Read more
Zusatztext “Dirk Pitt [is] oceanography’s answer to Indiana Jones.”—Associated Press Informationen zum Autor Clive Cussler is an accomplished marine archaeologist and the author of more than sixty action-adventure novels, many featuring deep-sea expert Dirk Pitt. He has been a #1 New York Times bestseller countless times over and continues to thrill his legions of fans worldwide. Klappentext A RIVETING, DEATH-DEFYING DIRK PITT ADVENTURE! 1954: Vixen 03 is down. The plane, bound for the Pacific carrying thirty-six Doomsday Bombs-canisters armed with quick-death germs of unbelievable potency-vanishes. Vixen has in fact crashed into an ice-covered lake in Colorado. 1988: Dirk Pitt, who heroically raised the Titanic, discovers the wreckage of Vixen 03. But two deadly canisters are missing. They're in the hands of a terrorist group. Their lethal mission: to sail a battleship seventy-five miles up the Potomac and blast Washington, D.C., to kingdom come. Only Dirk can stop them. Leseprobe Colorado — September 1988 Dirk Pitt released his hold on sleep, yawned a deep, satisfying yawn, and absorbed his surroundings. It had been dark when he arrived at the mountain cabin and the flames in the great moss-rock fireplace along with the light from the pungent-smelling kerosene lamps had not illuminated the knotty-pine interior to its best advantage. His vision sharpened on an old Seth Thomas clock clinging to one wall. He had set and wound the clock the previous night; it had seemed the thing to do. Next he focused on the massive cobwebbed head of an elk that stared down at him through dusty glass eyes. Slightly beyond the elk was a picture window that offered a breathtaking vista of the craggy Sawatch mountain range, deep in the Colorado Rockies. As the last strands of sleep receded, Pitt found himself faced with his first decision of the day: whether to allow his eyes to bask in the majesty of the scenery or to feast them on the smoothly contoured body of Colorado congresswoman Loren Smith, who sat naked on a quilted rug, engrossed in yoga exercise. Pitt discerningly opted for Congresswoman Smith. She was sitting cross-legged, in the lotus position, leaning back and resting her elbows and head on the rug. The exposed nest between her thighs and the small tautened mounds on her chest, Pitt decided, put the granite summits of the Sawatch to shame. "What do you call that unladylike contortion?" he asked. "The Fish," she replied, without moving. "It's for firming up the bosom." "Speaking as a man," Pitt said with mock pompousness, "I do not approve of rock-hard boobs." "Would you prefer them limp and saggy?" Her violet eyes angled in his direction. "Well . . . not exactly. But perhaps a little silicone here and a little silicone there . . ." "That's the trouble with the masculine mind," she snapped, sitting up and brushing back her long cinnamon hair. "You think all women should have balloon-sized mammaries like those insipid drones on the centerfolds of chauvinist magazines." "Wishing will make it so." She threw him a pouting look. "Too bad. You'll have to make do with my thirty-four B-cuppers. They're all I've got." He reached out, wrapped an iron arm around her torso, and dragged her half on, half off the bed. "Colossal or petite"—he leaned down and lightly kissed each nipple—"let no woman accuse Dirk Pitt of discrimination." She arched up and bit his ear. "Four whole days alone together. No phones, no committee meetings, no cocktail parties, no aides to hassle me. It's almost too good to be true." Her hand crept under the covers and she caressed his stomach. "How about a little sport before breakfast?" "Ah, the magic word." She threw him a crooked smile. "'Sport' or 'breakfast'?" "What you said before, your yoga positio...
