Текст книги "Poseidon's Arrow"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

56

THE BULLWHIP CRACKED, AND EVERY MAN WITHIN earshot flinched, fearing the lick of its knotted tip. Occasionally Johansson would show compassion and simply snap it in the air for effect. But most of the time he directed the whip to the bare skin of a forced laborer, eliciting an agonized cry.

There were nearly seventy of them, slaves culled from the hijacked ships carrying rare earth. Now they were the ones carrying the rare earth, hauling the stolen ore to various extraction centers hidden in the jungle. Weakened by a regimen of hard labor and a subsistence diet, the men were quickly reduced to haggard zombies. The arriving captives from the Adelaidewere shocked at the sight of them, in their ragged, soiled clothes, staring impassively at the new arrivals.

Pitt and Giordino took one look at the men and knew there would be no benefit in delaying an escape.

“I’m not impressed by the long-term medical coverage offered here,” Giordino muttered as they were divided into work teams to off-load the Adelaide’s cargo.

“I agree,” Pitt said. “I think we should look for employment elsewhere.”

“What’s with the dog collars?”

Pitt had also seen that the laborers all wore tubular steel collars. The men wearing them carefully heeded the edge of the dock, not venturing beyond their immediate work area.

Johansson cracked his whip, and the Adelaidecaptives were marched into a clearing. A table was set up with a box containing the collars, and one by one the men were fitted with the devices, which were locked with a key. Giordino’s bull-sized neck barely accommodated his collar, which clung tightly to his skin.

“Do we get a cattle brand, too?” he asked of the armed man fitting the device. His reply was a cold sneer.

When all the men had been fitted, Johansson paced in front of them.

“In case you are wondering, the neck bands you are wearing are a protective device. They protect from escape.” He gave a malicious smile. “If you look to the dock, you will see a pair of white lines on the ground.”

Pitt saw two parallel faded lines, painted several feet apart. The lines looped away from the dock and disappeared into the jungle.

“The white lines encircle a five-acre area, encompassing the ore depot, the millhouse, and your living quarters. It is your little island of life. Beneath the lines are electrified cables that will emit a fifty-thousand-volt shock to your steel collars should you attempt to cross them. In other words, you will die. Would you like a demonstration?”

The men stood silent, not wishing to witness another sacrifice.

Johansson laughed. “I’m glad that we understand each other. Now, it is time to get to work.”

Gomez’s crew from the ship deployed the dock conveyor to the Adelaide’s first hold and began off-loading the crushed monazite. The ore was dumped onto a concrete pad inside the white lines, where it quickly grew to a small mountain. Shovels and rubber-tired ore carts were delivered by a weary group of captives and the new slaves went to work. Plugrad and his Coast Guard team were assigned as shovelers while Pitt, Giordino, and the others were given the less arduous task of pushing the loaded carts to the nearby millhouse and unloading them.

The equatorial heat and humidity quickly took a toll on the men, wringing the strength out of them. Pitt and Giordino worked as slowly as they could, trying to conserve energy, while sweat dripped down their faces. But always they heard the sound of the bullwhip, keeping the pace moving.

The loaded carts were difficult to push for Giordino with his injured leg. He moved unsteadily, shoving his cart with short hops. Pitt was following close behind when Johansson stepped out of the jungle. His whip cracked a second later, the leather tip striking Giordino on the forearm. Despite the eruption of a red welt, Giordino reacted as if a gnat had landed on him, turning to Johansson with an ungracious smile.

“Why is your cart only half full?” the Swede shouted as a pair of guards rushed to his side.

Pitt could see the look in Giordino’s eyes and knew his friend was ready to pounce. The two guards would make it a hopeless act. Pitt shoved his cart forward, bumping into Giordino as a signal to stay calm. Giordino turned to Johansson and exposed the bloody bandage on his thigh.

“Playing on an injury?” Johansson said. “Fill the cart full next time or I’ll do the same to your other leg.” He turned to Pitt and let his bullwhip fly. “That goes for you, too.”

The lash snapped against Pitt’s leg. Like Giordino, he ignored the stinging pain and stared at Johansson with malice. Giordino nudged him this time, and the two men moved off with their carts while Johansson turned his attention to the next group of laborers.

“Woe is me and my goldbricking ways,” Giordino said under his breath.

“I’ve got some ideas on what I’d like to do with that bullwhip,” Pitt said.

“You and me both, brother.”

They dumped their carts at the side of the millhouse and made their way back to the dock, trying to survey the camp’s layout. Four long, low-roofed buildings off the back of the millhouse contained the extraction and separation operations. Beyond them, faintly visible through the brush, a two-story building housed the living quarters for the guards and facility workers. The captives’ housing was located on the opposite end of the millhouse. It was an open-walled structure, with a dining area at one end, surrounded by a ten-foot-high wall capped with barbed wire. Hidden farther into the jungle, and well beyond the white lines, a small power-generating station provided electricity for the compound.

The captives worked until dusk, by which time they were ready to collapse. As he returned his empty ore cart, Pitt heard a sharp cry from the dock. One of Plugrad’s men had tripped while storing a shovel and had fallen close to the white line. A surge of high voltage had coursed through his body before he could roll clear. He trembled as his heart pounded wildly, but he survived the shock as a living warning to the others.

Pitt and Giordino shuffled into the camp mess area as it began to rain, the palm-covered roof leaking everywhere. They were given bread and watery soup, which they took to a nearby table. Two emaciated men joined them.

“Name’s Maguire, and my friend’s Brown,” one said in a Kiwi accent. He was a dusty-haired figure with a stringy beard. “Formerly of the Gretchen. You just get off the Labrador?”

“Yes. She was called the Adelaidewhen we went aboard.” Pitt introduced himself and Giordino.

“First time I’ve seen a hijacked ship here,” Maguire said. “They usually steal the cargo at sea and scuttle the ship. That’s what they did to the Gretchen, right off Tahiti. Zapped us with their microwave device and took control before we knew what hit us.”

“Was it mounted on a big square dish?” Pitt asked.

“Yes. Know what it is?”

“We think it’s an offshoot of an Army crowd-control device called the Active Denial System or ADS.”

“It’s bloody nasty, whatever you call it.”

“How long have you been here?” Giordino asked.

“About two months. You’re the second crew I’ve seen come in. Our numbers have been down as the attrition rate’s a little high,” he said in a low voice. “Just drink plenty of water and you’ll be okay. At least they don’t short us that.” He swabbed up the remains of his soup with a hard crust of bread.

“Pardon the ignorance,” Pitt said, “but where exactly are we?”

Maguire laughed. “Always the first question. You’re in the hot, rainy, wretched jungles of Panama. Exactly where in Panama, I can’t say.”

“Maguire here has befriended one of the guards,” Brown said. “They apparently take periodic leave by boat in Colón, so we must be near the Atlantic side.”

Maguire nodded. “Some of the boys think we’re in the Canal Zone, but it’s hard to know for sure as we never get off our little five-acre island of joy. The boss comes and goes by helicopter, so true civilization must be a bit farther away.”

“Anybody ever make it out of here?” Giordino asked. “Seems like the prisoners heavily outnumber the guards.”

Both men shook their heads. “Seen a few try,” Brown said. “Even if you get past the death stripes, they’ll come after you with the dogs.” He noted the welt on Giordino’s arm. “You get kissed by Johnny the Whip today?”

“Something more than a peck,” Giordino said.

“He’s a sick one, no doubt about it. Best to steer clear of him whenever possible.”

“Who ultimately does run this place?” Pitt asked.

“A guy named Edward Bolcke. Some sort of genius mining engineer. He’s got his own residence just up the way.” Maguire pointed toward the dock. “He built this entire complex to extract and refine rare earth elements. From what we’ve learned, he’s a major player in the world market, and is particularly tight with the Chinese. One of the extraction workers claims a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of rare earth elements are processed here a year, much of it stolen.”

Giordino whistled. “Makes for a tidy profit.”

“The extraction facilities,” Pitt said, thinking escape. “I’m guessing they must use a large amount of chemicals in the process.”

“Some deadly, I hope,” Giordino said.

“Yes, but it’s out of reach,” Maguire said. “All the serious stuff is performed in the buildings beyond our access. We’re just the grunts. We load and off-load the ships and run the millhouse. You hoping to play with matches?”

“Something on that order.”

“You might as well forget about it. Brown and I considered it for weeks, but we’ve seen too many good men die in the attempt. Somebody will blow the whistle on this place one of these days. We just need to hang on until it happens.”

A string of lights above their heads flashed briefly.

“Lights out in five minutes,” Maguire said. “You boys best find a place to bunk.”

He led them to a large screened room filled with rattan sleeping mats. Pitt and Giordino picked two and lay down as the room filled with men and the lights went out. Pitt ignored the discomfort of the steamy room and the hard mat as he lay in the darkness, contemplating a way out of the death camp. He drifted to sleep without an answer, not knowing his opportunity would come much sooner than he thought.

57

THE LABORERS FROZE WHEN THEY HEARD THE thumping whine of a helicopter landing. Johansson’s whip immediately prompted the men back to work, purging any hopes that an armed force had arrived to set them free.

Instead it was Bolcke himself, arriving fresh from Australia, where he had set in motion the final stages for his takeover of the Mount Weld mining operation. Climbing out of the helicopter, he bypassed a waiting golf cart and strode to the dock, a pair of armed guards in tow.

A ragged group of laborers, including Pitt and Giordino, were transferring the Adelaide’s final hold of ore when Bolcke stepped onto the dock. He glanced at the slaves with disdain, briefly locking eyes with Pitt. In that instant, Pitt seemed to read into the Austrian’s psyche. He saw a joyless man, one scrubbed clean of compassion, ethics, and even a soul.

Bolcke coldly eyed the piled ore before examining the ship. He waited briefly for Gomez, who was summoned from the ship and scurried down the gangplank.

“The cargo was what we anticipated?” Bolcke asked.

“Yes, thirty thousand tons of crushed monazite ore. That’s the last of it there.” Gomez pointed at the final mound.

“Any trouble with the acquisition?”

“The shipping line sent out an added security team. We subdued them without issue.”

“Someone was expecting an attack?”

Gomez nodded. “Fortunately, they arrived after we had already seized the ship.”

A troubled look crossed Bolcke’s face. “Then we must dispose of the vessel.”

“After changing identities at sea, we entered the canal without question,” Gomez said.

“I can’t afford the risk. I have an important transaction pending with the Chinese. Wait three days and dispose of the ship.”

“There’s a salvage yard in São Paulo I can take her to. They’ll pay top dollar.”

Bolcke thought a moment. “No, it’s not worth the risk. Strip what’s valuable, and dispose of her in the Atlantic.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pitt lingered near the ore pile, straining to overhear the conversation while his cart was filled. He watched as Bolcke turned his back on Gomez and walked toward his residence and Gomez returned to the ship.

“The Adelaide’s headed out in a few days,” he said to Giordino. “I think we need to be aboard when they shove off.”

“Fine by me. I just don’t want to go as a piece of toast.” He tapped his steel collar.

“I have a theory about our dog collars,” Pitt said. He fell silent when Johansson emerged from the bush, cracking his whip.

“Pick up the pace,” he yelled. “You’re falling behind the mill.”

The laborers quickened their movements, none making eye contact with him. Johansson paced the dock area until he spotted Giordino, pushing a fully loaded cart and limping. The bullwhip snapped, striking Giordino in the back of the thigh. “You, there. Get a move on.”

Giordino turned and gave him a look that could blister paint. His knuckles turning white as he pushed, Giordino propelled the ore carrier ahead as if it were an empty grocery cart. Johansson smiled at the display of strength, then wandered off to berate another group of laborers.

Pitt followed Giordino along the path to the millhouse. It ran parallel to the twin white lines alongside the dock, and Pitt gradually eased the cart toward the nearest line. When he approached within three feet, he began feeling a tingling in the collar. He took a quick step and pulled himself onto the cart for a moment as it rolled along. The tingling immediately ceased. He veered the cart back onto the path, catching a brief shock as he pushed off with his foot. When he caught up to Giordino, Pitt was smiling.

After a brief lunch of cold fish stew, the two men were led into the millhouse, where they were assigned to feed the ball mill—a huge metal cylinder mounted horizontally on rotating gears. Crushed ore was fed into one end, where it would collide with hardened steel balls housed inside as the cylinder rotated. The balls pulverized the ore into a near powder, which was filtered out the opposite end. The mill rumbled like an overgrown washing machine loaded with marbles.

The raw ore that had been transferred from the dock was piled in large mounds along the open side of the building. A short conveyor carried the ore to a raised platform built over the ball mill, where it was manually fed into the device through a large funnel. A guard ordered Pitt onto the platform to feed the mill, while Giordino joined another man shoveling ore onto the conveyor.

The work was less strenuous than the hauling. The ball mill took time to digest the ore, which allowed frequent rests for the laborers. During one of these intervals, Johansson made an appearance. The overseer entered the far side of the building, lingering at the back end of the ball mill, where workers collected the powder in more carts and transferred them to the next staging area. The mill guard stepped over and joined him in a brief discussion of the output.

A few minutes later, Johansson walked the length of the ball mill. For once, his hands were empty, the rawhide lash coiled to his belt. As he approached the feed piles, he spotted Giordino and the other worker seated on one of the mounds. Johansson’s face flushed, and his eyes bulged with rage.

“On your feet!” he screamed. “Why aren’t you working?”

“The ball mill is full up,” Giordino said, casually pointing to the spinning cylinder. He remained seated while his companion jumped upright.

“I said, on your feet.”

Giordino tried rising, but his injured leg lost its footing, and he buckled to his knee. Johansson lunged forward, catching Giordino before he could recover. Grabbing a shovel wedged in the ore, the Swede swung it hard, aiming for the bum leg.

The blade connected with a whack, striking just above the wound on Giordino’s thigh. He collapsed as blood began seeping from the reopened wound.

Standing on the platform, Pitt had seen it coming but could not react in time. His own shovel in hand, he took a quick step across the platform and leaped off the edge. He fell toward Johansson but was too far away to land on him. Instead, he swung the shovel in a chopping motion as he fell, stretching his arms and aiming at Johansson’s head.

The shovel missed the overseer’s head but struck his left shoulder hard. Johansson winced and spun around as the shovel bounced away and Pitt landed hard at his feet. Still gripping his own shovel, Johansson took a swipe at Pitt. Trying to rise, Pitt was forced to fling himself backward, and he caught a glancing blow on his side as he rolled toward the ball mill.

Pursuing like a rabid animal, Johansson was above Pitt instantly, raising the shovel for a vertical blow to the head. Pitt rolled beneath the spinning gears of the ball mill as the shovel head smacked the ground beside him. Pitt reacted in turn, grabbing the shovel’s wooden handle to prevent another blow. Johansson tried to jerk it away, but his left arm was numb from the earlier blow and he didn’t have the strength. Changing tack, he pushed the handle down while diving onto Pitt.

The big Swede weighed seventy-five pounds more than Pitt and landed like a rock. The impact knocked the breath from Pitt’s lungs. Johansson managed to wedge the shovel handle beneath Pitt’s throat as he landed and applied his full strength to choke him.

Pitt struggled to push the handle clear, but he was pinned in an awkward position. As the handle pressed tighter against his throat, he noticed a large gear of the ball mill’s drive system whirring above his head. Pitt bucked and twisted, trying to throw Johansson against the gear—or at least to break his grip on the shovel.

It was no use. Johansson didn’t budge, and he focused all of his energies on choking the life out of Pitt.

A pounding sensation exploded in his head as Pitt began gasping for air. A wave of desperation fell over him, and he let go of the handle with his right hand and reached up toward Johansson’s waist, groping for his sidearm.

But Johansson’s pistol was holstered on his opposite hip. Instead, Pitt felt the coiled bullwhip hooked to his belt. He grasped the whip, pulling it free, but he began to sag as spots blurred his vision.

Then a loud whack filled his ears, and the choking eased, if only for a moment.

Giordino had crawled within throwing range and was pelting Johansson with clumps of ore. A hard chunk, driven by Giordino with the velocity of a major league fastball, struck Johansson behind the ear. The Swede grunted and turned toward Giordino, ducking as another rock came flying by.

The distraction gave Pitt time to catch a breath of air, which cleared his vision. Seizing the moment, he whipped up his free arm and looped the bullwhip around Johansson’s head.

Johansson retaliated by releasing the shovel and throwing a right fist at Pitt’s head.

Pitt could do nothing to deflect the blow, as he was reaching up with the handle of the whip. As the blow struck his face, he jammed a lanyard ring on the handle into the gear teeth spinning just above him.

The punch nearly knocked Pitt out, but he remained alert enough to see the coiled whip tighten around Johansson’s neck and jerk him upward. As he flailed to break free, the huge toothed wheel carried the Swede up onto its rotating surface. A hoarse scream passed from Johansson’s lips as he was dragged by the neck to the machine’s opposite side.

At its base, the external gear engaged with the flywheel from the ball mill’s 800-horsepower motor. Johansson fought to escape, but was pulled into the rotating gears. The meshing metal teeth chewing through the leather whip and then into the flesh of the overseer’s neck. His screaming ended, and the rotating gear spit a thin line of red across the room. The machine bucked and slowed a moment, then revved back up to speed. Beneath the gears, a pool of blood spread across the floor from Johansson’s decapitated body.

Pitt climbed to his feet. The guard at the other end of the mill had finally taken notice and began running toward him.

“You really gunked up the works this time,” Giordino said, grinning despite his pain.

“Thanks for the assist.” Pitt moved quickly toward him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, but the leg’s leaking again. You better take a solo run.”

The guard was now yelling at Pitt while attempting to draw his weapon.

Pitt nodded at his friend. “I’ll be back.” He dove under the conveyor belt as a burst of gunfire echoed through the building. Giordino casually tossed some crushed ore across the floor when the guard rushed after Pitt. His eyes focused on his quarry, the guard slipped on the ore and fell halfway to the floor.

Pitt used the opportunity to spring from the opposite side of the conveyor and dash out the end of the building.

A late spray of gunfire followed him as he cut around the corner and ducked into some nearby foliage. Trapped on the five-acre island, he had no illusion about being able to remain concealed for long. The gunfire had already attracted the attention of several nearby guards.

Pitt needled his way through the brush, using its cover to move well clear of the millhouse. The pursuing guard exited the building too late to see him and was forced to sweep the area slowly as he called in support.

Pitt angled through the bush until he reached the cart path. Then he sprinted toward the dock as fast as his weakened legs would carry him. The path soon opened onto the dock and the remaining pile of ore. Plugrad and a few of his men were shoveling their way through the pile.

As he came off the path, Pitt held his breath, knowing he had only one means of escape. As he caught sight of the men, he saw what he was looking for. With renewed urgency, he stepped up his pace, pushing aside the thought that if his assumption was wrong, he would soon be dead.