Immediately after the Germans invaded the lowlands, her crew slipped her away to England where she performed outstanding and meritorious service throughout the war, towing torpedoed and crippled ships into the British port of Liverpool under the noses of Nazi U-boats. After the end of European hostilities, her tired and battered hull was traded by the Dutch Government to the U.S. Navy, who promptly enlisted her in the mothball fleet at Olympia, Washington. There she sat for twenty-five long years, sleeping under a gray plastic cocoon. Then the newly formed National Underwater Marine Agency purchased her remains from the Navy and converted her to a modern oceanographic vessel, rechristening her the First Attempt .
    Pitt squinted from the bright glare of the white paint,