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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