She seemed more amused than taken aback. “My name is Julie Mendoza, Environmental Protection Agency. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the two of you, but perhaps I should wait until Mr. Pitt surfaces.”

Giordino shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He broke into a friendly smile. “We don’t stock much in the way of creature comforts but we do have cold beer.”

“Love one, thank you.”

Giordino pulled a can of Coors from an ice bucket and handed it to her. “What’s an EPA man — ah— woman doing flying around in a NUMA plane?”

“A suggestion of Admiral Sandecker.”

Mendoza didn’t offer more, so Giordino didn’t press.

“What project is this?” Mendoza asked.

“The Cumberland.”

“A Civil War ship, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, historically very significant. She was a Union frigate sunk in 1862 by the Confederate ironclad Merrimack—or the Virginia, as she was known to the South.”

“As I recall, she went down before the Merrimack fought the Monitor, making her the first ship ever destroyed by one that was armored.”

“You know your history,” said Giordino, properly impressed.

“And NUMA is going to raise her?”

Giordino shook his head. “Too costly. We’re only after the ram.”

“Ram?”

“A hell of a battle,” Giordino explained. “The crew of the Cumberland fought until the water came in their gun barrels, even though their cannon shot bounced off the Confederate’s casemate like golf balls off a Brink’s truck. In the end the Merrimack rammed the Cumberland, sending her to the bottom, flag still flying. But as the Merrimack backed away, her wedge-shaped ram caught inside the frigate and broke off. We’re looking for that ram.”

“What possible value can an old hunk of iron have?”

“Maybe it doesn’t put dollar signs in the eyes of people like treasure from a Spanish galleon, but historically it’s priceless, a piece of America’s naval heritage.”

Mendoza was about to ask another question, but her attention was diverted by two black rubber-helmeted heads that broke water beside the barge. The divers swam over, climbed a rusty ladder and shrugged off their heavy gear. Water streamed from their dry suits, gleaming in the sunlight.

The taller of the two pulled off his hood and ran his hands through a thick mane of ebony hair. His face was darkly tanned and the eyes were the most vivid green Mendoza had ever seen. He had the look of a man who smiled easily and often, who challenged life and accepted the wins and losses with equal indifference. When he stood at his full height he was three inches over six feet, and the lean, hard body under the dry suit strained at the seams. Mendoza knew without asking that this was Dirk Pitt.

He waved at the barge crew’s approach. “We found it,” he said with a wide grin.

Giordino slapped him on the back delightedly. “Nice going, pal.”

Everyone began asking the divers a barrage of questions, which they answered between swallows of beer. Finally Giordino remembered Mendoza and motioned her forward.

“This is Julie Mendoza of the EPA. She wants to have a chat with us.”

Dirk Pitt extended his hand, giving her an appraising stare. “Julie.”

“Mr. Pitt.”

“If you’ll give me a minute to unsuit and dry off—”

“I’m afraid we’re running late,” she interrupted. “We can talk in the air. Admiral Sandecker thought the plane would be faster than a helicopter.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I can’t take the time to explain. We have to leave immediately. All I can say is that you’ve been ordered to a new project.”

There was a huskiness in her voice that intrigued Pitt — not masculine exactly, but a voice that would be at home in a Harold Robbins novel. “Why the mad rush?” he asked.

“Not here or now,” she said, glancing around at the salvage crew tuned in to the conversation.

He turned to Giordino. “What do you think, Al?”

Giordino faked a bemused look. “Hard to say. The lady looks pretty determined. On the other hand, I’ve found a home here on the barge. I kind of hate to leave.”

Mendoza flushed in anger, realizing the men were toying with her. “Please, minutes count.”

“Mind telling us where we’re going?”

“Langley Air Force Base, where a military jet is waiting to take us to Kodiak, Alaska.”

She might as well have told them they were going to the moon. Pitt looked into her eyes, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. All he could read was her dead seriousness.

“I think, to be on the safe side, I’d better contact the admiral and confirm.”

“You can do that on the way to Langley,” she said, her tone unyielding. “I’ve seen to your personal affairs. Your clothes and whatever else you might need for a two-week operation have already been packed and loaded on board.” She paused and stared him squarely in the eye. “So much for small talk, Mr. Pitt. While we stand here, people are dying. You couldn’t know that. But take my word for it. If you’re half the man you’re reported to be, you’ll stop screwing around and get on the plane — now!”

“You really go for the jugular, don’t you, lady?”

“If I have to.”

There was an icy silence. Pitt took a deep breath, then blew it out. He faced Giordino.

“I hear Alaska is beautiful this time of year.”

Giordino managed a faraway look. “Some great saloons in Skagway we should check out.”

Pitt gestured to the other diver, who was peeling off his dry suit. “She’s all yours, Charlie. Go ahead and bring up the Merrimack’s ram and get it over to the conservation lab.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Pitt nodded, and then along with Giordino walked toward the Catalina, talking between themselves as if Julie Mendoza no longer existed.

“I hope she packed my fishing gear,” said Giordino with a straight voice. “The salmon should be running.”

“I’ve a mind to ride a caribou,” Pitt carried on. “Heard tell they can outrun a dog sled.”

As Mendoza followed them, the words of Admiral Sandecker came back to haunt her: “I don’t envy you riding herd on those two devils, Pitt in particular. He could con a great white shark into becoming a vegetarian. So keep a sharp eye and your legs crossed.”

James Sandecker was considered a prime catch by the feminine circles of Washington society. A dedicated bachelor whose only mistress was his work, he seldom entered into a relationship with the opposite sex that lasted more than a few weeks. Sentiment and romance, the qualities women thrive on, were beyond him. In another life he might have been a hermit — or, some suggested, Ebenezer Scrooge.

In his late fifties and an exercise addict, he still cut a trim figure. He was short and muscular, and his red hair and beard had yet to show a trace of gray. He possessed an aloofness and coarse personality that appealed to women. Many cast out lures, but few ever put a hook in him.

Bonnie Cowan, an attorney for one of the city’s most respected law firms, considered herself fortunate to have wrangled a dinner date with him. “You look pensive tonight, Jim,” she said.

He did not look directly at her. His gaze drifted over the other diners seated amid the quiet decor of the Company Inkwell restaurant. “I was wondering how many people would dine out if there were no seafood.”

She gave him a puzzled stare, then laughed. “After dealing with dull legal minds all day, I’ll confess it’s like inhaling mountain air to be with someone who wanders in aimless circles.”

His stare returned over the table’s candle and into her eyes. Bonnie Cowan was thirty-five years old, and unusually attractive. She had learned long ago that beauty was an asset in her career and never tried to disguise it. Her hair was fine, silken and fell below her shoulders. Her breasts were small but nicely proportioned, as were the legs that were amply displayed by a short skirt. She was also highly intelligent and could hold her own in any courtroom. Sandecker felt remiss at his inattentiveness.