Текст книги "Poseidon's Arrow"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

7

CAPTAIN FRANCO’S FACE WAS BEET RED AS HE SURVEYED the Sea Splendour’s damaged stern from an enclosed launch. Yet the destruction was much less than he feared; the shredded fantail showed primarily cosmetic damage. Divers would examine below the waterline, but by all accounts, the crew could handle the damage. They would barricade the aft deck, and the ship could continue its voyage with only minimal delay. Franco well knew the wrath he’d receive from the corporate offices if the passengers had to be put ashore and their fares refunded. Thankfully, that was one lesser tragedy averted. But to him the ship was like a family member, and he burned with fury at the disfigurement.

“Take us to the freighter,” he told the launch’s young pilot.

A deck officer motioned for the captain’s attention.

“Sir, a small boat appears to be in distress off our starboard beam.”

Captain Franco leaned out the open entryway. There was the red speedboat, drifting half submerged. The couple was not only still alive but sitting on the bow and waving at him.

“That’s the nut who rammed his boat into the carrier.” He shook his head. “Go ahead, go pick them up.”

The launch pulled alongside the sinking boat. Pitt helped Loren onto the launch, then jumped aboard. He turned and watched the battered speedboat a moment before it slipped under the surface.

He turned to face the frowning captain. “I guess I’m going to have to buy someone a new boat.”

Franco took a long look at Pitt; he wasn’t a young fool—or a drunk. He was tall, with a lean, muscular body. Despite the bloody gash to his shin, he stood upright with an easy confidence. His face was rugged, showing years spent outdoors, and he grinned in easy bemusement. Then there were the eyes, a beguiling green that burned with intelligence.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Pitt said, “you saved us a healthy swim to shore.”

“I watched you destroy your own boat running into the freighter,” Franco said. “Why did you nearly kill yourself?”

“To knock the rudder over.” Pitt gazed toward the cruise ship’s damaged stern. “Guess I didn’t get there quite in time.”

The captain’s face turned white. “My heavens, of course. It was you who changed the freighter’s course at the last second.”

He grasped Pitt’s hand and shook it until Pitt’s arm almost fell off. “You saved my ship and hundreds of lives. We had no time to maneuver—we would have been mauled by that idiot.”

“He ran over a sailboat, and nearly got us as well.”

“Madmen! They ignored our radio calls and just kept on coming. Look, they’ve run aground.”

“The bridge crew must be incapacitated,” Pitt said.

“They will be when I’m through with them.”

The launch picked up speed and raced toward the grounded ship, steering well clear of its still-spinning prop. A crowd had gathered on the beach to gawk, while distant sirens signaled the approach of the Valparaiso police.

The ship sat upright, with just a slight list to starboard. Her decks showed no sign of life. A long metal conveyor ramp dangled over the side like a damaged limb, nearly reaching the water. Used to fill and unload the freighter’s holds, the conveyor had been knocked ajar during the collision with the Sea Splendour. Franco saw it offered a way aboard, and he ordered the launch alongside.

The ramp just about matched the launch’s deck height. A seaman was ordered to walk on it to test if it would hold. The man took a few tentative steps, then turned and gave the captain the thumbs-up. He scampered up the heavy conveyor belt, which tilted across the ship’s rail, and hopped onto the deck. Captain Franco came next, nervously climbing on the dust-covered belt and making his way up. Too absorbed in keeping his footing, he failed to notice Pitt following a few paces behind.

Franco reached the ship’s rail and was helped down by the waiting seaman. He was startled when Pitt jumped off the belt and landed beside him. Franco turned to admonish him for coming aboard, but Pitt beat him to the punch.

“We better get those engines shut down.” Pitt nudged past Franco and headed toward the bridge.

Franco vented at the seaman. “Search the deck and crew’s quarters, then meet me on the bridge.” He turned and hurried to catch up with Pitt.

The bridge sat atop a multistory superstructure near the stern. Stepping aft, Pitt gazed at the large hatches that covered the ship’s five main holds. The last one was partially open. Each hatch had two hinged covers that opened to the side hydraulically. As Pitt approached the hatch just ahead of the superstructure, he peered through the gap. The cavernous hold was empty except for a tiny bulldozer sitting under a layer of silver-colored dust. Pitt guessed the forward holds still contained their cargo, which would account for the high-riding stern. Noticing fragments of silver rock on the deck, he pocketed a large piece in his swim trunks and continued toward the bridge.

“Is there no one aboard this vessel?” Franco reached Pitt as he started up a companionway.

“I haven’t seen a welcome committee yet.”

They climbed several flights, then entered the bridge through an open wing door. Like the rest of the ship, the expansive control room was empty of life. The ghostly sense was broken by the ship’s radio, which squawked with the voice of a Chilean Coast Guard operator hailing the vessel. Franco shut off the radio, then stepped to a center console and powered down the engines.

Pitt examined the helm. “The autopilot was set on a course of one hundred and forty-two degrees.”

“Makes no sense that they would abandon a moving ship.”

“Piracy is a more likely answer,” Pitt said. “The number five hold looks like it was emptied after she left port.”

“Taking the crew for ransom, I could see,” Franco said, rubbing his chin. “But robbing a bulk carrier of its cargo at sea? That’s unheard of.”

The captain noticed a dark splotch on the wall and similar stains on the floor—and his face turned pale. “Look at this.”

One glance at the stains told Pitt they were dried blood. When he rubbed a finger across the wall, the dry residue flaked off.

“Doesn’t look recent. Can we backtrack the ship’s navigation system to see where they came from?”

Franco stepped to the helm, glad to distance himself from the gore. He located a navigation monitor, which showed a tiny representation of the Tasmanian Staroverlaid on a digital map of Valparaiso Harbor. He tapped on an embedded keyboard and reduced the scale. A yellow line traced the ship’s path off the top of the screen as Valparaiso receded into the coastline of Chile, which gradually receded into the continent of South America. The slightly angular line continued north before cutting sharply left off the west coast of Central America. Franco tracked the line across the Pacific, locating its origin in Australia.

“She came from Perth.” Then he zeroed back in on the point where the ship changed heading. He looked up at Pitt and nodded.

“Your assumption of piracy makes sense. She wouldn’t be crossing the Pacific with one of her holds empty.”

“Let’s see where that course change occurred,” Pitt said.

Franco adjusted the image. “Looks to be about seventeen hundred miles due west of Costa Rica.”

“A lonely spot in the ocean to stage a holdup.”

Franco shook his head. “If that’s where the crew left the ship, then the Tasmanian Starsailed herself over thirty-five hundred miles to Valparaiso.”

“Which means she was hijacked more than a week ago. That leaves a pretty cold trail to follow.”

Franco’s crewman suddenly burst through the bridge wing door. His face was flush, and he panted from sprinting up the companionway. Pitt noticed his hand trembled on the doorframe.

“The crew quarters are empty, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anyone aboard.” He hesitated. “I did find one man.”

“Dead?” the captain asked.

The sailor nodded. “I wouldn’t have found him but for the odor. He’s on the main deck, near the forward hatch.”

“Take me to him.”

Slowly the seaman turned and led Franco and Pitt down the companionway. They crossed the deck to the port side and marched past the rows of hatch covers. The seaman slowed as they approached the forward hatch, then stopped and pointed.

“He’s beneath one of the supporting braces,” the man said, not moving any closer. “He must have rolled or fallen there.”

Pitt and Franco stepped forward. Then they noticed a blue object wedged in the hatch cover’s hydraulics, next to a supporting brace. Inching closer, they could see it was the body of a man dressed in blue coveralls. The odor of decomposing flesh was overpowering, but the sight before them was even worse.

The clothes were unmarked and perfectly clean. Judging by the heavy work boots and a pair of gloves cinched to his waist, Pitt guessed he was an ordinary seaman. But that was the only thing he could determine.

The exposed skin had bloated to grotesque proportions and turned the color of French mustard. Small rivulets of dried blood had pooled around his ears and mouth. A swarm of flies buzzed around the seaman’s face and clustered on his open, bulging eyes. Yet it was the body’s extremities, marked beyond mere decomposition, that was most grisly. The seaman’s ears, nose, and fingertips were charred black, though the skin remained unbroken. Pitt recalled photos of polar explorers who had suffered extreme frostbite, marked by black blisters covering patches of dead skin. Yet the Tasmanian Starhad sailed nowhere near any polar region.

Franco slowly backed away from the figure.

“Santa Maria!”he gasped. “He’s been taken by the devil himself.”

8

A SCRATCHED AND BATTERED CRASH HELMET SAT centered on Pitt’s desk when he returned to his office in Washington. A short, typewriten note taped on the visor welcomed him back:

Dad,

Really, you need to be more careful!

Pitt chuckled as he slid the helmet aside, wondering if it came from his son or his daughter. Both children worked for NUMA and had just left for a project off Madagascar involving subsea tectonics.

There was a rap at his office door and in walked a voluptuous woman with perfect hair and makeup. Although Zerri Pochinsky was north of forty, her looks gave no hint of it. Pitt’s trusted secretary for many years, she might have become something more in his life if he hadn’t met Loren first.

“Welcome back to the lion’s den.” She smiled and placed a cup of coffee on his desk. “I honestly don’t know how that helmet got here.”

Pitt returned her smile. “There’s just no sanctity to my inner sanctum.”

“I received a call from the Vice President’s secretary,” Pochinsky said, her hazel eyes turning serious. “You’ve been asked to attend a meeting in his office today at two-thirty.”

“Any mention of the topic?”

“No, they simply indicated it was a security matter.”

“What in Washington isn’t?” He shook his head with annoyance. “Okay, tell them I’ll be there.”

“Also, Hiram is outside. He said you wanted to see him.”

“Send him in.”

Pochinsky slipped out the door and was replaced by a bearded man with shoulder-length hair. Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a black Allman Brothers Band T-shirt, Hiram Yaeger looked like he was headed to a biker bar. Only the intense blue eyes behind a pair of granny glasses revealed a deeper intellectual pursuit. Far from a roadhouse barfly, Yaeger was in fact a computer genius whose greatest love was writing software code. Managing NUMA’s state-of-the-art computer resource center, he had built a sophisticated network that collected detailed oceanographic data from a thousand points around the globe.

“So, the savior of the mighty Sea Splendourhas returned.” He plopped into a chair opposite Pitt. “You mean to tell me they didn’t whisk you off on a free round-the-world cruise for saving the most expensive ship in their fleet?”

“They were more than willing,” Pitt said. “But Loren’s on a diet, so the ship’s buffet would have been wasted. And my shuffleboard game’s a bit rusty, so there was really no point.”

“I’d be happy to take the trip for you.”

“And risk the whole agency falling apart without your presence?”

“True, I am rather indispensable around here.” Yaeger lofted his nose in the air. “Remind me to mention that at my next performance review.”

“Done,” Pitt said with a grin. “So I take it you found something on the Tasmanian Star?”

“The basics. She was built in Korea in 2005. At a length of five hundred and ten feet and a capacity of fifty-four thousand deadweight tons, she’s classified as a Handymax dry bulk carrier. She was fitted with five holds, two cranes, and a self-dispensing conveyor system.”

“Which can make for a nice stairwell,” Pitt noted.

“She’s owned by a Japanese shipping company named Sendai, and has seen steady service in the Pacific, primarily as an ore carrier. On her last voyage she was under contract with an American petrochemical company. She departed Perth three and a half weeks ago, with a recorded cargo of bauxite, bound for Los Angeles.”

“Bauxite.” Pitt pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. He retrieved the silver rock he had picked up from the deck of the Tasmanian Starand laid it on his desk. “Any idea of the value of the bauxite she was carrying?”

“I couldn’t locate the ship’s insured value, but depending on the grade, the stuff sells for around thirty to sixty bucks a ton on the open market.”

“Doesn’t make sense someone would hijack a ship over it.”

“Personally, I’d go for a freighter full of iPads.”

“Any theories on where our thieves may have run to?”

“Not really. I took the coordinates you gave me where the ship changed course, but I came up dry. NRO satellite images were a week old. That’s a dead part of the Pacific. It doesn’t garner much attention from the spies in the sky.”

“Tapping the National Reconnaissance Office? I hope you didn’t leave any footprints.”

An accomplished hacker when circumstances dictated, Yaeger feigned insult. “Footprints, me? Should anyone even notice the intrusion, I’m afraid the trail leads to my favorite Hollywood celebrity gossip website.”

“A true shame if the government were to shut that down.”

“My sentiments precisely. I do have a theory, though, about the Tasmanian Star’s appearance in Valparaiso.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“The ship made an abrupt southerly turn nine days ago, some seventeen hundred miles west of Costa Rica. One of our free-floating weather buoys bit the dust in that area of the Pacific about the same time. Turns out, a pretty significant tropical storm blew through that area, although it petered out by the time it hit Mexico. We recorded force 9 winds before we lost the buoy.”

“So our pirates may have had to abandon their heist in a hurry.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Maybe that’s why they left most of the cargo, and left the engine running.”

Pitt thought for a moment. “Are there are any islands in the area?”

Yaeger pulled out a tablet computer and called up a map of the area where the ship’s course changed.

“There’s a small atoll called Clipperton Island. It’s only about twenty miles from the position you gave me . . . and dead-on along that same heading.” He looked at Pitt and shook his head. “Nice deduction.”

“They didn’t have time to flood her, so they probably set her on a course toward Clipperton, assuming she’d founder on the reef and disappear.”

“Only the storm blew her clear of the island,” Yaeger said, “and she kept on sailing for another four thousand miles until arriving in Valparaiso.”

Pitt took a sip of coffee. “That still doesn’t put us any closer to who attacked the ship and disposed of the crew.”

“I’ve searched for port documents showing recent shipments of bauxite, but nothing’s surfaced.”

“And it probably won’t. Hiram, see if you can find mention of any other pirate attacks—or lost ships, for that matter—that have occurred recently in the Pacific. And one more favor.” Pitt picked up the silver rock and tossed it to Yaeger. “I picked this up on the Tasmanian Star. On your way back to the computer center, drop this off with the boys in subsea geology and have them tell us what it is.”

“Will do.” Yaeger studied the rock as he headed for the door. “Not our bauxite?”

Pitt shook his head. “A pang in my stomach and a large, grounded ghost ship says not.”

9

PITT JOGGED UP THE ENTRY STEPS TO THE EISENHOWER Executive Office Building, trying to shake his creeping jet lag. Adjacent to the White House, the imposing stone structure was Pitt’s favorite federal building. Built in 1888 in the French Second Empire style of architecture, it featured a steep-pitched mansard roof and towering windows, making it look like a transplant from a Victor Hugo story. A monument to the use of granite and slate, almost no wood had been used in its construction, to reduce the risk of fire. Ironically, a fire on the second floor had nearly destroyed Vice President Cheney’s office in 2007.

Recent Vice Presidents had maintained only a ceremonial office in the building, preferring to inhabit the West Wing, where they could stay glued to the President. That all changed with the arrival of Admiral James Sandecker. A reluctant appointee when his predecessor had died in office, Sandecker preferred to keep his distance from the spinmasters that infiltrated every administration. Instead he made the vice presidential office in the old Executive Office Building his primary work domain. He gladly hiked the underground tunnel to the White House several times a day, if need be, to the chagrin of his less physically fit aides.

After passing through several layers of security, Pitt reached the foyer to the Vice President’s suite on the second floor and was escorted into the private office. The large room was decorated with the nautical motif befitting a retired admiral, showcasing several antique oil paintings of long-forgotten clipper ships battling the high seas. Though right on time, Pitt walked into a meeting in progress. Two men and a woman sat in wingback chairs around a coffee table, listening to the Vice President, who paced the lush carpet while clenching a large cigar.

“Dirk, there you are.” He zipped across the room to shake Pitt’s hand. “Come, take a seat.”

Though diminutive in stature, Sandecker had the energy of ten men. A fiery intensity burned in his blue eyes, which contrasted with his flaming red hair and matching Van Dyke beard. A Washington veteran who despised politics, he was both respected and feared for bluntness and integrity. For Pitt, he was something of a father figure, having been his boss at NUMA for many years before becoming Vice President.

“Good to see you, Admiral. You’re looking fit.”

“One keeps plenty fit in this office just smacking down the gadflies,” he said. “Dirk, let me introduce you around. Dan Fowler, here, is with DARPA, Tom Cerny is a special aide to the President, and Ann Bennett is from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”

Pitt shook hands then took a seat, glancing at his watch.

“You’re not late,” Fowler said. “We just had some earlier business with the Vice President.”

“Fair enough. So how may a humble marine engineer be of service?”

“You’re probably not aware,” Sandecker said, “but there’s been an alarming rash of security breaches in our weapons development programs, stretching back at least three years. Without going into specifics, I can tell you they’ve been at a high level and are costing us dearly.”

“I take it the Chinese are the primary beneficiaries.”

“Yes,” Fowler said. “How did you know?”

“I recall them introducing a new fighter jet last year. It looked suspiciously like our F-35.”

“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Sandecker said. “Unfortunately, we’ve had only limited success at plugging the leaks. A multiagency task force has been formed, by request of the President, to investigate the situation.”

“These breaches directly threaten the ability of our military forces,” Cerny said. He had a pasty face and large dark eyes and spoke with the fast delivery of a used-car salesman. “The President is deeply disturbed by these events and has demanded whatever action is necessary to protect our vital technology.”

Pitt fought off the urge to cry “Hooray for the President!” Cerny, he pegged, was a typical presidential yes-man who relished the power he wielded while accomplishing nothing with it.

“That’s well and fine,” Pitt said, “but isn’t half the government already engaged in hunting spies and chasing terrorists?”

“There’s plenty of risk to go around.”

Sandecker lit his cigar as the men engaged, puffing it in defiance of the building’s smoking ban. “The task force has a need for some marine resources. Just a small project I thought you could assist with. Agent Bennett has the particulars.”

“It’s a missing person, actually,” Bennett said.

Pitt locked eyes with the thirtyish agent, a pert, attractive woman concealed behind a conservative appearance. Her blond hair, layered short, matched the serious cut of her charcoal business suit. But the effect was softened by her dimpled cheeks and a petite nose that held up a pair of clear-framed reading glasses. She returned Pitt’s gaze through lively aqua-colored eyes, then looked down at the folder in her lap.

“An important research scientist with DARPA, Joseph Eberson, disappeared several days ago in San Diego,” she said. “He was believed to have gone on a fishing excursion aboard a private pleasure craft named Cuttlefish. The bodies of the boat owner and his assistant were found a few miles offshore by a passing sailboat. Local search-and-rescue teams combed the area but failed to locate Eberson or the boat.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“We have no specific reason to think so,” Fowler said, “but Eberson was involved with some of the Navy’s most sensitive research programs. We need closure on what happened to him. We have no reason to suspect that he defected, but an abduction has been viewed as a possibility.”

“What you really want is a body,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately, if the boat sank and he drowned with his buddies, his body could be halfway to Tahiti by now. Or inside the stomach of a great white shark.”

“That’s why we’d like you to help us find the boat,” Ann said, a hint of pleading in her eyes.

“Sounds more like a job for the San Diego Police Department.”

“We’d like to recover the boat so our investigators can try to determine if Eberson was aboard,” Fowler said. “We’re told the waters could be rather deep, so that’s beyond the police department’s capability.”

Pitt turned to Sandecker. “Where’s the Navy in all this?”

“As it happens, the Navy’s West Coast salvage fleet is engaged in a training exercise in Alaska. On top of that, the bodies were found in Mexican territorial waters. Things will be a lot less complicated if an oceanographic research ship handled the search and recovery.”

Sandecker walked to his desk and peered at a memo. “It just so happens that the NUMA survey vessel Drakepresently is docked in San Diego, awaiting assignment.”

Pitt shook his head. “I’ve been done in by my own kind.”

Sandecker’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve still got a few friends over in your building.”

“Well, then,” Pitt said, giving Ann a sideways glance, “it would seem that I’m your man.”

“Exactly how will you go about the search?” Cerny asked.

“The Drakehas several different sonar systems aboard, as well as a small submersible. We’ll set up a survey grid and perform a thorough sweep of the area with sonar to try and locate the Cuttlefish. Once we find her, we’ll investigate with scuba divers or send down the submersible, depending on the depth. If the boat’s still intact, we’ll see about raising her.”

“Ann will be joining you to observe the operations,” Fowler said. “We would, of course, appreciate an urgent resolution to this matter. How soon do you think you can get started?”

“About as soon as I can find a flight to San Diego . . . and Agent Bennett can rustle up some boat clothes.”

Pitt was thanked for undertaking the project and departed the meeting. After he left the room, Sandecker turned to Cerny.

“I don’t like leaving him in the dark. There’s not a man alive I trust more.”

“Presidential orders,” Cerny said. “It’s best that nobody knows what we’ve potentially lost.”

“Can he do it?” Fowler asked. “Can he find the boat if it sank?”

“It’ll be a piece of cake for Pitt,” Sandecker said, blowing a thick ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “What I’d worry about is what, exactly, he finds aboard.”