“Japan has the bomb,” the chief of the National Security Service revealed. “How long they’ve had it or how many they’ve built is unknown. Given their advanced nuclear technology, Japan has had the capability to build warheads for over a decade. And despite their highly touted adherence to the nonproliferation treaty, someone or some group within their power structure decided they needed a deterrent force for its blackmail value. What little we know comes after the fact. A Japanese ship carrying Murmoto automobiles and two or more nuclear devices detonated in the middle of the Pacific, taking a Norwegian passenger-cargo liner and the British survey ship and their crews with her. Why were nuclear bombs on a Jap ship’? They were smuggling them into American ports. For what purpose? Probably nuclear extortion. Japan may have the bomb, but she doesn’t have a missile force or the long-range bombers to deliver it. So what would we do in their shoes to protect a financial power structure that reaches into every pocket of every country of the world? We smuggle nuclear weapons into any nation or combination of nations such as Europe that pose a threat to our economic empire and hide them in strategic locations. Then, if a particular country, say the U.S., gets mad after our Japanese leaders attempt to dictate policy to the White House and Congress and the business community, the Americans retaliate by refusing to pay back hundreds of billions of dollars loaned to their Treasury by our Japanese banks. They also threaten boycotts and trade barriers on all Japanese goods. Extreme measures that Senator Diaz and Congresswoman Loren Smith are proposing over at the Capitol as we speak. And maybe, just maybe, if the President gets riled up enough, he orders his superior military forces to blockade the Japanese islands, cutting off all our oil and vital raw materials, shutting down all our production. Follow me so far?”

Pitt nodded. “I’m with you.”

“This backlash scenario is not farfetched, especially when the American people will someday realize they work one month out of the year to pay off debts owed to foreign, for the most part Japanese, creditors. Are the Japs worried? Not when they have the power to push buttons and blow up any city in the world in time for the six o’clock news. Why are we here? To stop them by finding where the bombs are hidden. And stop them before they discover we’re onto them. That’s where Team Buick comes in. Stacy is an operative with the National Security Agency. Timothy is a nuclear scientist who specializes in radioactivity detection, Team Honda, led by James and Roy, agents, will concentrate on discovering and the command center that controls the detonations. Is this frightening nightmare? Absolutely. The lives of five hundred million people in nations that compete with Japan depend on what we around this table can accomplish in the next few weeks. In a wisdom bred more of ignorance, our State Department does not allow us covert observation of friendly nations. As the front line of this nation’s early warning system, we are forced to run in the shadows and die in obscurity. The alarm bells are about to be rung, and believe it or not, Mr. Pitt, this MAIT team is the last resort before a full-scale disaster. Do you get the picture?”

“Yes…” Pitt said slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Jordan. I get the picture.”

“Now will you officially join the team?”

Pitt rose, and to the astonishment of everyone present except Giordino and Sandecker, he said, “I’ll think it over.”

And then he left the room.

As he walked down the steps into the alley beside the squalid old building, Pitt turned and gazed up at the dingy walls and boarded windows. He shook his head in wonderment, then looked down at the security guard in the ragged clothes sprawled on the steps and muttered to himself, “So that’s the eyes and ears of the great republic.”

Jordan and Sandecker remained in the conference room after the others had filed out.

The crusty little admiral looked at Jordan and smiled faintly. “Do you mind my cigar?”

Jordan made a look of distaste. “A little late in asking, aren’t you, Jim?”

“Nasty habit.” Sandecker nodded. “But I don’t mind blowing smoke on someone, especially when they hard-ass my people. And that’s exactly what you were doing, Ray, hard-assing Pitt and Giordino.”

“You know damn well we’re in a state of crisis,” said Jordan seriously. “We don’t have time to cater to prima donnas.”

Sandecker’s face clouded. He pointed to Pitt’s packet that was on the top of the stack before Jordan. “You didn’t do your homework, or you’d know that Dirk Pitt is a bigger patriot than you and I put together. Few men have accomplished more for their country. There are few of his breed left. He still whistles ‘Yankee Doodle’ in the shower and believes a handshake is a contract and man’s word is his bond. He can also be devious as the devil if he thinks he’s helping preserve the Stars and Stripes, the American family, and baseball.”

“If he knows the urgency of the situation,” said Jordan, puzzled, “why did he stall and cut out?”

Sandecker looked at him, then looked at the organization chart on the backlit screen where Kern had written in “Tea Stutz.”

“You badly underestimated Dirk,” he said almost sadly. “You don’t know, you couldn’t know, he’s probably brewing up scheme to reinforce your operation this minute.”

22

PITT DID NOT GO directly to the old aircraft hangar on the edge of Washington’s International Airport that he called home. He gave Giordino a set of instructions and sent him off in a cab.

He walked up Constitution Avenue until he came to a Japanese restaurant. He asked for a quiet booth in the corner, sat down, and ordered. Between the clear clam soup and a medley of sashimi raw fish, he left the table and walked to a pay phone outside the rest rooms.

He took a small address book from his wallet and flipped through the phone numbers until he found the one he was looking for, Dr. Percival Nash (Payload Percy), Chevy Chase, Maryland. Nash was Pitt’s uncle on his mother’s side. The family character, Nash often bragged how he used to spike Dirk’s baby formula with sherry. Pitt inserted the change and dialed the number under the name.

He waited patiently through six rings, hoping Nash was in. He was, answering half a second before Pitt was about to hang up.

“Dr. Nash here,” came a youthful resonant voice (he was crowding eighty-two).

“Uncle Percy, this is Dirk.”

“Oh, my goodness, Dirk. About time I heard your voice. You haven’t called your old uncle in five months.”

“Four,” Pitt corrected him. “I’ve been on an overseas project.”

“How’s my beautiful sister and that dirty old politician she married? They never call me either.”

“I haven’t been over to the house yet, but judging from their letters, Mom and the senator are as testy as ever.”

“What about you, nephew? Are you in good health?”

“Fit and ready to race you around Marinda Park.”

“You remember that, do you? You couldn’t have been much older than six at the time.”

“How could I forget? Every time I’d try and pass, you’d throw me in the bushes.”

Nash laughed like the jolly man that he was. “Never try to better your elders. We like to think we’re smarter than you kids.”

“That’s why I need your help, and was wondering if you could meet me at the NUMA Building. I need to pick your brain.”

“On what subject?”

“Nuclear reactors for race cars.”

Nash knew instantly Pitt was dodging the real issue over the telephone. “When?” he asked without hesitation.

“As soon as convenient.”

“An hour okay?”

“An hour will be fine,” said Pitt.