Pitt stepped back as a flying wad of tuberous stems and heart-shaped leaves splattered at his feet. To him, at least, it was an awkward situation, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. The admiral’s back was to him, and Pitt hesitated. He took a deep breath and plunged. “I’d like to ask you several questions concerning an aircraft with the code designation Vixen 03.”

Bass kept at his labor without a pause, but the whitened knuckles around the handle of the pitchfork did not go unnoticed by Pitt.

“Vixen 03,” he said, and shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“It was a Military Air Transport Service plane that vanished back in 1954.”

IB.

Salvage I 125

“That was a long time ago.” Bass stared vacantly at the water. “No, I can’t recall any connection with a MATS aircraft,” he said finally. “Not surprising, though. I was a surface officer throughout my thirty years in the Navy. Heavy ordnance was my specialty.”

“Do you recall ever meeting a major in the Air Force by the name of Vylander?”

“Vylander?” Bass shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.” Then he looked at Pitt speculatively. “What was your name again? Why are you asking me these questions?”

“My name is Dirk Pitt,” he said again. “I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I found some old papers that stated you were the officer who authorized Vixen 03’s flight orders.”

“There must be a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” said Pitt. “Maybe the mystery will be cleared up when the wreck of the aircraft is raised and thoroughly inspected.”

“I thought you said it vanished.”

“I discovered the wreckage,” Pitt answered.

Pitt studied Bass closely for any discernible reaction. There was none. He decided to leave the admiral alone to collect his thoughts.

“I’m sorry to have troubled you, Admiral. I must have gotten my signals mixed.”

Pitt turned and began walking up the path back to the inn. He’d covered nearly fifty feet when Bass yelled after him.

“Mr. Pitt!”

Pitt turned. “Yes?”

“Are you staying at the inn?”

“Until tomorrow morning. Then I must be on my way.”

The admiral nodded. When Pitt reached the pines bordering Anchorage House, he took another look toward the pond. Admiral Bass was calmly forking the lily pads onto the bank, as if their brief conversation had simply been about crops and the weather.

32

Pitt enjoyed a leisurely dinner with the other guests at the inn. The dining room had been designed in the style of an eighteenth-century country tavern, with old flintlock rifles, pewter drinking cups, and weathered

126 VIXEN 03p>

farm implements hanging on the walls and rafters.

The food was about as homemade as any Pitt had ever tasted. He ate two helpings each of the fried chicken, brandied carrots, baked corn, and sweet potatoes, and barely had room for the three-inch-thick wedge of apple pie.