“And you thought of me.”

“Battleships mounted sixteen-inch guns,” said Ravenfoot. “I should know. I was executive officer aboard the New Jersey during the Vietnam orgy”

“Any idea what Sandecker wants them for?” asked Jarvis.

“He claims a team of his scientists want to drop them on Pacific coral formations.”

Jarvis halted between bites. “He what?”

“They’re conducting seismological tests. It seems armor-piercing shells dropped from a plane at two thousand feet on coral make a rumble nearly identical to an earthquake!”

“I should think ground explosives would achieve the same purpose.”

Ravenfoot shrugged. “I can’t argue the point. I’m no seismologist.”

Jarvis dug into the lemon meringue. “I see nothing of interest to the evaluation section or, for that matter, a sinister design to the admiral’s request. Where does Sandecker figure these special shells are stored?”

“The AAR has them.”

Jarvis took a sip of his coffee and patted his mouth with a napkin. “Why deal with the AAR when old naval ordnance can be picked up at most any surplus-arms dealer?”

“An experimental type developed near the end of the Korean war and never fired in anger. Sandecker says they work far better than the standard projectile.” Ravenfoot leaned on the backrest of a chair. “I checked with Gossard on the AAR involvement. He thinks Sandecker is mistaken. The guerrillas need those shells like a high jumper needs gallstones-his exact words. It’s his guess that the shells NUMA wants are rusting in a naval depot somewhere.

“And if the AAR actually possessed the shells, how would Sandecker deal with them?”

“Make them a trade, I suppose, or buy the shells at an inflated price. After all, it’s only taxpayer money.”

Jarvis sat back and poked his fork at the meringue. He wasn’t hungry anymore. “I’d like to talk to Sandecker. Do you mind?”

“Be my guest. You’d probably do better working through his special-projects director, though. He’s the guy who’s heading up the search.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dirk Pitt.”

“The fellow who raised the Titanic a few months back?”

“The same.” Ravenfoot held up his wristwatch and noted the time. “I

196 VIXEN 03p>

have to run along. If you get a lead on those shells, I’d appreciate a call. Jim Sandecker is an old friend. I still owe him a favor or two.”

“Count on it.”

Jarvis sat for several minutes after Ravenfoot left, poking his fork idly at the pie. Then he rose and walked back to his office, lost in thought.

Barbara Gore knew the instant her boss stepped through the door that his intuition was working overtime. She had seen that haunted look of deep concentration too many times not to recognize it. Without waiting to be asked, she picked up her pad and pencil and followed Jarvis into his private office. Then she sat down, crossed her magnificent legs, and waited patiently.