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“So I’ve been told,” Pitt said, and laughed.

Steiger sat down and inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle between his lips as he spoke. “Now, take me: I’m a bona fide quitter, but only on the matters that don’t really count,” he said. “Crossword puzzles, dull books, household projects, hooked rugs-I never finish any of them. I figure, without all that mental stress, I’ll live ten years longer.”

“A pity you can’t quit smoking.”

“louche,” Steiger said.

Just then two teenagers, a boy and a girl, wearing down vests and standing on a makeshift raft, rounded a bend in the stream and drifted past. They were laughing with adolescent abandon, totally oblivious of the men on the bank. Pitt and Steiger watched them in silence until they disappeared downstream.

“Now, there is the life,” said Steiger. “I used to go rafting down the Sacramento River when I was a kid. Did you ever try it?”

Pitt did not hear the question. He stood gazing intently at the spot where the boy and the girl became lost to view. His facial expression transformed from deep thoughtfulness to sudden enlightenment.

“What’s with you?” Steiger asked. “You look as though you’ve seen God.”

“It was socking me in the face all this time and I ignored it,” Pitt murmured.

“Ignored what?”

“It just goes to prove the toughest problems fall by the simplest solutions.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“The oxygen tank and the nose gear,” Pitt said. “I know where they came from.”

Steiger only looked at Pitt, his eyes clouded with skepticism.

“What I’m getting at,” Pitt continued, “is that we’ve been overlooking the one quality they share.”

“I fail to see the connection,” said Steiger. “When installed in the aircraft, they work under two entirely different flow systems, one gas and the other hydraulic.”

“Yes, but take them off the aircraft and they both have one characteristic in common.”

“Which is?”

Pitt gazed at Steiger and smiled and smiled. Then he spoke the magic words.

“They float.”

Alongside most sleek executive jets, the Catlin M-200 came off like a flying toad. Also slower in flight, it had one redeeming quality that was unmatched by any other airplane its size: the Catlin was designed to land and take off in impossible places with cargo loads twice its own weight.

The sun gleamed on the aquamarine color scheme adorning the plane’s fuselage as the pilot expertly banked the craft and settled it onto the narrow asphalt strip of the Lake County airport outside Leadville. It came to an abrupt halt with nearly two thousand feet to spare and then turned and taxied toward the area where Pitt and Steiger waited. As it neared, the letters NUMA could be clearly distinguished on the side. The Catlin rolled to a stop, the engines were shut down, and a minute later the pilot climbed down and approached the two men.

“Thanks a lot, buddy,” he said, and grimaced at Pitt.

“For what, a carefree all-expenses-paid vacation in the Rockies?”

“No, for prodding me out of the sack with a madcap redhead in the middle of the night to assemble a cargo and fly it out here from Washington.”

Pitt turned to Steiger. “Colonel Abe Steiger, may I present Al Giordino, my sometimes able assistant and always chief bellyacher, of the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

Giordino and Steiger sized each other up like two professional fighters. Except for Steiger’s cleanly shaved head and Semitic features, and Giordino’s mischievous Italian grin and curly mop of black hair, they

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could have passed for brothers. They were built exactly alike: same height, same weight, even the muscles that fought to escape their clothing seemed poured from the same mold. Giordino extended his hand.

“Colonel, I hope you and I never get mad at each other.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Steiger said, smiling warmly.

“Did you bring the equipment I specified?” asked Pitt.

Giordino nodded. “It took some conniving. If the admiral finds out about your little back-door project, he’ll throw one of his renowned temper tantrums.”

“Admiral?” Steiger queried. “I don’t see how the Navy enters into this.”

“They don’t,” Pitt answered. “Admiral James Sandecker, retired, happens to be Chief Director of NUMA. He has this Scrooge hangup: he frowns on clandestine expenditures by the hired help that aren’t included in the agency’s fiscal budget.”

Steiger’s eyebrows rose with sudden realization. “Are you saying that you had Giordino take a government aircraft at government expense halfway across the country without authorization, not to mention a stolen cargo of equipment?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“We’re really quite good at it,” Giordino said, deadpan.

“Saves enormous time,” said Pitt unconcernedly. “Bureaucratic red tape can be such a bore.”

“This is incredible,” said Steiger softly. “I’ll probably be court-martialed as an accomplice.”

“Not if we get away with it,” Pitt said. “Now then, if you two will untie the cargo, I’ll back the Jeep up to the airplane.” With that he walked toward the parking lot.

Steiger watched him for a moment and then turned to Giordino. “Have you known him long?”

“Since the first grade. I was the class bully. When Dirk moved into the neighborhood and showed up for his first day at school, I worked him over pretty good.”

“You showed him who was boss?”

“Not exactly.” Giordino reached up and opened the cargo door. “After I bloodied his nose and blackened one eye, he got up off the ground and kicked me in the crotch. I walked lopsided for a week.”

“You make him sound devious.”

“Let’s just say that Pitt has a ton of balls, the brains to go with them,

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and an uncanny knack for knocking the shit out of any obstacle, man made or otherwise, that gets in his way. He is a soft touch for.kids and animals, and helps little old ladies up escalators. To my knowledge, he’s never stolen a dime in his life nor used his sly talents for personal gain. Beyond all that, he’s one helluva guy.”

“Do you think he might have gone too far this time?”

“You mean his stock in a nonexistent aircraft?”

Steiger nodded.

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

Pitt crouched on his knees in an aluminum rowboat and fine-tuned the TV monitor. Steiger sat toward the bow and struggled with the oars. Giordino was in another boat, about twenty feet forward, nearly hidden behind a pile of battery-powered transmitters. As he rowed, he kept a wary eye on the cable that crept over the stern and disappeared into the water. At the other end was a TV camera enclosed in a watertight case.

“Wake me when a good horror movie comes on,” Giordino said, yawning, across the water.

“Keep rowing,” Steiger grunted. “I’m beginning to gain on you.”

Pitt did not join in the idle banter. His concentration was focused on the screen. A frigid afternoon breeze rolled down the mountain slopes and turned the glassy surface of the lake into a mild chop, making it difficult for Giordino’s and Steiger’s aching arms to keep the two boats on an even course.

Since early morning the only objects that had strayed past the monitor were scattered mounds of rocks embedded in the muddy bottom, rotting remains of long-dead trees whose leafless branches seemed to clutch at the passing camera, and a few startled rainbow trout who gave the intruding camera a respectable berth.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to conduct a search with scuba equipment?” Steiger said, cutting into Pitt’s fixed scrutiny.

Pitt rubbed his strained eyes with the palms of his hands. “TV is far more efficient. Also, the lake is two hundred feet deep in spots. A diver’s bottom time at that depth is measured in mere minutes. Add to that the

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fact that fifty feet beneath the surface the water turns almost to freezing and you have one damned uncomfortable situation. A man would be lucky if his body could withstand the cold more than ten minutes.”

“And if we find something?”

“Then I’ll put on a wet suit and go over the side for a look-see, but not one second before.”

Something materialized on the monitor and Pitt leaned forward for a closer look, shielding the outside light with a black cloth.

“I think we just picked up Giordino’s horror movie,” he said.

“What is it?” Steiger demanded excitedly.

“Looks like an old log cabin.”

“A log cabin?”

“See for yourself.”

Steiger bent around Pitt’s shoulder and gazed at the screen. The camera, one hundred forty feet below the boats, relayed through the icy water a picture of what seemed to be a distorted structure. The sun’s wavering light through the choppy surface and the hazy visibility at that depth combined to give it a ghostlike image.

“How in the world did that get there?” asked a bewildered Steiger.

“No great secret,” said Pitt. “Table Lake is man made. The state dammed up the stream that flows through this valley in 1945. An abandoned lumber mill that stood near the old streambed was submerged when the water rose. The cabin we see must have been one of the old bunkhouses.”

Giordino rowed back for a look. “All that’s missing is a ‘for sale’ sign.”

“Amazingly well preserved,” murmured Steiger.

“Thanks to the near-freezing fresh water,” Pitt added. Then, “So much for the local tourist attraction. Shall we continue?”

“How much longer?” Giordino asked him. “I could use some liquid nourishment, preferably the kind that comes out of a bottle.”

“It’ll be dark in a couple of hours,” said Steiger. “I make a motion we call it a day.”

“You win my vote.” Giordino looked across at Pitt. “How about it, Captain Bligh? Shall I reel in the camera?”

“No, keep it dangling. We’ll troll it back to the dock.”

Giordino awkwardly turned his boat a hundred eighty degrees and began pulling for home.

“I think your theory has about shot its wad,” said Steiger. “We’ve been over the center of the lake twice and all we have to show for it is a

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bundle of sore muscles and a picture of a tumbledown shack. Face the inevitable, Pitt: there’s nothing of interest in this lake but fish.” Steiger paused and nodded at the television equipment. “And speaking of the denizens of the deep-what a fisherman wouldn’t give to own a rig like this.”

Pitt looked up at Steiger thoughtfully. “Al, make for the old man on your left who’s casting on the shore.”

Giordino twisted around and noted the direction Pitt indicated. He nodded silently and altered his course. Steiger followed suit.

A few more minutes’ rowing brought the boats within hailing distance of an elderly angler who was expertly laying a fly beside a massive boulder that protruded from the lake’s surface. He looked up and tipped his fly-festooned hat at Pitt’s greeting.

“Having any luck?”

“That’s not very original,” Steiger mumbled.

“Business is a mite slow today,” answered the angler.

“Do you fish Table Lake often?”

“Off and on for twenty-two years.”

“Can you tell me what part of the lake eats the most bait?”

“Come again?”

“Is there a section of Table Lake where fishermen frequently lose their lures?”

“Over toward the dam there’s a submerged log that does a pretty good job of it.”

“What depth?”

“Eight, maybe twelve feet.”

“I’m looking for a spot that’s deeper, much deeper,” said Pitt.

The old angler thought a moment. “Up toward the big marsh at the north end of the lake there’s this big hole. Lost two of my best spinners in it last summer while trolling deep. A lot of the big fish swim deep during hot weather. I don’t recommend trying your luck there, though. Not unless you own part interest in a tackle shop.”

“Much obliged for your help,” Pitt said, and waved. “Good luck!”

“Same to you,” said the old angler. He went back to his casting and within a few moments his pole arched with a strong bite.

“You heard, Al?”

Giordino looked longingly at the dock and then at the lake’s north end, a quarter of a mile away. Resigning himself to the chore, he raised the camera to keep it from creeping into the lake bed and then adjusted his

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gloves and took up the oars again. Steiger gave Pitt a four-letter stare but raised the white flag.

A half hour of fighting a gusting cross chop passed with agonizing slowness. Steiger and Giordino went about their labor in silence; Giordino on blind faith in Pitt’s judgment, Steiger because he was damned if he’d let Giordino outendure him. Pitt stayed glued to the monitor, every so often calling out depth adjustments to Giordino.

The bottom of Table Lake began to rise the closer to the marsh they rowed. Then, abruptly, the silt and weed began dropping away, and the water darkened. They halted to lower the camera and then resumed the stroke.

They had moved only a few yards when a curved object edged onto the screen. The form was not sharply defined; nor did it have a natural contour.

“Stop rowing!” Pitt ordered tersely.

Steiger slumped on his seat, grateful for the break, but Giordino looked piercingly across the narrow distance separating the two boats. He’d heard that tone of voice from Pitt before.

Down in the cold depths the camera slowly drifted closer to the object materializing on the monitor. Pitt sat as though turned to oak as a large white star on a dark-blue background crept into his view. He waited for the camera to continue its probe, the inside of his mouth as dry as Kansas dust.

Giordino had rowed over and was holding the two boats together. Steiger became aware of the tension, raised his head, and looked inquiringly at Pitt.

“You got something?”

“An aircraft with military markings,” Pitt said, controlling the excitement he felt.

Steiger crawled astern and peered unbelievingly into the monitor. The camera had floated over the wing and was now falling back along the fuselage. A square port came into view as above it the words MILITARY AIR transport SERVICE marched by.