Black Wind
By: Clive Cussler & Dirk Cussler
Clive Cussler's dazzling new Dirk Pitt adventure
"Clive the Mighty!" hailed Kirkus Reviews about Cussler's last Dirk
Pitt novel, Trojan Odyssey. "Hurricane Clive at his most tumultuous."
Nobody has been able to match Cussler yet for the intricate plotting
and sheer audacity of his work, and Black Wind sets the bar even
higher.
In the waning days of World War II, unbeknownst to all but a handful of
people, the Japanese tried a last, desperate measure. Two submarines
were sent to the West Coast of the United States, their cargo a
revolutionary new strain of biological virus, their mission to unleash
hell.
Neither sub made it to the designated target. But that does not mean
they were lost.
Someone knows about the subs and what they carried, knows too where
they might be, and has an extraordinary plan in mind for the prize
inside-a plan that could reshape America, and the world, as we know it.
All that stands in the way are three people: a marine biologist named Summer, a marine engineer named Dirk ... and their father, Dirk Pitt,
the new head of NUMA.
Pitt has faced devastating enemies before, has even teamed up with his
children to track them down. But never has he encountered such pure
evil-until now.
Filled with breathtaking suspense and extraordinary imagination, Black
Wind is yet further proof that when it comes to adventure writing,
nobody beats Clive Cussler.
Clive Cussler is the author or coauthor of twenty-seven other books,
including the Dirk Pitt'* adventure Trojan Odyssey, the Kurt Austin
novel Lost City, and the new Oregon series novels Golden Buddha and
Sacred Stone. He is also the author of the nonfiction Sea Hunters and
Sea Hunters II; these describe the true adventures of the real NUMA,
which, led by Cussler, searches for lost ships of historic
significance. With his crew of volunteers, Cussler has discovered more
than sixty ships, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley.
He lives in Arizona.
Dirk Cussler, an MBA from Berkeley, worked for many years in the
financial arena, and now devotes himself full-time to writing. For the
last several years, he has been an active participant and partner in
his father's NUMA expeditions and served as president of the NUMA
advisory board of trustees. He lives in Arizona. Jacket design 2004 Laurence Ratzkin Jacket illustration a. 2004 Craig
White
Photograph of the authors Paul Peregrine/ Peregrine Studios
Visit our website at: www. penguin. com
Visit the NUMA website at: www.numa.net a member of Penguin Group (USA)
G. P. PUTNAM
Penguin Group (USA) Inc
DIRK PITT ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave Inca Gold
Sahara
Dragon
Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacific Vortex
Night Probe
Vixen 03
Raise the Titanic
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS Lost City
White Death
Fire Ice
Blue Gold Serpent
OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH CRAIG DIRGO
Sacred Stone
Golden Buddha
NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIR GO
The Sea Hunters II
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed
The Sea Hunters
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK. Clive Cussler and DIRK CUSSLER
G. p. Putnam's sons
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc." 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014,
USA Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M4V 3B2 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
we2R
Offices:
80 Strand, London we2R ORL, England
Copyright 2004 by Sandecker, RLLLP
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned,
or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted
materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only
authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cussler, Clive. Black wind / Clive Cussler and Dirk Cussler.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-399-15259-8
1. Pitt, Dirk (Fictitious character)-Fiction. I. Cussler, Dirk. II.
Title.
PS3553.U75B56 2004 2004053536
813'.54-dc22
Printed in the United States of America 13579 10 8642
This book is printed on acid-free paper. @ Book design by Lovedog
Studio
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
In memory of my mother, Barbara, whose love,
compassion, kindness, and encouragement are deeply missed by all who
knew her.
DEC.
Acknowledgments
With appreciation and gratitude to Scott Danneker, Mikejntzpatrick,
Mike Hance, and George Spyrou of Airship Management Services, for
sharing the wondrous world of airship flight.
Thanks also to Sheldon Harris, whose book Factories of Death has helped
open the door to the horrors of biological and chemical warfare
practiced during World War II and its thousands of forgotten victims.
PROLOGUE
Japanese Imperial submarine I-403 and Seiran float plane
December 12, 1944 Kure Naval Base, Japan Lieutenant Commander Takeo Ogawa glanced at his wristwatch and shook
his head in irritation.
"Half past midnight already," he muttered anxiously. "Three hours late
and still we wait."
A young ensign staring through the glazed eyes of a sleep-deprived
insomniac nodded slightly at his superior's grieving but said nothing.
Waiting atop the conning tower of the Japanese Imperial Navy submarine
i-403, the two men gazed across the naval yard searching for signs of a
pending arrival. Beyond the expansive naval base, a haphazard
twinkling of nighttime lights glistened about the scenic Japanese city
of Kure. A light drizzle fell, lending an eerie tranquility to the
late hour, which was broken by the distant sounds of hammers, cranes,
and welding torches. Repairs to enemy-damaged ships and new vessel
construction persisted around the clock in other parts of the shipyard,
in a futile rush to aid the increasingly bleak war effort.
The distant whine of a diesel truck soon echoed across the water.
the sound rising in intensity as the vehicle approached the submarine
docks. Rounding the corner of a brick warehouse, a slate-colored Isuzu
cargo truck rumbled into view and turned along the wharf. The driver
inched his way cautiously toward the submarine's pen as he struggled to
make out the edges of the darkened pier, barely visible under the truck's wartime-blackened headlights. Pulling alongside a large
gangplank, the truck ground to a halt as its worn brakes squealed
loudly in protest.
A moment of silence ensued, then six heavily armed soldiers sprang from
the truck bed and enveloped the vehicle in a perimeter guard. As Ogawa
made his way down from the conning tower to the dock, he sensed one of
the guards pointing a weapon in his direction. The soldiers were no
Imperial Army regulars, he noted, but elite members of the feared
Kempei Tai military police.
Two uniformed men exited the cab of the truck and approached Ogawa.
Recognizing a superior officer, Ogawa stood at attention and saluted
smartly.
"I've awaited your arrival, Captain," Ogawa stated with a tinge of
annoyance.
Captain Miyoshi Horinouchi ignored the innuendo. As staff operations
officer for the Sixth Fleet, his mind was occupied with graver matters.
The Japanese submarine fleet was slowly being decimated in the Pacific
and the Imperial Navy had no answer for the antisubmarine warfare
technologies being deployed by the American forces. Desperate battles
by the fleet's submarines against overwhelming odds inevitably resulted
in the loss of crew and vessels, which weighted heavily on Horinouchi.
His short-cropped hair had turned prematurely white, and stress lines creased his face like dry riverbeds.
"Commander, this is Dr. Hisaichi Tanaka of the Army Medical College.
He will be accompanying you on your mission."
"Sir, I am not accustomed to carrying passengers while on patrol,"
Ogawa replied, ignoring the small bespectacled man at Horinouchi's
side.
"Your patrol orders to the Philippines have been rescinded," Horinouchi
replied, handing Ogawa a brown folder. "You have new orders. You are
to take Dr. Tanaka and his cargo aboard and proceed immediately per
fleet directives to strike at the enemy's doorstep."
Glancing at one of the guards holding a German Bergman MP34 submachine
gun pointed in his direction, Ogawa asserted, "This is most unusual,
Captain."
Horinouchi tilted his head to the side, then took a few steps to his
right. Ogawa followed, leaving Tanaka out of earshot. Speaking
softly, Horinouchi continued.
"Ogawa, our surface fleet was annihilated at Leyte Gulf. We counted on
a decisive battle to stop the Americans, but it was our own forces that
were defeated instead. It is just a matter of time before all of our remaining resources will be assigned in defense of the homeland."
"We will make the Americans pay heavily in blood," Ogawa said
harshly.
"True, but there is no question that they have the will to conquer,
regardless of the losses. The slaughter of our own people will be
appalling." Horinouchi contemplated the sacrifice of his own family
and fell silent for a moment.
"The Army has approached us for assistance in a valiant operation," he
continued. "Dr. Tanaka is affiliated with Unit 731. You will take
him and his cargo across the Pacific and launch an attack on the
American mainland. You are to avoid detection and protect your boat at
all costs en route. Succeed, Ogawa, and the Americans will bow to a
truce and our homeland will be preserved."
Ogawa was stunned by the words. His fellow submarine commanders were
waging a mostly defensive battle to protect the remnants of the surface
fleet, yet he was to cross the Pacific single-handedly and launch an
attack that would end the war. He might have ridiculed the idea, had
it not been a fleet staff officer dictating the order to him out of
desperation in the middle of the night.
"I am most honored by your confidence, Captain Horinouchi. Rest
assured my crew and officers will uphold the honor to the emperor. If I may ask, sir, what exactly is Dr. Tanaka's cargo?" Ogawa
inquired.
Horinouchi gazed forlornly across the bay for several seconds.
"Maka^e," he finally muttered quietly. "An evil wind."
Under the watchful eye of Dr. Tanaka, a half-dozen oblong wooden
crates were carefully loaded by the Kempei Tai guards into the forward
torpedo room of the I-403 and tightly secured. Ogawa ordered the
submarine's four diesel engines turned over and the deck lines
released. At half past two in the morning, the iron sub nosed slowly
into the inky harbor and inched its way past several other fleet
I-boats docked in the yard. Ogawa noted with curiosity that Horinouchi
sat silently in the darkened truck on the pier, refusing to leave until
after the I-403 was well out of sight.
Creeping past the docks and warehouses of the sprawling navy yard, the
sub soon approached a massive shadow looming against the darkness
ahead. Lying quietly in a repair dock, the massive battleship Yamato
towered above the submarine like a behemoth. With its massive
eighteen-inch guns and sixteen-inch-thick armor plating, the Yamato was
the most feared vessel afloat. Ogawa admired the lines and armament of
the world's largest battleship as he sailed past, then felt a touch of
pity toward her. Like her sister ship, the Musashi, recently sunk in
the Philippines, the Yamato, he feared, was destined to find her way to the bottom of the sea before the war was over.
Gradually the lights of Kure fell away as the submarine snaked around
several large islands, then entered the Seto Inland Sea. Ogawa ordered
increased speed as the mountainous island outcroppings fell away and
the first gray patches of predawn light tinted the eastern sky. As he
marked their route in the conning tower with the I-403\ navigator,
Ogawa was approached by the executive officer climbing up from below.
"Hot tea, sir," Lieutenant Yoshi Motoshita said, thrusting a small cup
toward the commander. A thin man with a warm demeanor, Motoshita
mustered a grin even at five in the morning.
"Yes, thanks," Ogawa replied crisply before gulping at the tea. The
hot liquid was a welcome tonic against the chilled December air and
Ogawa quickly drained the cup.
"The sea is unusually calm this morning," Motoshita noted.
"Fine conditions for fishing," Ogawa said reflectively. The son of a
fisherman, Ogawa had grown up in a small village on the southern island
of Kyushu. Accustomed to a hard life on the water, Ogawa had overcome
a modest background by passing the formidable entrance exams to
Etajima, the Japanese naval academy. After gaining his commission, he
was drawn to the growing prewar submarine force and served on two boats
before attaining command of the I-403 in late 1943. Under his leadership, the I-403 had sunk a half-dozen merchant ships, along with
an Australian destroyer in the Philippines. Ogawa was considered one
of the top submarine captains remaining in the rapidly shrinking
underwater fleet.
"Yoshi, we'll initiate a zigzag running pattern when we reach the
strait, then submerge before we leave the mainland. We can take no
chances with enemy submarines patrolling off our coast."
"I will alert the crew, sir."
"And Dr. Tanaka. See that he is situated comfortably."
"I have offered him my cabin," Motoshita said with a pained look.
"Judging by the stack of books he brought with him, I think he will
keep himself occupied and out of our way."
"Very well," Ogawa replied, wondering silently about his unwanted
passenger.
As a crimson sun crept up over the eastern horizon, the I-403 veered
south from the Inland Sea into the Bungo Strait, a pathway above Japan's southern island of Kyushu that poured into the Pacific
Ocean. A gray destroyer limped past the sub on its way back to port,
listing heavily to one side and showing a rash of gaping holes in its
bridge and decks, the result of a nasty encounter with a pair of U.S. Navy Hellcats. On the submarine, several petty officers crowded the
conning tower to take a final glimpse of their green island nation,
uncertain as all seamen departing for bat de whether they would return
home again.
When the approach to the Pacific became visible to the lookout, Ogawa
issued the command to dive. A loud bell clanged throughout the
submarine and sailors scurried to secure the deck and hatches.
"Submerge to fifteen meters," Ogawa ordered from the bridge.
Large ballast tanks were flooded with seawater and the diving planes
tipped forward. With a rush of collapsing water, the I-403's nose
dipped downward and the entire submarine was quickly gobbled up by the
murky green sea.
In the Pacific waters off the Bungo Strait, aggressive American
submarines lurked in the depths hunting merchant supply ships or armed
vessels en route from the Kure Navy Base. Submarine-against-submarine
attacks were not unheard of and Ogawa was not about to make himself
easy fodder. Entering the Pacific waters, he quickly aimed the I-403
northeast and away from the bulk of the wartime traffic traveling south
toward the Philippines.
As were most subs of its era, the I-403 was powered by diesel and electric motors. In daylight hours, the I-403 would operate submerged,
powered by battery-operated electric motors that pushed the sub along
at a sluggish 6 knots per hour. Under cover of darkness, the I-403
would surface and crank up the diesel engines, which propelled the boat
to better than 18 knots, while recharging the batteries. But the I-403
was no ordinary submarine. Stretching over 390 feet long, the I-403
was one of a handful of Sen toku-class submarines, which were the
largest built in their day. The massive iron vessel displaced over
5,200 tons and was pushed through the water by four 7,700-horsepower
diesel engines. The I-403's truly unique feature, however, was the
vessel's armament of aircraft. The I-403 could carry three Seiran
float planes which were small converted dive-bombers that could be
launched from a catapult on the center bow. While traveling at sea,
the planes were disassembled and stored in a 110-foot-long watertight
hangar that stretched along the sub's deck. A shortage of aircraft had
forced Ogawa to give up one of his seaplanes for coastal
reconnaissance, however, and his vessel now carried just two of the
Seiran aircraft.
Once the I-403 had safely entered the Pacific, Ogawa retired to his
cabin and reread the brief mission orders Horinouchi had given him. The
succinct commands called for him to sail a northerly route across the
Pacific, with a refueling stop in the Aleutians. He was to proceed to
the northwest coast of the United States, where his two aircraft were
to launch air attacks on the cities of Tacoma, Seattle, Victoria, and
Vancouver. On the face of it, it appeared a futile gesture, thought Ogawa. Japan
needed her submarines for homeland waters defense rather than
instigating minuscule attacks with a pair of small aircraft. But there
was the question of Dr. Tanaka and his unidentified cargo.
Summoned to Ogawa's cabin, Tanaka bowed gracefully before entering the
cramped quarters and seating himself at a small wooden table. The
slightly built scientist bore a shrewish and unsmiling face. A pair of
vacant black eyes that were magnified by thick glasses augmented his
sinister appearance.
Dispensing with formalities, Ogawa pressed immediately for the nature
of the doctor's presence.
"Dr. Tanaka, my written orders are to sail this vessel to the west
coast of North America and launch an airborne attack on four cities.
There is no mention of your duties or the nature of your cargo. I must
ask what your role in the mission is."
"Commander Ogawa, rest assured that my assignment here has been
authorized at the highest levels," Tanaka replied in a quiet monotone
voice. "I will be providing technical assistance for the attack
operation," he continued. "This is a warship. I fail to understand how a medical officer will
assist in a naval strike," Ogawa countered.
"Commander, I am with the Army Medical School's Epidemic Disease
Prevention Study Group. We have received materials from a research
facility in China that have enabled us to develop an effective new
weapon against the enemy. Your submarine has been chosen as the means
to launch the weapon for the first time against American forces. I am
responsible for the security and deployment of the weapon on this
mission."
"These 'materials." They will be dropped from my aircraft?"
"Yes, in special canisters that can be accommodated by your bombers. I
have already made the necessary arrangements with your aviation
ordnance crew."
"And the men on my vessel. Are they in any danger with this weapon
aboard?"
"None whatsoever." Tanaka's face was inscrutable as he lied.
Ogawa didn't believe him, but figured the risk of the American Navy's
antisubmarine warfare forces were a greater risk to his sub than
anything carried on board. Ogawa tried to procure what little information he could from Tanaka, but the Army doctor volunteered few
additional facts. Whatever mystery was associated with the weapon, he
kept close to the vest. There was something ominous about the man,
Ogawa decided, and it made him uncomfortable. After sharing a quick
cup of tea, he dismissed the eerie scientist. Sitting silently in his
cabin, Ogawa cursed the Fleet Command for selecting his vessel for the
assignment. It was a mission that he didn't want.
The sporadic ocean traffic of merchant ships and fishing boats soon
dissipated as the Japanese mainland fell behind the sub's wake and the
vessel crawled farther north in latitude. For the next twelve days and
nights, the crew embraced a normal operating schedule as the sub nosed
northeast, surfacing at night to run at higher speed. The prospect of
being detected by an Allied plane or ship was more remote in the north
Pacific, but Ogawa took no chances and ran submerged during all
daylight hours. Operating under the waves, the bottled-up sub became
like an oven to the men who drove her. Interior temperatures would
climb into the nineties from the machinery, while the confined air
would grow foul to the breath over the hours. Evening darkness was
eagerly anticipated by each crewman, knowing the sub would finally
surface, open its hatches, and vent cold, fresh sea air into the dank
interior.
Naval authority on submarines was notably relaxed, even in the Japanese
Navy, and operations on the I-403 were no different. Officers and enlisted crew mixed easily, sharing the same meals and suffering the
same miseries aboard the cramped vessel. The I-403 had survived depth
charge attacks on three different occasions and the near-death
experiences had bonded the crew tightly together. They were survivors
in a deadly game of cat and mouse and felt the I-403 was a lucky ship
that could defy the enemy.
On the fourteenth night, the I-403 surfaced near the Aleutian island of
Amchitka and quickly found the supply ship Morioka anchored in a small
cove. Ogawa gently brought his vessel alongside the surface ship and
mooring lines were tossed across. As diesel fuel was pumped into the
submarine's reservoir tanks, crewmen on each vessel bantered back and
forth in the freezing cold.
"Aren't you a little cramped in that anchovy tin?" asked a bundled
yeoman at the ship's rail.
"No, we've got plenty of room for our canned fruit, chestnuts, and
sake!" yelled back a submariner, boastful of the superior food the
undersea services were provided.
The refueling operation was completed in less than three hours. One of
the submarine's crewmen, diagnosed as suffering an acute bout of
appendicitis, was transferred to the ship for medical attention. After
rewarding the supply ship crew with a box of hard candies, the I-403
cast off on an eastward tack toward North America. The skies gradually turned black and the gray-green ocean waters frothed with spray as the
I-403 found herself sailing into the teeth of an early winter storm.
The sub was tossed violently for three nights as waves flooded across
the low deck and crashed into the conning tower as the sub attempted to
recharge its batteries. A lookout was nearly washed overboard into the
icy seas on one occasion, and many of the experienced crew succumbed to
bouts of seasickness. Strong westerly winds aided the voyage, however,
pushing the sub briskly through the swells and quickening its trek
east.
Gradually, the winds began to ease and the seas flattened. Ogawa was
pleased to find his vessel had survived Mother Nature's buffeting with
no damage. The battered crew regained their sea legs and their
fighting morale as the seas stabilized and the submarine neared the
enemy's homeland.
"Captain, I have a final plot to the coast," Seiji Kakishita remarked
as he unrolled a chart of the northeast Pacific Ocean in front of
Ogawa. The I-403's navigator had ceased shaving, like many crewmen
upon leaving port, and sported a straggly tuft of hair from his chin
that created a cartoonish look about him.
"What is our present position?" Ogawa inquired as he studied the
map. "Right here," Kakishita replied as he pointed to a spot on the map with
a pair of dividers. "Approximately two hundred kilometers west of
Vancouver Island. We have two more hours of darkness for surface
running, which will bring us to within 150 kilometers of land by
daybreak on our current heading."
Ogawa studied the chart intently for a few moments before speaking.
"We are too far north. I wish to launch the attack from a point
central to the four targets in order to minimize flight time. Bring us
south and we'll approach the coastline here," he said, stubbing his
finger at the map. Beneath his fingertip lay the northwest tip of
Washington State, an angular peak of land that jutted into the Pacific
Ocean like the snout of a hungry dog. Just to the north lay the Strait
of Juan de Fuca, which created a natural border channel with British
Columbia and was the main thoroughfare for maritime traffic from
Vancouver and Seattle into the Pacific Ocean.
Kakishita hurriedly plotted a new route on the map and recalculated the
distances. "Sir, I compute that we can arrive at a position fifteen
kilometers offshore from the point marked "Cape Alava' in twenty-two
hours."
"Excellent, Kakishita," Ogawa replied smugly as he eyed a nearby
chronograph. "That will allow us plenty of time to commence the attack
before dawn." The timing was right. Ogawa wished to spend as little
time as possible in high-traffic areas where they might be spotted before launching the strike. Things seemed to be falling into place,
he thought. With a little luck, they might just be on their way home
from a successful mission in just over twenty-four hours.
A buzz of activity overtook the I-403 after it surfaced again that
evening as preparations were made to launch the aerial strike.
Mechanics pulled out the fuselage, wings, and pontoons of the aircraft
and began piecing the parts together like some giant toy model. Seamen
rigged the hydraulic catapult and carefully tested the device by which
the planes would be launched. The pilots attentively studied
topographic
maps of the region, plotting their course to the drop zones and back.
And the ordnance men, under the cautious direction of Dr. Tanaka,
configured the bomb racks of the Seiran bombers to hold the twelve
silver canisters still stored in the forward torpedo room.
By three in the morning, the I-403 had crept quietly to its staging
point off the Washington coast. A light drizzle was falling and the
six lookouts Ogawa had stationed on deck strained to peer through the
murky darkness for signs of other vessels. Ogawa himself paced the
open bridge nervously in anxious wait to see the aircraft off, so that
he could hide his submarine under the protection of the rolling seas.
Another hour had ticked by when a hurried squat man in a grease-stained jumpsuit approached Ogawa tentatively.
"Sir, sorry to report we are having troubles with the aircraft."
"What is the problem at this late hour?" Ogawa countered, clearly
annoyed.
"Aircraft number one has been found to have a faulty magneto. We must
replace it with a spare for the motor to operate. Aircraft number two
has a damaged elevator, apparently due to shifting that occurred during
the storm. This we can repair also."
"And how long will it require to complete both repairs?"
The mechanic looked skyward for a moment, contemplating his response.
"Approximately one hour for the repairs, sir, plus another twenty
minutes to load the ordnance from belowdecks."
Ogawa nodded grimly. "Proceed with all haste."
One hour turned into two and still the planes were not ready. Ogawa's
impatience grew as he noticed gray streaks in the eastern sky,
signaling the approaching dawn. The drizzling rain had stopped and was
replaced by a light fog that enveloped the sub, cutting visibility to
less than a third of a mile. Sitting ducks, perhaps, but at least
ducks in a blind, Ogawa thought. Then the stillness of the morning air was shattered as a cry from the
sound-detection operator belowdecks pierced the air.
"Captain, I have an echo!"
"I've got you this time, Big Brother!" Steve Schauer yelled into the
radio transmitter with a grin, then pushed a pair of throttles to their
stops. Alongside him in the fishing trawler's cramped cabin, two
teenage crewmen, exhausted and reeking of dead fish, looked at each
other and rolled their eyes. Schauer ignored their looks as he lightly
fingered the wooden wheel of the plodding fishing boat and began
whistling an old drinking tune.
A pair of fortyish siblings with youth in their veins, Steve and Doug
Schauer had spent their lives fishing the waters in and around Puget
Sound. With skill and hard work, they had thrown all their earnings
into ever-larger fishing boats until they traded up for a matched pair
of fifty-foot wooden hull trawlers. Working as a team, they
successfully fished the Washington and Vancouver shorelines with an
uncanny ability to sniff out large schools of halibut. After a
three-day excursion, with their holds full of fish and their coolers
empty of beer, the brothers would race each other back to port like a
pair of kids on roller skates. "It ain't over till the paint scratches the dock," Doug's voice
crackled over the radio. After a particularly good haul during the
1941 season, the brothers had splurged on two-way radios for their
boats. Though intended to help each other coordinate the catches, the
brothers spent most of their time on the airwaves goading each other
instead.
As Schauer's boat chugged along at its top speed of 12 knots, the skies
lightened from black to gray and a spotlight beam shining on the water
ahead of the bow gradually lost its illuminating effect. Ahead, in the
mist, Schauer saw the faint outline of a large black object lying low
in the water. A second later, a small orange flash emanated from the
object's center for a brief instant.
"Is that a whale off the starboard bow?" The words had barely escaped
his lips when a shrieking whistle creased past the cabin, followed by a
volcanic explosion that erupted in the water off the port beam,
showering the trawler in a downpour of seawater.
Schauer stood stunned for a moment, his mind unable to comprehend what
his eyes and ears had just absorbed. It took the sight of a second
orange flash to jolt him into action.
"Get down!" he shouted at the two men in the cabin as he spun the
ship's wheel hard to port. The laden trawler was slow to respond, but
it was enough to avoid the second shell from the I-403's 5.5-inch deck gun, which screamed into the water just astern of the boat. This time,
the force of the explosion lifted the entire trawler out of the water
and slammed it back down again hard, shearing the rudder off in the
upheaval.
Wiping blood out of his eyes from a gash to the temple, Schauer groped
for the radio microphone.
"Doug, there's a Jap sub. It's blasting the hell out of us. No joke.
Keep to the north, and get help."
He was still talking when the third shell found its mark, piercing the
forward hold of the fishing boat before detonating. A furious
explosion of splinters, glass, and mangled halibut blasted into the
cabin, throwing the three men viciously to the back wall. Struggling
to his feet, Schauer peered out a gaping hole in the front of the cabin
and saw the entire bow of the trawler disintegrate into the sea before
him. Instinctively grabbing the wheel for support, he looked on in
disbelief as the remains of the boat began to sink rapidly beneath his
feet.
Peering through binoculars, Ogawa watched with grim satisfaction as the
trawler slipped beneath the waves amid a scattering of flotsam.
Rescuing survivors was out of the question, so he wasted no time in
looking for bodies in the water. "Motoshita, have there been any additional sound recordings?" he asked
his exec.
"Negative, sir. The sound operator reported a possible secondary
target before we initiated firing but the reading faded. It was either
background noise, or a small vessel at best."
"Have him keep sweeping. With this visibility, we will hear a vessel
well before seeing her. And have the chief aircraft mechanic report to
me. We've got to get those planes launched."
As Motoshita scurried off, Ogawa stared toward the hidden coastline of
Washington. Perhaps we'll get lucky, he thought. The trawler was
likely a lone fishing boat and wouldn't have a radio. The guns could
have been heard ashore, but, at this distance, would sound like an
innocuous muffle. The charts showed few inhabitants residing along
that stretch of coast as well. Perhaps-just perhaps-they could still
pull off the mission undetected.
The hairs on the back of Radioman First Class Gene Hampton's neck stood
up like a grove of ponderosa pine. The voice ringing through his
earphones had an air of urgency and authenticity that could not help
but be believed. After confirming the message twice, Hampton popped
out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box and bounded to the center of
the bridge. "Captain, I just picked up a civilian Mayday message," he blurted
excitedly. "A fisherman says there's a Jap sub offshore shelling his
brother's boat."
"Did he sound coherent?" replied the ship's bearded, heavyset
commander in a skeptical tone.
"Yes, sir. Said he didn't see the sub because of the fog but got a
radio call from his brother on another fishing boat. He heard a couple
of shots fired from a big gun, then lost contact with his brother. I
received a call from another boat confirming the sound of gunfire."
"Did they provide a fix on the location?"
"Yes, sir. Nine miles southwest of Cape Flattery."
"Very well. Contact the Madison and tell her we are headed out of the
strait to investigate a reported enemy contact, then provide a location
fix to Navigation. Mr. Baker," he continued, turning to a tall
lieutenant standing at his side, "let's go to General Quarters."
As an alarm bell rang throughout the ship, the crew of the USS Theodore
Knight scrambled to their battle stations, adorning helmets and kapoks
as they ran. It wasn't the first time the Farragut-class destroyer had seen action. Launched in 1931 at the Bath Iron Works shipyard in
Maine, the Theodore Knight had an active service duty garnering North
Atlantic convoy duty in the early stages of the war. After dodging
several U-boat attacks while escorting the merchant fleets, the
341-foot-long destroyer was sent back for patrol and escort duty off
the West Coast, sailing the waters from San Diego to Alaska.
Trailing three miles behind, in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, was the
Liberty Ship Madison, bound for San Francisco with a cargo of lumber
and tinned salmon. Leaving the assigned cargo ship in its wake, the
Theodore Knight broached the mouth of the Pacific as its captain,
Lieutenant Commander Roy Baxter, ordered flank speed. The ship's twin
diesel turbines churned the sleek gray ship through the water like a
hound chasing a rabbit. The crew, accustomed to quiet, routine
patrols, was at an unusually heightened sense of readiness at the
prospect of facing the enemy.
Even Baxter felt his heart beat a little faster. A twenty-year Navy
man, he had seen action in the Atlantic but had grown bored with his
recent assignment on the home shores. He relished the thought of
tasting battle again, though remained skeptical about the radio report.
Japanese subs had not been seen off the coast for over a year, he knew,
and the Imperial Navy was now clearly on the defensive. "Radar?" he
demanded loudly.
"Sir, I have three small vessels approaching the channel, two from the north and one from the west," replied the radarman without taking his
eyes off his monitor. "I have another indefinite target that appears
to be stationary lying to the southwest."
"Take us to the southern mark," Baxter barked. "And have the forward
batteries stand by for action." The commander had to suppress a grin
of excitement as he issued the orders. Maybe we'll earn our pay today,
he thought while strapping on his helmet.
Unlike their American counterparts, most Japanese submarines in World
War II were not equipped with radar. The early-warning technology was
only first deployed on Imperial submarines in mid-1944, and then
installed only on selected vessels. Most Japanese submarines instead
relied upon sound-detection equipment to reveal a distant enemy.
Although more limited in range than radar, sound detection could be
utilized underwater, and aided many a sub in avoiding a fatal
rendezvous with depth charges.
Absent a radar unit, it was the I-403^ sound operator who first became
aware of the destroyer bearing down on them.
"Vessel approaching ahead ... sound intensity one," he reported at the
first registering on his equipment.
On deck, both of the aircraft had been moved out of their hangars, where the wings and pontoons were affixed, while repairs continued. It
was the situation Ogawa feared most. With both planes assembled but
neither ready for flight, they would have to be sacrificed should the
submarine have to make an emergency dive.
"Deck gun at the ready," he ordered, hoping the unwelcome intruder was
yet another fishing boat.
"Sound intensity two and increasing," the sound operator relayed
calmly. "It's a ship," he added, to no one's surprise.
"Secure all aircraft and clear the aviation deck," Ogawa ordered an
ensign, who sprinted down the large deck shouting at the mechanics and
pilots as he ran. Tying down the two airplanes, the aviation crew
quickly grabbed their work tools and scurried to the hangar. The
watertight doors of the hangar were closed and sealed; then the men
dropped down another hatch into the secure body of the submarine.
"Sound intensity three, off our bow. May be a destroyer," the operator
reported, correctly identifying the churning sound of the tin can's
twin propellers.
As if on cue, the gray ship materialized out of the fog a half mile
away, the apparition of a steel wraith charging across the moor. White
foam burst off the bow in angry torrents while wisps of dark smoke
billowed from the funnel. The lean ship drove straight at the sub, an attacking lancer not to be denied.
In an instant, the I-403's deck gun boomed as the submarine's
experienced gun crew attempted to halt the oncoming dervish. The slim,
head-on profile of the destroyer made for a difficult target, however,
and the shell passed harmlessly to one side. Hurriedly, the gun crew
took aim and fired again.
Once identifying the ship as a destroyer, Ogawa recognized the futility
of a surface duel with a superior vessel and immediately ordered a
crash dive. The mission would have to be sacrificed for the safety of
the ship and crew, he reasoned, if it wasn't already too late.
As the dive alarm sounded, the gun crew fired off a last desperate shot
before scrambling belowdecks to safety. The gunner's accuracy was
nearly dead-on, but he overcompensated the approaching speed of the
destroyer. The shell splashed into the water fifty feet directly ahead
of the American ship's bow, blasting a spray of water onto its deck but
causing no damage.
The two forward batteries of the Theodore Knight ax last came to life,
lobbing five-inch shells in succession toward the Japanese sub. The
inexperienced and adrenaline-fortified gun crew fired high, however,
placing the destroyer's shells harmlessly beyond the now-accelerating
submarine. On the exterior bridge of the I-403, Ogawa hesitated momentarily before
dropping down the hatch, taking a final glance at his approaching
stalker. Movement caught his eye on the forward deck, where he was
surprised to see a crewman striding toward one of the
airplanes. It was a pilot, ignoring the dive command and climbing into
his plane. In the spirit of the kamikaze, the pilot could not bear the
thought of losing his aircraft and was willing to die with it instead.
Ogawa cursed his foolish bravery, then ducked down into the bridge
below.
The ballast tanks were opened and a rush of seawater began flooding in
to weigh the submarine down. The huge hull of the I-403 was a
liability in this situation, requiring a notoriously long time to
submerge. As Ogawa waited for the sub to make its agonizingly slow
descent, he played one more card.
"Prepare to fire torpedoes!" he commanded.
It was a gamble, but a calculated one at that. With the destroyer
directly ahead, Ogawa could let go a shot in the face of the ship and
make the hunter fall prey to the victim.
"Tubes loaded," the torpedo officer reported. "Stand by tubes number one and number two," Ogawa ordered.
The destroyer was barely two hundred yards away and still belching fire
from its five-inch guns. Amazingly, the destroyer's guns continued to
miss their mark. The point-blank target of the sub slowly began to
diminish as the nose of the undersea craft dipped beneath the waves and
a wash of seawater gradually flooded over the forward deck.
"Fire one!" Ogawa shouted. Counting off three seconds silently, he
paused, then ordered, "Fire two!"
With a blast of compressed air, the two torpedoes burst out of the
forward tubes on a deadly streak toward the advancing destroyer. Each
packing an 890-pound lethal warhead, the twenty-three-foot-long,
oxygen-powered torpedoes accelerated quickly, racing toward the
Theodore Knight at better than 45 knots.
An ensign standing on the bridge wing of the destroyer noticed a seam
of white trails under the water's surface burrowing toward the ship.
"Torpedoes off the port and starboard bow!" he shouted, though his
body remained frozen in rapt fascination as he watched the speeding
explosives approach.
In an instant, the torpedoes were on them. But either by miscalculation, divine intervention, or just plain luck, the two deadly
fish somehow missed their target. The immobile ensign watched in
amazement as the two torpedoes skimmed past both sides of the
destroyer's bow, then raced down the length of the ship no more than
ten feet from either side of the hull before disappearing beyond the
stern.
"She's diving, sir," noted the destroyer's helmsman as he watched the
waves slosh over the bow of the sub.
"Steer for the conning tower," Baxter commanded. "Let's go right down
her throat."
Firing from the forward batteries had ceased, as the guns could no
longer be trained on a target so low to the ship's bow. The bat de
became a race, the destroyer boring in like a charging ram in an
attempt to batter the I-403. But the submarine was gaining depth and,
for a moment, appeared like it would successfully slip beneath the
stalking ship. The Theodore Knight had crossed over the bowline of the
sub, its keel missing the top deck of the descending sub by a matter of
feet. But the destroyer drove forward, intent on crushing the
submersing vessel.
The aircraft were the first to feel the sharp wedge of the destroyer's
prow. Partially submerged on the receding deck, the randomly aligned
airplanes just caught the surging bow of the ship at mid height and were instantly dissected into large sections of mangled metal, fabric,
and debris. The defiant pilot, who had climbed into the cockpit of the
first airplane, received little time for impudence before realizing his
wish to die with his plane in a crushing blow.
The I-403 itself was now half submerged and had so far avoided damage
from the assault. But the sub's conning tower was too great a
protrusion and could not escape the charging wrath of the ship. With a
crunching shear, the bow of the destroyer tore into the vessel's
console, slicing through it like a scythe. Ogawa and his operations
officers
were killed instantly as the ship crushed into and through the control
center of the sub. The entire structure was ripped away from the body
of the submarine as the destroyer continued its onslaught, carving a
mutilating gash along the rear spine of the I-403. Inside, the doomed
crew heard the screeching grind of metal on metal before the torrents
of seawater burst in and flooded the compartments. Death came quickly
but painfully to the drowning men as the sub lurched, then dropped
rapidly to the seafloor. A smattering of air bubbles and oil boiled to
the surface to mark the gravesite, then all was silent.
Aboard the Theodore Knight, the crew and officers cheered their
destruction of the Japanese submarine as they watched the telltale
slick of black oil and fuel pool on the surface like a death cloud above the sunken boat. How lucky they were to have found and destroyed
an enemy vessel right on their own home shores, with not so much as a
casualty on their own ship. Though the enemy had fought with valor,
the victory had come easily. The crew would return to port as heroes,
with a great tale to tell their grandchildren. What none of the men on
the destroyer could have suspected or imagined, however, was the
unspeakable horror that would have befallen their countrymen had the
I-403 succeeded in its mission. Nor could they know that the horror
still awaited, silently beckoning from the depths of the shattered
wreckage.
Mystery trawler and NUMA
May 22, 2007 The Aleutian Islands, Alaska
The winds swirled LIGHTLY about the faded yellow tin hut perched on a
small bluff overlooking the sea. A few light snowflakes danced about
the eaves of the structure before falling to the ground and melting
amid the grass and tundra. Despite the nearby hum of a diesel
generator, a wooly Siberian husky lay on a sun-exposed patch of loose
gravel enjoying a deep sleep. A white-feathered arctic tern swooped by
for a look, then stopped momentarily on the small building's roof.
After curiously examining the odd assortment of antenna, beacons, and
satellite dishes adorning the rooftop, the small bird seized a gust of
wind and flew away in search of more edible offerings. The Coast Guard weather station on Yunaska Island was as tranquil as it
was remote. Situated midway along the Aleutian chain of islands,
Yunaska was one of dozens of volcanic uprisings that curved off the
Alaskan mainland like an arched tentacle. Barely seventeen miles
across, the island was distinguished by two dormant volcano
<SL
peaks at either end, which were separated by rolling grass hills.
Absent a single tree or high shrub, the green island rose like an
emerald from the surrounding frigid ocean waters in the late spring.
Lying central to the North Pacific currents, Yunaska was an ideal
location for tracking sea and atmospheric conditions that would brew
into full-fledged weather fronts as they moved eastward toward North
America. In addition to collecting weather data, the Coast Guard
station also served as a warning and rescue relay station for troubled
fishermen working the surrounding marine-rich waters.
The site could hardly be considered a paradise for the two men assigned
to man the station. The nearest village was ninety miles away across
open water, while their home base in Anchorage was more than a thousand
miles distant. The isolated inhabitants were on their own for a
three-week stint until the next pair of volunteers was airlifted in.
Five months out of the year, brutal winter weather conditions forced closure of the station except for minimal remote operations. But from
May to November, the two-man crew was on call around the clock.
Despite the seclusion, meteorologist Ed Stimson and technician Mike
Barnes considered it a plum assignment. Stimson enjoyed being in the
field to practice his science while Barnes relished the time off he
would accrue after working a station shift, which he would spend
prospecting in the Alaskan backcountry.
"I'm telling you, Ed, you're going to have to find a new partner after
our next R&R. I found a fissure of quartz in the Chugach Mountains
that would knock your socks off. I know there's got to be a thick,
juicy gold vein lying right beneath it."
"Sure, just like that strike you made wild claims about on the McKinley
River," Stimson chided. Barnes had a naive sense of optimism that
always amused the elder meteorologist.
"Just wait till you see me driving around Anchorage in my new Hummer,
then you'll believe," replied Barnes somewhat indignantly.
"Fair enough," Stimson replied. "In the meantime, can you check
the anemometer mounting? The wind readings have stopped recording
again." "Just don't file a claim on my gold field while I'm up on the roof,"
Barnes grinned while pulling on a heavy coat.
"Not to worry, my friend. Not to worry."
Two miles to the east, Sarah Matson cursed leaving her gloves back in
the tent. Although the temperature was almost fifty, an offshore
breeze made it feel much cooler. Her hands were wet from crawling over
some sea-washed boulders and the sensitivity was evaporating from her
fingertips. Climbing across a gully, she tried to forget about her icy
hands and concentrate on moving closer to her quarry. Stepping quietly
along a boulder-strewn path, she eased herself slowly to a prime
vantage point beside a shallow rock outcropping.
Barely thirty feet away lay a noisy colony of Steller's sea lions
basking at the water's edge. A dozen or so of the fat-whiskered
mammals sat huddled together like tourists jammed on the beach at Rio
while another four or five could be seen swimming in the surf. Two
young males barked loudly back and forth at each other, vying for the
attention of a nearby female, who showed not the slightest sign of
interest in either mammal. Several pups slept blissfully oblivious to
the rancor, cuddled up close to their mother's belly.
Pulling a small notepad from her jacket pocket, Sarah began jotting
down particulars about each animal, estimating their age, sex, and apparent health condition. As accurately as she could, she carefully
observed each sea lion for signs of muscle spasms, eye or nasal
secretions, or excessive sneezing. After nearly an hour of
observation, she replaced the notepad in her pocket, hoping that she
would later be able to read the scribbled handwriting created by her
frozen fingers.
Slowly retracing her steps, Sarah edged away from the colony and
made her way back across the gully. She found that her original
footsteps had left indentations in the short grass and she easily
followed her imprints leading inland and over a gradual rise. The cool
sea breeze felt refreshing to her lungs as she hiked while the sparse
beauty of the island made her feel energized and full of life. Belying
her slender frame and delicate features, the flaxen-haired woman of
thirty actually relished working outdoors. Growing up in rural
Wyoming, Sarah had spent all her summer days hiking and horseback
riding in the Teton Mountains with a pair of rambunctious brothers. A
love of outdoor wildlife led her to study veterinary medicine at
neighboring Colorado State University. After a number of research
positions on the East Coast, she followed a favorite professor to the
federal Centers for Disease Control with the promise that she wouldn't
be stuck in a lab every day. In the role of field epidemiologist for
the CDC, she was able to combine her passion for wildlife and the
outdoors by helping track the spread of communicable diseases among
animals that posed a health threat to humans. Finding herself in the Aleutian Islands was just the sort of outdoor
adventure she craved, although the reason behind it tugged at her
animal-loving heart. A mysterious number of sea lion deaths had been
reported along the western Alaska Peninsula, although no known
environmental catastrophe or human-induced culprit was suspected. Sarah
and two associates had been sent from Seattle to diagnose the extent of
the die-off and determine its range of dispersement. Starting with the
outward Aleutian island of Attu, the team had begun island-hopping
eastward, searching for signs of the outbreak while working their way
toward the Alaskan mainland. Every three days, a small seaplane would
pick the team up, then ferry them to the next designated island with a
fresh drop of supplies. The second day on Yu-naska had failed to
reveal indications of the ailment in the local sea lion population,
which added a small sense of relief to Sarah.
Blessed with high cheekbones and soft hazel eyes, the pretty scientist
quickly ambled the two miles back to camp, easily spotting the trio
of bright red tents some distance away. A squat, bearded man wearing a
flannel shirt and a worn Seattle Mariners baseball cap was rummaging
through a large cooler when Sarah approached the campsite.
"Sarah, there you are. Sandy and I were just making plans for lunch,"
Irv Fowler said with a smile. An easygoing man on the thin side of fifty, Fowler looked and acted like a man ten years his junior.
A petite redheaded woman crawled out of one of the nearby tents
clutching a pot and ladle. "Irv's always making plans for lunch,"
Sandy Johnson responded with a grin while rolling her eyes.
"How did you two make out this morning?" Sarah inquired as she grabbed
an empty campstool and sat down.
"Sandy's got the stats. We checked a large colony of Steller's on the
eastern beach and they all looked fat and healthy. I found one
cadaver, but by all appearances the fellow looked like he expired from
old age. I took a tissue sample for lab analysis just to be sure."
While he spoke, Fowler pumped the primer on a propane gas camp stove,
then lit the hissing gas escaping beneath the burner, the blue flame
igniting with a poof.
"That's consistent with what I observed as well. It appears that the
affliction has not spread to the sea lions of charming Yunaska," Sarah
replied, her eyes sweeping the green landscape around them.
"We can check the colony on the west coast of the island this
afternoon, since our pilot won't be back to pick us up until
morning."
"That will be a bit of a hike. But we can stop for a chat at the Coast Guard station, which I recall our pilot saying was manned this time of
year."
"In the meantime," Fowler announced, placing the large pot on the
portable stove, "it's time for the specialty of the house."
"Not that fire-belching-" Sandy tried to declare before being cut
off.
"Yes, indeed. Cajun chili du jour," Fowler grinned, while scraping the
lumpy brown contents of a large tin can into the heated pot.
"As they say in N'Awlins," Sarah said with a laugh, "Laisse^ k bon
temps rouler."
Ed Stimson peered intently at a weather radar monitor watching a slight
buildup of white electronic clouds fuzz up the upper portion of the
green screen. It was a moderate storm front, some two hundred miles to
the southwest, that Stimson accurately predicted would douse their
island with several days of soggy weather. His concentration was
interrupted by a rapping sound overhead. Barnes was still up on the
tin roof fooling with the anemometer.
Static-filled chatter suddenly blared through the hut from a radio set
mounted on a corner wall. Nearby fishing boats, their captains yakking about the weather, constituted most of the garbled radio traffic
received on the island. Stimson did his best to tune out the
meaningless chatter and, at first, failed to detect the odd whooshing
sound. It was a low resonance emanating from outside. Then the radio
fell silent for a moment and he could clearly hear a rushing sound in
the distance, something similar to a jet aircraft. For several long
seconds, the odd noise continued, seeming to diminish slightly in
intensity before ending altogether in a loud crack.
Thinking it might be thunder, Stimson adjusted the scale view on his
weather radar to a twenty-mile range. The monitor showed only a light
scattering of clouds in the immediate vicinity, with nothing resembling
thunderheads. Must be the Air Force up to some tricks, he figured,
recalling the heavy air traffic in the Alaskan skies during the days of
the Cold War.
His thoughts were broken by a crying wail outside the door from the pet
husky named Max.
"What is it, Max?" Stimson called out while opening the door to the
hut.
The Siberian husky let out a death-shrieking howl as it turned,
shaking, toward his master in the doorway. Stimson was shocked to see
the dog's eyes glazed in a vacant stare while thick white foam oozed
from his mouth. The dog stood teetering back and forth for a moment, then
keeled over on its side, hitting the ground with a thud.
"Jesus! Mike, get down here quick," Stimson yelled to his partner.
Barnes was already climbing down the ladder from the roof but was
having a hard time catching the rungs with his feet. Nearing the
ground, he missed the last rung with his left foot altogether and
lurched to the ground, staying semierect only by a hearty hand grasp on
the ladder's rung.
"Mike, the dog just ... are you okay?" Stimson asked, realizing
something was not right. Running to his partner's side, he found
Barnes in a state of labored breathing, and his eyes were nearly as
glassy as Max's. Throwing his arm around the younger man's shoulder,
Stimson half carried, half dragged Barnes into the shack and set him
down in a chair.
Barnes bent over and retched violently, then sat upright, clinging to
Stimson's arm for support. Gasping in a hoarse voice, he whispered,
"There's something in the air."
No sooner had the words left his mouth when his eyes rolled up into the
back of his head and he fell over stone dead. Stimson stood up in a state of shock, then found that the room was
spinning like a top before his eyes. A throbbing pain racked his head
while the grip of an iron vise suddenly began squeezing the air out of
his lungs. Staggering to the radio, he tried to let out a brief cry
for help but was unsure whether his lips could move because of numbness
to his face. A burst of heat flared internally, like an invisible fire
was consuming his organs. Choking for air and losing all sense of
vision, he staggered and fell hard to the floor, dead before he hit the
ground.
Four miles east of the Coast Guard station, the three CDC scientists
were just finishing their lunch when the invisible wave of death
struck. Sarah was the first to detect something wrong when a pair of
birds flying overhead suddenly stopped in mid flight as if they had
struck an invisible wall and then fell to the ground wriggling. Sandy
fell victim first, clutching her stomach and doubling over in agony.
"Come now, my chili wasn't that bad," Fowler joked before he, too,
became light-headed and nauseous.
Sarah stood and took a few steps toward the cooler to retrieve some
bottled water when fire shot through her legs and her thigh muscles
began to spasm. "What's happening?" Fowler gasped as he tried to comfort Sandy before
staggering to the ground in distress.
For Sarah, time seemed to slow as her senses became dulled. Sluggishly,
she dropped to the ground as her muscles weakened and refused to obey
the commands sent by her brain. Her lungs seemed to constrict upon
themselves, making each breath a painful stab of agony. A thumping
noise began to ring through her ears as she fell prone on her back and
stared blurry-eyed at the gray sky above. She felt the blades of grass
dance and rustle against her body, but she was frozen, unable to
move.
Gradually, a fog enveloped her mind and a field of blackness began to
encroach the edges of her vision. But a sudden intrusion jarred her
senses momentarily. Into the sea of gray popped an apparition, a
strange ghost with a tuft of black hair over a rubbery face that seemed
to melt away like plastic. She felt the alien gaze upon her with
frightening giant, three-inch-wide crystal eyes. But there appeared to
be another set of eyes beyond the crystal lenses, gazing intently at
her with a sense of grace and warmth. A pair of deep, opaline green
eyes. Then everything turned to black.
Sarah opened her eyes to a gray canopy above her, only this one was
flat and without clouds. Shaking off the blurriness, her eyes slowly
regained focus and she could see that it was not the sky above her but a ceiling. A softness beneath her revealed that she was lying in a bed
with a thick pillow under her head. An oxygen mask was covering her
face, which she removed, but she left alone the intravenous needle that
was stuck in her arm. Carefully taking in the surroundings, her eyes
gazed upon a small, simply decorated room featuring a small writing
desk in one corner with an impressive painting of an old ocean liner
above it, while off to the side was a small bath. The bed she lay in
was mounted to the wall and the open door to a hallway had a step over
threshold. The whole room seemed to be rolling, and she was uncertain
if it was her head creating the motion as a result of the deep
throbbing sensation that pounded at her temples.
A movement caught her eye and she turned back to the doorway
to find a figure standing there, looking at her with a slight grin. He
was a tall man, broad-shouldered, but on a fit and somewhat wiry frame.
He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, she guessed, but moved with
the confidence of a more mature man. His skin showed the deep tan of
someone who spent a good deal of time outdoors. Wavy black hair set
off a rugged face that was more intriguing than classically handsome.
But it was the eyes that radiated an aura about the man. They were a
deep shade of iridescent green and revealed a sense of intelligence,
adventure, and integrity all rolled into one. They were the eyes of a
man who could be trusted. And they were the same green eyes, Sarah
recalled, that she had seen before blacking out at the camp. "Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty." The words came from a warm, deep
voice.
"You ... you're the man at the camp," Sarah stammered.
"Yes. My apologies for not properly introducing myself on the island,
Sarah. My name is Dirk Pitt." He neglected to add "Junior," although
he shared the same name as his father.
"You know who I am?" she asked, still confused.
"Well, not intimately," Dirk smiled non threateningly "but a brainy
scientist named Irv told me a little about you and your project on
Yu-naska. Irv seemed to think he poisoned everyone with his chili."
"Irv and Sandy! Are they all right?"
"Yes. They took a little nap, like you, but are fine now. They're
resting just down the hall," Dirk said, motioning with his thumb toward
the corridor. He could see the look of bewilderment in Sarah's eyes
and touched her shoulder with his hand in a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry, you're in good hands. You're aboard the National
Underwater and Marine Agency research ship Deep Endeavor. We were
returning from an underwater survey of the Aleutian Basin when we picked up a distress call from the Coast Guard weather station on
Yu-naska. I flew to the station in a helicopter we have on board and
happened to see your camp while flying back to the ship. I gave you
and
your friends an all-expense-paid aerial tour of Yunaska, but you slept
through the whole thing," Dirk added with mock disappointment.
"I'm sorry," Sarah murmured, feeling somewhat bashful. "I guess I owe
you a big thanks, Mr. Pitt."
"Please, call me "Dirk." "
"Okay, Dirk," Sarah replied with a smile, feeling an odd flutter as she
spoke his name. "How are the Coast Guard people?"
Dirk's face went dark and a look of sorrow crossed his brow. "I'm
afraid we didn't make it in time. We found two men and a dog at the
station. They were all dead."
A shiver went up Sarah's spine. Two men dead, and she and her
companions nearly as well. None of it made any sense.
"What on earth happened?" Sarah asked in shock.
"We don't know for sure. Our ship's doctor is running some tests, but, as you can imagine, his resources are somewhat limited. It appears to
have been some sort of airborne fume or toxin. All we know for sure is
that the Coast Guard station thought there was something in the air. We
flew in with gas masks and were not impacted. We even took some white
mice from our shipboard lab with us. They all survived fine, without
any apparent symptoms. Whatever it was, it must have dissipated by the
time we landed at the Coast Guard station. You and your team were
apparently far enough away from the source to be impacted less
severely. You probably didn't receive a full dose of whatever it
was."
Sarah's eyes dropped and she fell quiet. The horror and pain of the
whole ordeal came back to her with a showering of fatigue. She wanted
to sleep it all off and hope it was just a bad dream.
"Sarah, I'll have the doctor check on you, then let you sleep some
more. Perhaps later I can buy you a plate of king crab legs for
dinner?" Dirk asked with a smile.
Sarah smiled briefly in return. "I'd like that," she murmured, then
fell fast asleep.
Kermit Burch stood at the helm reading a fax communique when Dirk
stepped into the bridge from the starboard wing door. The seasoned
captain of the Deep Endeavor shook his head slightly as he read the document, then turned to Dirk with a slightly annoyed look on his
face.
"We've notified the Coast Guard and the Department of Homeland
Security, but nobody intends to do anything until the local authorities
have filed their report. The village public safety officer from Atka
is the area law enforcement official and he can't get to the island
until morning," Burch snorted. "Two men dead and they treat it as an
accident."
"We don't have much to go on," Dirk replied. "I spoke with Carl Nash,
our saltwater environmental analyst, who is well versed on terrestrial
pollutants. According to Nash, there are naturally occurring
environmental emissions, such as sulfuric volcanic releases, which
could have killed the men. High concentrations of industrial
pollutants are another potential culprit, although I'm not aware of any
neighborhood chemical plants in the Aleutians."
"The public safety officer told me it sounds to him like a classic case
of carbon monoxide poisoning from the station house generator. Of
course, that doesn't explain our friends from the CDC succumbing to
similar effects four miles away."
"Nor does it explain the dog I found dead outside of the station
house," Dirk added. "Well, perhaps the CDC crew can shed some light on the matter. How are
our three guests doing, by the way?"
"A little groggy still. They don't remember much, other than that it
struck pretty rapidly."
"The sooner we get them to a proper medical facility, the sooner
I'll rest easier. The nearest airfield is Unalaska, which we can make
in under fourteen hours. I'll radio ahead for a medical flight to
transfer them to Anchorage."
"Captain, I'd like to take the helicopter back out and reconnoiter the
island. We didn't have much of a chance to look around on the last
flight. Maybe there's something we missed. Any objections?"
"No ... just so long as you take that Texas joker with you," Burch
replied with a pained grin.
As Dirk ran through a preflight checklist from the pilot seat of the
NUMA Sikorsky S-76C+ offshore helicopter, a sandy-haired man with a
bushy mustache ambled across the flight platform. With scuffed cowboy
boots, chiseled arms, and a ubiquitous scowl that hid a mordant sense
of humor, Jack Dahlgren looked like a bull rider who got lost on the
way to the rodeo. A notorious practical joker, Dahlgren had already worked his way under Burch's skin by spiking the galley's coffee urn
with a cheap bottle of rum on their first night at sea. An engineering
whiz who grew up in west Texas, Dahlgren knew his way around horses and
guns, as well as every type of mechanical equipment that operated above
or below the sea.
"Is this the scenic island tour my travel agent recommended?" he asked
Dirk, sticking his head through a sliding cockpit window.
"Step right up, sonny boy, you won't be disappointed. All the water,
rocks, and sea lions your eyes can absorb."
"Sounds swell. I'll give you an extra quarter if you can find me a bar
with a short-skirted waitress."
"I'll see what I can do," Dirk grinned as Dahlgren climbed into the
copilot's seat.
The two men had become fast friends years before, while studying ocean
engineering at Florida Atlantic University. Avid divers, they
regularly cut classes together in order to spearfish the coral reefs
lying off Boca Raton, using their fresh-caught fish to woo local
sorority girls with barbecues on the beach. After graduating, Jack
completed his college ROTC commitment in the Navy while Dirk obtained a
master's degree from the New York Maritime College and trained at a
commercial dive school. The two men were reunited when Dirk joined his father at NUMA as a special projects director and convinced his old
friend to accompany him at the prestigious research agency.
After years of diving together, there was almost an unspoken bond
between the two men. They knew they could depend on each other and
performed at their best when the chips were down. Dahlgren had seen
the look of determination in Dirk's eyes before and knew the dogged
persistence that came with it. The mysterious events on Yu-naska were
weighing on his friend, Dahlgren noticed, and he wasn't likely to let
it go.
The main rotor blade of the Sikorsky wound to a high pitch as Dirk
gently eased the helicopter up and off a small landing platform mounted
amidships of the Deep Endeavor. Climbing to one hundred feet, Dirk
held the helicopter stationary for a moment, admiring the bird's-eye
view of the NUMA research ship. The wide-beamed, turquoise-colored
survey ship had a stubby look to her 270-foot length. But the lack of
a svelte streamline made for a stable work platform, ideal for
operating the myriad of cranes and hoists strategically positioned
about the large, open stern deck. In the middle of the deck, a bright
yellow submersible sparkled like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight
as it rested on a large wooden cradle, while several technicians
tinkered with its thrusters and electronics. One of the technicians
stood and waved his cap toward the suspended helicopter. Dirk threw
the man a quick wave, then banked the chopper and headed northeast toward the island of Yunaska, less than ten miles away.
"Back to Yunaska?" asked Dahlgren.
"The Coast Guard station we scouted this morning."
"Great," Dahlgren moaned. "We acting as a flying hearse?"
"No, just checking out the source of whatever killed the men and
dog."
"And are we looking for animal, vegetable, or mineral?" Dahlgren asked
through his headset, his teeth mashing a large wad of gum.
"All three," Dirk replied. "Carl Nash told me that a toxic cloud could
be created by anything from an active volcano to an algae bloom, not to
mention your garden-variety industrial pollutant."
"Just stop at the next walrus and I'll ask for directions to the
closest pesticide factory."
"That reminds me, where's Basil?" Dirk asked, his eyes glancing about
the cockpit.
"Right here, safe and sound," Dahlgren replied, grabbing a small cage
from beneath his seat and holding it up in front of his face. Inside, a small white mouse peered back at Dahlgren, his tiny whiskers
twitching back and forth.
"Breathe deep, little friend, and don't go to sleep on us," Dahlgren
requested of the furry rodent. He then strung the cage from an
overhead lanyard, like a canary in a coal mine, so they could easily
see if the mouse succumbed to any toxins in the air.
The grassy island of Yunaska crested out of the slate green water ahead
of them, a sprinkling of light cirrus clouds dancing about the larger
of the island's two extinct volcanic peaks. Dirk gradually increased
the helicopter's altitude as they approached the craggy shoreline, then
banked left along the water's edge. Flying counterclockwise around the
island's perimeter, it took only a few minutes before they spotted the
yellow building of the Coast Guard station. Bringing the helicopter to
a hover, Dirk and Dahlgren carefully examined the ground surrounding
the station for any unusual signs. Dirk eyed the body of Max the husky
still lying outside the hut's door and it brought back to mind the look
of pain and horror on the dead men's faces inside when he and Dahlgren
first landed at the station earlier in the day. He carefully shelved
his emotions and shifted his mental motor to discovering the source of
the deadly toxic breeze.
Dirk nodded past the windscreen to the right. "The prevailing winds
come from the west, so the source would likely have come from farther up the coast. Or possibly from offshore."
"Makes sense. The CDC team was camped to the east of here and they
obviously caught a less lethal dose of the mystery gas," Dahlgren
replied while peering at the ground through low-power binoculars.
Dirk applied a gentle force to the cyclic control lever and the
helicopter edged forward and away from the yellow structure. For the
next hour the two men strained eyeballs searching the grassy island for
signs of a natural or man-made origin to the toxin. Dirk traced wide
semicircular arcs north and south across the island, expanding their
way west until they reached the western coast and returned to the
vicinity of the Coast Guard station.
"Nothing but grass and rocks," Dahlgren grumbled. "The seals can keep
it, as far as I'm concerned."
"Speaking of which, take a look down there," Dirk replied, pointing to
a small gravel beach ahead of them.
A half-dozen brown sea lions lay stretched out on the ground, seemingly
enjoying the rays of the late afternoon sun. Dahlgren looked closer
his forehead suddenly wrinkling in puzzlement.
"Geez, they're not moving. They've all bought it, too." "This thing must not have come from Yunaska but from the sea, or the
next island over."
"Amukta is the next rock pile to the west," Dahlgren replied, running
his finger across a chart of the region.
Dirk could clearly see the dirty gray outline of the island on the
horizon. "Looks to be about twenty miles from here."
Eyeing the helicopter's fuel gauge, he continued, "I think we've got
time for a quick gander before our fuel runs low. Okay if you miss
your pedicure treatment in the ship's salon?"
"Sure I'll just reschedule it with my body wrap tomorrow," Dahlgren
replied.
"I'll let Burch know where we're headed," Dirk said, dialing up the
ship's radio frequency.
"Tell him to hold supper in the galley," Dahlgren added while rubbing
his stomach. "I'm working up an appetite taking in all this
scenery."
As Dirk radioed the survey ship, he guided the Sikorsky toward the
island of Amukta, skimming low over the open water. The powerful helicopter, designed for offshore oil transport, flew straight as a
rail under Dirk's firm hand. After cruising steadily for ten minutes,
Dahlgren quietly lifted an arm and pointed out the cockpit window to an
object on the horizon. It was a white speck, growing larger by the
second, until it slowly revealed itself as a large boat complete with
trailing wake. Without a word, Dirk applied gentle pressure to his
left pedal control until the helicopter eased about on the same line as
the boat. Approaching rapidly, they could see it was a steel-hulled
fishing trawler, running to the southwest at full bore.
"Now, there's a tub calling out for a little spit and polish," Pitt
remarked as he eased off the throttle to match speeds with the boat.
Though not appearing particularly old, the fishing vessel had obvious
signs of hard use over the years. Scrapes, dents, and grease marks
abounded both on the hull and throughout the open deck. Its original
coating of white paint was worn thin in the spots where rust had not
yet declared victory. By outward appearance, she looked as tired as
the frayed bald tires hanging over her sides like a string of donuts.
Yet like many disheveled-appearing work boats her twin diesel engines
were newly rebuilt and pushed the hulk hard through the waves with a
barely a wisp of black smoke from the funnel.
Dirk studied the boat carefully, noting with interest that no flags
flew from the mast, which might identify nationality. Both the bow
sides and the stern were absent a ship name or home port. As he perused the stern deck, two Asian men in blue jumpsuits stepped into
view and peered at the helicopter with looks of angst.
"Don't look overly friendly now, do they?" Dahlgren remarked before
waving and grinning toward the boat. The two jumpsuits simply scowled
in return.
"You wouldn't be, either, if you worked on that mangy derelict," Dirk
said as he steadied the Sikorsky in a hover just aft of the churning
boat. "Anything strike you as odd about that fishing boat?" he asked,
eyeing the stern deck.
"You mean the fact that no fishing equipment is anywhere to be seen?"
"Precisely," Dirk replied, inching the helicopter closer to the boat.
He noted an odd trestle mounted in the center of the deck, built up
approximately fifteen feet high. No streaks of rust could be seen on
the metal framing, indicating it was a recent addition to the boat. In
a star-shaped pattern at the base of the trestle was a gray powdery
marking that appeared singed into the surface of the deck.
As the helicopter crept closer, the two men on deck suddenly began
jabbering animately with each other, then ducked down a stairwell. At
the head of the stairwell, five sea lion carcasses were stretched out
on the deck side by side like sardines in a tin. To the left of the corpses was a small steel pen, which contained three live sea lions.
"Since when has the demand for seal blubber surpassed the market for
crab legs?" Dahlgren said idly.
"Not sure, but I don't think Nanook of the North would be too happy
about these guys stealing his dinner."
Then came the flash of fire. Dirk detected it out of the corner of his
eye and instinctively pressed hard on the left foot pedal, throwing the
Sikorsky into a quick half spin. The move saved their lives. As the
helicopter began to turn, a spray of bullets found their mark and burst
into the machine. But rather than smashing into the forward section of
the cockpit, the hail of fire entered in front of the pilots and ripped
into the instrument panel. The console, gauges, and radio shattered
into bits, but the pilots and critical mechanical components went
unharmed.
"Guess they didn't like the Nanook comment," Dahlgren dead-panned as he
watched the two men in jumpsuits reappear and fire into the helicopter
with automatic rifles.
Dirk said nothing as he throttled up the Sikorsky to its maximum thrust
and attempted to swing clear of the gunmen. On the port half deck of
the trawler, the two men were continuing to fire their Russian-made
AK-74s at the helicopter. Without contemplating their target, they foolishly aimed their fire at the cabin rather than the more
susceptible rotors. Inside the helicopter, the rackety sound of the
machine-gun fire was lost to the whine of the engine and rotors. Dirk
and Dahlgren could hear only a slight tapping behind them on the
fuselage.
Dirk wheeled the helicopter around in a wide arc to the starboard side
of the trawler, putting the ship's bridge between him and the gunmen,
shielding themselves from the gunfire. Temporarily free from attack,
he muscled the helicopter level, then aimed it toward the island of
Amukta looming in the distance.
But the damage had been done. The cockpit began filling with smoke as
Dirk fought the fiercely bucking controls. The rain of lead had
smashed into the electronics, pierced hydraulic lines, and riddled the
control gauges. Dahlgren detected a warm trickle on his ankle and felt
down to find a neat hole shot through his calf. Several rounds had
also found the turbine, but still the rotor chugged on, coughing and
cajoling itself in gasps.
"I'll try for the island, but be prepared to ditch," Dirk shouted over
the racket of the disintegrating engine. A foul blue smoke filled the
cockpit, accompanied by the acrid odor of burning wiring. Through the
haze, Dirk could barely make out the island ahead, and what looked like
a small beach. In his hands, the control stick shook like a jackhammer. Dirk used all
his strength to hold the craft steady and willed it forward as it began
to shake itself apart. Agonizingly close, he could see the shoreline
beckoning as the aircraft lurched ahead low to the sea, smoke belching
its wheels skimming just above the surf. But just short of the
shoreline, the shot-up turbine could take no more. Digesting a handful
of its own parts, the turbine wailed before grinding to a halt with a
loud pop.
As the turbine died, Dirk pulled on the collective control lever with
all his might to keep the nose up as power to the rotors was lost. The
tail rotor sliced down into the water, acting as an anchor to slow the
forward progress of the entire craft. The Sikorsky hung suspended for
a moment in the air before gravity caught up and the cabin dropped to
the water, slapping the surface with a smack. The main rotor spun into
the surf, attempting to whip through the sea, but the sudden impact
with the water cracked the main spindle and the entire rotor
cartwheeled off to the side fifty feet before sinking in a spray of
foam.
The cabin of the Sikorsky remarkably held together during the crash and
bobbed on the surface for a second before being sucked under the waves.
Through the smashed windshield, Dirk caught a glimpse of a wave
breaking over a sandy beach before the icy water filled the cockpit and
stung his body. Dahlgren was trying to kick out a side-panel door as the green water enveloped them rapidly, rising to the cockpit ceiling.
In unison, each man raised his head and took a last gasp of air before
the murky cold water rose over them. Then the turquoise helicopter
disappeared completely from the surface in a swirl of bubbles, sinking
swiftly to the rocky seafloor.
Captain Burch immediately launched a search-and-rescue mission after he
lost radio contact with Dirk and Dahlgren. He brought the Deep
Endeavor to Dirk's last reported position, then began a visual search
for the two men, sailing west in a zigzag pattern from Yunaska to
Amukta. Every available crewman was called to the deck to scan the
horizon for signs of the men or helicopter, while in the ship's radio
shack the radioman continued a tireless call for the missing
aircraft.
After three hours of searching, no trace was found of the helicopter
and an apprehensive dread fell over the ship's crew. The Deep Endeavor
had worked its way close to Amukta Island, which was little more than a
steep volcanic cone popping out of the sea. Dusk was approaching and
the sky turned a purplish red on the western horizon as the day's light
slowly diminished. Executive Officer Leo Delgado was studying the
steep shape of the mountainous island when a faint blur caught his
eye.
"Captain, there's smoke on the shoreline," he reported, pointing a finger toward the hazy spot on the island.
Burch held a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked intently at the
spot for several moments.
"Burning debris, sir?" Delgado asked, fearful of the answer.
"Perhaps. Or it could be a signal fire. Can't tell from here.
Delgado, take two men in the Zodiac and see what you can find on shore.
I'll bring the ship in behind you as close as I can get."
"Yes, sir," Delgado responded, already crossing the bridge before the
captain had finished speaking.
A gusty breeze had kicked up, making the evening seas choppy by the
time the Zodiac was lowered into the water. Delgado and the two
crewmen got doused with cold sea spray repeatedly as the rubber boat
bounced over the swells in their anxious drive to the shore. The skies
were nearly dark and the helmsmen had a difficult time tracking the
wisps of smoke against the black backdrop of the peaked island. The
island appeared to be surrounded by a steep and rocky shoreline and
Delgado wondered whether they would even be able to get ashore.
Finally, he spotted a quick glimpse of the fire's flame and directed
the Zodiac toward it. A small channel through the rocks opened up,
leading to a pebble-strewn patch of beach. Gunning the motor to ride
the crest of a wave in, the twelve-foot rubber boat bounded through the channel and ground to the shore with a crunch as the hull plate scraped
some small rocks before sliding to a stop.
Delgado jumped out of the inflatable boat and ran apprehensively toward
the smoky fire. Two shadowy figures could be seen hunched over the
smoldering driftwood fire trying to keep warm, their backs turned to
Delgado.
"Pitt? Dahlgren? Are you guys okay?" Delgado shouted out hesitantly
before approaching too close.
The two soggy-looking derelicts slowly turned toward Delgado as if
rudely interrupted from an important meeting. Dahlgren was holding a
half-eaten crab claw in one hand, while the head of a white
mouse peeked out of his chest pocket sniffing the night air. Dirk
stood holding a sharp stick, the end of which pierced the shell of a
huge Alaskan king crab whose spiny legs Dirk dangled over the open
flame.
"Well," Dirk said, tearing a steaming leg off the big crustacean, "we
could use some lemon and butter."
After briefing Burch on their encounter with the fishing trawler, Dirk
and Dahlgren limped to the ship's medical station for treatment of their wounds and to slip into some dry clothes. Dahlgren's bullet
wound had pierced the meaty section of his left calf but, fortunately,
had missed damaging any tendons. As the ship's doctor inserted sutures
to close up the wound, Dahlgren nonchalantly lit up a cigar while lying
on the examination table. When the smoke hit the physician's nostrils,
he nearly ripped out the sutures by hand before forcing Dahlgren to
douse the smelly tobacco. With a grin, the doctor handed Dahlgren a
pair of crutches and told him to stay off his leg for three days.
Dirk had his bloodied cheek and forehead cleaned and bandaged after
catching a face full of shattered glass when the helicopter hit the
surf. Remarkably, the two men incurred no other injuries from the
crash and sinking of the Sikorsky. Dirk had saved them from drowning
when he noticed a fuselage door had popped off during the crash
landing. After the helicopter filled with water, Dirk grabbed Dahlgren
and swam out the opening and made for the surface. With the aid of
Dahlgren's trusty Zippo lighter, they were able to ignite some dry
driftwood on the beach and stave off hypothermia until Delgado arrived
in the rubber boat.
Captain Burch, meanwhile, reported the loss of the helicopter to NUMA
headquarters, as well as reporting the incident to the Coast Guard and
the Atka village public safety officer. The nearest Coast Guard patrol
vessel was hundreds of miles away at Attu Is
land. Information about the fishing trawler was reported in detail but the odds for an interdiction were slim at best.
After donning a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, Dirk made his way
to the wheelhouse. Burch was leaning over the chart table plotting a
course through the Aleutian Islands.
"Aren't we heading back to Yunaska to retrieve the bodies of the Coast
Guardsmen?" Dirk asked.
Burch shook his head. "Not our job. Better to leave them be and allow
the proper authorities to handle the investigation. I'm laying a
course for the fishing port at Unalaska to disembark the CDC
scientists."
"I'd rather make for that trawler," Dirk said.
"We've lost our helicopter and they have an eight-hour lead on us. We'd
be lucky to find them, assuming we could even outrun them. The Navy,
Coast Guard, and local authorities have all been alerted to your
description. They have a better chance of finding that trawler than we
do."
"Perhaps, but their resources are all thin in this part of the world.
Those chances are slim at best." "There's little more we can do. Our survey work is finished and we
need to get those injured scientists appropriate medical care. There's
no sense in hanging around any longer."
Dirk nodded. "You're right, of course." Wishing there was a way to
find the trawler, he headed down the ladder to the ship's galley for a
cup of coffee. Dinner had long since been served and a cleanup crew
was working over the kitchen before shutting down. Dirk filled a mug
of coffee from a large silver urn, then turned and spotted Sarah
sitting in a wheelchair at the end of the dining hall. The
golden-haired woman sat alone at a table, peering out a large porthole
at the moonlit water outside. She was dressed in the dull medical ward
attire of cotton pajamas, slippers, and a blue robe but still gave off
a vibrant glow. As Dirk approached, she looked up and her eyes
twinkled.
"Too late for dinner?" he asked apologetically.
"Afraid so. You missed the chef's special Halibut Oscar, which was
truly excellent."
"Just my luck," Dirk replied, drawing a chair and sitting down directly
across from her.
"What happened to you?" Sarah asked with concern in her voice as she
eyed the bandages on Dirk's face. "Just a little accident with the helicopter. I don't think my boss is
going to like the news," he said with a grimace, thinking about the
expensive helicopter sitting at the bottom of the sea. Dirk proceeded
to describe the events of the flight, all the while gazing intently
into Sarah's hazel-colored eyes.
"Do you think the fishing boat had something to do with the death of
the Coast Guardsmen and us getting sick?" she asked.
"It only goes to figure. They obviously weren't too keen on us seeing
them poaching sea lions, or whatever else they were up to."
"The sea lions," Sarah murmured. "Did you see any sea lions on the
west end of the island when you flew over?"
"Yes, Jack spotted several just past the Coast Guard-station on the
western shore. They all appeared to be dead."
"Do you think the Deep Endeavor could obtain one of the cadavers to
study? I could arrange to have the specimen sent to the state lab in
Washington we are working out of."
"Captain Burch isn't eager to stick around the area, but I'm sure I can
convince him to retrieve one for scientific purposes," Dirk said before taking a long draw from his coffee. "We are actually headed back to
port in Seattle, so could deliver it there in a few more days."
"We could perform an autopsy of the animal and determine the source of
death relatively quickly. I'm sure the Alaska state authorities will
take some time to release the cause of death of the two Coast
Guardsmen, and they might not want the CDC looking over their
shoulder."
"Do you think there might be a link with the dead sea lions that were
found on the other Aleutian islands?"
"I don't know. We believe the cadavers found near the mainland were
infected by a canine distemper virus."
"Distemper? From dogs?"
"Yes. A viral outbreak likely occurred through contact between an
infected domestic dog and one or more sea lions. Distemper is very
contagious and could spread rapidly through a concentrated sea lion
population."
"Wasn't there a similar outbreak in Russia a few years ago?" Dirk
tried to recall.
"Kazakhstan, actually. Thousands of Caspian seals died in 2000 due to an outbreak of distemper near the Ural River along the Caspian Sea."
"Irv told me you found healthy, uninfected sea lions on Yunaska."
"Yes, the distemper did not appear to have reached this far west. Which
will make an examination of the dead sea lions you saw from the
helicopter that much more intriguing."
A quiet pause fell over the couple and Sarah could see a faraway look
in Dirk's eyes as the wheels churned inside his head. After a moment,
she broke the silence.
"The men on the boat. Who do you think they were? What were they
doing?"
Dirk stared out the porthole for a long minute. "I don't know," he
replied quietly, "but I intend to find out."
The twelfth hole of the Kasumigaseki Golf Club stretched 290 yards down
a tight fairway before it dog legged left to an elevated green tightly
guarded by a deep bunker in front. The U.S. ambassador to Japan,
Edward Hamilton, waggled the head of his oversized driver several times
before swinging hard into the golf ball, sending it soaring some 275
yards off the tee box and straight down the fairway. "Fine shot, Ed," offered David Monaco, the British ambassador to Japan
and Hamilton's weekly golf partner for nearly three years. The lanky
Brit teed up his ball, then punched a long arcing shot that rolled
twenty yards past Hamilton's ball before bounding into a patch of tall
grass on the left fringe of the fairway.
"Nice power, Dave, but I think you found the rough," Hamilton said as
he spotted his playing partner's ball. The two men proceeded to walk
down the fairway while a pair of female caddies, in the unique
tradition of Japan's oldest country clubs, manhandled their golf bags
a respectable distance behind them. Lurking nearby, four
not-so-inconspicuous government bodyguards maintained a rough perimeter
around the duo as they made their way around the course.
The weekly outing at the golf course located south of Tokyo was an
informal way of sharing information about the goings-on in and around
their host country. The two allied ambassadors actually found it one
of their most productive uses of time.
"I hear you are making good progress on establishing the economic
partnership agreement with Tokyo," Monaco remarked as they hiked up the
fairway.
"It just makes sense for everyone involved to ease trade restrictions.
Our own steel tariffs may still get in the way of an agreement. The
trade attitudes here are certainly changing, however. I think South Korea will even forge a partnership agreement with the Japanese
shortly."
"Speaking of Korea, I understand that some chaps in Seoul are going to
issue another appeal for the removal of U.S. armed forces in the Korean
National Assembly next week," Monaco said in a soft but accented
voice.
"Yes, we've heard that as well. The South Koreans' Democratic Labor
Party is using the issue as a divisive wedge to gain more political
power. Fortunately, they still only represent a small minority within
the National Assembly."
"It's a damn mystery how they can think that way, given the past
aggressiveness of the North."
"True, but it does play on a sensitive cultural issue. The DLP tries
to compare us to the historical foreign occupations of Korea by the
Chinese and the Japanese and it strikes a chord with the average man on
the street."
"Yes, but I would be surprised if the leaders of the party are
operating on a simply altruistic motive," Monaco said as the two
approached Hamilton's ball. "My counterpart in Seoul tells me we have no definitive proof, but
we are pretty sure that at least some party officials are receiving
support from the North," Hamilton replied. Taking a 3-iron from his
caddy, Hamilton lined up the pin, then knocked another straight shot
that cut the corner of the dogleg and landed on the far side of the
green, avoiding the large bunker.
"I understand that support for the measure extends well beyond the DLP,
I'm afraid," Monaco continued. "The economic gains from reunification
are catching a lot of blokes' attention. I heard the president of
South Korea's Hyko Tractor Industries remark at a trade seminar in
Osaka how he could reduce labor costs and compete internationally if he
had access to the North's labor force."
Monaco strode through the rough grass for a minute before locating his
ball, then lofted a 5-iron shot that bounced up onto the green, rolling
shy of the pin by thirty feet.
"That's assuming a reunification would maintain free markets," Hamilton
replied. "It's still clear that the North would have the most to gain
from a reunification of both countries, and even more so if American
forces are not in play."
"I'll see if my people can find any connections," Monaco offered as
they approached the green. "But, for now, I'm just glad we're working this side of the Sea of Japan."
Hamilton nodded in appreciation as he attempted a chip shot to the
hole. His club scuffed the ground before striking the ball, which
caused it to plop short of the pin by fifteen feet. He waited as
Monaco putted out in two strokes for par, then bent over the ball with
a putter for his own attempt at par. But as he swung through the ball,
a sudden thump emanated from his head, followed by a loud crack in the
distance. Hamilton's eyes rolled back and a shower of blood and tissue
sprayed out from his left temple and onto the pants and shoes of
Monaco. As the British diplomat looked on in horror, Hamilton fell to
his knees in a pool of blood, his hands still tightly clutching the
putter. He tried to speak but only a gurgle rolled from his lips
before he toppled stiffly onto the manicured grass surface. A fraction
of a second later, the dead man's bloodstained golf ball found the rim
of the hole and dropped into the cup with a clink.
Six hundred yards away, a short, stout Asian man dressed in blue stood
up in the bunker of the eighteenth hole. The sun glared off his bald
head and brightened a lifeless pair of coal black eyes that were made
more menacing by a long, thin Fu Manchu mustache. His squat, powerful
build was more aptly suited to wrestling than golf, but his fluid
movements revealed a flexibility to his strength. With the bored
demeanor of a child putting away his toys, the man carefully
disassembled an M-40 sniper rifle and placed the gun parts in a concealed compartment inside his golf bag. Pulling out a sand wedge,
he forcefully lofted an overpowered shot out of the bunker in a spray
of sand. He then calmly three-putted to finish his round, then
strolled slowly to his car and stowed his clubs in the trunk. Exiting
the parking lot, he patiently gave way as a flood of police cars and
ambulances came streaking up to the clubhouse with sirens blaring, then
he eased his car into the adjacent road where he quickly became lost in
the local traffic.
A pair of technicians wearing protective gear steered the Deep
Endeavor's Zodiac to the western shore of Yunaska, where they selected
a young male sea lion from the assortment of dead mammals strewn about
the beach. The animal was carefully wrapped in a synthetic sheet, then
placed into a heavy body bag for transport back to the ship. The NUMA
research vessel stood off nearby with spotlights beaming on the water,
guiding the rubber boat back in short order. A section of the galley
was cleared away and the sealed cadaver was stored in a cold freezer
for the remainder of the voyage, just next to a crate of frozen
sherbet.
Once all was secured, Captain Burch pushed the research vessel hard
toward the island of Unalaska, with its port city of the same name,
situated more than two hundred miles away. Running at top speed all
through the night, Burch was able to bring the Deep Endeavor into the
commercial fishing port just before ten the next morning. A weathered
ambulance waited at the dock to transfer Sarah, Irv, and Sandy to the town's small airfield, where a chartered plane was waiting
to whisk them to Anchorage. Dirk insisted on pushing Sarah to the
ambulance in her wheelchair and gave her a long kiss on the cheek as
she was loaded in.
"We've got a date in Seattle, right? I still owe you a crab dinner,"
Dirk said with an engaging smile.
"I wouldn't miss it," Sarah replied sheepishly. "Sandy and I will be
down just as soon we're okay to leave Anchorage."
After seeing the CDC team off, Dirk and Burch met with the village
public safety officer and gave him a full report of the incident. Dirk
provided a detailed description of the mystery fishing trawler and
convinced the VPSO to furnish him with a listing of registered fishing
vessels from the state licensing authority. The VPSO also agreed to
check with the local commercial fishing entities for information but
didn't hold out much hope. Japanese and even Russian fishing boats
were known to ply the territorial waters illegally on occasion in
search of fertile fishing grounds and had the habit of disappearing
whenever the authorities tried to pursue them.
Burch wasted little time in the port city before turning the Deep
Endeavor south, and sailing toward Seattle. Like everyone else, the crew of the ship had plenty of questions about the events of the
preceding day but few answers.
Sarah, Irv, and Sandy endured a noisy and bumpy flight to Anchorage on
one of the local twin-engine island-hoppers, arriving at the city's
international airport late in the evening. Two exuberant college
interns from the regional CDC office met them at the airport and
transferred them to Alaska Regional Hospital, where they underwent a
battery of toxicology tests and examinations. By this time, the
threesome had regained their strength and were showing no outward
signs
of illness. Oddly, the medical staff was unable to diagnose any
abnormal toxicity levels or other ailment with any of the three. After
an overnight stay for observation, Sarah, Irv, and Sandy were released
from the hospital with a clean bill of health as if nothing at all had
happened to them.
Six days later, the Deep Endeavor cruised quietly into Puget Sound,
turning east into the Shilshole Bay just north of Seattle. The
research vessel tied up momentarily at the Ballard Locks, where
controlled floodgates raised the ship and released it into the fresh
water of the ship canal. The Deep Endeavor continued on into Lake
Union before slowing along the north shore. Burch inched the vessel up
to a private dock jutting from a small modern-looking glass building
that housed the NUMA northwest field office. A gathering of the crew's wives and children lined the dock, waving enthusiastically as the ship
approached.
"Looks like you've got your own welcoming committee, Dirk," Burch
remarked, pointing to two figures waving at the end of the pier. Dirk
looked out the bridge window and recognized Sarah and Sandy among the
happy throng greeting the turquoise ship. Sarah looked radiant in a
pair of blue capri pants and a maize satin blouse, which complemented
her trim figure.
"You two look like the model of health," Dirk said as he warmly greeted
the pair.
"No small part in thanks to you," Sandy gushed. "Just one night in
Alaska Regional Hospital and we were on our way good as new."
"How's Irv?"
"He's fine," Sarah replied. "He's staying in Anchorage for a few more
weeks to coordinate the completion of our sea lion study with the
Alaska Department of Fish and Game. They agreed to provide field
support to help finish our research investigation."
"I'm so glad everybody is well. So what was the medical diagnosis in
Anchorage?" Dirk asked. Sandy and Sarah glanced at each other briefly with a searching look,
then shrugged and shook their heads in unison.
"They didn't find anything," Sarah finally said. "It's something of a
mystery. We all showed signs of an inflamed respiratory track, but
that was about it. Blood and urine samples came back clean. If we did
inhale a toxin, it was purged from our systems by the time we reached
Anchorage."
"That's why we're here to pick up the sea lion. Hopefully, there will
be some indicators still evident in the animal's tissue," Sandy said.
"So, you're not here to see me?" Dirk intoned sadly with an
exaggerated frown on his face.
"Sorry, Dirk," Sarah laughed. "Why don't you come meet us at the lab
later this afternoon after we do our analysis? We can go grab a late
lunch."
"I would like to know the results," he agreed, then led the two on
board to retrieve the frozen sea lion.
Once the mammal was hauled away, Dirk and Dahlgren helped secure the
ship, transferring ashore the sensitive high-tech survey gear that was
stored in an adjacent warehouse. With their docking shores complete, the crew of the Deep Endeavor gradually dispersed to enjoy a few days
of R&R before the next project set sail.
Dahlgren approached Dirk with a rucksack tossed over one shoulder and
the pair of crutches under one arm. Only a slight limp was noticeable
from his calf wound when he walked.
"Dirk, I'm off to rustle up a date with a sexy teller I met at the bank
before we shipped out. Should I see if she has a cute friend?"
"No, thanks. Think I'll get cleaned up and go see what Sarah and Sandy
discovered from our sea lion Popsicle."
"You always did have a thing for the brainy types," Dahlgren
chuckled.
"What's with the crutches? You've been off those things for three days
now."
"Never underestimate a woman's sense of sympathy," Dahlgren grinned,
placing one crutch under an arm and pretending to limp in agony.
"If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate a woman's ability to detect
bad acting," Dirk replied with a laugh. "Happy hunting." Dirk borrowed the keys to a turquoise NUMA Jeep Cherokee and drove a
short distance to his rented town house overlooking Lake Washington.
Although he called Washington, D.C." his home, he enjoyed the
temporary assignment in the Northwest. The lush wooded surroundings,
the cold, clear waters, and the youthful and vibrant residents who
thrived in the sometimes bleak and damp weather made for a refreshing
environment.
Dirk showered and threw on a pair of dark slacks and a thin pullover
sweater, then downed a peanut butter sandwich and an Olympia beer while
listening to a litany of messages on his answering machine. Satisfied
that the earth had not come to a stop in his absence, he hopped into
the Jeep and headed north on 1-5. Exiting east past the lush Jackson
Park Golf Course, Dirk turned north and soon entered the park like
grounds of Fircrest Campus. Fircrest was an old military complex that
had been turned over to the state of Washington and now housed offices
and operations for a variety of state government agencies. Dirk
spotted a complex of square white buildings surrounded by mature trees
and parked in an adjacent lot fronted by a large sign, stating:
Washington state public health laboratories.
A perky receptionist phoned up to the small CDC office shared by the
state lab and a few moments later Sarah and Sandy appeared in the
lobby. A portion of the cheeriness they showed earlier in the day had
clearly left their faces. "Dirk, it's good of you to come. There's a quiet Italian restaurant
down the street where we can talk. The Pasta Alfredo is great, too,"
Sarah suggested.
"Sure thing. Ladies first," Dirk replied as he held the front door
open for the two scientists.
After the threesome shoehorned into a red vinyl booth at the nearby
neighborhood restaurant, Sarah explained their findings.
"An examination of the sea lion revealed the classic signs of
respiratory seizure as the cause of death. An initial blood test
failed to reveal any concentrated levels of toxicity, however."
"Similar to the test results for you three in Anchorage," Dirk added
between bites of bread.
"Exactly. Our vitals showed fine, though we still experienced
weakness, headaches, and signs of respiratory irritation by the time we
reached Anchorage," Sandy added.
"So we went back and carefully reexamined the animal's blood and tissue
and finally detected trace elements of the toxin," Sarah continued.
"Though not one hundred percent certain, we are fairly confident the sea lion was killed by hydrogen cyanide poisoning."
"Cyanide?" Dirk asked with an arched eyebrow.
"Yes," Sandy replied. "It makes sense. Cyanide is actually expelled
rapidly from the human body. In the case of Sarah, Irv, and me, our
bodies had naturally purged most, if not all, of the cyanide toxins
before we stepped in the door of the Anchorage hospital. Hence, no
trace remained when our blood samples were taken."
"I've contacted the Alaska State Coroner's Office and informed them of
our findings. They have not completed the autopsy report on the two
Coast Guardsmen yet, but they will know what to look for. I am
convinced that is what killed them," Sarah said with a tinge of
sadness.
"I always thought cyanide had to be ingested in order to be lethal,"
Dirk remarked.
"That's what's commonly known, but it's not the only deadly form of the
poison. Everyone knows of cyanide tablets carried by wartime spies, the deadly Jim Jones cyanide-laced Kool-Aid that killed hundreds
in Jonestown, Guyana, and the Tylenol poisonings, which used cyanide.
But cyanide gas has also been used as a killing agent. The French
tried variations of cyanide gas against the Germans in the trenches
during World War One. And though the Germans never used it on the battlefield, they did use a form of cyanide in the concentration camp
gas chambers during the Second World War."
"The infamous Zyklon B," Dirk recalled.
"Yes, a beefed-up fumigant originally developed to kill rodents," Sarah
continued. "And, more recently, Saddam Hussein was suspected of using
a form of cyanide gas in attacks on Kurdish villages in his own
country, although it was never verified."
"Since we packed in our own food and water supplies," Sandy piped in,
"the airborne poisoning makes sense. It would also explain the deaths
of the sea lions."
"Is it possible for the cyanide to have originated from a natural
source?" Dirk inquired.
"Cyanide is found in a variety of plants and edibles, from lima beans
to choke cherries But it's as an industrial solvent where it is most
prevalent," Sarah explained. "Tons of the stuff are manufactured each
year for electroplating, gold and silver extraction, and fumigants.
Most people probably come in contact with some form of cyanide every
day. But to answer your question, it's unlikely to exist in a gaseous
state from a natural source sufficient to reach any sort of lethality.
Sandy, what did you find in the historical profile of cyanide deaths in
the U.S.?" "There's been a slew of them, but most are individual accidents or
suspected homicides or suicides resulting from ingestion of solid
cyanides." Sandy reached down and picked up a manila folder she had
brought along and skimmed through one of the pages inside.
"The only significant mass death was related to the Tylenol poisonings,
which killed seven people, again by ingestion. I found only two
references for multiple deaths from suspected cyanide gas. A family of
four died in the Oregon town of Warrenton back in 1942, and in 1964
three men were killed in Butte, Montana. The Montana case was listed
as a mining accident due to extraction solvents. The Oregon case was
listed as undetermined. And I found next to nothing for prior
incidences in and around Alaska."
"Then a natural-occurring release doesn't sound very likely," Dirk
remarked.
"So if it was a man-made airborne release, who did it and why?" Sandy
asked while jabbing her fork into a bowl of angel-hair pasta.
"I think the 'who' was our friends on the fishing boat," he said
drily.
"They weren't picked up by the authorities?" Sarah asked. Dirk shook his head in disgust. "No, the trawler disappeared. By the
time the local authorities arrived in the area, they were long gone.
The official assessment is that they were presumed to be foreign
poachers."
"I suppose it's possible. It sounds a little dangerous to me, but I
guess they could release the gas from their boat upwind of a sea lion
colony," Sarah replied, shaking her head.
"A fast way to do a lot of killing," Dirk added. "Though poachers
armed with AK-47s does seem a little extreme. And I'm still wondering
about the retail market for sea lions."
"It is perplexing. I haven't heard of anything like it before."
"I hope that you two don't suffer any ill effects from the exposure,"
Dirk said, looking at Sarah with concern.
"Thanks," Sarah replied. "It was a shock to our system, but we'll be
fine. The long-term effect for minimal exposure has not been proven to
be dangerous."
Dirk pushed away a cleaned plate of Pasta Alfredo and rubbed his taut
stomach with satisfaction. "Excellent dining choice."
"We eat here all the time," Sarah said as she reached over and
out-grabbed Dirk for the bill.
"I insist on returning the favor," Dirk said, looking at Sarah with a
serious smile.
"Sandy and I have to travel to the CDC research lab in Spokane for a
few days, but I'd love to take you up when we return," she replied,
intentionally leaving Sandy out of the equation.
Dirk smiled in acknowledgment. "I can't wait."
The landing wheels of the Gulfstream V jet dropped slowly from the
fuselage as the sleek aircraft aligned its nose at the runway. Its
wings cut through the moist, hazy air like a scalpel, as the
nineteen-passenger luxury business jet dropped gracefully out of the
sky until its rubber tires touched the tarmac with a screech and a wisp
of blue smoke. The pilot guided the plane to the corporate jet
terminal of Tokyo's modern Narita International Airport before shutting
down the high-pitched turbines. As a ground crew chocked the wheels of
the jet, a gleaming black Lincoln limousine glided up, stopping
precisely at the base of the plane's passenger stairwell. Chris Gavin squinted in the bright sun as he stepped down from the jet
and climbed into the waiting limo, followed by a legion of assistants
and assorted vice presidents. As chief executive officer of SemCon
Industries, Gavin commanded the largest semiconductor manufacturing
company in the world. The flamboyant and free-spending corporate
chief, who inherited the company from a visionary father, had alienated
many of his countrymen in the United States by closing profitable
factories and brusquely laying off thousands of workers at home in
order to move production to newer and cheaper facilities offshore.
Profits would be higher, he promised his shareholders, while taking
personal delight in broadening his elaborate lifestyle to a worldwide
setting.
Exiting the airport grounds located some sixty-six kilometers northeast
of Tokyo, the limo driver entered the Higashi Kanto Expressway and
headed toward Japan's capital city with his cargo of high-salaried
executives. Twenty minutes later, the driver turned south, exiting the
highway some twenty kilometers short of Tokyo. The limo soon entered
the industrial section of Chiba, a large port city on the eastern edge
of Tokyo Bay. The driver wound past a number of large drab
manufacturing buildings before pulling up in front of a sleek glass
building overlooking the bay. The modern structure looked more like an
executive office building than the industrial fabrication plant it
contained, with its shimmering face of gold reflective windows rising
four stories high. Mounted on the roof in huge block letters was
a blue semcon neon sign, which could be seen for miles away. A large crowd of factory workers, all clad in pale blue lab coats, waited
anxiously on the grounds for the arrival of their CEO to officially
open the new facility.
The crowd cheered and cameras flashed as Gavin exited the limo and
waved to the assembled employees and media, baring a wide, capped-tooth
grin. After a pair of long-winded welcome speeches by the mayor of
Chiba and the new plant manager, Gavin offered a few polished words of
thanks and inspiration to the employees, then hoisted a comically
oversized pair of scissors and cut a thick ribbon stretched tight
across the entrance to the new building. As the crowd applauded
politely, a muffled boom echoed from somewhere in the depths of the
building, which some mistook for a firing of celebratory fireworks. But
then a succession of louder explosions rocked the building and the
assembly of employees suddenly gasped in confusion.
In the heart of the building's silicon chip fabrication center, a
small
timed charge had detonated on a tank of silane gas, a highly flammable
substance used in the growth of silicon crystals. Exploding like a
torpedo, the tank had flung metallic fragments at high velocity into a
half-dozen additional silane and oxygen tanks stored nearby, causing
them to burst in a series of concussions that culminated in a massive
fireball inside the building. Soaring temperatures soon caused the exterior windows to blast out in a burst of hot air, showering the
stunned crowd with a hail of glass and debris.
As the building shook and flames roared from the roof, the panicked
employees began to scramble in all directions. Gavin stood holding the
pair of giant scissors, a look of stunned confusion on his face. A
sharp pain suddenly pierced his neck, jolting his senses. Instinctively
rubbing the ache with his fingers, he was shocked to feel a small
barbed steel ball the size of a BB lodged in his skin. As he extracted
the tiny pellet with a trickle of blood, a nearby woman screamed and
ran by him, a large sliver of fallen window glass protruding from her
shoulder. A couple of terrified assistants quickly grabbed Gavin and
led him toward the limo, shielding him from a nosy photographer eager
to snap an embarrassing shot of the corporate mogul in front of his
burning building.
As he was whisked to the limo, Gavin's legs suddenly turned to rubber.
He turned toward one of his assistants to speak but no words came from
his lips. As the car door was opened, he sprawled forward into the
car, falling chest first onto the carpeted floor. A confused aide
rolled him over and was horrified to find that the CEO was not
breathing. A panicked attempt at CPR was performed as the limo
screeched off to a nearby hospital, but it was to no avail. The
mercurial self-centered leader of the global company was dead.
Few people had paid any attention to the bald man with dark eyes and droopy mustache who had crowded up close to the speaker's platform.
Wearing a blue lab coat and plastic identification badge, he looked
like any other SemCon employee. Fewer still noticed that he carried a
plastic drinking cup with an odd bamboo straw sticking out
the top. And in the confusion of the explosions, not a single person
had noticed as he pulled out the straw, placed it to his lips, and
fired a poisoned bead at the head of the giant corporation.
Casually losing himself in the crowd, the bald assassin made his way to
the edge of the property's grounds, where he tossed his cup and lab
coat into a streetside trash can. Hopping onto a bicycle, he paused
briefly as a clanging fire truck roared down the street toward the
engulfed building. Then, without looking back, he casually pedaled
away.
A dinging bell echoed in Dahlgren's mind like some distant train at a
railroad crossing. The feverish hope that the sound was part of a
dream fell away as his consciousness took hold and told him it was a
ringing telephone. Groping for the receiver on his nightstand, he
yawned a weary "Hullo."
"Jack, you still sawing logs?" Dirk's voice laughed over the line.
"Yeah, thanks for the wake-up call," he replied groggily. "I thought bankers didn't like to stay up late."
"This one does. And likes to drink vodka, too. I think a dinosaur
crapped in my mouth during the night," Dahlgren said with a belch.
"Sorry to hear. Say, I'm thinking of taking a drive to Portland to
stretch out my sea legs and take in a car show. Care to ride
shotgun?"
"No thanks. I'm supposed to take the teller kayaking today. That is,
if I can still stand up."
"Okay. I'll send over a Bombay martini to get you started."
"Roger that," Dahlgren replied with a grimace.
Dirk headed south from Seattle on Interstate 5 in the NUMA jeep,
enjoying the sights of the lush forested region of western Washington.
He found cross-country drives relaxing, as they allowed his
mind to roam freely with the open countryside. Finding himself making
good time, he decided to detour west along the coast, taking a side
road to Willapa Bay before continuing south along the Pacific waters of
the large bay. Soon he reached the wide blue mouth of the Columbia
River, and cruised the same shores upon which Lewis and Clark had triumphantly set foot back in 1805.
Crossing the mighty river over the four-mile-long Astoria-Megler
Bridge, Dirk exited at the historic fishing port of Astoria. As he
stopped at a red light on the bridge off ramp, a road sign caught his
eye. In white letters on a green field, warrenton 8 mi. was preceded
by an arrow pointing west. Prodded by curiosity, he followed the sign
right, away from Portland, and quickly traversed the few miles to
Warrenton.
The small town at Oregon's northwest tip, originally built on a tidal
marsh as a fishing and sport boat passage to the Pacific, supported
some four thousand residents. It took Dirk only a few minutes of
driving about the town before he found what he was looking for on Main
Street. Parking his jeep next to a white Clatsop County official
vehicle, he strolled up a concrete walkway to the front door of the
Warrenton Community Library.
It was a small library but looked like it had been in existence for six
or seven decades. A musty smell of old books and older dust wafted
lightly in the air. Dirk walked straight to a large metal desk, from
which a fiftyish woman with contemporary eyeglasses and short blond
hair looked up suspiciously. A plastic green badge pinned to her
blouse revealed her name: margaret. "Good morning, Margaret. My name is Dirk," he said with a smile. "I
wonder if you might have copies of the local newspaper from the
nineteen forties?"
The librarian warmed slightly. "The Warrenton News, which went out of
print in 1964. We do have original copies from the nineteen thirties
through the sixties. Right this way," she said.
Margaret walked to a cramped corner of the library, where she
pulled out several drawers of a filing cabinet before discovering the
location of the 1940s editions.
"What exactly is it that you are looking for?" she asked, more out of
nosiness than of a desire to help.
"I'm interested in the story of a local family that died suddenly from
poisoning back in 1942."
"Oh, that would be Leigh Hunt," Margaret exclaimed with a knowing
smugness. "He was a friend of my father. Apparently, that was quite a
shock around here. Let's see, I think that happened during the
summer," she said while flipping through the cabinet. "Did you know
the family?" she asked Dirk without looking up.
"No, just a history buff interested in the mystery of their deaths." "Here we go," the librarian said, pulling out an edition of the daily
newspaper dated Sunday, June 21, 1942. It was a small journal, mostly
containing weather, tide, and salmon-fishing statistics combined with a
few local stories and advertisements. Margaret flattened out the paper
on top of the filing cabinet so Dirk could read the headline story.
Four Dead on De Laura Beach
Local resident Leigh Hunt, his two sons Tad (age 13) and Tom (age 11),
and a nephew known only as Skip, were found dead Saturday, June 20th,
on De Laura Beach. The four went out clamming in the afternoon,
according to Hunt's wife Marie, and failed to return home for dinner.
County Sheriff Kit Edwards discovered the bodies, which showed no signs
of a struggle or physical injury. "Not finding any physical marks, we
immediately suspected smoke inhalation or poisoning. Leigh had a large
supply of a cyanide treatment in his workshop that he used for tanning
leather," Edwards remarked. "He and the boys must have been exposed to
a strong dose before they went to the beach, and the poison caught up
with them there," he stated. Funeral arrangements are pending
examination of the bodies by the county coroner.
"Is there a follow-up news report on the coroner's findings?" he
asked. Margaret rifled through another dozen editions of the News before
finding a small article related to the deaths. Reading out loud, she
cited that the coroner's office confirmed accidental cyanide inhalation
as the suspected cause of death.
"My father never did believe it was an accident," Margaret added, to
Dirk's surprise.
"It doesn't make sense that they would have died later at the beach
after inhaling the fumes in Hunt's work shed," Dirk mused.
"Papa said the same thing," Margaret replied, letting down her guard
slightly. "And he said the authorities never did consider the
birds."
"Birds?"
"Yes. About a hundred seagulls were found dead on the beach around the
area that Hunt and the boys were found. Fort Stevens, the Army base,
was right near that beach. Papa always suspected it was some sort of
Army experiment that accidentally killed them. Guess nobody will ever
know for sure."
"Wartime secrets can be difficult to unlock sometimes," Dirk replied.
"Thank you for your help, Margaret." Dirk returned to the jeep and drove through the town to the coastal
highway and turned south. A short stretch of pavement later, he
approached a small side road marked de laura beach road. The road led
through an open pair of gates marked fort stevens state park before
narrowing through thick underbrush. Dirk jammed the jeep into low gear
and surged over a jagged ridge before descending to a large abandoned
gun emplacement overlooking the ocean. Battery Russell had been one of
several coastal defense sites guarding the entrance to the Columbia
River which sprang up during the Civil War, then were later updated
with huge long-range guns during World War II. From the emplacement,
Dirk had a clear view of the shimmering blue waters at the mouth of the
Columbia River, as well as the De Laura Beach below, which was dotted
with afternoon pic nickers. Dirk soaked in a few deep breaths of the
fresh sea air, then drove back out the small road, pulling off nearly
into the brush at one point to let an oncoming black Cadillac pass by.
Driving a quarter mile farther, he stopped the car at a large
historical marker along the roadside that caught his eye. Carved on a
massive gray slab of granite was a highly detailed engraving of a
submarine, beneath which was inscribed:
On June 21, 1942, a 5.5" shell exploded here. One of 17 fired at
Columbia River Harbor Defense Installations by the Japanese Submarine
I-25. The only hostile shelling of a military base on the U.S. mainland
during World War II and the first since the War of 1812. As he read the inscription, he instinctively moved away from the road
as the Cadillac returned and passed by slowly, to avoid kicking up
dust. Dirk studied the submarine carving for a long moment and started
to walk away. But something caught his eye and he looked again. It
was the date. June 21, just a day after Hunt and the boys were found
dead on the beach.
Dirk reached into the jeep's glove compartment and pulled out a
cellular phone, leaning against the car's hood as he dialed the number.
After four rings, a deep and jolly voice boomed through the handset.
"Perlmutter here."
"Julien, it's Dirk. How's my favorite nautical historian?"
"Dirk, my boy, so good to hear from you! I was just enjoying some
pickled green mangoes your father sent me from the Philippines. Pray
tell, how are you enjoying the Great White North?"
"We just finished our survey in the Aleutians, so I am back in the
Pacific Northwest. The islands were quite beautiful, though, but it
was a little cold for my blood."
"Heavens, I can imagine," Perlmutter's voice bellowed. "So, what's on
your mind, Dirk?" "World War Two-era Japanese submarines, to be exact. I'm curious
about their record of attacks on the U.S. mainland and any unusual
weaponry in their arsenals."
"Imperial submarines, eh? I recall they made some fairly harmless
attacks on the West Coast, but I have not delved into my Japanese
wartime files in some time. I'll have to do some nosing about for
you."
"Thanks, Julien. And one more thing. Let me know if you run across
any references to the use of cyanide as an armament."
"Cyanide. Now, that would be nasty, wouldn't it?" Perlmutter asked
rhetorically before hanging up.
Contemplating the enormous collection of rare maritime history books
and manuscripts jammed into his Georgetown carriage house, St. Julien
Perlmutter needed only a few seconds of pondering to pinpoint the
material he was looking for. Perlmutter resembled an overgrown Santa
Claus, with sparkling blue eyes, a huge gray beard, and an enormous
belly that helped him tip the scales at nearly four hundred pounds.
Besides a penchant for gourmet foods, Perlmutter was known as one of
the world's foremost maritime historians, in large part due to his
peerless collection of sea-related ephemeris. Clad in silk pajamas and a paisley robe, Perlmutter padded across a
thick Persian carpet to a mahogany bookcase, where he examined several
titles before pulling down a book and two large binders with his meaty
hands. Satisfied it was the material he was looking for, the immense
man returned to an overstuffed red leather chair, where a plate of
truffles and a hot pot of tea beckoned him.
Dirk continued on his drive to Portland, where he found the antique
auto auction he was looking for at a large, grassy fairgrounds at the
city's edge. Scores of people milled about the gleaming autos, most
from the forties, fifties, and sixties, which were neatly lined up on
the wide grass field. Dirk sauntered by the cars, admiring the paint
jobs and mechanical restorations, before heading to a large
white-canopied tent where the auctioning was taking place.
Inside, loudspeakers blared out the auctioneer's grating staccato voice
as he spat out price bids like a rapid-fire machine gun. Grabbing a
side seat away from the blare, Dirk watched in amusement as the team of
auctioneers, wearing a ridiculous combination of seventies-style
tuxedos and cheap cowboy hats, pranced around in a futile attempt to
hype the excitement, and price, of each car. After several Corvettes
and an early Thunderbird were passed through, Dirk sat up as a 1958
Chrysler 300-D drove up onto the stage. The huge car was painted an
original Aztec turquoise, enhanced by miles of gleaming chrome and a
pair of rear tail fins that jutted into the air like the dorsal fin of a shark. In a reaction only a true car fanatic could understand, Dirk
felt his heartbeat quicken simply at the sight of the artistic mass of
steel and glass.
"Perfectly restored to concourse condition by Pastime Restorations of
Golden, Colorado," the auctioneer pitched. He resumed his vocal
convulsions, but bidding on the car surprisingly stalled early. Dirk
raised his hand in the air and was soon dueling for the car with an
overweight man wearing yellow suspenders. Dirk quickly countered his
opponent's bids in rapid succession, showing his intent was serious.
The tactic worked. Yellow Suspenders shook his head after the third
bid and headed toward the bar.
"Sold to the man in the NUMA hat!" the auctioneer barked as the
surrounding crowd applauded politely. Though it cost him several
months' salary, Dirk recognized it was a good buy, knowing that less
than two hundred Chrysler 300-D convertibles were manufactured in
1958.
As he arranged to have the car shipped up to Seattle, his cell phone
started to ring.
"Dirk, it's Julien. I have some information for you."
"That was fast service." "Well, I wanted to get back to you before supper," Perlmutter replied,
contemplating his next meal.
"What can you tell me, Julien?"
"After Pearl Harbor, the Japanese placed nine or ten submarines on
station along the West Coast, but they were gradually pulled off as the
battle action moved to the South Pacific. The Japanese submarines were
primarily on reconnaissance missions, observing the major bays and
harbors while trying to track major ship movements. They did manage to
sink a handful of merchant ships early in the war and create a dose of
psychological fear in the general public along the way. As for actual
land attacks, the first occurred in early 1942, when the I-17 lobbed a
few shells near Santa Barbara, damaging a pier and an oil derrick. In
June of '42, the I-25 fired upon Fort Stevens, near Astoria, Oregon,
while the I-26 bombarded a radio station on Vancouver Island in Canada.
No fatalities were recorded in either of the attacks. In August of
1942, the I-25 returned near Cape Blanco, Oregon, and launched a
seaplane armed with incendiary bombs in an attempt to set fire to the
nearby forests. The attack was a failure, as only one small fire was
ignited in the region."
"Sounds like they were primarily nuisance attacks," Dirk commented.
"Yes, there was nothing overly strategic about their actions. Things slowed down after the incendiary attack, as the submarines were moved
north to support the Aleutian campaign. Imperial submarines were
heavily involved in supporting the capture and later evacuation of Attu
and Kiska islands during fighting in 1943. The Japanese lost five subs
during the Aleutian battles as our sonar technology really began to
pick them out of the seas. After the fall of Kiska, just a few
Imperial submarines continued to operate in the north and western
Pacific. The I-180 was attacked and sunk near Kodiak, Alaska, in April
of 1944, then things were pretty quiet on the home front until the
I-403 was sunk off Cape Flattery, Washington, in January 1945."
"Odd that one would get tagged off the West Coast at a point in the war
when their navy was on its last legs."
"It's even more queer when you consider that the I-403 was one of their
big boats. Apparently, it was planning an air attack when it was
surprised by an American destroyer."
"Hard to believe they constructed submarines back then capable of
carrying an airplane," Dirk marveled.
"Their big boats could carry not just one but actually three airplanes.
They were massive beasts."
"Did you find any indication that the naval forces used cyanide weapons?"
"None that was recorded in battle, but they did exist. It was the
Imperial Army, I believe, and its biological warfare unit in China,
that experimented with biological and chemical weapons. They did fool
around with cyanide artillery shells, among other things, so it is
possible the Navy tried experimenting with them, but there is no
official record of their use."
"I guess there is no way to prove it, but I suspect the I-25 launched a
cyanide shell that killed four people the day before it attacked Fort
Stevens."
"Quite possible. May be hard to prove, as the I-25 was later lost in
the South Pacific, presumably sunk near Espiritu Santo Island in 1943.
But with one possible exception, all accounts I have seen indicate that
the Japanese vessels were armed only with conventional weapons."
"And the exception?"
"The I-403 again. I found a reference in a postwar Army journal
stating that a shipment of Maka^e ordnance was transferred to the Navy
and delivered to the submarine in Kure prior to her last sailing. I've
never seen a reference to Maka^e before, however, and could find no
other references in my ordnance and munitions files." "Any idea what the term means?"
"The best translation I can make of it is "Black Wind." "
Dirk made a short phone call to Leo Delgado, then reached I Dahlgren,
who was drinking a beer in a lounge overlooking Lake i Washington
following his morning kayak with the bank teller.
"Jack, you up for a dive tomorrow?" Dirk asked.
"Sure. Spearfishing in the Sound?"
"I've got something a little bigger in mind."
"King salmon are game for me."
"The fish I'm interested in," Dirk continued, "hasn't swum in over
sixty years."
Irv Fowler woke up with a raging headache. Too many beers the night
before, the scientist mused as he dragged himself out of bed. Chugging
down a cup of coffee and a donut, he convinced himself he felt better.
But as the day wore on, the pain seemed to swell, with little relief
offered despite his multiple hits on a bottle of aspirin. Eventually,
his back joined in the game, sending out waves of pain with every movement he made. By midafternoon, he felt weak and tired, and left
early from his temporary office at Alaska State Health and Social
Services to drive back to his apartment and rest.
After he downed a bowl of chicken soup, his abdomen started firing off
streaks of shooting pain. So much for home remedies, he thought. After
several fitful naps, he staggered into the bathroom for another dose of
aspirin to help kill the pain. Looking into the glassy-eyed worn and
weary face that stared back at him from the mirror, he noticed a bright
red rash emerging on his cheeks.
"Damndest flu I've ever had," he muttered aloud, then fell back into
bed in a heap.
Security was tight at the Tokyo Hilton Hotel and guests for the private
banquet were required to pass through three separate checkpoints before
gaining entry to the lavish dining hall. The Japan Export
Association's annual dinner was an extravagant affair featuring the
best local chefs and entertainers performing for the country's top
business leaders and dignitaries. Executives from Japan's major
exporting companies helped sponsor the dinner on behalf of their major
trading partners. In addition to key customers, in-country diplomats
from all the Western and Asian countries that constituted Japan's
primary trading partners were treated as special guests.
The recent assassination of U.S. Ambassador Hamilton and the bedlam at the SemCon factory opening had created a buzz in the crowd and heads
turned when the American embassy's deputy chief of mission Robert
Bridges entered the room, accompanied by two undercover security men.
Though a career diplomat, Bridges was more at home working policy
strategies or conducting business security briefings rather than
socializing in mass crowds. Hamilton had been by far the better
glad-hander, Bridges thought as he made small talk with a Japanese
trade representative. A dinner host soon arrived and escorted him to a
small banquet table, where he was seated with a number of European
diplomats.
As traditional dishes of sashimi and soba noodles were brought to the
tables, a troupe of geisha dancers glided elegantly about a raised
stage, dressed in brightly colored kimonos and twirling bamboo fans as
they pirouetted. Bridges downed a shot of warm sake to help deaden the
pain of listening to the French ambassador drone on about the poor
quality of Asian wines while he watched the dancers spin.
As the first course was finished, a litany of corporate executives ok
to the stage to promote their self-importance with blustery speeches.
Bridges took the opportunity to visit the restroom and, with large
bodyguard leading the way, walked down a side corridor and into the
men's room. The bodyguard scanned the tiled restroom, finding only a waiter washing
his hands in a sink at the far end. Letting Bridges pass to the
urinal, the bodyguard closed the door and stood facing the interior.
The bald waiter slowly finished washing his hands, then turned his back
to the bodyguard as he dried his hands from a paper towel rack. When
he spun back toward the door, the bodyguard was shocked to see a .25
automatic in the waiter's hand. A silencer was affixed to the muzzle
of the small handgun, with the business end pointed directly at the
bodyguard's face. Instinctively grabbing for his own weapon, the
bodyguard had barely moved his hand when the .25 emitted a muffled
cough. A neat red hole appeared just above the bodyguard's left
eyebrow and the large man raised up and back momentarily before
collapsing to the floor with a thud, a river of red blood running from
his head.
Bridges failed to detect the muffled gunshot but heard the bodyguard
collapse. Turning to see the waiter pointing the gun at him, Bridges
could only mutter, "What the hell?"
The bald man in the waiter suit stared back at him with deathly cold
black eyes, then broke into a sadistic grin that revealed a row of
crooked yellow teeth. Without saying a word, he squeezed the trigger
two times and watched as Bridges grasped his chest and fell to the
ground. The assassin pulled a typewritten note out of his pocket and
rolled it up tight into the shape of a tube. He then bent over and wedged it into the dead diplomat's mouth like a flagpole. Carefully
disassembling his silencer and placing it in his pocket, he gingerly
stepped over the two bodies and out the door, disappearing down a hall
toward the kitchen.
The fiberglass bow of the twenty-five-foot Parker work-boat plunged
through the deep, wide swells, cutting a white foamy path as it rolled
through the trough before cresting on the peak of the next wave. Though
tiny in comparison to most vessels in the NUMA fleet, the durable
little boat, identified on the stern as the Grunion, was ideal for
surveying inland and coastal waterways, as well as supporting
shallow-water dive operations.
Leo Delgado rolled the helm's wheel to the right and the Grunion
quickly nosed to starboard and out of the path of a large red freighter
bearing down on them near the entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
"How far from the strait?" he asked, spinning the wheel hard to port a
moment later in order to take the passing freighter's wake bow on.
Standing alongside in the cramped cabin, Dirk and Dahlgren were hunched
over a small table studying a nautical chart of their present position
near the entrance to the Pacific Ocean, some 125 miles west of
Seattle. "Approximately twelve miles southwest of Cape Flattery," Dirk said over
his shoulder, then dictated latitude and longitude coordinates to
Delgado. The Deep Endeavor's first officer reached over to a keyboard
and tapped the position into the small boat's computerized navigation
system. A few seconds later, a tiny white square appeared in the upper
corner of a flat-screen monitor that hung from the ceiling. At the
lower edge of the monitor, a small white triangle flashed on and off,
representing the Grunion as it motored into the Pacific. With the aid
of a satellite Global Positioning System interface, Delgado was able to
steer a path directly toward the marked position.
"Now, you guys are sure Captain Burch isn't going to find out we
borrowed his support boat and are burning his fuel just for a pleasure
dive?" Delgado asked somewhat sheepishly.
"You mean this is Burch's private boat?" Dirk replied with mock
horror.
"If he comes snooping, we'll just tell him that Bill Gates stopped by
and offered us a few million stock options if he could take the Grunion
out for a spin," Dahlgren offered.
"Thanks. I knew I could trust you guys," Delgado muttered, shaking his
head. "By the way, how good is your fix on the submarine's
location?" "Came right out of the official Navy report on the sinking that
Perlmutter faxed me," Dirk replied, grabbing the cabin door sill for
balance as the boat rolled over a large swell. "We'll start with the
position that was recorded by the destroyer after she sank the
I-403."
"Too bad the Navy didn't have GPS back in 1945," Delgado lamented.
"Yes, the wartime action reports weren't always entirely accurate,
especially where locations are concerned. But the destroyer had not
traveled very far from shore when it engaged the sub, so their reported
position ought to put us in the ballpark."
When the Grunion reached the marked position, Delgado eased the
throttle into neutral and began keying a search grid into the
navigation computer. On the back deck, Dirk and Dahlgren unpacked a
Klein Model 3000 side-scan sonar system from a reinforced plastic
crate. As Dirk hooked up the cables to the operating system, Dahlgren
reeled a yellow cylindrical sonar tow fish out over the stern gunwale
and into the water.
"The fish is out," Dahlgren yelled from the back deck, whereupon
Delgado applied a light throttle and the boat edged forward. In a
matter of minutes, Dirk had the equipment calibrated, resulting in a continuous stream of contrasting shadowy images sliding across a color
monitor. The images were reflections of sound waves emitted from the
tow fish which bounced off the seafloor and were recaptured and
processed into visual recordings of protrusions or cavities on the sea
bottom.
"I have a one-mile-square grid plotted around the Theodore Knight's
reported position at the time she rammed the sub," Delgado said.
"That sounds like a good starting range," Dirk replied. "We can expand
the grid if we need to."
Delgado proceeded to steer the boat down a white line on the monitor
until the end of the grid was reached, then he spun the wheel around
and brought the boat down the next line in the opposite direction. Back
and forth the Grunion sailed, in narrow two-hundred-meter paths, slowly
chewing up the grid while Dirk kept a sharp eye for a long, dark shadow
on the sonar monitor that would represent the I-boat lying on the
bottom.
An hour went by and the only recognizable image that appeared on the
sonar screen was a pair of fifty-five-gallon drums. After two hours,
Dahlgren broke out tuna sandwiches from an ice chest and tried to
relieve the tedium by telling an assortment of weakly humorous redneck
jokes. Finally, after three hours of searching, Dirk's voice suddenly
cut through the damp air. "Target! Mark position." Gradually, the fuzzy image of an elongated object rolled across the screen, joined by
two smaller protrusions near one end and a large object lying next to
it amidships.
"Lord have mercy!" Dahlgren shouted, studying the image. "Looks like
a submarine to me."
Dirk glanced at a scale measurement at the bottom of the screen. "She's
about 350 feet long, just as Perlmutter's records indicate. Leo, let's
take another pass to verify the position, then see if you can park us
right on top of her."
"Can do," Delgado replied with a grin while swinging the Grunion around
for another run over the target. The second-pass image showed that the
submarine was clearly intact and appeared to be sitting upright on the
bottom. As Delgado punched the precise location into the GPS system,
Dirk and Dahlgren hauled in the sonar tow fish then unpacked a pair of
large dive bags.
"What's our depth here, Leo?" Dahlgren called out as he poked his feet
through the leggings of a black neoprene wet suit.
"About 170 feet," Delgado replied, eyeing a humming fathometer.
"That will only give us twenty minutes of bottom time, with a twenty-five-minute decompression stop on the way up," Dirk said,
recalling the recommended dive duration from the Navy Dive Tables.
"Not a lot of time to cover that big fish," Dahlgren considered.
"The aircraft armament is what I am most interested in," Dirk replied.
"According to the Navy report, both aircraft were on deck when the
destroyer attacked. I'm betting those two sonar images off the bow are
the Seiran bombers."
"Suits me fine if we don't have to get inside that coffin." Dahlgren
shook his head briefly, considering the scene in his head, then
proceeded to strap on a well-worn lead weight belt.
When Dirk and Dahlgren were suited up in their dive gear, Delgado
brought the Grunion back over the target position and threw out a small
buoy tied to two hundred feet of line. The two black-suited divers
took a giant step off the rear dive platform and plunged fin first into
the ocean.
The cold Pacific water was a shock to Dirk's skin as he dropped beneath
the surface and he paused momentarily in the green liquid, waiting for
the thin layer of water trapped by the wet suit surface to match the
warmth of his body heat.
"Damn, I knew we should have brought the dry suits," Dahlgren's voice crackled in Dirk's ears. The two men wore full-face AGA Divator MKII
dive masks with an integrated wireless communication system, so they
could talk to each other while underwater.
"What do you mean, it feels just like the Keys," Dirk joked, referring
to the warm-water islands at the south end of Florida.
"I think you've been eating too much smoked salmon," Dahlgren
retorted.
Dirk purged the air out of his buoyancy compensator and cleared his
ears, then flipped over and began kicking toward the bottom following
the anchored buoy line. Dahlgren followed, tagging a few feet behind.
A slight current pushed them toward the east, so Dirk compensated by
angling himself against the flow as he descended, trying to maintain
their relative position over the target. As they swam deeper, they
passed through a thermocline, feeling the water temperature turn
noticeably colder in just an instant. At 110 feet, the green water
darkened as the murky water filtered the surface light. At 120 feet,
Dirk flipped on a small underwater light strapped to his hood like a
coal miner. As they descended a few more feet, the elongated, dark
shape of the Japanese submarine suddenly grew out of the depths.
The huge black submarine lay quietly at the bottom, a silent iron
mausoleum for the sailors who died on her. She had landed on her keel when she sank and sat proudly upright on the bottom, as if ready to set
sail again. As Dirk and Dahlgren drew closer, they were amazed at the
sheer size of the vessel. Descending near the bow, they could barely
see a quarter of the ship before its bulk disappeared into the murky
darkness. Dirk hovered over the bow for a moment, admiring the
impressive girth, before examining the catapult ramp that angled down
the center deck.
"Dirk, I see one of the planes over here," Dahlgren said, pointing an
arm toward a pile of debris lying off the port bow. "I'll go take a
look."
"The second plane should be farther back, according to the sonar
reading. I'll head in that direction," Dirk replied, swimming along
the deck.
Dahlgren quickly darted over to the wreckage, which he could easily see
was the remains of a single-engine float plane dusted in a heavy layer
of fine silt. The Aichi M6A1 Seiran was a sleek-looking monoplane
specially designed as a submarine-launched bomber for the big I-boats.
Its rakish design, similar in appearance to a Messerschmitt fighter,
was made comical by the attachment of two huge pontoons braced several
feet below the wing, which looked like oversized clown shoes extending
beyond the fuselage. Dahlgren could see only a split portion of one
pontoon, though, as the left float and wing had been heared off by the
charging American destroyer. The fuselage and right wing remained intact, propped up at an odd angle by the damaged pontoon. Dahlgren
swam to the seafloor in front of the plane, studying the visible
undercarriage and wing bottom of the bomber. Moving closer, he fanned
an accumulation of silt away from several protrusions, revealing a set
of bomb grips. The clasps that secured the bomber's payload were empty
of armament.
Gliding slowly up the side of the fuselage, Dahlgren kicked over to the
half-crushed cockpit canopy and wiped away a layer of silt from the
glass enclosure. Shining his light inside, he felt his heart pound
rapidly at the startling sight. A human skull stared up at him from
the pilot's seat, the bared teeth seeming to smile at him in a macabre
grin. Playing the light about the cockpit, he recognized a pair of
deteriorated flying boots on the floorboard, a sizable bone remnant
jutting out of one opening. The collapsed bones of the pilot still
occupied the plane, Dahlgren realized, the flier having gone down with
his ship.
Dahlgren slowly backed away from the aircraft, then called Dirk on the
radiophone.
"Say, old buddy, I've got the business end of one of the float planes
here, but it doesn't look like she had any weapons mounted when she
sank. Airman Skully sends his regards, though." "I've found the remains of the second plane and she's clean as well,"
Dirk replied. "Meet me at the conning tower."
Dirk had found the second bomber lying thirty yards away from the sub,
flipped over on its back. The two large pontoons had been ripped off
the Seiran bomber when the sub went under, and the plane's fuselage,
with wings still attached, had fluttered down to the bottom. He could
easily see that no ordinance was mounted on the undercarriage and found
no evidence that a bomb or torpedo had fallen away when the plane
sank.
Swimming back to the sub's topside deck, he followed the
eighty-five-foot-long catapult ramp along the bow until reaching a
large round hatch. The vertical hatch capped the end of a large
twelve-foot-diameter tube, which was mounted at the base of the conning
tower and stretched aft for more than one hundred feet. The airtight
tube had been the hangar for the Seiran aircraft, storing the sectional
pieces of the planes until they were ready for launching. Set back
above the tubular section was a small platform containing
triple-mounted 25mm antiaircraft guns, which still sat with their
barrels pointed skyward waiting for an unseen enemy.
Instead of a large metal sail rising upward, Dirk found a huge hole in
the center of the I-403, the gaping remains of where the conning tower
had been sheared off in the collision. A small school of ling-cod swam
around the jagged crater's edge, feeding on smaller marine life and adding a splash of color to the dark scene.
"Wow, you could drive your Chrysler through that hole," Dahlgren
remarked as he swam up alongside Dirk and surveyed the crater.
"With change to spare. She must have gone down in a hurry when the
sail ripped off." The two men silently visualized the violent
collision between the two war vessels so many years before and
imagined
the agony of the helpless crew of the I-403 as the submarine sank to
the bottom.
"Jack, why don't you take a pass through the hangar and see if you can
eyeball any ordnance," Dirk said, pointing a gloved hand toward a gash
along the top of the aircraft hangar. "I'll go belowdecks and do the
same."
Dirk glanced at the orange face of his Doxa dive watch, a gift from his
father on his last birthday. "We've only got eight more minutes of
bottom time. Let's be quick."
"I'll meet you back here in six," Dahlgren said, then disappeared with
a kick of his fins through the gash in the hangar wall. Dirk entered the gloomy crevice adjacent to the hangar, diving past a
jagged edge of mangled and twisted steel. As he descended, he could
make out the sub's unusual twin side-by-side pressured hulls, which ran
lengthwise down the keel. He entered an open bay and quickly
identified it as the remains of the control room, as evidenced by a
large mounted helm's wheel, now covered in barnacles. An array of
radio equipment was fixed to one side of the room-while an assortment
of mechanical levers and controls protruded from another wall and
ceiling. Shining his light on one set of valves, he made out barasuto
tanku in white lettering, which he presumed operated the ballast
tanks.
Kicking his fins gently, Dirk moved forward at a deliberate pace trying
not to stir up sediment from the deck. As he passed from one
compartment to the next, the submarine seemed to echo with the life
from the Japanese sailors. Dining plates and silverware were strewn
across the floor of a small galley. Porcelain sake vials were still
standing in cabin shelves. Gliding into a large wardroom where
officers' staterooms lined one side, Dirk admired a small Shinto shrine
mounted on one wall.
He continued forward, cognizant of his dwindling bottom time but
careful to take in all that his eyes could absorb. Moving past a
maze
of pipes, wires, and hydraulic lines, he reached the chief's quarters, near the forward part of the ship. At last, he approached his
objective, the forward torpedo room, which loomed just ahead. Thrusting
ahead with a powerful scissors kick, he advanced to the torpedo room
entrance and prepared to pass in. Then he stopped dead in his
tracks.
He blinked hard, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then
he turned off his light and looked through the hatch again. He was not
imagining what he saw.
In the inky bowels of the rusting warship, entombed at the bottom of
the sea for over sixty years, Dirk was welcomed by a faint but distinct
flashing green light.
Dirk pulled himself through the hatch and into the pitch-black darkness
of the torpedo room, save for the penetrating beam of light. As his
eyes adjusted to the blackness, the flashing green light became
clearer. It appeared to be a pair of tiny lights, situated at eye
level, and fixed at the far side of the room.
Dirk turned his own light back on and surveyed the room. He was in the
upper torpedo room, one of two torpedo bays the I-403 had stacked
vertically at the bow of the sub. Near the forward bulkhead, he could
see the round chamber hatches for the four twenty-one-inch-diameter
torpedo tubes. Lying in racks on either side of the room were six of the huge Type 95 torpedoes, large and deadly fish that were both more
reliable and more explosive than the American counterpart during the
war. Jumbled on the floor, Dirk shined his light on two additional
torpedoes that had been jarred out of their racks when the submarine
had slammed into the bottom. One torpedo lay flat on the floor, its
nose angled slightly off bow from where it had rolled after
hitting the deck. The second torpedo was propped on some debris near
its tip, pointing its nose lazily upward. It was just above this
second torpedo where the eerie green light flashed on and off.
Dirk floated over to the pulsating light, putting his face mask up
close to the mystery beam. It was nothing more than a small stick-on
digital clock wedged at the end of the torpedo rack. Fluorescent green
block numbers flashed a row of zeroes, indicating an elapsed time that
had run out more than twenty-four hours before. Days, weeks, or months
before, it would be impossible to tell. But it certainly could not
have been placed there sixty years earlier.
Dirk plucked the plastic clock and stuffed it in a pocket of his BC,
then peered upward. His expended air bubbles were not gathering at the
ceiling, as expected, but were trailing upward and through a shaft of
pale light. He kicked up with his fins and found that a large hatch to
the open deck had been wedged open several feet, easily allowing a
diver access to and from the torpedo bay. A crackly voice suddenly burst through his earpiece. "Dirk, where are
you? It's time to go upstairs," Dahlgren's voice barked.
"I'm in the forward torpedo room. Come meet me on the bow, I need
another minute."
Dirk looked at his watch, noting that their eight minutes of bottom
time had expired, then swam back down to the torpedo rack.
Two wooden crates were crushed beneath one of the fallen torpedoes,
split open like a pair of suitcases. Constructed of hardwood mahogany,
the crates had amazingly survived the ravages of salt water and
microorganisms and were in a minimal state of decay. He curiously
noted that no silt covered the broken crates, unlike every other object
he had seen on the submarine. Someone had recently fanned away the
sediment to reveal the crates' contents.
Dirk swam over to the closest crate and looked inside. Like a half
carton of eggs, six silver aerial bombs were lined up in a
custom-fitted casemate. Each bomb was nearly three feet long and
sausage-shaped, with a fin-winged tail. Half of the bombs were still wedged under the torpedo,
but all six had been broken up by the torpedo's fall. Oddly,
to Dirk, they appeared to be cracked rather than simply crushed. Running
his hand over an undamaged section of one of the bombs, he was
surprised to feel the surface had a glassy smoothness to the touch. Kicking his fins gentry, Dirk then glided over to the other crate and
found a similar scene. All of the bomb canisters had been crushed by
the falling torpedo in the second crate as well. Only this time, he
counted five bombs, not six. One of the casings was empty. Dirk
shined his light around and surveyed the area. The deck was clear in
all directions, and no fragments were evident in the empty slot. One
of the bombs was missing.
"Elevator, going up," Dahlgren's voice suddenly crackled.
"Hold the door, I'll be right there," Dirk replied, glancing at his
watch to see that they had overrun their bottom time by almost five
minutes. Examining the smashed crates a last time, he tugged on one of
the less mangled bombs. The ordnance slipped out of its case but fell
apart into three separate pieces in Dirk's hands. As best he could, he
gently placed the pieces into a large mesh dive bag, then, holding
tight, he kicked toward the open hatch above. Pulling the bag through
the hatch after him, Dirk found Dahlgren hovering above the sub's bow a
few yards in front of him. Joining his dive partner, the two wasted no
time in kicking toward their decompression stop.
Tracking their depth as they rose, Dirk flared his body out like a
sky-diver at forty feet to slow his ascent and purged a shot of air out
of his BC. Dahlgren followed suit and the two men stabilized
themselves at a depth of twenty feet to help rid their bodies of elevated levels of nitrogen in their blood.
"That extra five minutes on the bottom cost us another thirteen of
decompression time. I'll be sucking my tank dry before thirty-eight
minutes rolls around," Dahlgren said, eyeing his depleted air gauge.
Before Dirk could answer, they heard a muffled metallic clang in the
distance.
"Never fear, Leo is here," Dirk remarked, pointing at an object forty
feet to their side.
A pair of silver scuba tanks with attached regulators dangled at the
twenty-foot mark, tied to a rope that ascended to the surface. At the
other end of the rope, Delgado stood munching a banana on the back deck
of the Grunion, tracking the men's air bubbles and making sure they
didn't stray too far from the boat. After hovering for a
fifteen-minute decompression stop at twenty feet, the men grabbed the
regulators affixed to the dangling tanks and floated up to ten feet for
another twenty-five-minute wait. When Dirk and Dahlgren finally
surfaced and climbed aboard the boat, Delgado acknowledged the men with
just a wave as he turned the boat for landfall.
As the boat motored into the calmer waters of the Strait of Juan de
Fuca, Dirk unwrapped the bomb canister fragments and laid them on the
deck. "No sign of one of these on the aircraft, or in the hangar?" Dirk
asked.
"Definitely not. There was plenty of parts, tools, and other debris in
the hangar, but nothing that looked like that," Dahlgren replied,
eyeing the pieces. "Why would a canister crack open like that?"
"Because it's made of porcelain," Dirk replied, holding a shard up for
Dahlgren's closer inspection.
Dahlgren ran a finger over the surface, then shook his head. "A
porcelain bomb. Very handy for attacking tea parties, I presume."
"Must have something to do with the payload." Dirk rearranged the
fragments until they fit roughly together, like pieces of a jigsaw
puzzle. The payload armament had long since washed away in the sea,
but several compartmentalized sections formed in the interior were
clearly evident.
"Looks like different combustibles were to react together when
detonated."
"An incendiary bomb?" Dahlgren asked.
"Perhaps," Dirk replied quietly. He then reached into the side pocket of his BC and pulled out the digital timer. "Someone went to a
fair amount of trouble to retrieve one of these bombs," he said,
tossing the timer over to Dahlgren.
Dahlgren studied the device, turning it over in his hands.
"Maybe it was the original owner," he finally said with seriousness.
Raising his arm with the timer in his palm, he showed Dirk the backside
of the clock. In raised lettering on the plastic case was an
indecipherable line of Asian script.
Like A pack of hyenas fighting over a freshly killed zebra, the
president's security advisers were biting and yipping at each other in
a self-serving attempt to dodge responsibility over the events in
Japan. Tempers flared across the Cabinet Room, situated in the West
Wing of the White House.
"It's a breakdown of intelligence, clear and simple. Our consulates
are not getting the intelligence support they need and two of my people
are dead as a result," the secretary of state complained harshly.
"We had no advance knowledge of an increase in terrorist activity in
Japan. Diplomatic feeds from State reported that Japanese security
forces were in the dark as well," the deputy CIA director fired back. "Gentlemen, what's done is done," the president interjected as he
attempted to light a large old-fashioned smoking pipe. Bearing the
physical appearance of Teddy Roosevelt and the no-nonsense demeanor of
Harry Truman, President Garner Ward was widely admired by the public
for his common sense and pragmatic style. The
first-term president from Montana welcomed spirited debate among his staff
and cabinet but had a low tolerance for finger-pointing and
self-serving pontification.
"We need to understand the nature of the threat and the motives of our
opponent, and then calculate a course of action," the president said
simply "I'd also like a recommendation as to whether Homeland Security
should issue an elevated domestic security alert." He nodded toward
Dennis Jimenez, sitting across the Cabinet Room conference table, who
served as secretary of the homeland security department. "But first,
we need to figure out who these characters are. Martin, why don't you
fill us in on what we know so far?" the president said, addressing FBI
Director Martin Finch.
An ex-Marine Corps MP, Finch still sported a crew cut and spoke with
the blunt voice of a basic training drill sergeant.
"Sir, the assassinations of Ambassador Hamilton and Deputy Chief of
Mission Bridges appear to have been performed by the same individual. Surveillance video from the hotel where Bridges was killed exposed a
suspect dressed as a waiter who was not known to be an employee of the
hotel. Photographs from the video were matched to eyewitness accounts
of an individual seen at the Tokyo area golf course shortly before
Ambassador Hamilton was shot."
"Any tie-in to the killing of the executive Chris Gavin and the Sem-Con
plant explosion?" the president inquired.
"None that we have been able to identify, although there is a potential
indicator in the note left with Bridges's body. We are, of course,
treating it as a related incident."
"And what of the suspect?" the secretary of state asked.
"The Japanese authorities have been unable to make a match in their
known criminal files, or provide a possible identification, for that
Matter. He was not a previously recognized member of the Japanese Red
Army cell. He is apparently something of an unknown. The Japanese law
enforcement agencies are cooperating fully in the manhunt and have
placed their immigration checkpoints on high alert."
"Despite no prior connection, there would seem to be little doubt that
he is operating under the auspices of the Japanese Red Army," the CIA
deputy added. "The note left with Bridges. What did it say?" asked Jimenez.
Finch rifled through a folder, then pulled out a typewritten sheet.
"Translated from Japanese, it says: "Be vanquished, American
imperialists who soil Nippon with greed, or death will blow her cold,
sweet breath to the shores of America. JRA." Classic fringe cult
hyperbole."
"What is the state of the Japanese Red Army? I thought they were
essentially dissolved a number of years ago," President Ward asked.
Waiting for the reply, he tilted his head back and blew a cloud of
cherry-scented tobacco smoke toward the paneled ceiling before Finch
answered.
"As you may know, the Japanese Red Army is a fringe terrorist group
that grew out of a number of communist factions in Japan during the
seventies. They promote an anti-imperialist rant and have supported
the overthrow of the Japanese government and monarchy by both
legitimate and illegitimate means. With suspected ties to the Middle
East and North Korea, the JRA was behind a number of bombings and
hijackings, culminating in the attempted takeover of the U.S. embassy
in Kuala Lumpur in 1975. They seemed to lose support in the nineties,
and by 2000 the known leadership of the organization had been largely
apprehended. Though many believed the organization was dead, indications of the group's stirrings have been seen again in the last
two years. Published doctrines and active media reporting in Japan
have provided a new sounding board, gaining more reception in the
country's declining economic climate. Their message has focused on
anti-American and anticapitalist tenets, rather than the anarchistic
overthrow of the government, which has found a degree of support within
a fragment of the population's youth. Oddly, there is no visible front
man, or poster child, for the group."
"I can endorse Marty's comments, Mr. President," the deputy CIA
director offered. "Until the hits on our people, we've had no overt
record of activity from these people in a number of years. The known
leadership is behind bars. Quite frankly, we don't know who is now
calling the shots."
"Are we confident there is no Al Qaeda connection here?"
"Possible, but not likely," Finch replied. "The method of
assassination is certainly not their style, and there has been no real
radical Islamic presence visible in Japan. At this juncture, we have
absolutely no evidence to suggest a link."
"Where are we with the Japanese on this?" the president asked. "We have an FBI counterterrorist team in-country working closely with
the Japanese National Police Agency. The Japanese authorities are
quite cognizant of the nefarious nature of these assassinations in
their country and have assigned a large task force to the
investigation. There is little more in the way of assistance we could
ask of them that they haven't already offered up."
"I have initiated a request through State to the Japanese Foreign
Ministry for an update to their profile of high-risk aliens," Jimenez
interjected. "We'll issue a border security alert watch, in
coordination with the FBI."
"And what are we doing elsewhere abroad to prevent any more target
shooting?" the president asked, addressing the secretary of state.
"We have issued heightened security alerts at all of our embassies,"
the secretary replied. "We have also assigned additional security
protection to our senior diplomats, and placed a temporary travel
restriction for all State Department personnel within their host
country. For the time being, our ambassadors abroad are under lock and
key."
"Any opinion that there is an imminent threat domestically, Dennis?"
"Not at this time, Mr. President," the homeland security director
replied. "We've tightened our travel and immigration inspections on incoming traffic from Japan but don't feel it is necessary to raise the
domestic security alert."
"Do you concur, Marty?"
"Yes, sir. Like Dennis, all our indications suggest that the incidents
are isolated to Japan."
"Very well. Now what about the deaths of those two Coast Guard
meteorologists in Alaska?" the president asked, drawing another puff
on his pipe.
Finch rifled through some documents before responding. "That would be
the island of Yunaska in the Aleutians. We have an investigative team
presently on site working with local officials. They are also looking
at the destruction of a NUMA helicopter as a related incident.
Preliminary indications are that the acts were the result of rogue
poachers who used cyanide gas to subdue a herd of sea lions. We're
trying to track down a Russian fishing trawler that was known to be
fishing the local waters illegally. Officials on-site appear confident
that they will apprehend the vessel."
"Cyanide gas to hunt sea lions? There are lunatics all over this
planet. All right, gentlemen, let's give it our all to find these
murderers. Allowing our diplomatic representatives to be gunned down without repercussion is not the message I want to be giving the world.
I knew Hamilton and Bridges. They were both good men."
"We'll find them," Finch promised.
"Make sure," the president said, tapping his downturned pipe bowl
against a stainless steel ashtray for effect. "I fear these characters
have more up their sleeve than we realize and I want none of what
they're selling." As he spoke, a glob of burned tobacco plopped
unceremoniously into the ashtray, and nobody said a word.
Although Keith Catana had been in South Korea only three months, he had
already identified his favorite off-base watering hole. Chang's Saloon
appeared little different from the dozen or so other bars of "A-Town,"
a seedy entertainment section on the fringe of Kunsan City that catered
to the American servicemen stationed at Kunsan Air Force Base. Chang's
skipped the loud blaring music that emanated from most of the other
bars and offered a decent price for an OB beer, one of the local Korean
brews. But perhaps more important, in Catana's eyes, Chang's attracted
the best-looking working girls of A-Town.
Abandoned by two buddies who decided to pursue a group of American
servicewomen headed to a dance club around the corner, Catana sat
silently nursing his fourth beer, welcoming the early periphery of a
warm buzz. The twenty-three-year-old master sergeant was an avionics
specialist at the air base, supporting F-16 attack jets of the Eighth Fighter Wing. Located just a few minutes' flight time from
the DMZ, his squadron stood in constant preparedness for an aerial
counter strike should North Korea initiate an invasion of the South.
Sentimental memories of his family back in Arkansas were suddenly
jolted from his brain when the door to the bar flung open and in
strolled the most stunning Korean woman Catana had ever laid eyes on.
Four beers were not enough to deceive himself; she was a genuine
beauty. Her long, straight black hair accentuated a delicate, almost
porcelain-skinned face that featured a petite nose and mouth but
stunningly bold black eyes. A tight leather skirt and silk top
accentuated her small build but magnified a distorted symmetry created
by her large, surgically enhanced breasts.
Like a tigress searching for prey, the woman surveyed the crowded bar
from front to back before focusing on the lone airman sitting alone in
a corner. With her sights locked, she swiveled her way over to
Catana's table and smoothly slipped into the chair facing him.
"Hello, Joe. Be a friend and buy me a drink?" she purred.
"Glad to," Catana stammered in reply. She was definitely in a
different league from the normal A-Town hookers, he thought, and not
the type that caters to enlisted servicemen. But who was he to argue? If the heavens intended to drop this creature in his lap on payday,
then good fortune was indeed smiling his way.
It took only one quick beer before the harlot invited him back to her
hotel room. Catana was pleasantly surprised that the woman didn't
wrangle about price, or, in fact, mention it at all, he thought
oddly.
She led him to a cheap motel nearby, where they walked arm in arm down
its seedy hallway that was complete with red lights. At the end of the
hall, the woman unlocked the door to a small, hot corner room. Sleep
wasn't the major draw of the room, Catana could see, as evidenced by a
condom machine mounted near the bed.
After closing the door, the woman quickly stripped off her top, then
embraced Catana in a deep, passionate kiss. He paid little attention
to a noise near the closet as he soaked in the warmth of the exotic
woman, intoxicated by a combination of her beauty, the alcohol,
and the expensive perfume she wore. His pleasurable delirium was
suddenly jolted by a sharp jab to his buttocks, followed by a hot,
searing pain. Whirling unsteadily around, he was shocked to find
himself facing another man in the room. The stocky bald man grinned a
crooked smile through his long mustache, his dark cold eyes seeming to
penetrate right through Catana's skull. In his hands, he held a fully
depressed hypodermic needle. Pain and confusion overwhelmed Catana as his body suddenly went numb.
He tried to raise his hands but his limbs were useless. Even his lips
refused to cooperate with his brain in voicing a cry of protest. It
took just a few seconds before a wave of blackness rolled over him and
all feeling departed his senses.
It was hours later when the incessant pounding jarred him from a state
of unconsciousness. The pounding was not in his head, as he first
imagined, but came externally, from the motel room door. He noticed a
warm stickiness enveloping him as he fought to clear the fog from his
vision. Why the pounding? Why the wetness? The dimly lit room and
cobwebs in his mind refused to reveal the mystery..
The banging ceased for a moment, then a loud blow struck the door,
bashing it open with a flood of light. Squinting through the
brightness, he saw a company of policemen storm into the room, followed
by two men with cameras. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden infusion
of light, he was able to notice what the wetness was around him.
Blood. It was everywhere: on the sheets, on the pillows, and smeared
all over his body. But mostly it was pooled about the prone figure of
the nude woman lying dead beside him.
Catana instinctively lurched back from the body in shock at the sight of the corpse. As two of the policemen pulled him off the bed and
handcuffed his wrists, he cried out in horror.
"What happened? Who did this?" he said in a daze.
He looked on in shock as a third policeman pulled back a sheet
partially covering the woman, fully exposing a body that had been
brutally mutilated. To Catana's further bewilderment, he saw that the
body was not that of the beautiful woman he had met the night before
but rather was of a young girl whom he did not know.
Catana sagged as he was dragged out of the room amid a flurry of
photographs. By noon that day, the story of the rape and savage murder
of a thirteen-year-old Korean girl by a U.S. serviceman was a
countrywide horror. By evening, it had become a national outrage. And
by the time of the girl's funeral two days later, it was a full-blown
international incident.
The high noonday sun shimmered brightly off the sapphire waters of the
Bohol Sea, forcing Raul Biazon to squint as he gazed toward the large
research vessel moored in the distance. For a moment, the Philippine
government biologist thought the sun's rays were playing a trick on his
eyes. No respectable scientific research ship could possibly be
emblazoned in such a lively hue. But as the small weather-beaten
launch in which he rode drew closer, he saw that there was nothing
wrong with his vision. The ship was in fact painted a glistening turquoise blue from stem to stern, which made the vessel appear as if
it belonged under the sea rather than bobbing atop it. Leave it to the
Americans, Biazon thought, to escape the ordinary.
The launch pilot guided the worn wooden boat alongside a stepladder
suspended over the side of the ship and Biazon wasted no time in
leaping aboard. Speaking briefly to the pilot in Tagalog, he turned
and scampered up the ladder and sprang onto the deck, nearly colliding
with a tall brawny man who stood at the rail. With thinning blond
hair and sturdy build, there was a Viking-like air about the man who
was dressed in an immaculate white warm-weather captain's uniform.
"Dr. Biazon? Welcome aboard the Mariana Explorer. I'm Captain Bill
Stenseth," the man smiled warmly through gray eyes.
"Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Captain," Biazon
replied, regaining his stance and composure. "When a local fisherman
informed me that a NUMA research vessel was seen in the region, I
thought you might be able to offer some assistance."
"Let's head to the bridge and out of the heat," Stenseth directed, "and
you can fill us in on the environmental calamity you mentioned over the
radio." "I hope that I am not interfering with your research work," Biazon said
as the two men climbed a flight of stairs.
"Not at all. We've just completed a seismic mapping project off
Mindanao and are taking a break to test some equipment before heading
up to Manila. Besides," Stenseth said with a grin, "when my boss says,
"Stop the boat," I stop the boat."
"Your boss?" Biazon inquired with a confused look.
"Yes," Stenseth replied as they reached the bridge wing and he pulled
open the side door. "He's traveling on board with us."
Biazon stepped through the door and into the bridge, shivering
involuntarily as a blast of refrigerated air struck his
perspiration-soaked body. At the rear of the bridge, he noticed a
tall, distinguished-looking man in shorts and a polo shirt bent over a
chart table studying a map.
"Dr. Biazon, may I present the director of NUMA, Dirk Pitt," Stenseth
introduced. "Dirk, this is Dr. Raul Biazon, hazardous wastes manager
with the Philippines Environmental Management Bureau."
Biazon was shocked to find the head of a large government agency
working at sea so far from Washington. But one look at Pitt and Biazon
knew he wasn't the typical government administrator. Standing nearly a foot taller than his own five-foot-four frame, the NUMA chief carried a
tan, lean, muscular body that showed few indications of having spent
much time behind a desk. Though Biazon wouldn't know, the senior Pitt
was nearly the spitting image of his son who carried the same name. The
face was weathered and the ebony hair showed tinges of gray at the
temples, but the opaline green eyes sparkled with life. They were eyes
that had absorbed much in their day, Biazon gauged, reflecting an
assorted mix of intelligence, mirth, and tenacity.
"Welcome aboard," Pitt greeted warmly, shaking Biazon's hand with a
firm grip. "My underwater technology director, Al Giordino," he added,
jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the far corner of the
wheelhouse. Curled up asleep on a bench seat was a short, thick man
with dark curly hair. A light snore drifted from the man's lips with
each breath of air that exhaled from his barrel-shaped chest. His
powerful build reminded Biazon of a rhinoceros.
"Al, come join the party," Pitt yelled across the bridge.
Giordino pried his eyes open, then popped instantly awake. He quickly
stood and joined the other men at the table, showing no signs of
slumber.
"As I told the captain, I appreciate your offer of assistance," Biazon
said. "The Philippine government has always been supportive of our research
work in your country's waters," Pitt replied. "When we received your
radio call to help identify a toxic marine affliction, we were glad to
help. Perhaps you can tell us a little more about the specifics of the
outbreak."
"A few weeks ago, our office was contacted by a resort hotel on anglao
Island. The hotel's management was upset because a large quantity of
dead fish were washing up on the guest beach."
"I could see where that would tend to dampen the holiday makers'
spirits," Giordino grinned.
"Indeed," Biazon replied sternly. "We began monitoring the shoreline
and have witnessed the fish kill growing at an alarming rate. Dead
marine life is washing ashore along a ten-kilometer stretch of beach
now, and growing day by day. The resort owners are all up in arms, and
we, of course, are concerned about potential damage to the coral
reef."
"Have you been able to diagnose what is killing the fish?" Stenseth
asked.
"Not yet. Toxic poisoning is all we can infer. We have sent samples
to our departmental lab in Cebu for analysis but are still awaiting the results." The look on Biazon's face revealed his dissatisfaction with
the snail-paced response from the agency lab.
"Any speculation as to the source?" Pitt asked.
Biazon shook his head. "We initially suspected industrial pollutants,
which, regrettably, are an all too common source of environmental
damage in my country. But my field team and I have scoured the
impacted coastal region and failed to locate any heavy industrial
businesses operating in the area. We also examined the coastline for
obvious spillways or illegal dump sites but came up empty. It is my
belief that the source of the kill originates at sea."
"Perhaps a red tide?" Giordino said.
"We do experience toxic phytoplankton outbreaks in the Philippines,"
Biazon said, "though they are typically seen during the warmer late
summer months."
"It might also be some covert offshore industrial dumping," Pitt
replied. "Where exactly is the impacted area, Dr. Biazon?"
Biazon glanced at the map, which showed Mindanao and the southern
Philippine island groupings. "Off the province of Bohol," he said,
pointing to a large round island north of Mindanao. "Panglao is a small resort island located here, adjacent to the southwest coast. Its
about fifty kilometers from our present position."
"I can have us there in under two hours," Stenseth said, eyeing the
distance.
Pitt nodded toward the map. "We've got a ship full of scientists who
can help find the answers. Bill, lay a course in to Panglao Island and
we'll take a look."
"Thank you," a visibly relieved Biazon said.
"Doctor, perhaps you'd like a tour of the ship while we get under way?"
Pitt offered.
"I'd like that very much."
"Al, you care to join us?"
Giordino looked at his watch pensively. "No, thanks. Two hours will
be just enough time for me to finish my project," he replied, easing
himself back down on the bench seat and drifting rapidly back to
sleep.
The Mariana Explorer cruised easily through a flat sea and arrived at
Panglao Island in just over ninety minutes. Pitt studied an electronic navigational map of the area that was displayed on a color monitor as
Biazon denoted a rectangular area where the fish kill was occurring.
"Bill, the current runs east to west through here, which would suggest
that the hot zone is located at the eastern end of Dr. Biazon's box.
Why don't we start to the west and work our way east into the current,
taking water samples at quarter-mile increments."
Stenseth nodded. "I'll run a zigzag course, to see if we can gauge how
far from shore the toxin is concentrated."
"And let's deploy the side-scan sonar. Might as well see if there's
any obvious man-made objects involved."
Dr. Biazon watched with interest as a towed sonar fish was deployed
off the stern, then the Mariana Explorer began following a dot-to-dot
path laid out on the navigation screen. At periodic intervals, a team
of marine biologists collected seawater samples from varying depths. As
the ship moved to the next position, the collected samples were sent
down to the shipboard laboratory for immediate analysis.
On the bridge, Giordino tracked the signals from the side-scan sonar.
The electronic image of the shallow seafloor revealed an interweaving
mix of flat sand bottom and craggy coral mounts as the ship sailed over the fringes of a coral reef. In a short time, his
trained eyes had already discerned a ship's anchor and an outboard motor | lying beneath the well-traveled waters. As the monitor
revealed each object, Giordino reached over and punched a mark button
on the con| sole, which flagged the location for later assessment.
Pitt and Biazon stood nearby, admiring the tropical beaches of Panglao
Island less than a half mile away. Pitt glanced down at the water
alongside the ship, where he spotted a sea turtle and scores of dead
fish floating belly-up.
"We've entered the toxic zone," Pitt said. "We should know the results
shortly."
As the research vessel plowed west, the concentration of dead fish in
the water increased, then gradually fell away until the blue sea around
them grew empty again.
"We're a half mile beyond Dr. Biazon's grid," Stenseth reported.
"Judging by the water, it looks like we're well clear of the toxic
zone." "Agreed," Pitt replied. "Let's stand by here until we see what
kind of results the lab has found."
As the ship ground to a halt and the sonar tow fish was retrieved, Pitt
led Biazon down a level into a teak-paneled conference room, followed
by Giordino and Stenseth. Biazon studied the portraits of several
famous underwater explorers which lined one wall, recognizing the images of William Beebe, Sylvia Earle, and Don Walsh. As they were
seated, a pair of marine biologists clad in the requisite white lab
coats entered the conference room. A short, attractive female, her
brunet hair tied back in a ponytail, walked to a suspended viewing
screen at the front of the room, while her male assistant began typing
commands into the computer-driven projection system.
"We have completed an assessment of forty-four discrete water samples
collected, which were analyzed using molecular separation of existing
toxic molecules," she said in a clear voice. As she spoke, an image
appeared on the screen behind her, similar to the navigation screen
Biazon had noticed the ship tracking to earlier. A zigzag line line
punctuated by forty-four large dots ran parallel to an outline of the
pang lao Island shoreline. Each dot was color-coded, though Biazon
noted that most of them glowed green.
"The samples were measured for toxic content in parts per billion, with
positive results occurring in fifteen of the samples," the biologist
stated, pointing to a row of yellow dots. "As you can see from the
chart, the concentration increases as the samples moved east, with the
highest reading registered here," she said, tracing past a few
orange-colored dots to a lone red dot near the top of the map.
"So the source is from an isolated location," Pitt said.
"The samples tested negative beyond the red point, indicating that it is likely of a concentrated origin spreading east with the current."
"That would seem to dispel the red tide theory. Al, do the results
mesh with anything we picked up on the sonar?"
Giordino walked over to the console and leaned over the operator's
shoulder, typing in a quick series of commands. A dozen As suddenly
appeared on the projection screen, overlaid at random points along the
zigzag tracking line. Each AT was lettered, beginning with A at the
bottom, proceeding to L near the top.
"Al's "Dirty Dozen' hit list," he smiled, retaking his seat. "We ran
over twelve objects that appeared man-made. Mostly chunks of pipe,
rusty anchors, and the like. Three items appeared that could be
suspected culprits," he said, eyeing a sheet of handwritten notes.
"Mark Cwas a trio of fifty-five-gallon drums lying in the sand."
Every eye in the room jumped to the A'marked Con the overhead. The
water samples on either side of the mark were all illuminated with
green dots, which signified a negative test result.
"No toxins registered in the vicinity," Pitt said. "Next."
"Mark F looks to be a wooden sailboat, perhaps a local fishing boat.
She's sitting upright on the bottom with her mast still standing." This AT was located adjacent to the first yellow dot. Pitt commented
that it was still down current of the toxic readings.
"Strike two. But you're getting warmer."
"My last mark is a little odd, as the image was just at the range of ij
the sonar," Giordino said, pausing with uncertainty.
"Well, what did it look like?" Stenseth asked.
"A ship's propeller. Looked like it was protruding from the reef. I
couldn't make out any sign of the ship that went with it, though. Might
just be a lone propeller that got bashed off against the reef. I
tagged it at mark K"
Every voice in the room fell silent as their eyes found the A'marked
Kon the overhead screen. It was positioned right above the red
dot..;
"It would appear there's something more to it than just a propeller,"
Pitt said finally. "Leaking fuel from a submerged ship, or perhaps its
cargo?"
"We did not detect abnormally high readings of petroleum compounds in
the water samples," the NUMA biologist stated. "You never did tell us what you found," Giordino said, raising a dark
eyebrow at the biologist.
"Yes, you said you did identify toxins in the water, didn't you?"
Biazon asked anxiously. "What was it that you found?"
"Something I've never encountered in salt water before," she replied,
shaking her head slowly. "Arsenic."
The coral reef exploded with a rainbow of colors arranged in a serene
beauty that put a Monet landscape to shame. Bright red sea anemones
waved their tentacles lazily in the current amid a carpet of
magenta-colored sea sponges. Delicate green sea fans climbed
gracefully toward the surface beside round masses of violet-hued brain
coral. Brilliant blue starfish glowed from the reef like bright neon
signs, while dozens of sea urchins blanketed the seafloor in a carpet
of pink pincushions.
Few things in nature rivaled the beauty of a healthy coral reef, Pitt
reflected as his eyes drank in the assortment of colors. Floating just
off the bottom, he peered out his faceplate in amusement as a pair of
small clown fish darted into a crevice as a spotted ray cruised by
searching for a snack. Of all the world's great dive spots, he always
felt it was the warm waters of the western Pacific that held the most breathtaking coral reefs.
"The wreck should be slightly ahead and to the north of us,"
Giordino's voice crackled through his ears, breaking the tranquility.
After mooring the Mariana Explorer over the site of the maximum toxin
readings, Pitt and Giordino donned rubberized dry suits with full
faceplates to protect them from potential chemical or biological
contamination Dropping over the side, they splashed into the clear
warm water that dropped 120 feet to the bottom. \
The readings of arsenic in the water had been startling to everyone.
Dr. Biazon reported that arsenic seepage had been known to occur in
mining operations around the country and that several manganese mines
operated on Bohol Island, but added that none were located near
Panglao. Arsenic was also utilized in insecticides, the NUMA biologist
countered. Perhaps an insecticide container was lost off a vessel, or
intentionally dumped? There was only one way to find out, Pitt
declared, and that was to go down and have a look.
With Giordino at his side, Pitt checked his compass, then thrust his
fins together, kicking himself at an angle across the invisible
current. The visibility was nearly seventy-five feet and Pitt could
observe the reef gradually rising to shallower depths as he glided just
above the bottom. His skin quickly began to sweat under the thick dry
suit, its protective layer providing more insulation than was required in the warm tropical waters.
"Somebody turn on the air-conditioning," he heard Giordino mutter,
verbalizing his own sentiments.
With eyes aimed forward, he still saw no signs of a shipwreck, but
noted that the coral bottom rose up sharply ahead. To his right, a
large underwater sand dune boiled up against the reef, its rippled
surface stretching beyond Pitt's field of vision. Reaching the coral
uplift, he tilted his upper body toward the surface and thrust with a
large scissors kick to propel himself up and over its jagged edge. He
was surprised to find that the reef dropped vertically away on the
other side, creating a large crevasse. More surprising was what he saw
at the bottom of the ravine. It was the bow half of a ship.
"What the heck?" Giordino uttered, spotting the partial wreckage of
the ship.
Pitt studied the partial remains of the ship for a moment, then laughed
through the underwater communication system. "Got me, too. It's an
optical illusion. The rest of the ship is there, it's just buried
under the sand dune."
Giordino studied the wreck and saw that Pitt was right. The large sand
dune that affronted the reef had built up partway into the crevasse and neatly covered the stern half of the ship. The current swirling
through the crevasse had halted the onslaught of the sand at a point
amidships of the wreck in a nearly perfect line, which gave the
impression that only half a ship existed.
Pitt turned away from the exposed portion of the ship, swimming over
the empty sand dune for several yards before it dropped sharply beneath
him.
"Here's your propeller, Al," he said, pointing down.
Beneath his fins, a small section of the ship's stern was exposed. The
brown-encrusted skin curved down to a large brass propeller, which
protruded from the sand dune like a windmill. Giordino kicked over and
inspected the propeller, than swam up the sternpost several feet and
began brushing away a layer of sand. From the curvature of the stern,
he could tell that the ship was listing sharply to its port side, which
was also apparent from the exposed bow section. Pitt floated over and
watched as Giordino was able to expose the last few letters of the
ship's name beaded onto the stern.
"Something maru is the most I can get," he said, struggling to trench
into a refilling hole of sand.
"She's Japanese," Pitt said, "and, by the looks of the corrosion, she's
been here awhile. If she's leaking toxins, it would have to be from the bow section."
Giordino stopped digging in the sand and followed Pitt as he swam
toward the exposed front of the ship. The vessel eerily emerged
again
from the sand dune at its main funnel, which jutted nearly horizontally, its top edged meshed into the coral wall. From its small
bridge' section and long forward deck, Pitt could see that the vessel
was a common oceangoing cargo ship. He judged her length at slightly
more than two hundred feet. As they swam over the angled topside, he
could see that the main deck had vanished, its wooden planking
disintegrated long ago in the warm Philippine waters.
"Those are some ancient-looking hoists," Giordino remarked, eyeing a
small pair of rusty derricks that reached across the deck like
outstretched arms.
"If I had to guess, I'd say she was probably built in the twenties,"
Pitt replied, kicking past a deck rail that appeared to be made of
brass. Pitt made his way along the deck until he reached a pair of
large square hatch covers, the capstones to the ship's forward cargo
holds. With the freighter's heavy list, Pitt had expected to find the
hatch covers pitched off the storage compartments, but that wasn't the
case. Together, the two men swam around the circumference of each
hatch, searching for damage or signs of leakage. "Locked down and sealed tight as a drum," Giordino said after they
returned to their starting point.
"There must be a breach somewhere else."
Silently finishing his thought, Pitt slowly ascended until he could
look down the curving starboard side and exposed hull. Surrounding the
ship, the coral reef rose sharply on either side. Following his
instincts, he swam down the starboard hull all the way to the partially
exposed keel line, then moved slowly toward the bow. Kicking just a
short distance, he suddenly halted. Before him, a jagged
four-foot-wide gash stretched nearly twenty feet down the starboard
hull to the very tip of the bow. The sound of whistling burst through
his ears as Giordino swam up and surveyed the gaping wound.
"Just like the Titanic" he marveled. "Only she scraped herself to the
bottom on a coral head instead of a chunk of ice."
"She must have been trying to run aground on purpose," Pitt surmised.
"Outrunning a typhoon, probably."
"Or maybe a Navy Corsair. Leyte Gulf is just around the corner, where
the Japanese fleet was decimated in 1944." The Philippine Islands were a hotly contested piece of real estate in
World War II, Pitt recalled. More than sixty thousand Americans lost
their lives in the failed defense and later recapture of the islands, a
forgotten toll that exceeded the losses in Vietnam. On the heels of
the surprise attack at Pearl Harbor, Japanese forces had landed near
Manila and quickly overrun the U.S. and Philippine forces garrisoned at
Luzon, Bataan, and Corregidor. General MacArthur's hasty retreat was
followed by three years of Japanese oppressive rule, until American
advances across the Pacific led to the invasion of the southern island
of Leyte in October 1944.
Just over a hundred miles from Panglao, the province of Leyte and its
adjoining gulf was the site of the largest air sea battle in history.
Days after MacArthur and his invasion force landed on "Leyte, the
Japanese Imperial Navy appeared and successfully divided the American
supporting naval force. The Japanese came within a hair of destroying
the Seventh Fleet, but were ultimately turned back in a devastating
defeat, losing four carriers and three battleships, including the
massive battlewagon Musashi. The crippling losses finished the
Imperial Navy's brief dominance in Pacific waters and led to the
country's military collapse within a year.
The sea channels surrounding the southern Philippine islands of Leyte,
Samar, Mindanao, and Bohol were littered with sunken cargo transport,
and warships from the conflict. It would be no surprise to Pitt if the toxins were related to combat wreckage. Eyeing the gash in the cargo
ship's hull, it was easy to presume that the vessel was a victim of
war.
Pitt mentally envisioned the Japanese-flagged freighter under air
attack, the desperate captain electing to run the ship aground in a
perilous attempt to save the crew and cargo. Slicing into the coral
reef, the bow quickly filled with water as the ship ricocheted off the
sides of the crevasse. With a full head of steam, the ship literally
drove itself over onto its port side. Whatever cargo the captain had
tried to save lay hidden and dormant for decades to follow.
"I think we definitely hit the jackpot," Giordino said in a morose
tone.
Pitt turned to see Giordino's gloved hand pointing away from the hull
and toward the adjacent reef Gone was the vibrant red-, blue-, and
green-colored corals they had witnessed earlier. In a fan-shaped
pattern stretching around the ship's bow, the coral was uniformly
tinted a dull white. Pitt grimly noted that no fish were visible in
the area as well.
"Bleached dead from the arsenic," he noted. Turning back to the wreck, he grabbed a small flashlight clipped to his
buoyancy compensator and ducked toward the gap in the hull. Edging his
way slowly into the ship's underside, he flicked on the light and
sprayed its beam across the black interior. The lower bow section was
empty but for a mass of thick anchor chain coiled in a huge pile like
an iron serpent. Creeping aft, Pitt moved toward the rear bulkhead as
Giordino slipped through the gash and followed behind him. Reaching
the bulkhead, Pitt panned his light across the steel wall that
separated them from the forward cargo hold. At its lower joint with
the starboard bulkhead, he found what he was looking for. The pressure
from the outer hull's collision with the reef had buckled one of the
plates on the cargo hold's bulkhead. The bent metal created a
horizontal window to the cargo hold several feet wide.
Pitt eased up to the hole, careful not to kick up silt around him, then
stuck his head in and pulled in the flashlight. A huge lifeless eye
stared back at him just inches away, nearly causing him to recoil until
he saw that it belonged to a grouper. The fifty-pound green fish
drifted back and forth across the compartment in a slow maze, its gray
belly pointing up toward the trail of Pitt's rising exhaust bubbles.
Peering past the dead fish into its black tomb, Pitt's blood went cold
as he surveyed the hold. Scattered in mounds like eggs in a henhouse
were hundreds of decaying artillery shells. The forty-pound
projectiles were ammunition for the 105mm artillery gun, a lethal field
weapon utilized by the Imperial Army during the war. "A Welcome-to-the-Philippines present for General MacArthur?" Giordino
asked, peering in.
Pitt silently nodded, then pulled out a plastic-lined dive bag.
Giordino obliged by reaching over and grabbing a shell and inserting it
in the bag as Pitt sealed and wrapped it. Giordino then reached over
and picked up another highly corroded shell, holding it just a few
inches off the bottom. Both men looked on curiously as a brown oily
substance leaked out of the projectile.
"That doesn't resemble any high-explosives powder I've ever seen," 'is
said, gingerly setting the weapon down.
"I don't think they are ordinary artillery shells," Pitt replied as he
noted a pool of brown ooze beneath a nearby pile of ordnance. "Let's
get this one back to the shipboard lab and find out what we've got," he
said, carrying the wrapped ordnance under his arm like a football.
Gliding forward along the bow section, he slipped through the open hull
and back into the bright sunlit water.
Pitt had little doubt that the armament was a lost World War II cache.
Why the arsenic, he did not know. The Japanese were innovative in
their weapons of war and the arsenic-laced shells might have been
another device in their arsenal of death. The loss of the Philippines
would have effectively spelled the end of the war for the Japanese and they may have prepared to use the weapons as part of a last-gasp
measure against a determined enemy.
As they surfaced with the mysterious shell, Pitt felt a strange sense of
relief. The deadly cargo that the ship carried so many years ago had
never reached port. He was somehow glad that it had ended up sunk on
the reef, never to be fielded in the face of battle.
Japanese Imperial submarine I-413 and Numa submersible Starfish
June 4, 2007 Kyodongdo Island, South Korea
At fifty-five meters in length, the steel-hulled Benetti yacht was
impressive even by Monte Carlo affluent standards. The custom-built
Italian yacht's lush interior featured an array of marble flooring,
Persian carpets, and rare Chinese antiques, which filled the cabins and
salons with warm elegance. A collection of fifteenth-century oil
paintings by the Flemish master Hans Memling dotted the walls, adding
to the eclectic feel. The glistening maroon-and-white exterior, which
featured a wide band of wraparound dark-tinted windows, was given a
more traditional appearance, with inlaid teak decking and brass
fittings on the outside verandas. The entire effect was a tasteful mix
of old-world charm combined with the speed and function of modern
design and technology. Always turning heads as it roared by, the
vessel was an admired fixture on the Han River in and about Seoul. To
the local society crowd, an invitation aboard was a highly desired mark of prominence, providing the rare opportunity to sil with the boat's
enigmatic owner.
Dae-jong Kang was a leading icon of South Korean industry and he seemed
to have his hands in everything. Little was known of the mercurial
leader's early background, aside from his sudden appearance during
the economic boom of the nineties as the head of a regional
construction company. But upon his taking over the reins, the low-tech
firm became a corporate Pac-Man, gobbling up companies in the shipping, electronics, semiconductor, and telecommunications industries in
a series of leveraged buy outs and hostile takeovers. The businesses
were all rolled under the umbrella of Kang Enterprises, a privately
held empire entirely controlled and directed by Kang himself. Unafraid
of the public spotlight, Kang mixed freely with politicians and
business leaders alike, wielding additional influence on the board of
directors of South Korea's largest companies.
The fifty-year-old bachelor held a veil of mystery over his private
life, however. Much of his time was spent sequestered at his large
estate on a secluded section of Kyodongdo Island, a lush mountainous
outpost near the mouth of the Han River on the western Korean coast.
There he dabbled with a stable of Austrian show horses or worked on his
golf game, according to the few who had been invited inside the private
enclave. More carefully hidden was a dark secret about the
iconoclastic businessman that would have completely shocked his
corporate cronies and political patrons. Unknown to even his closest associates, Kang had operated for over twenty-five years as a sleeper
agent for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, or North Korea, as
it was known by the rest of the world.
Kang was born in the Hwanghae Province of North Korea shortly after the
Korean War. At the age of three, his parents were killed in a railroad
derailment, blamed on South Korean insurgents, and the infant boy was
adopted by his maternal uncle. The uncle, a founding member of the
Korean Workers' Party in 1945, had fought with Kim Il Sung and his
anti-Japanese guerrilla forces based in the Soviet Union during World
War II. When Kim Il Sung later rose to power in North Korea, the uncle
was richly rewarded with a series of provincial government
appointments, brokering himself into ever more important spheres of
influence until, ultimately, gaining a seat as an elite ruling member
of the Central People's Committee, the top executive decision-making
organization in North Korea.
During his uncle's ascension, Kang received a thorough indoctrination
in the Korean Workers' Party dogma while obtaining the best
state-sponsored education the fledgling country could offer. Recognized
early as a fast learner who excelled at his studies, Kang was groomed
as a foreign operative, with sponsorship from his uncle.
Blessed with a keen financial mind, command like leadership skills, and
a ruthless heart, Kang was smuggled into South Korea at the age of twenty-two and set up as a laborer at a small construction company.
With brutal efficiency, he quickly worked his way up to foreman, then
arranged a series of "accidental" work site deaths that killed the
firm's president and top managers. Forging a series of ownership
transfer documents, Kang quickly took control of the business within
two years of his arrival. With secret direction and capital infusion
from Pyongyang, the young communist entrepreneur slowly expanded his
network of commercial enterprises over the years, focusing on products
and services most beneficial to the North. Kang's forays into
telecommunications provided access to Western network communications
hardware valuable to the military's command and control systems. His
semiconductor plants secretly built chips for use in short-range
missiles. And his fleet of cargo ships provided the means for covertly
transferring defense technology to the government of his homeland. The
profits from his corporate empire that were not smuggled north in the
form of Western goods and technology were spent bribing key politicians
for government contracts or utilized for the hostile acquisition of
other companies. Yet Kang's zealous appropriation of power and
technology was almost peripheral to his primary objective, set forth by
his handlers so many years before. Kang's mission, in the simplest of
provisions, was to promote the reunification of the two Korean
countries, but on North Korea's terms.
The sleek Benetti yacht slowed its engines as it entered a narrow
inlet off the Han River that wound snakelike into a protected cove. As
the boat eased through the inlet, the pilot increased the throttle again, racing the boat smoothly across the calm waters of the interior
lagoon. A yellow floating dock bobbed gently on the opposite side of
the | cove, which quickly grew larger in size as the yacht drew near.
The big; vessel stormed toward the dock, swinging parallel at just the
last, minute as its engines were cut. A pair of black-uniformed men
grabbed the bow and stern lines and tied off the vessel as the pilot
finessed her the last few feet to the dock. The shore crew quickly
rolled a stepped platform against the yacht's side, the upper step
matching the foot level of the first deck.
A cabin door popped open and three gray-looking men in dark blue suits
stepped down onto the dock and instinctively peered up at the large
stone structure perched above them. Jutting from a cliff that rose
nearly vertically above the dock nestled an immense stone house that
was half-carved into the crown of the bluff. Thick walls surrounded
the house, lending a medieval look to the compound, although the house
itself was clearly of Asian design, with a deep angular tiled roof
capping the brownstone walls. The entire structure sat two hundred
feet above the water, accessible by a steep set of stairs carved into
the rock on one side. The three men noted that twelve-foot-high stone
walls ran all the way down to the water's edge, ensuring a high degree
of privacy. A tight-lipped guard standing at the dock's footing with
an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder ensured even more.
As the men in suits made their way along the dock, a door opened from a small structure near the landing and out walked their host to greet
them. There was no question that Dae-jong Kang had an imposing air
about him. At an even six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds,
his physical mass was large by Korean standards. But it was his stern
face and penetrating eyes that indicated a willful presence. Under the
right circumstances, his piercing glare could almost cut a
man in two. A practiced but insincere smile helped break down barriers
when he needed to, but an icy-cold aloofness always lingered over him
like a cloud. He was a man who reeked of power and was not afraid to
use it.
"Welcome, gentlemen," Kang said in a smooth voice. "I trust your
voyage from Seoul was enjoyable?"
The three men, all leading party members in the South Korean National
Assembly, nodded in unison. The senior member of the political trio, a
balding man named Youngnok Rhee, replied for the group: "A trip down
the Han River is a delight in such a beautiful boat."
"It is my preferred means of commuting to Seoul," Kang replied,
implying the boredom he found flying in his private helicopter. "Right
this way," he motioned toward the small building at the base of the
cliff.
The politicians followed him obediently past a small security station and down a narrow passageway to a waiting elevator, the shaft of which
had been carved directly into the cliff. The visitors admired an
ancient painting of a tiger hung on the elevator's back wall as it rose
rapidly to the main house. When the doors opened, the men stepped out
into an expansive, ornately decorated dining room. Beyond an elegant
mahogany dining table, floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a
breathtaking view of the Han River delta, where the grand river's
waters emptied into the Yellow Sea. A sprinkling of worn sampans and
small cargo boats dotted the horizon, fighting their way upriver toward
Seoul with a supply of trade goods. Most of the boats clung to the
south bank of the river, well away from the imaginary demarcation line
with North Korea that ran down the river's center.
"An incredible view, Mr. Kang," offered the tallest of the three
politicians, a man named Won Ho.
"I enjoy it, for the vista encompasses both our countries," Kang
replied with intent. "Please be seated." He waved a hand as he spoke,
then took a seat at the head of the table. A cadre of uniformed
servants began shuttling in an array of fine wines and gourmet
dishes,
while the conversation among the seated men drifted toward politics..;
A medley of spicy fragrances filled the air as they dined on
daiji-bulgog^l or pork marinated in a spicy garlic sauce, accompanied by jachae guij, an assortment of marinated vegetables. Kang played the
gregarious host to his guests until they had comfortably imbibed,
then he applied the knife.
"Gentlemen, it's high time we take seriously the effort to unify our
two countries," he spoke slowly, for effect. "As a Korean, I know that
we are one country in language, in culture, and in heart. As a
businessman, I know how much stronger we could be economically in the
global markets. The Sino-American threat, which has long justified the
use of our countries as pawns to the superpowers, is no more. It is
long past time that we throw off the shackles of foreign domination and
do what is right for Korea. Our destiny is as one, and we should seize
the opportunity now."
"The goal of unification beats strongly in all our hearts, but the
reckless leadership and military juggernaut of North Korea mandates
that we tread with caution," replied the third politician, a beady-eyed
man named Kim.
Kang brushed aside the comment. "As you know, I recently toured North
Korea as part of a fact-finding trip sponsored by the Ministry of
Unification. We found their economy to be in a moribund state, with
food shortages widespread and rampant. The depleted economic state has
taken a toll on the North Korean military as well. The military forces
we witnessed appeared ill-equipped and extremely low morale," he
lied. "Yes, I can attest to their struggles," Won Ho replied. "But do really
think reunification would be a benefit to our own economy?
"The northern provinces offer an abundance of cheap labor that is
readily accessible. We would immediately become more competitive on
the world markets, as our average labor costs would diminish
substantially. I have assessed the impact to my own enterprises and
make no secret of the fact that my profits could be boosted
dramatically. In
Hdition, the northern province economies would provide a new, un-ned
consumption market that South Korean business is poised to No,
gentlemen, there is no question that unification would provide an
economic windfall to all of us in the south."
"There is still the issue of North Korea's hard-line contention in the
matter," Won Ho stated. "We cannot simply achieve reunification
unilaterally."
"Yes," Kim added. "They have repeatedly insisted that the United
States military presence be removed from our soil before reunification
can be considered."
"That is why," Kang continued calmly, "I am asking the three of you to support the resolution recently introduced in the National Assembly
demanding the removal of all American military forces from South
Korea."
A stunned silence fell over the room as the three politicians digested
Kang's words. Kang had brought them there for a reason, they knew, but
the politicians had figured the corporate giant was seeking legislative
tax relief or some other aid to his business empire. Not one of them
expected a demand so risky to their political careers. The elder
statesman Rhee finally cleared his throat and spoke deliberately.
"That particular resolution was introduced by radical elements in the
assembly. There is little chance it would ever pass a full vote."
"There is if the three of you came on record in support of it," Kang
replied.
"That's impossible," Kim stammered. "I cannot support weakening our
military defense for the asking while North Korea continues to consign
all its resources toward boosting its military might."
"You can and you will. With the recent murder of the girl in Kun-san
City by the American serviceman, there is a firestorm of animosity
toward the American military from the mainstream populace. It is
incumbent upon you to place pressure on our president to act and act
now." "But the American forces are essential for our security. There are
over thirty-five thousand troops stationed in our defense," Kim argued
before being cut off.
"May I remind you," Kang hissed, his face contorting into an evil
smirk, "that I have paid and negotiated your way into the position that
you hold today." The controlled rage glowed from his eyes like burning
embers.
Rhee and Won Ho slumped back in their chairs and nodded gravely,
knowing their political futures were finished if knowledge of their
graft over the years was ever released to the press. "Yes, it will be
done," Won Ho said meekly.
Kim, however, appeared oblivious to Kang's rage. Shaking his head, he
replied firmly, "I'm sorry, but I cannot support placing our country at
risk of military defeat. I will not vote in favor of the resolution."
He turned and peered at his fellow politicians with a look of scorn.
The room fell silent again for several moments before the servants
returned to clear away the dinner dishes. Kang leaned over and
whispered something into the ear of one of the servants, who quickly
paced back to the kitchen. Seconds later, a side door opened and two hulking security guards, attired in black from head to toe, entered the
room. Without saying a word, they strode to either side of Kim's
chair, grabbed his arms, and yanked the politician roughly to his
feet.
"What is the meaning of this, Kang?" he cried.
"I will suffer your foolishness no more," Kang replied coldly. With a
wave of his hand, the two thugs muscled Kim to a veranda door that
opened onto an outside balcony. Flailing and struggling hopelessly
against the stronger men, Kim was dragged outside and to the edge of
the balcony wall, which jutted over the face of the rock cliff.
Obscenities burst from his mouth as he demanded to be let go but his
pleas were ignored. As Rhee and Won Ho looked on in horror, the two
men in black hoisted Kim up off his feet, then unceremoniously pitched
his thrashing body over the wall.
Kim's screaming voice could be heard trailing away for several seconds
as he plunged down the cliff wall. A faint thud signaled that his body
had struck the beach landing below and his screaming suddenly ceased.
Rhee and Won Ho turned ashen white as the two thugs calmly returned to
the dining hall. Kang sipped at a glass of wine, then spoke to the
security men in a nonchalant tone.
"Retrieve the body and take it to Seoul. Plant him on a street near
his residence and make it look like a hit-and-run traffic accident," he ordered.
As they left the room, Kang turned to the frightened politicians and
asked with icy politeness, "You will stay for dessert, won't you?"
Kang peered out the dining hall window and watched as Rhee and Won Ho
anxiously boarded his yacht below. Kim's body, wrapped in brown
blanket, had been crudely dumped on the boat's stern deck and covered
with a tarp but was readily distinguishable to the two shaken men as
they climbed aboard. Observing the yacht-as it cast off and began its
fifty-mile trek upriver to Seoul, Kang turned as a man entered the room
and approached. He had a scrawny build and greased-back black hair,
with pale skin that seldom saw the light of day. His blue suit was
well worn, and his choice of tie dated, but his white shirt was
starched crisp. What Kang's administrative assistant lacked in panache
he made up for in thrift and efficiency.
"Your meeting was a success?" the man asked Kang, with a dose of
subservience.
"Yes, Kwan. Rhee and Won Ho are going to promote our initiative for
the removal of U.S. forces through the National Assembly. It was
unfortunate that we had to eliminate Kim, but it was apparent that he
had lost his loyalty to us. His death will send a strong message to
the other two." "A sensible decision. Sir, a courier from Yonan is arriving by boat this evening to receive the prototype missile guidance chip set that
has passed final test at our semiconductor facility. Do you wish also
to relay a briefing status?"
Like a foreign embassy in a hostile nation, Kang and his superiors in
North Korea relied on couriers to funnel information, technology, and
contraband out of the South. Although the Internet had become the
spy's best friend when it came to dispatching information, there was
still the need for one-on-one contact to transfer hard goods. An aged
fisherman in a beat-up sampan, easily neglected by the Navy patrols,
was the favored agent's disguise for crossing the DMZ to Kang's
estate.
"Yes, we can report that a National Assembly vote will be brought forth
on the expulsion resolution within the next several weeks, and that
progress is being made on its passage. Our organized student protests
are gaining momentum, and our media payoffs will ensure continued press
attention and coverage of the U.S. serviceman murder incident," Kang
said with a wry smile. "Our external disruption plan is proving to be
most effective. What remains to be seen is whether we can implement
the chimera project quickly enough to maximize the Americans' strife.
What is the latest from the biochemical laboratory?"
"The news is most promising. The lab team has completed their study of the test results from the Aleutian Islands and verified that the virus
was successfully rejuvenated during flight release. In addition,
dispersion of the virus through the mock-up missile-borne vapor
mechanism covered a ground path larger than anticipated. The program
engineers are confident that the full-scale deployment system already
built will be operationally successful."
"Providing we can generate sufficient quantities of the virus. It was
most unfortunate that all but one of the canisters on the I-403
submarine was destroyed."
"An unforeseen circumstance. Since most of the recovered agent was
utilized in the Aleutian test firing, very little was left available
for
laboratory growth purposes. Dr. Sarghov at the bio lab informs me it
will take over three months to cultivate quantities necessitated by the
orogram. For this reason, we have initiated your request to attempt
recovery of the second Japanese armament stock."
"A second Japanese submarine," Kang muttered, picturing an Imperial
Japanese submersible lying torpedoed on the ocean floor. "An amazing
intelligence discovery that there was not one but two submarines
destroyed carrying such a virulent cargo. How soon before recovery
operations commence?" "The submarine must be located first. We have the Baekje en route to
Yokohama to pick up a leased submersible that will be required for the
deep-water recovery operation. Once on-site, we expect the survey to
take approximately two days, and the entire recovery operation to be
completed within ten days."
"And Tongju?"
"He will meet up with the salvage ship in Yokohama and remain on board
to lead security operations."
"Very good," Kang said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.
"Things are proceeding nicely, Kwan. The domestic pressures on the
Americans will soon be very hot and the chimera project will be a sharp
kick to their sides. We must soon prepare for the coming offensive and
restoration of the country under our home flag."
"You will hold a place of high honor in the new Korea," Kwan stroked.
Kang looked again at the sweeping panorama to the north before him. The
rolling hills of his native North Korea lay just across the Han River,
stretching wide across the far horizon.
"It is time we regain our country," he muttered softly. Kwan started to leave the room, then stopped and turned.
"Sir, there is one other item that has cropped up related to the
chimera project."
Kang nodded at his assistant to proceed.
"The helicopter that was shot down in the Aleutians was operated
by an American government research vessel from the National Un-I
derwater and Marine Agency. Our crew believed the pilot and crew :
were killed, which was initially confirmed by an Alaskan media report
of a fatal helicopter crash. However, our U.S. field operations team
monitoring the Americans' response to the test reported that the pilot,
a special projects director named Pitt, and his copilot had in fact
survived the crash."
"That is of little consequence," Kang replied irritably.
Kwan cleared his throat nervously. "Well, sir, I had our team track
the pilot upon his return to home port in Seattle. Two days after
their return, the NUMA men were seen in a small survey boat headed for
the region where the I-403 is located."
"What? That's not possible," Kang belched with sudden anger, made
visible by a large vein that throbbed on his forehead. "How would they have any knowledge of our activities?"
"I do not understand it, either. They are undersea professionals.
Perhaps our recovery operation was witnessed by others and they were
simply monitoring the I-403 for looters. Or perhaps it is just a
coincidence. They may have been performing an engineering or
archaeological assessment."
"Perhaps. But this is no time to compromise the project. Have them
both taken care of," Kang directed.
"Yes, sir," Kwan replied, backpedaling out of the room quickly. "It
will be handled at once."
To the ancient Aztecs of central Mexico, it-was known as the "Great
Leprosy." The ghastly plague of death had appeared sometime after the
arrival of Hernando Cortes and his troops in 1518. Some believe a
rival conquistador named Narvaez, sailing from Cuba, had carried the
scourge. Whoever the carrier, the results proved horrific. When
Cortes entered Mexico City after a four-month siege against the forces
of Montezuma in 1521, he was shocked at what he found. Stacks upon
stacks of dead, decaying bodies were piled high in homes, on the
streets, everywhere the eye could see throughout the city. No
casualties of battle, the dead were all victims of disease. No one knows the origins of Variola major, but the deadly virus, better
known as "smallpox," has left an expansive path of tragedy around the
globe. Though smallpox epidemics have been recorded in civilizations
as far back as the ancient Egyptians, history knows the disease best as
the scourge of the Americas, leaving its deadliest mark on
the highly susceptible natives of the western continents. Introduced
to the New World by the crews of Christopher Columbus, smallpox wreaked
havoc throughout the entire West Indies and virtually decimated the
original Carib Indians who greeted Columbus on his first voyage west.
The Cortes/Narvaez introduction of smallpox into Mexico is estimated to
have killed nearly half of the three hundred thousand inhabitants
of Mexico City in 1521. Cumulative deaths throughout the country from
the highly contagious disease easily numbered in the millions. Similar
devastation transpired in South America as well. When Pizarro landed
in Peru in 1531 on his great quest for gold, the smallpox virus was
already annihilating the Inca population. With his army of less than
two hundred men, Pizarro would never have ransacked the Inca empire had
the culture not been preoccupied with a chaotic struggle against the
ravaging disease. More than five million Incas may have died from
smallpox, which all but eradicated their entire civilization.
In North America, Native American tribes were not immune to the
onslaught. Numerous tribes of river valley Mound Builders vanished
altogether from smallpox, while the Massachusetts and Narragansett tribes were nearly wiped out. Estimates suggest that the population of
the New World declined by ninety-five percent in the century following
the arrival of Columbus, attributable primarily to smallpox.
The lethal virus didn't stop there, flaring up in sporadic epidemics
that killed thousands more in Europe over the next two hundred years.
Sinister military minds later made use of the disease as a tool of
battle, to intentionally infect opposing forces. Historical
allegations claim the British provided smallpox-infected blankets to
warring Native American tribes in the 1760s, and employed similar
tactics against American troops during the battle for Quebec during the
Revolutionary War.
Primitive vaccinations were finally discovered in the early nineteenth
century, using a related cowpox virus, which eventually provided some
measure of control against the disease. Sporadic outbreaks and Cold
War fears prompted routine smallpox vaccinations in the United States
up until the nineteen seventies. In large part due to the World Health
Organization's successful global battle against the disease, smallpox
was declared completely eradicated in 1977. Save for a small research
sample at the U.S. Centers for Disease Control, and an unknown quantity
developed for military applications in the former Soviet Union,
remaining worldwide stocks of the virus were completely destroyed.
Smallpox was nearly a forgotten disease until the terrorist attacks in
the early years of the new century raised the fear that a contagious virulent outbreak of any form was again a threat to be reckoned with.
The historical ravages of smallpox were of little concern to Irv Fowler
at the moment. After mustering the strength to drive himself to the
Alaska Regional Hospital emergency room, his only hopes were for a
quiet room and an attractive nurse to help him recuperate from whatever
form of killer flu was knocking him out. Even when a parade of
somber-looking medical professionals kept marching by to have a look at
him and then insisted he be wheeled into quarantine, he was feeling too
weak to be alarmed. Only when a pair of masked doctors finally
informed him that he had tested positive for smallpox did his mind
begin to whir. Two thoughts came to mind before delirium washed over
his brain again: Could he defy the thirty percent mortality rate? And
who else had he infected?
Dirk, I have some terrifying news." The fear in Sarah's voice was
palpable, even over the telephone.
"What's wrong?"
"It's Irv. He's sick in the hospital in Anchorage. The doctors say
that he has contracted smallpox. I just can't believe it."
"Smallpox? I thought that had all but been eliminated."
"Practically speaking, it has. If the doctors are correct with the diagnosis, it will be the first documented case in the United States in
thirty years. The medical authorities are keeping it quiet, though the
CDC is rushing vaccination supplies to Alaska in case an outbreak
develops."
"How's he holding up?"
"He's at a critical juncture," Sarah replied, nearly choking on the
words. "The next two or three days will be crucial to his outcome.
He's in quarantine at Alaska Regional Hospital in Anchorage, along with
three other people he has had close contact with."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Dirk said with genuine concern in his voice.
"Irv's a tough old bird, I'm sure he'll sail through without a hitch.
Have you any idea how on earth he contracted smallpox?"
"Well," Sarah replied, swallowing hard, "the incubation period is
approximately fourteen days. That would mean he became infected about
the time we were on Yunaska ... and aboard the Deep Endeavor!"
"He may have contracted it on our ship?" Dirk asked incredulously.
"I don't know. It was either on the ship or on the island, but it
matters little now. The smallpox virus is remarkably contagious. We
need to work fast to check everyone who was onboard the Deep Endeavor and isolate those infected. Time is critical."
"What about you and Sandy? You were working and living together with
Irv. Are you all right?"
"As CDC employees, Sandy and I were both vaccinated two years ago after
concerns were first raised about smallpox as a potential bioterrorist
threat. Irv was on loan to us from the state of Alaska's Department of
Epidemiology and had not yet received his vaccination."
"Can the crew of the Deep Endeavor still be vaccinated?"
"Unfortunately, it would do no good. The vaccine can be effective
within a couple of days of exposure but becomes useless thereafter.
It's a terrible disease, as once you've contracted it there is nothing
that can be done to combat it until it has run its course."
"I'll contact Captain Burch and we'll check on all the crew members as
soon as possible."
"I will be back from Spokane this evening. If you can assemble the
crew, I can help the ship's doctor check each man for symptoms in the
morning."
"Consider it done. Sarah, I could use another favor from you as well.
Okay if I pick you up in the morning?" "Sure, that would be fine. And, Dirk ... I pray that you are not
infected."
"Don't you worry," he replied confidently. "There's way too much rum
in my blood to keep any bugs alive."
Dirk immediately called Captain Burch, and, with Leo Del-| gado's help,
quickly contacted each crew member who had sailed on the Deep Endeavor.
To their relief, none of the men reported signs of illness, and all
appeared at the NUMA field office the next morning
As promised, Dirk picked up Sarah at her apartment early in the:
morning, electing to drive the big '58 Chrysler.
"My word, this is an enormous car," Sarah declared as she climbed into
the finned behemoth.
"It's the original definition of heavy metal," Dirk grinned as he
stoked the car out of the parking lot and drove toward the NUMA
building.
Many of the Deep Endeavor's crew greeted Sarah warmly when she arrived
before the assembled group, and she noted to herself how the entire
crew behaved more like close family members than coworkers. "It is great to see my NUMA friends again," she said, addressing the
crew. "As you may know, my associate Irv Fowler, who was on the ship
with us, has been diagnosed with smallpox. The smallpox virus is
highly contagious and it is critical that those infected be quickly
isolated. I will need to know if any of you have suffered from the
following symptoms since Irv, Sandy, and I left the Deep Endeavor,
fever, headache, backache, severe abdominal pain, malaise, delirium, or
rashes on the face, arms, or legs."
One by one, she examined the apprehensive crew, taking temperatures and
grilling each man or woman on signs of the deadly disease. Even Dirk
and Captain Burch were subject to her checkup, after which Sarah gave a
noticeable sigh of relief.
"Captain, just three of your crewmen are showing minor flu like signs
of illness, which may or may not be preliminary symptoms of the virus.
I request that these men remain isolated until we can complete their
blood tests. Your remaining crew should avoid large public venues for
at least a few more days. I would like to do a follow-up check at the
end of the week, but it appears promising there has been nO outbreak
among the ship's crew."
"That is good news," Burch replied with audible relief. "Seems odd to
me that the virus did not spread easily through a confined ship." "Patients are most infectious after the onset of rash, which typically
occurs twelve to fourteen days after exposure. Irv was well off the
boat and working in Anchorage when he reached that stage, so it's
possible that the virus had not spread while we were aboard. Captain,
I would ensure that his stateroom on the Deep Endeavor is thoroughly
sanitized, along with all linen and dining ware aboard the ship, just
to be safe."
"I'll see that it's taken care of right away."
"It would appear that the source of the smallpox outbreak was on
Yunaska," Dirk speculated.
"I think so," Sarah replied. "It's a wonder that you and Jack were not
exposed when you picked us up off the island."
"Our protective gear may have saved us."
"Thank God," she said gratefully.
"It would seem that our mysterious friends on the fishing boat may have
been dabbling with something even nastier than cyanide. Which reminds
me ... the favor I asked?"
Dirk led Sarah to the Chrysler, where he popped open the large trunk lid. Inside was the porcelain bomb canister from the I-403, carefully
wrapped inside a milk crate. Sarah inspected the item with a quizzical
look on her face.
"Okay, I give up. What is it?"
Dirk briefly explained his trip to Fort Stevens and the dive on the
Japanese submarine.
Can you have your lab identify any remaining residue? I have a hunch
there may be something to it."
Sarah stood silent a moment before speaking.
"Yes, we can have it examined," she said in a serious tone. "But it
will cost you lunch," she said, finally breaking into a wry smile.
Dirk drove Sarah to the state Public Health Lab on Fir-crest Campus,
where they carefully transferred the fragmented bomb casing into a
small working lab room. After some chiding for bringing an explosive
into the building, a jovial, slightly balding research scientist named
Hal agreed to examine the fragment after the conclusion of a staff
meeting.
"Looks like a long lunch is in order. Where shall we go?" Sarah
asked. "I know a quiet spot with a nice water view," Dirk replied with a
mischievous grin.
"Then take me away in the green machine," she laughed, climbing into
the turquoise Chrysler.
Dirk drove the car out of the laboratory's narrow parking lot, easing
past a familiar-looking black Cadillac CTS that sat with its engine
running. Exiting the campus grounds, he drove south past Seattle's
st ling downtown, then turned west, following a road sign to
Fauntleroy. Reaching the water's edge of Puget Sound, Dirk turned to
the Fauntleroy Ferry Terminal, then steered the Chrysler up a loading
ramp and onto the car deck of a waiting automobile ferry. As he parked
the Chrysler amid several rows of tightly packed commuter cars Sarah
reached over and squeezed his hand tightly.
"A ferryboat snack bar Donuts and coffee?" she inquired.
"I think we can do better than that. Let's go upstairs and look at the
view."
Sarah followed him up a stairwell that emptied onto the open upper
deck, where they found a vacant bench facing the northern expanse of Puget Sound. A loud blast from the ferry's horn and a gentle nudge
beneath their feet told them they were on their way, as two
2,500-horsepower diesel engines gently pushed the 328-foot vessel away
from the dock.
It was a crystal clear day on the Sound, the kind that reminded local
residents of why they endure the long, drizzly Pacific Northwest
winters to call the area home. In the distance, the Cascade and
Olympic mountain ranges sparkled along the horizon, almost shimmering
against an azure blue sky so intense it felt close enough to touch. The
Seattle downtown cut the skyline in a brilliant reflection of steel and
glass, with the landmark Space Needle rising like a futuristic monolith
from a George Jetson cartoon. Dirk pointed out a half-dozen other
ferries plying their human cargoes about the harbor and watched as they
dodged large freighters that cruised along the international shipping
lanes.
It was only a fifteen-minute ride to their destination of Vashon
Island, and when the boat's captain began aligning the ferry to dock
Dirk and Sarah made their way back down to the Chrysler. As he held
the door open for Sarah to climb into the passenger seat, Dirk glanced
down the row of cars parked behind him. Sitting four spaces behind
them, a black Cadillac sedan caught his eye. The same black Cadillac
that had been parked with the motor running at the Public Health Lab.
And, he now recalled, the same Cadillac that he had seen during his | drive around Fort Stevens.
"I think I see a friend parked behind us," Dirk said calmly to Sarah.
"Think I'll go back and say hello. I'll be right back."
Strolling casually down the row of cars, he observed two Asian men
sitting in the Cadillac staring directly at him. As he approached the
driver's-side door, he suddenly leaned down and stuck his face into the
open window.
"Excuse me, fellas, do you happen to know where the restroom is?" Dirk
asked in a hick voice.
The driver, a heavyset goon with a bad crew cut, looked straight ahead,
refusing to make eye contact, and slowly shook his head. Dirk looked
for, and found, a slight protrusion under the man's coat near his left
armpit, the telltale sign of a holstered weapon. Across the car's
interior, the accomplice in the passenger seat showed none of the
shyness of the driver. A skinny man with long hair and a stringy
goatee glared back at Dirk with a menacing grin, a half-smoked
cigarette dangling from his lips. On the floorboard between his feet
was a large leather case, which concealed something more than a
calculator and cell phone, Dirk surmised.
"Find your friend?" Sarah asked when he returned to the Chrysler. "No," Dirk replied, shaking his head. "I was quite mistaken."
A long blast from the ship's horn followed by two short blasts
announced that the ferry was docking and moments later Dirk drove the
Chrysler out of the covered car deck and into the bright sunshine.
Crossing over the ferry ramp, he drove down a long pier, then turned
out of the ferry complex and onto Vashon Island.
Situated on the lower end of Puget Sound, Vashon Island is a
thirty-seven-square-mile scenic haven located just minutes from the
congested hubbub of Seattle and Tacoma. Reachable only by boat, the
island has maintained a quiet, rural tranquility far removed from
metropolitan neighbors. Strawberry and raspberry fields dot the lush
wooded landscape, which is inhabited by a bohemian mix of writers and
computer intellectuals seeking a slower pace than that of city life.
Lowering the convertible top so that they could better enjoy the sights
and smells of the landscape, Dirk drove south along the Vashon Highway,
away from the ferry terminal at the northern tip of the island.
Observing in his rearview mirror, he watched the black Cadillac exit
the ferry terminal and fall in line behind him, maintaining a half-mile
cushion behind the old car. They continued motoring south for several
miles, past quaint cabins and farmhouses interspersed among thick
groves of pine trees. "This feels marvelous," Sarah gushed, stretching her arms above her
head and feeling the cool wind rush through her fingers. Dirk smiled
to himself, having known too many women who despised riding in a
convertible because it mussed up their hair. For him, driving fast in
a convertible was like riding a storm out at sea or diving on an
unexplored wreck. It was a little added serving of adventure that made
life more fun.
Spotting a road sign marked burton, Dirk slowed and turned east off the
highway, backtracking a short distance on a small side road that led to
the tiny hamlet. They meandered past a small group of houses until the
road petered out at the drive of a quaint Victorian inn situated right
on the water. Built as a summer estate for a Seattle newspaper tycoon
at the turn of the century, the three-story structure was agleam in
pastel shades of green and lavender. Bright flowers sprouted in large
pots and flower boxes were wedged everywhere, throwing a vast array of
colors to the eye.
"Dirk, it's beautiful here," Sarah beamed as he parked the car next to
an ornate gazebo. "How did you discover this place?"
"One of our scientists has a summer home on the island. Claims they
have the best king salmon in the state here and I aim to find out."
Dirk led Sarah to an intimate restaurant at one end of the lodge that continued the Victorian decor theme. Finding it nearly empty, they
took a table next to a large picture window that faced east across the
sound. After ordering a local Chardonnay, they admired the view across
Quartermaster Harbor to a smaller island named Maury. To the
southeast, they could see Mt. Rainier standing majestically in the
distance.
"Reminds me a little of the Grand Tetons," Sarah said, fondly recalling
the craggy peaks of northwest Wyoming. "I used to ride horses for
miles around Lake Jackson at the base of the Tetons."
"I bet you're a pretty fair downhill skier as well," Dirk ventured.
"I banged up a few sets of skis growing up," she laughed. "How'd you
know?"
"Jackson Hole is right around the corner. Skied it once a few years ago. Terrific snow."
"I love it there," Sarah gushed, her hazel eyes glistening. "But I am
surprised to hear that you have been to Jackson. I didn't think that a
NUMA special projects director was allowed to leave sight of the
ocean."
It was Dirk's turn to laugh. "Only on my annual vacation. The Gobi
Desert happened to be booked that year," he grinned. "So tell me, how
did a nice girl from Wyoming end up working at the Centers for Disease Control?"
"It's because I am a nice girl from Wyoming," she cooed. "Growing up
on my parents' ranch, I was always nursing a sick calf or mending a
lame horse. My dad always said I was a softie, but I just loved being
around animals and trying to help them. So I studied veterinary
medicine in school, and, after bouncing around a few jobs, was able to
snag the field epidemiologist job with the CDC. Now I travel the world
preventing disease outbreaks and helping sick animals, and I even get
paid for it," she smiled.
Dirk could tell her compassion was genuine. Sarah had a warm heart
that seemed to resonate through her. If not employed by the rDC she
would probably be off running a dog shelter or helping a wildlife
rescue, with or without a paycheck. With her gazing at Dirk ith tender
eyes, he was glad she was here with him now.
A waiter appeared to spoil their intimacy, but brought a gourmet meal
to the table. Dirk enjoyed a mesquite-grilled king salmon filet, while
Sarah dined on Alaskan weathervane scallops she deemed so tender they
melted in her mouth. After sharing a fresh raspberry cheesecake for
dessert, they took a short stroll hand in hand along the water's edge.
Dirk kept an eye out for the two men in the Cadillac, whom he finally
observed parked a few blocks away in Burton. "It's gorgeous here, but I guess we should be getting back," Sarah said
with disappointment. "We should have the blood test results on your
sick crewmen by now, and Hal probably has your bomb canister analysis
completed."
As they approached the car, she turned and hugged Dirk.
"Thanks for a lovely lunch," she whispered.
""Kidnapping beautiful women in the afternoon is a specialty of mine,"
he smiled, then took her in his arms and gave her a long passionate
kiss. She responded by wrapping her arms around him, squeezing the
back of his waist tightly.
Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dirk meandered slowly down the
one-lane thoroughfare of Burton. He glared as he drove by the Cadillac
parked in a side alley, the two men waiting for them to pass. As he
watched in the rearview mirror, he was somewhat surprised to see the
black sedan turn and follow immediately behind him. There was no more
pretense of an invisible tail, Dirk thought, which was not a good
sign.
The Cadillac followed behind until they reached the intersection of the
Vashon Highway. As he stopped to turn, Dirk glanced again in his
mirror. He could see the passenger with the goatee reaching down at
"is feet and pulling something out of the leather case. A sick feeling hit him in his stomach and, without an instant's hesitation, he mashed down on the accelerator. With tires squealing, the
Chrysler whipped onto the highway and sped north.
"Dirk, what are you doing?" Sarah asked with a bewildered look as
she was pushed back into the seat.
In an instant, the Cadillac screeched onto the highway behind them,
sending a spray of gravel flying through the air. This time, the
Cadillac was not intent on following behind the old Chrysler but nosed
into the vacant oncoming traffic lane in order to pull alongside.
"Get down on the floor!" Dirk yelled at Sarah as he watched the':
black car approach in his side mirror. Confused but comprehendin| the
tone in his voice, Sarah slipped down into the cavernous footwej of the
Chrysler and rolled into a ball. Dirk eased off the accelerater and
looked to his left as the Cadillac pulled rapidly alongside. The
passenger window was rolled down and the young tough grinned sardonically at Dirk. Then he raised an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun from
his lap and leveled it at Dirk's head.
The gunman may have been younger but Dirk's reflexes were faster. By
the time the killer's finger pulled the trigger, Dirk was already
standing on the brakes. A short burst of fire ricocheted harmlessly
across the hood of the Chrysler as it suddenly fell back of the speeding Cadillac in a cloud of burned rubber. The Chrysler's narrow
tires screeched in protest as the wheels locked up for a moment before
Dirk eased off the brakes. He paused a second, waiting for the
Cadillac to react, then saw what he was waiting for. As the brake
lights of the Cadillac lit up, he punched the push-button automatic
transmission into second gear and stomped the accelerator to the
floorboard.
A flood of raw gas charged down the throats of the Chrysler's twin
four-barrel carburetors, spraying a gush of combustible fuel to the
hungry 392-cubic-inch hemi motor. Packing over 380 horsepower, the
Chrysler 300-D was the fastest and most powerful production car in the
country in 1958. Showing no signs of its age, the big Chrysler got up
and roared off down the road like a charging rhinoceros.
The would-be assassins were caught off guard by the suddenly accelerating Chrysler and swore at each other as the big green car shot by
like an arrow. The gunman made an attempt to fire another burst but
was too late with his aim, emptying the clip of the burp gun uselessly
into the woods. With no oncoming traffic, Dirk cut to the left lane
after passing the Cadillac, making it more difficult for the
passenger-side gunman to aim his weapon.
"What's happening? Why are they shooting at us?" Sarah cried from the
floor. "Some relatives of our old pals in Alaska, I'm betting," Dirk yelled
over the roar of the engine as he upshifted into third gear. "Been
following us for some time now."
"Can we escape?" Sarah asked with fear in her voice.
"We can hold our own on the straight aways but they'll gain on us in
the curves. If we can get close to the ferry landing and more people,
they should back off," he replied, hoping his words would hold true.
The Chrysler had opened a wide gap between the two cars, but the
Cadillac was inching closer. A narrow bend in the road forced Dirk to
ease off the gas slightly in order to keep the 4,500-pound colossus on
the road, allowing the lighter and more nimble Cadillac to gain
precious feet. The gunman, angry and undisciplined, began emptying a
second clip in a rage, shooting wildly at the car. Most of the bullets
zinged harmlessly into the Chrysler's trunk, creating a sieve like
montage of small round holes. Dirk hunched low in the driver's seat
and weaved the car randomly back and forth across the road to avoid
presenting a stable target.
"How much farther?" Sarah asked, still hugging the carpeted floor.
"Just a couple of more miles. We'll make it," Dirk replied, throwing a
confident wink toward her. But internally, Dirk cursed himself. He cursed that he had placed her in
such a position of danger and had not called for help earlier he knew
he was being followed. And he cursed that he was unarmed, having no weapon at his disposal to fight back with other than a
nearly fifty-year-old car.
Like a vulture stalking its prey, the black Cadillac mimicked every
move of the Chrysler, trying desperately to close the gap between the
two speeding vehicles. As the cars entered a long straight stretch of
the Vashon Highway, Dirk looked down and saw the speedometer needle
tickling 125 miles per hour. A blue pickup truck approached from the
opposite direction and Dirk eased into the right lane, holding the
accelerator firmly to the floor. The Cadillac's driver, unduly intent
on overtaking the Chrysler, didn't notice the rapidly approaching
truck at first and swerved harshly to the right at the last second,
braking reflexively in the slight panic. The move allowed the
Chrysler to gain a few more precious feet of pavement and elicited a
stream of profanities from the frustrated gunman.
But Dirk's temporary dominance was about to expire. The Vashon Highway
began a series of curves and bends at the northern end of the island
before it dropped down to the ferry terminal and the racing advantage
turned from speed to road handling. Coming hard off the long
straightaway, Dirk braked hard into a sweeping left curve, fighting
vigorously to keep the big convertible on the road. The more agile
Cadillac easily made up lost ground and was soon within a few yards of Dirk's bumper. Once more, he heard the sputter of machine-gun fire and
ducked his head down low. A burst of fire shattered into the
windshield in front of him, turning the glass into a maze of pockmarked
cracks and holes. One round came in low and Dirk could feel it nearly
graze his cheek as it whizzed by before smashing into the dashboard.
"I already shaved once today, you bastards," he grumbled, his anger
overcoming any feelings of fear. As he flung the Chrysler into the
next turn, the old-fashioned bias-ply tires screeched loudly, leaving a
smoking black trail along the roadway. The gunman, having already
exhausted two clips, began firing more cautiously to conserve his
remaining ammunition. Waiting until the Chrysler entered a right
turn, then peppered the car with quick, point-blank bursts. Foolishly
electing not to shoot out the tires, he maintained his aim on the car's
cockpit.
Inside, Dirk and Sarah were showered with a continuous deluge of broken
glass, plastic, and metal shards as streams of bullets ripped into the
interior. Dirk did his best to guide the car down the center of the
road, glancing repeatedly at his side mirrors to ensure the Cadillac
didn't accelerate alongside for a better kill shot. Several times he
veered the Chrysler sharply to one side, nearly smashing the front end
of the Cadillac before its driver backed down and maintained a
five-foot buffer off his tail. Dirk felt like a boxer in the ring, ducking and weaving his head and
body up, down, and side to side in order to see the road while avoiding
a rain of lead. He cringed while sliding the car through a right turn
he watched a ribbon of holes appear in a neat line down the hood.
The burst punctured the radiator, sending a white plume of steam
hissing out the grille and hood. Time was short now, he realized.
Without coolant, the engine would overheat and seize up. He and Sarah
would then be easy pickings.
As they approached the northern tip of the island, he tried a last
gambit. Approaching a narrow left turn ahead, Dirk eased into the
center of the road and slowed slightly to pull the Cadillac in close.
Then, with both feet on the pedal, he stomped on the brakes as hard as
he could. Through the screaming tires and cloud of burned rubber, the
Cadillac kissed the back of the Chrysler hard before its driver slammed
on the brakes. But his gamble to decimate the front end of the
Cadillac failed. The Chrysler's ancient drum brakes were no match for
the Cadillac's four-wheel disc, anti lock braking system, and the newer
car nearly came to a stop while the big Chrysler was still skidding
down the road. The Cadillac's driver realized the ploy and kept a
healthy separation distance now. Dirk let off the brakes and jammed on
the
accelerator, hoping to keep making ground. There was little left he
could do now. The two cars had reached the top of the last rise on the northern
section of the island. From there, the road gradually snaked downhill
toward the water's edge, passing a few lanes of shops and houses before
terminating at the ferry landing. Dirk noticed a small stream of cars
beginning to dot the highway from the opposite direction, recent
emigrants from a ferry stop, he surmised.
Despite the additional traffic on the road, the machine gun firing from
behind continued. The assassins had crossed the line and were bent on
killing Dirk and Sarah regardless of who got in their way. Dirk gave
Sarah a quick glance and forced a grin. Her soft eyes showed a mixture
of both fear and trust. Trust that he would somehow find a way to save
them. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, more determined than ever
to shield her from harm.
But there were only seconds to act. The old Chrysler, which now
resembled the remains of a B-2 bomber target, was clearly on its last
legs. Smoke billowed from under the hood, accompanied by a throbbing
melody of knocks and groans from the nearly spent motor. Sparks flew
from beneath the frame, where a broken exhaust pipe scraped the
pavement with a torturous grind. Even the tires had generated flat
spots from the hard braking and thumped out of round. The temperature
gauge, Dirk noted, had been firmly pegged in the red for several
minutes now. Above the roar, he could hear the blast of a ferry horn just ahead as
they wound closer to the water. From behind, the squeal of the
Cadillac's tires and the peppering sound of machine-gun fire rattled in
his ears. The big Chrysler suddenly lurched as the hemi engine began
to mortally overheat. Dirk's eyes raced over the landscape, searching
for a sheriff's car, a bank that might employ an armed guard, any sort
of help he might solicit as a last means of defense. But all he saw
were quaint little bayside homes with small flower gardens.
Then, looking down the hill toward the approaching ferry terminal)
he had a thought. Highly improbable, he figured, but at this point
they had nothing to lose.
Sarah looked up and noticed a look of confident resolve suddenly appear
on his face.
"What is it, Dirk?" she yelled above the din.
"Sarah, my dear," he replied assuredly, "I think our ship has come
in."
Larry Hatala watched as the final car in line, a pea green 1968
Volkswagen microbus, chugged up the ramp and onto the ferry. A
thirty-year veteran of the Washington State Department of
Transportation, the grizzled Vashon Island terminal attendant shook his head and smiled at the driver of the old hippie car, a bearded man in
bandana and granny glasses. Once the VW was safely aboard the ferry,
Hatala lowered a wooden orange-and-white signal arm that halted any
pending traffic at the end of the pier. His work complete until the
next boat arrived in thirty minutes, Hatala removed a weathered
baseball cap and wiped his forehead with a sleeve, then threw a
cheerful wave of the cap to a fellow employee on the departing ferry. A
young man in a gray jumpsuit finished yanking a guardrail across the
stern of the ferry, then returned Hatala's wave with a mock military
salute. As the pilot let loose a deep blast from the air horn, Hatala
untied a safety docking line and tossed the loose end across to the
ferry, where his coworker neatly coiled it for the next stop.
The blast from the ferry horn had barely ceased echoing across the peer
when Hatala's ears detected an unusual sound. It was the wail of tires
screeching violently on asphalt. Peering up the road, he could detect
only a periodic flash through the trees of two cars roaring down The
hill. The whine of revving engines and squealing tires grew closer,
punctuated by a popping sound Hatala recognized from his Navy days as
gunfire. Finally, the cars broke free of the trees as they neared the
terminal, and Hatala stared in astonishment.
The big green Chrysler looked like a galloping dragon, complete with
fire-breathing smoke and steam belching out of its grille. A
black-haired man, hunched low in the seat, deftly kept the smoking behemoth on the road at speeds clearly too high for its means. Thirty
feet behind, a sleek black Cadillac sedan followed in hot pursuit, a
young Asian man dangling out the passenger window wildly firing an
automatic weapon that did more damage to the trees bordering the road
than to his intended target. To Hatala's complete horror, the green
convertible spun into the ferry landing entrance and headed onto the
pier.
By all rights, the old Chrysler should have up and died long before. A
withering rain of fire had plastered the car in lead, cutting through
wires, hoses, and belts, in addition to pasting the body and interior
with myriad holes. Burning oil mixed with radiator fluid spewed from
the red-hot motor that was nearly drained of fluids. But with an
apparent heart of its own, the old Chrysler was not quite ready to give
up, offering one last gasp of power.
"Dirk, where are we now?" Sarah asked, unable to see from her spot on
the floor. A rackety sound of tires on wood told her they were no
longer traveling on the highway.
"We have a boat to catch," Dirk grimaced. "Hang on tight."
He could see a man waving his arms wildly at the end of the pier, some
fifty yards ahead. Beyond the pier's edge, he could detect a churning
in the water from the ferry's propellers as the boat began to pull away
from the dock. It was going to be close. Behind him, the Cadillac lost ground briefly, having nearly missed the turn when Dirk whipped onto the pier. The driver was doggedly"
determined to stay on Dirk's tail and accelerated hard, oblivious to
the shortening pier and departure of the ferry. The gunman, too, was
engrossed with the chase, intent on putting a bullet into the obstinate
driver who had somehow avoided his previous blasts.
Dirk also kept his foot down hard on the accelerator, but for a
different reason. He held his breath, hoping the Chrysler would hold
together for just a few more seconds. Though the end of the pier was
now just a few yards away, it seemed to take an eternity to reach it.
Meanwhile, the ferry continued to inch farther into the sound.
A pair of boys bound for a fishing excursion at the end of the pier ran
scrambling behind a piling as the two cars tore by, their poles
sacrificed to the speeding machines when they jumped for cover. To
Dirk's surprise, the man at the end of the pier stopped waving and
raised the orange-and-white traffic barrier, apparently realizing the
futility of trying to stop the barreling mass of Detroit iron that was
charging his way. As he roared by, Dirk nodded thanks at Hatala and
threw him a jaunty wave. Hatala simply stared back, dumbfounded.
The Chrysler's hefty V-8 engine was now knocking like a pounding
sledgehammer, but the old beast hung on and gave Dirk every last ounce
of energy it could muster. The big convertible stormed up the ramp at the end of the pier and burst into the air like a cannon shot. Dirk
gripped the steering wheel hard and braced for the impact as he watched
a forty-foot ribbon of blue water pass beneath the car. Screams filled
the air as shocked passengers on the rear of the ferry scrambled to
avoid the path of the green monstrosity hurtling through space toward
them. The momentum of the car and the angle of the ramp sent the
Chrysler sailing through the air in an almost picture-perfect arc
before gravity took hold and pulled the nose of the car down fast. But
they had cleared the open water and would plunge down onto the ferry.
Just a few feet inboard on the open stern, the Chrysler's front wheels slammed down onto the deck, the tires immediately bursting from
the force with a bang. A split second later, the rear wheels dropped
down, smashing through a low railing just inches from the stern edge. A
section of the handrail kicked up into a wheel well, where it became
wedged as the full weight of the car crashed down. It proved to be a
lifesaver. Rather than skidding wildly into the rows of cars parked on
the auto deck, the wedged railing dug into the wooden deck like an
anchor. The massive old car bounded twice, then skidded slowly to a
stop just twenty feet from where it struck the deck, lightly smacking
the pea green Volkswagen bus.
The black Cadillac did not fare as well. Just a few seconds behind,
its driver saw too late that the ferry had left the dock. Too panicked
to try to stop, the driver kept his foot down on the accelerator and
soared off the pier in tandem with the Chrysler. Only by now, the ferry had moved beyond its path.
With the gunman screaming a bloodcurdling cry, the Cadillac soared
gracefully into the sky before nosing hard into the stern of the
ferryboat with a thunderous crash. The front bumper kissed the painted
letters of the ferryboat's name, Issaquah, just above the waterline
before the entire car crumpled like an accordion. A large spray of
water flew up as the mangled wreckage of the car plopped into the water
and sank to forty feet, carrying its crushed occupants to a watery
grave.
In the Chrysler, Dirk shook off the daze of the impact and assessed
their injuries. He felt a sprained knee and sore hip on himself as he
wiped away a flow of blood from his lower lip, gashed open on the
steering wheel. But otherwise all parts seemed to be working. Sarah
looked up from the floor in a twisted angle, where she forced a smile
through a painful grimace.
"I think my right leg is broken," she said calmly, " but otherwise I'm
okay."
Dirk lifted her out of the car and gently set her on the deck as a
crowd of passengers crept in to offer assistance. In front of them,
a door flung open on the VW bus and out popped its overage hippie driver,
complete with ponytail and beer belly half-hidden under a tie-dyed
Grateful Dead T-shirt. His eyes bulged as he surveyed the scene behind
him. Smoke oozed from the smoldering wreckage of the Chrysler,
tainting the air with the odor of burned oil and rubber. The car's
metal skin was festooned with bullet holes from front to back, while
broken glass and shreds of leather upholstery littered the interior.
The front tires were splayed out from bursting on impact, while a metal
guardrail poked out oddly from one of the rear wheel wells. A deep
gash in the deck tailed back from the wreck like some sort of violent
bread crumb trail. Dirk smiled weakly at the man as he wandered closer
while surveying the scene.
Shaking his head, the old hippie finally quipped, "Far out, man. I
sure hope you have insurance."
It took only a few hours for the authorities to commandeer a nearby
work barge and position it off the ferry landing. Its twenty-ton crane
easily hoisted the crushed Cadillac from the bottom and dumped it on
the greasy deck of the old barge. A paramedic crew carefully
extricated the mashed bodies from the vehicle and transferred them to
the county morgue. Their cause of death was cited simply as blunt
injury from motor vehicle accident.
At NUMA's request, the FBI interceded and opened a federal
investigation into the incident. Initial attempts to identify the gunmen came up empty when no forms of ID were found on the bodies, and
the Cadillac was discovered to be a stolen rental car. Immigration
finally ascertained that the men were Japanese nationals who had
entered the country illegally through Canada.
At the Seattle/ King County morgue, the chief coroner shook his head in
irritation as yet another investigator arrived to examine the bodies.
"Can't get any work done around here as long as we're holding these
so-called Japanese gangsters," he grumbled to an underling, as yet
another pair of Feds left the storage facility.
The assistant medical examiner, an ex-Army doctor who had once been
stationed in Seoul for a year, nodded in agreement.
"We might as well install a revolving door on the ice room," he
joked.
"I'll just be happy when the paperwork arrives to release them for
transport back to Japan."
"I hope that's their right home," the assistant pathologist said,
slowly sliding the bodies back into a refrigerated locker. "If you ask
me, I still say they look like a couple of Koreans." After twelve hours at Sarah's hospital bedside, Dirk finally convinced the doctors at Seattle's Swedish Providence Medical Center to
release Sarah the following morning. Though a broken leg didn't
normally warrant an overnight stay, the cautious medical staff was
concerned about trauma from the accident and kept her there for
observation. She was fortunate in that the break to her tibia, or
shin-bone, did not require any rods or screws to align. The doctors
wrapped her leg in a heavy plaster cast and pumped her full of
painkillers, then signed her release.
"Guess I can't take you dancing anytime soon," Dirk joked as he pushed
her out the hospital exit in a wheelchair.
"Not unless you want a black-and-blue foot," she replied, grimacing at
the heavy cast around her lower leg.
Despite insisting that she was well enough to work, Dirk took Sarah
home to her stylish apartment in Seattle's Capitol Hill district.
Gently assisting her to a leather couch, he propped her broken leg up on
a large pillow.
"Afraid I've been called back to Washington," he said, stroking her
silky hair as she adjusted the pillows behind her back. "Have to leave
tonight. I'll make sure Sandy checks in on you."
"I probably won't be able to keep her away," she grinned. "But what about the sick crew members of the Deep Endeavor? We need to find out
if they are all right," she said, struggling to rise from the couch.
The drugs made her feel as if her mind and body were enshrouded in a
coat of honey and she fought to remain lucid against the overwhelming
desire to sleep.
"Okay," he said, gently pushing her back down and bringing a portable
phone to her. "You get one phone call, then it's lights out for
you."
As she called the Public Health Lab, he checked to see that her kitchen
was stocked with groceries. Peering into a scantly filled
refrigerator, he idly wondered why unmarried women always seemed to
have less food in the house than the single men he knew.
"Great news," she called in a slurred voice after hanging up the phone.
"The tests on the sick crewmen all came back negative. No sign of the
smallpox virus."
"That is great news," Dirk said, returning to her side. "I'll let
Captain Burch know before I leave for the airport."
"When will I see you again?" she asked, squeezing his hand.
"Just a quick trip to headquarters. I'll be back before you know
it." "You better," she replied, her eyelids drooping low. Dirk leaned over
and brushed her hair aside, then kissed her gently on the forehead. As
he stood up, he could see that she had already fallen asleep.
He slept soundly on his cross-country red-eye flight, popping awake well
rested as the wheels of the NUMA jet touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport just after eight in the
morning. An agency car was left waiting for him at the government
terminal, and he drove himself out of the parking lot under a light
drizzle. As he exited the airport, he cast a long glance toward a
dilapidated-looking hangar situated off one of the runways. Though his
father was out of the country, he still had the urge to visit the old
man's hideout and tinker with one of his many antique autos stored
there. Business before pleasure, he told himself, and wheeled the
loaner car onto the highway.
Following the George Washington Memorial Parkway out of the airport, he
drove north, passing the Pentagon on his left as he followed the banks
of the Potomac River. A short distance later, he turned off the
highway and angled toward a towering green glass building that housed
the NUMA headquarters. Passing through an employee security gate, he
pulled into an underground garage and parked. Opening the car trunk,
he hoisted a large duffel bag over his shoulder, then rode the
employees' elevator to the tenth floor, where the doors opened onto an
elaborate maze of quietly humming computer hardware. Established with a budget that would make a third world dictator
whimper, the NUMA Ocean Data Center computer network was a marvel of
state-of-the-art computer processing. Buried within its massive data
storage banks was the finest collection of oceanographic resources in
the world. Real-time inputs of weather, current, temperature, and bio
diversity measurements were collected via satellite from hundreds of
remote sea sites from around the world, giving a global snapshot of
ocean conditions and trends at any given moment. Links to the leading
research universities provided data on current investigations in
geology, marine biology, and undersea flora and fauna research, as well
as engineering and technology. NUMA's own historical reference library
contained literally millions of data sources and was a constant
reservoir of information for research institutes the world over.
Dirk found the maestro behind the vast computer network, sitting behind
a horseshoe console munching a bear claw with one hand while tapping a
keyboard with the other. To a stranger, Hiram Yaeger resembled a
groupie from a Bob Dylan concert. His lean body was clad in faded
Levi's and matching jeans jacket over a white T-shirt, complemented by
a pair of scuffed cowboy boots on his feet. With his long gray hair
tied in a ponytail, his appearance belied the fact that he lived in a
high-end Maryland suburb with an ex-model wife and drove a BMW 7
Series. He caught sight of Dirk over a pair of granny glasses and
smiled in greeting. "Well, the young Mr. Pitt," he grinned warmly.
"Hiram, how are you?"
"Not having smashed my car, nor destroyed an agency helicopter, I'd
have to say I'm doing quite well," he joked. "By the way, has our
esteemed director been advised of the loss of one of NUMA's flying
assets?"
"Yes. Fortunately, with Dad and Al still over in the Philippines the
bite was tempered somewhat."
"They've had their hands full with a toxic spill they ran across near
Mindanao, so your timing was good," Yaeger said. "So tell-me, to what
do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"Well," Dirk hesitated, "it's your daughters. I would like to go out
with them."
The color drained from Yaeger's thin boyish face for a moment as he
took Dirk's proposal seriously. Yaeger's twin daughters, finishing
their last year of private high school, were his pride and joy. For
seventeen years, he had successfully scared away any male suitors who
had the remotest inkling of touching his girls. God forbid the
giddiness they'd show over the rugged and charismatic Dirk. "You so much as mention their names around me and I'll have you off the
payroll with a ruined credit rating that will take five lifetimes to
fix' Yaeger threatened.
It was Dirk's turn to laugh, chuckling loudly at Yaeger's vulnerable
soft spot. The computer genius softened and grinned as well at Dirk's
idle ploy.
"Okay, the girls are off-limits. But what I really want is a little
time with you and Max before my meeting with Rudi later this
morning."
"Now, that I can approve," Yaeger replied with a firm nod of the head.
The bear claw now demolished, he applied both hands in a finger dance
over the keyboard to conjure up his bionic confidante, Max.
No fellow computer programmer, Max was an artificial intelligence
system with a virtual interface in the form of a holographic image. The
brainchild of Yaeger to aid in researching voluminous databases, he had
cleverly modeled the visual interface after his wife, Elsie, adding a
sensual voice and saucy personality. On a platform opposite the
horseshoe console, an attractive woman with auburn hair and topaz eyes
suddenly appeared. She was dressed in a skimpy halter top that
revealed her navel and a very short leather skirt. "Good morning, gentlemen," the three-dimensional image murmured.
"Hi, Max. You remember the younger Dirk Pitt?"
"Of course. Nice to see you again, Dirk."
"You're looking good, Max."
"I'd look better if Hiram would stop dressing me in Britney Spears
outfits," she replied with disdain, rolling her hands down her body.
"All right. Tomorrow it will be Prada," Yaeger promised.
"Thank you."
"Dirk, what is it that you'd like to ask Max?" Yaeger prompted.
"Max, what can you tell me about the Japanese efforts at chemical and
biological warfare during World War Two?" Dirk asked, turning
serious.
Max hesitated for a moment as the question generated a massive search
through thousands of databases. Not just limiting it to oceanographic
resources, Yaeger had wired the NUMA network into a diverse multitude
of government and public information resources, ranging from the Library of Congress to the Securities and Exchange Commission. Sifting
through the mass of information, Max consolidated the data points into
a concisely summarized reply.
"The Japanese military conducted extensive research and experimentation
into chemical and biological weaponry both during and preceding World
War Two. Primary research and deployment occurred in Manchuria, under
the direction of the occupying Japanese Imperial Army after they had
seized control of northeast China in 1931. Numerous facilities were
constructed throughout the region as test centers, under the guise of
lumber mills or other false fronts. Inside the facilities, Chinese
captives were subject to a wide variety of human experiments with germ
and chemical compounds. The Qiqihar facility, under the command of
Army Unit 516, was the largest Japanese chemical weapons research and
test site, although chemical weapons manufacture actually took place on
the Japanese mainland. Changchun, under Army Unit 100, and the
sprawling Ping Fan facility, under \my Unit 731, were the major
biological warfare research and test centers. The facilities were in
fact large prisons, where local criminals and derelicts were sent and
used as test subjects, though few of the captives would survive their
incarceration."
"I've read about Unit 731," Dirk commented. "Some of their experiments
made the Nazis look like Boy Scouts." "Allegations of inhuman experiments performed by the Japanese,
particularly in Unit 731, are nearly endless. Chinese prisoners, and
even some Allied prisoners of war, were routinely injected with an
assortment of deadly pathogens, as their captors sought to determine
the appropriate lethal dosage. Biological bombs were dropped on
prisoners staked to the ground in order to test delivery systems. Many
experiments took place outside the walls of the facilities. Typhoid
bacilli germs were intentionally released into local village wells,
resulting in widespread outbreaks of fever and death. Rats carrying
plague-infected fleas were released in congested urban areas as a test
of the speed and ferocity of infection. Children were even considered
an acceptable target. In one experiment, local village children were
given
chocolates filled with anthrax, which they gratefully devoured, with
horrifying side effects."
"That's revolting," Yaeger said, shaking his head. "I hope the
perpetrators paid for their crimes."
"For the most part, they did not," Max continued. "Nearly to a man,
those in charge of the chemical and biological army units avoided
prosecution as war criminals. The Japanese destroyed much of the
documentation, and the camps themselves, before their surrender.
American intelligence forces, unaware of the extent of horrors, or, in
some cases, seeking to obtain the results of the ghastly experiments, looked the other way at the atrocities. Many of the Imperial Army
medical professionals who worked in the death camps went on to become
respected business leaders in Japan's postwar pharmaceutical
industry."
"With blood on their hands," Dirk muttered.
"No one knows for sure, but experts estimate that at least two hundred
thousand Chinese died as a result of Japanese chemical and biological
warfare activity during the thirties and forties. A large percentage
of the casualties were innocent civilians. It was a wartime tragedy
that has only recently received much attention from historians and
scholars."
"Man's inhumanity to man never ceases to amaze," Yaeger said
solemnly.
"Max, exactly what pathogens and chemicals did the Japanese work with?"
Dirk asked.
"It might be easier to ask which agents they didn't experiment with.
Their known research in bacteria and viruses ranged from anthrax,
cholera, and bubonic plague to glanders, smallpox, and typhus, with
experiments conducted in pretty much everything else in between. Among
the chemical agents employed in weaponry were phosgene, hydrogen cyanide, sulfur mustard, and lewisite. It is unknown how much was
actually deployed in the field, again due to the fact that the Japanese
destroyed most of their records as they retreated from China at the end
of the war."
"How would these agents have been used on the battlefield?"
"Chemical agents, possessing a long shelf life, are perfectly suitable
for munitions. The Japanese manufactured a large quantity of chemical
munitions, mostly in the form of grenades, mortars, and a wide range of
artillery shells. Thousands of these weapons were even left behind in
Manchuria at the war's end. The Japanese biological delivery systems
were less successful due to the sensitive nature of the arming agents.
Development of a practical biological artillery shell proved difficult,
so much of the Japanese effort at fabricating the release of biological
agents was focused on aerial bombs. Known records seem to indicate
that the Japanese scientists were never completely satisfied with the
effectiveness of the bio bombs they developed."
"Max, are you aware of the use of porcelain as a bomb-casing material
for these chemical or biological agents?"
"Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Steel bombs generated excessive heat
upon explosion that would destroy the biological pathogens, so the
Japanese turned to ceramics. It is known that a variety of porcelain
bomb canisters were tested in China as aerial delivery systems for the biological agents."
Dirk felt a lump in his stomach. The I-403 had indeed been on a
mission of death with its biological bombs back in 1945. Fortuitously,
the submarine had been sunk, but was that, in fact, the last of its
failed mission?
Yaeger broke his concentration. "Max, this is all new history to me. I
had no idea the Japanese actually used chemical and biological weapons
in battle. Were they ever employed outside of China, against American
forces?"
"The Japanese deployment of chemical and biological weapons was
primarily restricted to the Chinese theater of war. Limited instances
of their usage were also reported in Burma, Thailand, and Malaysia. My
data sources show no recorded use of biochemical agents in battle with
Western Allied forces, perhaps due to Japanese
fear of reprisal. It is suspected that chemical weapons would have
been employed in defense of the homeland, had an invasion of Japan been
necessary. Of course, your father's discovery proves that chemical
munitions were to be stockpiled in the Philippines for possible
deployment in defense of the islands."
"My father's discovery?" Dirk asked. "I don't understand." "I'm sorry, Dirk, let me explain. I received a toxin assessment from
the Mariana Explorer taken from an ordnance sample recovered by | your
father and Al Giordino."
"You've completed your database search on the arsenic sample already? I
thought you said you wouldn't have that completed until after lunch,"
Yaeger asked the hologram.
"Sometimes, I can just be brutally efficient," she replied, throwing
her nose in the air.
"What's the connection?" Dirk asked, still confused. "Your father and
Al traced a toxic arsenic leak to an old cargo ship that apparently
sank on a coral reef near Mindanao during World War Two. The arsenic
was leaking from a shipment of artillery shells carried in the ship's
hold," Yaeger explained.
"One-hundred-five-millimeter shells, to be precise," Max added.
"Ammunition for a common artillery gun used by the Japanese Imperial
Army. Only the contents weren't arsenic, per se." "What did you
find?" Yaeger asked.
"The actual contents were a mixture of sulfur mustard and lewisite. A
popular chemical munitions concentrate from the thirties, it acts as a
fatal blistering agent when released as a gas. Lewisite is an arsenic derivative, which accounts for the toxic readings found in the
Philippines. The Japanese produced thousands of mustard lewisite
shells in Manchuria, some of which were deployed against the Chinese.
Some of these old buried chemical munitions are still being dug up
today.
"Was the Japanese Navy connected with the deployment of these weapons?"
Dirk asked.
"The Japanese Imperial Navy was actively involved with chemical weapons
production at its Sagami Naval Yard, and was believed to have had four
additional storage arsenals at Kure, Yokosuka, Hiroshima, and Sasebo.
But the Navy possessed only a fraction of the estimated 1.7 million
chemical bombs and shells produced during the war, and no records
indicate they were ever used in any naval engagements. The biological
weapons research was funded through the Imperial Army and, as I
mentioned, centered in occupied China. A primary conduit for the
research activity was the Army Medical School in Tokyo. It is unknown
whether the Navy had any involvement through the medical school, as the
college was destroyed by wartime bombing in 1945."
"So no wartime records exist that show chemical or biological weapons
were ever assigned onboard Navy vessels?"
"None that were publicly released," Max said, shaking her holographic head. "The bulk of the captured Japanese wartime records, including
those of the Navy Ministry, were consigned to the National Archives. As
a gesture of goodwill, most of the documents were later returned to the
Japanese government. Only a fraction of the records were copied,
however, and even a smaller portion have ever been translated."
"Max, I'd like to explore the Naval Ministry records for information on
the mission of a particular Japanese submarine, the I-403. Can you
determine whether these records might still exist?"
"I'm sorry, Dirk, but I don't have access to that portion of the
National Archives' data records."
Dirk turned to Yaeger with an arched brow and gave him a long, knowing
look.
"The National Archives, eh? Well, that should be a lot less dangerous
than tapping into Langley," Yaeger acceded with a shrug.
"That's the old Silicon Valley hacker I know and love," Dirk replied
with a laugh.
"Give me a couple of hours and I'll see what I can do."
"Max," Dirk said, looking at the transparent woman in the eye, thank
you for the information." "My pleasure, Dirk," she replied seductively. "I'm happy to be at your
service any time."
Then, in an instant, she vanished. Yaeger already had his nose against
a computer monitor, fingers flying over a keyboard, completely
engrossed in his subversive mission at hand.
At promptly ten o'clock, Dirk entered a plush executive conference
room, still carrying the large duffel bag over his shoulder. Thick
azure carpet under his feet complemented the dark cherrywood conference
table and matching wood paneling on the walls, which were dotted with
ancient oil paintings of American Revolutionary warships. A thick pane
of glass stretched the length of one wall, offering a bird's-eye view
of the Potomac River and the Washington Mall across the water. Seated
at the table, two stone-faced men in dark suits listened attentively as
a diminutive man in horn-rimmed glasses discussed the Deep Endeavor's
recent events in the Aleutian Islands. Rudi Gunn stopped in
mid-sentence and popped to his feet as Dirk entered the room.
"Dirk, good of you to return to Washington so quickly," he greeted
warmly, his bright blue eyes beaming through the thick pair of
eyeglasses. "Glad to see your ferry landing injuries were minor," he
added, eyeing Dirk's swollen lip and bandaged cheek. "My companion broke her leg, but I managed to escape with just a fat
lip. We fared a little better than the other guys," he said with a
smirk, "whoever they were. It's good to see you again, Rudi," he
added, shaking the hand of NUMA's longtime assistant director.
Gunn escorted him over and introduced him to the other two men.
"Dirk, this is Jim Webster, Department of Homeland Security special
assistant, Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection," he
said, waving a hand toward a pale-skinned man with cropped blond hair,
"and Rob Jost, assistant director of Maritime and Land Security)
Transportation Security Administration, under DHS." A rotund,
bearish-looking man with a flush red nose nodded at Dirk without
smiling "We were discussing Captain Burch's report of your rescue of
the
CDC team on Yunaska Island," Gunn continued.
"A fortunate thing we happened to be in the area. I'm just sorry we
weren't able to reach the two Coast Guardsmen in time."
"Given the apparently high levels of toxins that were released near the
station, they really didn't have much of a chance from the beginning,"
Webster said. "You confirmed that they died from cyanide poisoning?" Dirk asked.
"Yes. How did you know? That information hasn't been made public."
"We recovered a dead sea lion from the island, which a CDC team in
Seattle examined after we returned. They found that it had been killed
by cyanide inhalation."
"That is consistent with the autopsy reports for the two Coast
Guardsmen."
"Have you uncovered any information on the boat that fired at us, and
presumably released the cyanide?"
After an uncomfortable pause, Webster replied, "No additional
information has been obtained. Unfortunately, the description provided
matches a thousand other fishing boats of its kind. It is not believed
to have been a local vessel, and we are now working with the Japanese
authorities to investigate leads in their country."
"So you believe there is a Japanese connection. Any ideas on why
someone would launch a chemical attack on a remote weather station in
the Aleutians?"
"Mr. Pitt," Jost interrupted, "did you know the men who tried to kill you in Seattle?"
"Never saw them before. They appeared to be semiprofessionals, more
than just a pair of hired street hoods."
Webster opened a file on the table before him and slid over a crinkled
photograph in the form of a small postcard. Dirk silently looked at
the black-and-white image of a hardened Japanese woman of fifty glaring
violently into the camera lens.
"An homage card of Fusako Shigenobu, former revolutionary leader of the
JRA," Webster continued. "Found it in the wallet of one of your
would-be assassins after we fished them out of the sound."
"What's the JRA?" Dirk asked.
"The Japanese Red Army. An international terrorist cell that dates to
the seventies. Believed to have been broken up with the arrest of
Shigenobu in 2000, they appear to have staged a deadly resurgence in
activity."
"I've read that the prolonged weakness in Japan's economy has spawned
renewed interest in fringe cults by the Japanese youth," Gunn added.
"The JRA has attracted more than a few bored youths. They have claimed
responsibility for the assassinations of our ambassador to Japan and deputy chief of mission, as well as the explosion at the SemCon plant
in Chiba. These were all very professional hits. The public outrage,
as you are no doubt aware, is straining our relations with Tokyo."
"We suspect the JRA may have been behind the cyanide attack on Yunaska,
as a prelude to a more deadly strike in a major urban area," Jost
added.
"And also behind the smallpox infection of the Yunaska scientist Irv
Fowler," Dirk stated.
"We have not established that link," Webster countered. "Our analysts
suspect that the scientist may have contracted the disease in
Un-alaska, from a local Aleut. Japanese authorities do not believe the
JRA is sophisticated enough to obtain and disperse the smallpox
virus."
"I might think otherwise," Dirk cautioned.
"Mr. Pitt, we are not here to gather your conspiracy theories," Jost
remarked in a belittling tone. "We are just interested in learning
what
^ JRA agents were doing in the country and why they tried to kill a
Iv[UMA diver." "That's special projects director," Dirk replied as he hoisted the
duffel bag up onto the conference table. Then, giving it a strong
shove, he pushed the bag across the table in the direction of Jost. The
arrogant transportation security director scrambled to hoist a cup of
coffee out of the way before the bag slid up against his chest.
"Your answer is in there," Dirk stated brusquely.
Webster stood and unzipped the bag as Jost and Gunn looked on intently.
Carefully wrapped in foam padding was a large section of the bomb
canister that Dirk had recovered from the I-403. The silver-porcelain
casing was split open, revealing a segmented interior, with several
empty compartments positioned beneath a small nose tip component.
"What is it?" Gunn asked.
"A sixty-year-old dirty bomb," Dirk replied. He then retold the story
of the World War II attack on Fort Stevens, his discovery of the
submarine, and the retrieval of the bomb canister.
"An ingenious weapon," Dirk continued. "I had the epidemiology lab in
Washington test for trace elements, to see what was armed in the
payload section."
"It's made of porcelain," Webster noted. "Used to protect biological agents. The nose cone had a simple timed
explosive, designed to detonate at a pre specified altitude to disperse
the main payload armament. As you can see, it would have been a pretty
small charge. Enough to shatter the porcelain casing but not damage
the payload with undue heat or pressure."
Dirk pointed to the interior payload compartments, which were
cigar-shaped and stretched nearly to the tail fins.
"It's not clear whether the payload agents were mixed together during
flight or upon detonation. But the bomb could obviously carry multiple
compounds. The contents might be one or more biological agents with a
booster, or a combination of biological or chemical
agents. The CDC lab was only able to find a trace chemical agent in
one of the compartments on this particular bomb." '
"Cyanide?" Gunn asked. "None other," Dirk replied.
"But why utilize more than one payload?" Webster queried. "To ensure
a specific kill zone, and perhaps divert attention. Let's say cyanide
was combined with a biological agent. The cyanide gas would have a
high lethality in a concentrated area only, whereas the biological
agent would create gradual problems over a larger region. Cyanide gas also dissipates quickly, so attack survivors would reenter the drop
zone unaware of a secondary danger. But that's just speculation. It's
possible the canister design was for a different intent, to strike with
a mixture of several chemical agents or biological agents that would
produce a higher lethality in combination."
"So what additional agents were on this bomb?" Gunn asked. Dirk shook
his head slowly. "That, we don't know. The lab technicians were
unable to detect any remaining trace elements from the other
compartments. We know that the reason for using porcelain was to house
biological agents, but the Japanese experimented with all kinds of
organisms, so it could be anything from bubonic plague to yellow
fever."
"Or smallpox?" Gunn asked. "Or smallpox," Dirk confirmed.
Jost's face glowed beet red. "This is a preposterous fantasy," he
grumbled. "The history lesson is interesting but irrelevant. A modern
terrorist group salvaging weapons off a World War Two submarine? A
nice story, but how are your biological viruses going to survive under
the sea for sixty years, Mr. Pitt? We know the Japanese Red Army.
It's a small, tight-knit organization with limited sophistication.
Political assassination and planted explosives are within their means.
Deep-sea salvage and microbiology are not."
"I have to agree with Rob," Webster added in a muted tone. "Although the cyanide canister is an interesting coincidence with the Yunaska attack, the fact is that cyanide is a compound readily obtainable
from many sources. You've admitted that there is no traceable evidence
supporting the smallpox source. And we don't know for sure if the
missing bomb canister on the sub was lost somewhere else on the vessel
or was even loaded on board in the first place."
Dirk reached over to the duffel bag and unzipped a side pocket, pulling
out the still-blinking digital timer he'd found in the torpedo room.
"Maybe you can at least find out where this came from," he said,
handing it to Webster.
"Could have been left behind by a sport diver," Jost noted.
"A sport diver with a possessive disposition, apparently," Dirk
remarked drily. "I've been shot at twice now. I don't know who these
characters are, but they take their game seriously."
"I assure you, we have a full investigation under way," Webster stated.
"I'll have our lab in Quantico reanalyze the bomb casing and take a
look at the timer. We will find the perpetrators who caused the death
of the two Coast Guardsmen." The words were firm, but the hollow tone
in his voice revealed his lack of confidence in the outcome.
"We can offer a safe house for you, Mr. Pitt, until we have made an
apprehension," he added. "No, thanks. If these people are who you say they are, then I should
have nothing more to fear. After all, how many JRA operatives can they
have in the country?" Dirk asked with a penetrating glare.
Webster and Jost looked at each other in unknowing silence. Gunn
jumped in diplomatically.
"We appreciate your investigation into the loss of our helicopter," he
said, gently ushering the men to the door. "Please keep us advised as
to any new developments, and, of course, NUMA will be happy to assist
in any way we can."
After they left the room, Dirk sat silently shaking his head.
"They've hushed up the Yunaska incident because they are getting so
much flak for the unsolved assassinations in Japan," Gunn said.
Homeland Security and the FBI are stymied and are relying on the
Japanese authorities to make a break in the case. The last thing they
want to admit, on top of that, is that the smallpox case was part of
the attack, with just one victim and no terrorists."
"The evidence may be weak, but there is no reason to foolishly ignore an attack on our own soil," Dirk stated.
"I'll speak to the admiral about it. The director of the FBI is an old
tennis partner of his. He'll make sure it doesn't get brushed under
the carpet."
They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the lean face
of Yaeger poking in.
"Sorry to intrude. Dirk, I have something for you."
"Come in, Hiram. Rudi and I were just plotting the overthrow of the
government. Was Max able to access the National Archives' secure
records?"
"Does McDonald's have golden arches?" Yaeger replied, feigning
insult.
Gunn gave Dirk a sideways glance, then shook his head in amusement. "If
you guys get caught on a security breach, do me a favor and blame it on
your father, will you?"
Dirk laughed. "Sure, Rudi. What did you find, Hiram?"
"The Naval Ministry records were somewhat limited. It's a shame that
most all of the original documents were returned to the Japanese government in the fifties. The available records in the archives are,
of course, written in Japanese, using a variety of dialects, so I had
to set up several translation programs before I could initiate a
scan."
Yaeger paused and poured himself a cup of coffee from a large silver
urn before continuing.
"As it is, you are in luck. I found a log of operations orders from
the Japanese Sixth Fleet covering the last six months of 1944."
"Including the I-403?" Dirk asked.
"Yep. Its mission of December 1944 evidently had high importance. It
was approved by the fleet admiral himself. The actual sailing order
was short and sweet."
Yaeger pulled a sheet of paper from a thin folder and read aloud.
""Proceed northerly route to Pacific West Coast, refueling Amchitka
(Moriokd). Initiate aerial strike with Maka^e ordnance earliest practicable. Primary Target: Tacoma, Seattle, Vancouver, Victoria.
Alternate Target: Alameda, Oakland, San Francisco. With the emperor's
blessing." "
"That's a pretty ambitious target list for just two planes," Gunn
remarked. "Think about it, though," Dirk said. "The cities are concentrated
enough all to be reached on a single flyover. Two or three biological
bombs per city would wreak deadly havoc, if that's in fact what they
were. Hiram, you said the ordnance was referred to as Maka^e. St.
Julien Perlmutter found mention of the same term. Any information on
what they were?"
"I was curious about that myself," Yaeger replied. "I found that the
'iferal translation was 'evil wind' or 'black wind." But there was no
additional information in the official naval records."
Yaeger paused and sat back in his chair with a knowing, look.
"Well, did you find anything else?" Gunn finally goaded.
"It was Max, actually," Yaeger replied proudly. "After exhausting the
National Archives data, I had her search the public databases in the
U.S. and Japan. In a Japanese genealogy database, she hit pay dirt,
locating an obscure diary from a sailor who served aboard the I-403
during the war." Holding a printout up to his face, he continued.
"Mechanic First Class Hiroshi Sakora, Imperial Navy Air Corps, was a
lucky devil. He came down with appendicitis while the sub was crossing
the Pacific on its fateful voyage in December of 1944 and was
transferred off the boat and onto the refueling ship in the Aleutian Islands. All his shipmates, of course, went on to perish when the sub
was sunk off Washington State."
"And he made mention of the I-403's mission?" Dirk asked.
"In vivid detail. It turns out that the young Mr. Sakora, in addition
to his aircraft mechanic duties, was also in charge of aerial
ordnance
for the submarine's airplanes. He wrote that before they left port on
their final voyage, an Army officer named Tanaka brought aboard an
unusual type of aerial bomb that was to be used on the mission. The
shipboard morale became very high, he added, when the crew learned they
were to make an attack on the United States. But there was much
mystery and speculation about the unknown weapon."
"Did he identify what it was?" Gunn pressed.
"He tried to, but working with the fellow Tanaka was difficult. "A
gloomy, overbearing, obstinate taskmaster," he wrote about the
officer.
Typical Army-Navy rivalry, I suppose, plus the submariners didn't like
his being a last-minute addition to the sailing crew. At any rate, he
pressed Tanaka for information, but to no avail. Finally, just before he fell ill and was transferred off the sub in the Aleutians, he
wriggled the information out of one of the pilots. The pilot, so the
story goes,
shared some sake with Tanaka and was able to pry the secret payload out
of him. It was smallpox."
"Good God, so it's true!" Gunn exclaimed.
"Apparently so. He wrote that the payload was a freeze-dried virus,
which was to be detonated and dispersed at altitude above the most
concentrated population points of each city. Within two weeks, an
outbreak of smallpox was expected all along the West Coast. With a
thirty percent mortality rate, the deaths would have been staggering.
The Japanese figured the resulting panic would allow them to negotiate
a peace settlement on their terms."
"The threat of more smallpox bombs on our home soil might very well
have changed the resolve of many people to finish the war, Gunn
speculated.
An uneasiness crept over the room as the three considered how history
may have played out differently had the I-403 successfully completed
its mission. Their thoughts then turned to the possibility of a more
current threat. "You mentioned that the virus was freeze-dried. So they must have had the ability to store the virus for long periods and then rejuvenate it," Dirk commented.
"Necessary for a long sea voyage," Yaeger added. "According to Max
the Japanese had difficulty in keeping the viruses alive in their munitions for any length of time. They ultimately perfected a way of
freeze-drying the virus, for easier handling and longer storage, until
the need for activation when deployed. Insert a little H2O and you're
in business."
"So the virus could still be a viable danger, even after sixty years at
the bottom of the sea," Gunn remarked. "I guess that answers Jost's
question."
"There's no reason the smallpox wouldn't survive in freeze-dried form
if the canisters hadn't cracked during sinking. Since they're made of
porcelain, the canisters could survive intact for centuries
underwater," Dirk said. "Might also explain the various interior
segments to the bomb. A compartment with water was needed to
rejuvenate the virus."
"Perhaps it was more fortunate than we know that all but one of the
canisters were demolished on the I-403," Gunn remarked.
"That still leaves one canister unaccounted for," Dirk replied. "Yes, as well as the other mission ordnance," Yaeger added.
Dirk and Gunn looked at each other. "What other mission?" Gunn asked
incredulously.
"The I-411."
Yaeger felt their eyes boring right through him.
"Didn't you know?" he asked. "There was a second submarine, the
I-411. It, too, was armed with the Maka^e ordnance and was sent to
attack the eastern seaboard of the United States," Yaeger said quietly,
realizing he had just dropped a bomb of his own.
It had been a long day for Takeo Yoshida. A crane operator for the
Yokohama Port Development Corporation, Yoshida had toiled since six in
the morning loading an aged Iberian freighter with container after
container of Japanese consumer electronics bound for export. He had
just secured the last of the metal containers onto the ship's deck when
a radio crackled in the crane's control cabin.
"Yoshida, this is Takagi," the deep voice of his foreman grumbled.
"Report to Dock D-5 upon completion with San Sebastian. A single
loading for the vessel Baekje. Takagi, out." "Affirmed, Takagi-san," Yoshida answered, holding his disdain under his
breath. Just twenty minutes to go on his shift and Takagi gives him a
last-minute assignment across the shipyard. Securing the crane,
Yoshida walked eight hundred yards across the Honmoku Port Terminal
toward Dock D-5, cursing Takagi's name with each step he took. As he
approached the end of the pier, he glanced beyond at the waters of the
bustling port of Yokohama, where a constant stream of commercial ships
jockeyed into position for loading and unloading.
With three hundred meters of waterfront, container terminal D-5 was big enough to handle the largest cargo ships afloat. Yoshida was
surprised to find the vessel tied to the dock was not the typical jumbo
containership awaiting a load of industrial cargo but a special-purpose
cable ship. Yoshida even recognized the Baekje as having been built in
the nearby Mitsubishi Heavy Industries shipyard. At 436 feet long and
with a beam of 133 feet, the stout vessel was designed to lay
fiber-optic cable on the seafloor while withstanding the turbulent seas
of the North Pacific. With a modern-appearing superstructure and white
paint that still glistened, Yoshida could tell that it had not been
many years since the high-tech ship slid into Yokohama Bay for the
first time. She sported a Korean flag above the bridge mast and a blue
lightning bolt across the funnel, which Yoshida recalled was the
signature of a Kang Enterprises vessel. Short on Korean history, the
crane operator did not know that her name, Baekje, represented one or
the early Korean tribal kingdoms that dominated the peninsula in the
third century a.d. A pair of dockworkers was securing cables beneath an oblong object on
the bed of a large flatbed truck when one of the men turned and greeted
Yoshida as he approached.
"Hey, Takeo, ever fly a submarine before?" the man yelled.
Yoshida returned a confused look before realizing that the object on
the back of the truck was a small white submersible.
"Takagi says our shift is over once we get it aboard," the man
continued, displaying a missing front tooth as he spoke. "Lay it
aboard and let's go get some Sapporo's."
"Is she secure?" Yoshida asked, waving a hand at the submersible.
"All ready," the second man replied eagerly, a young kid of nineteen
^ho Yoshida knew had just started work on the docks a few weeks
before.
A few yards away, Yoshida noticed a stocky bald man with dark eyes
surveying the scene near the ship's gangway. A menacing quality
lingered over the man, Yoshida thought. He'd been in enough scrapes in
the nearby shipyard bars to recognize which men were legitimate tough
guys and which were pretenders. This man was no pretender, he
judged. Shifting thoughts to the taste of a cold Sapporo beer, Yoshida climbed
up a high ladder into the cab of the adjacent container crane and fired
up its diesel motor. Adeptly working the levers like a concert pianist
tickling the ivories, he expertly adjusted the movable boom and sliding
block until satisfied, then dropped the hook and block quickly toward
the ground, halting it dead center a few inches above the submersible.
The two dockworkers quickly slipped a pair of cables over the hoist
hook and gave Yoshida the thumbs-up sign. Ever so gently, the crane
operator pulled up on the hoist line, the thick cable drawing tight as
it wrapped around a drum behind the cab. Slowly, Yoshida raised the
twenty-four-ton submersible to a height of fifty feet, hesitating as he
waited for its twisting motion to halt before swinging it over to a
waiting pad on the Baekje's rear deck. But he never got the chance.
Before it could be seen, and almost before it physically started,
Yoshida's experienced hands could feel something wrong through the
controls. One of the cables had not been properly secured to the
submersible and the tail suddenly slipped down and through a loop in
the cable. In an instant, the rear of the sub lunged down and the
white metal capsule hung vertically at a grotesque angle, clinging
precariously to the single cable wrapped around its nose. Yoshida didn't breathe, and, for a moment, it looked like the dangling submersible
would stabilize. But before he could move it an inch, a loud twang
burst through the air as the lone securing cable snapped. Like a toon
of bricks, the submersible dropped straight to the dock below, landing on its tail with an accordion like smash before plopping over on its
side in distress.
Yoshida grimaced, already thinking of the grief he would suffer at the
hands of Takagai, as well as the reams of insurance paperwork he would
be forced to fill out. Thankfully, no one was hurt on the dock. As he
climbed down from the crane's cab to inspect the damage, Yoshida
glanced at the bald man on the gangway, expecting to see a seething
fury. Instead, the mysterious man looked back at him with a cold face
of stone. The dark eyes, however, seemed to pierce right through
him.
The Shinkai three-man submersible was heavily mashed on one end and
clearly inoperable. It would be shipped back to its home at the
Japanese Marine Science and Technology Center for three months' worth
of repairs before it would be seaworthy again. The two dock-workers
did not fare as well. Though not fired, Yoshida noticed that the two
men did not show up for work the next day, and, in fact, were never
seen or heard from again.
Twenty hours later and 250 miles farther to the southwest, an American
commercial jetliner touched down at Osaka's modern Kan-sai
International Airport and taxied to the international gate. Dirk
stretched his six-foot-four frame as he exited the plane, relieved to
be free from the cramped airline seating that only a jockey would find comfortable. Passing quickly through the customs checkpoint, he
entered the busy main terminal crowded with businessmen hustling to
catch their flights. Stopping briefly, it took just a momentary scan
of the terminal before he picked out the woman he was looking for from
the mass of humanity.
Standing nearly six feet tall with shoulder-length flaming red hair, his
fraternal twin sister Summer towered like a beacon in a sea of
black-haired Japanese. Her pearl gray eyes glistened and her soft
mouth broke into a grin as she spotted her brother and waved him over to
her.
"Welcome to Japan," she gushed, giving him a hug. "How was your
flight?"
"Like riding in a sardine can with wings."
"Good, then you'll feel right at home in the cabin berth I scraped up
for you on the Sea Rover" she laughed.
"I was afraid you wouldn't be here yet," Dirk remarked as he collected
his luggage and they made their way to the parking lot.
"When Captain Morgan received word from Rudi that we were to terminate
our study of pollutants along the eastern coast of Japan to assist in
an emergency search-and-recovery mission, he wasted no time in responding. Fortunately, we were working not far off Shikoku when we
got the call so were able to reach Osaka this morning."
Like her brother, Summer had possessed a deep love of the sea since
childhood. After obtaining a master's degree in oceanography from the
Scripps Institute, she'd joined her brother at NUMA following a uniting
with their father, who now headed up the undersea organization. As
headstrong and resourceful as her sibling, she'd gained respect in the
field with her knowledge and hands-on abilities, while her attractive
looks never failed to turn heads.
Leading Dirk past a row of parked cars, Summer suddenly stopped in
front of a tiny orange Suzuki subcompact parked by itself.
"Oh, no, not another knee-crusher," Dirk laughed as he surveyed the
tiny vehicle.
"A loaner from the Port Authority. You'll be surprised."
After carefully wedging his gear into the minuscule hatchback, Dirk
opened the left-side door and prepared to pretzel himself into the
passenger seat. To his amazement, the interior of the right-hand-drive
car proved roomy, with a low sitting position creating ample headroom
for the two six-footers. Summer jumped into the driver's seat and
threaded their way out of the parking lot and onto the Hanshin Expressway-Heading north toward downtown Osaka, she accelerated the
little Suzuki hard, zipping in and out of traffic, for the
twelve-kilometer drive to the city's port terminal. Exiting the
expressway, she turned the car into the Osaka South Port Intermodal
Terminal and down a side dock before pulling up in front of the Sea
Rover.
The NUMA research vessel was a slightly newer and larger version of the
Deep Endeavor, complete with matching turquoise paint scheme. Dirk's
eyes were drawn to the stern deck, where a bright orange submersible
called the Starfish sat glistening like a setting sun.
"Welcome aboard, Dirk," boomed the deep voice of Robert Morgan, the
master of the Sea Rover. A bearded bear of a man, Morgan resembled a
muscular version of Burl Ives. The jovial captain held an amazing
array of seagoing experience, having commanded everything from a
Mississippi River tugboat to a Saudi Arabian oil tanker. Having salted
away a healthy retirement sum from his commercial captain days, Morgan
joined NUMA for the pure adventure of sailing to unique corners of the
globe. Deeply admired by his crew, the skipper of the Sea Roverwas a
highly organized leader who possessed an acute attention to detail.
After storing Dirk's bags, the threesome adjourned to a starboard-side
conference room whose porthole windows offered a serene view of Osaka
Harbor. They were joined by First Officer Tim Ryan, a lanky man with
ice blue eyes. Dirk grabbed a cup of coffee to regain alertness after his long flight while Morgan got down to business.
"Tell us about this urgent search-and-recovery mission. Gunn was
rather vague with the details over the satellite phone."
Dirk recapped the Yunaska incident and the recovery of the I-403's bomb
canister and what had been learned of the sub's failed mission.
"When HiramYaeger reviewed the Japanese naval records in the National
Archives, he discovered a near-duplicate operations order that was
issued to a second submarine, the I-411. It had the same mission, only
to cross the Atlantic and strike New York and Philadelphia instead of
the West Coast."
"What became of the I-411?" Summer asked.
"That's what we're here to find out. Yaeger was unable to uncover any
definitive information on the I-411's final whereabouts, other than that she failed to appear for a refueling rendezvous near Singapore and
was presumed lost in the South China Sea. I contacted St. Julien
Perlmutter, who took it a step further and found an official Japanese
naval inquiry which placed the loss in the middle of the East China Sea
sometime during the first few weeks of 1945. Perlmutter noted that
those facts matched up to a report from the American submarine
Swordfish that she had engaged and sunk a large enemy submarine in that
region during the same time frame. Unfortunately, the Swordfish was later destroyed on the same mission so the full accounting was never
documented. Their radio report did provide an approximate coordinate
of the sinking, however."
"So it's up to us to find the I-411" Morgan said matter-of-factly.
Dirk nodded. "We need to ensure that the biological bombs were
destroyed when the submarine went down, or recover them if they are
still intact."
Summer stared out one of the porthole windows at a skyscraper in
distant downtown Osaka. "Dirk, Rudi Gunn briefed us about the Japanese
Red Army. Could they have already recovered the biological weapons
from the I-411?"
"Yes, that's a possibility. Homeland Security and the FBI don't seem
to think the JRA has the resources to conduct a deep-water salvage
operation and they're probably right. But, then, all it would take is
money, and who's to say how well funded they, or an associate terrorist
group, may be. Rudi agrees that we better make sure one way or the
other."
The room fell silent as all minds visualized a cache of deadly
biological bombs sitting deep below the ocean's surface and the
consequence if they fell into the wrong hands. "You've got the best ship and crew in NUMA at your disposal," Morgan
finally said. "We'll get her done."
"Captain, we've got a pretty large search area on our hands. How soon
can we be under way?" Dirk asked.
"We'll need to top off our fuel supplies, plus two or three of the
crew
still ashore obtaining additional provisions. I expect we can be under way in six hours," Morgan said, glancing at a wall chronometer.
"Fine. I'll retrieve the search coordinates and provide them to the
ship's navigator right away."
As they exited the conference room, Summer tugged at Dirk's elbow.
"So what did the data from Perlmutter cost you?" she chided, knowing
the gourmet historian's penchant for culinary blackmail.
"Nothing much. Just a jar of pickled sea urchins and an
eighty-year-old bottle of sake."
"You found those in Washington, D.C.?" Dirk gave his sister a pleading look of helplessness.
"Well," she laughed, "we do have six more hours in port."
But, Dae-jong, opening the gates to the North is not going to provide
me a usable, skilled labor pool," the CEO of South Korea's largest auto
manufacturer asserted before taking a puff on a large Cuban cigar.
Sitting across a mahogany cocktail table, Dae-jong Kang shook his head
politely as a long-legged waitress brought a second round of drinks to
the table. Their conversation halted while the young Chaebel Club
waitress placed their drinks in front of them. The club was a private
enclave for Korea's super rich and powerful, a secure and neutral
meeting place where huge deals were hammered out over kimchi and
martinis. The aristocratic club was appropriately housed on the
hundredth floor of the world's tallest building, the recently completed
International Business Center Tower located in western Seoul.
"You must consider the lower labor wages. Retraining costs would be
minor and recouped in no time. My staff has analyzed the prospects and
told me I could save twenty million dollars a year in labor costs
if we could draw on manpower from North Korea at their current
equivalent wage rate. I can only imagine what your potential auto
anufacturing savings would be. Suppose instead of expanding your Tllsan manufacturing facility, you built an entirely new plant in the
orthern province of Yanggang. How would that improve your
competitiveness on the world markets, not to mention open access to the
northern consumers?"
"Yes, but it is not so easy for me. I have unions to contend with, as
well as capital budget constraints. I certainly can't throw people out
on the street at Ulsan and rehire workers from the North at half the
price. Besides, there's a whole mind-set that we'll need to contend
with if we bring on the northern worker. After all, no socialist state
was ever admired for its devotion to quality output."
"Nothing that a dose of retraining and a taste of capitalistic wages
wouldn't quickly solve," Kang countered.
"Perhaps. But, face it, there is no consumer market for automobiles in
the North. The country is an economic mess, and the average man on the
street is primarily concerned with putting a meal on the table. The
disposable income just isn't there to aid my industry."
"Yes, but you are looking at the present, not the future. Our two
countries are on an inescapable collision course toward unification,
and those that are prepared today will reap the riches tomorrow. You
had the vision to expand your manufacturing presence to India and the
United States and now you are a major player in the auto industry. Have the vision of a unified Korea and help place our homeland at the
forefront of world leadership."
The auto exec blew a large puff of blue cigar smoke toward the ceiling
as he contemplated Kang's words. "I can see the wisdom in your
thinking. I'll have my strategy office look into it, perhaps work up
some contingencies. I'm not sure I have the stomach for dealing with
the political issues and approvals, with both the North and South
Korean governments, to establish a presence in the North just yet," he hedged.
Kang set down his vodka gimlet and smiled. "I have friends and
influence in both governments that can come to your aid when the time
is right," he replied with understatement.
"Most gracious of you. And there is something I can do for you; my
good friend, in return?" the exec replied with a smirk.
"The resolution in the National Assembly to expel the U.S. military
from our soil is gaining momentum," Kang answered. "Your support of
the resolution would sway a good deal of political opinion."
"The embarrassing news incidents with the American military personnel
are admittedly making things touchy in some areas of our business.
However, I am not convinced the security concerns regarding an American
force withdrawal are unfounded." "Of course they are," Kang lied. "The American presence promotes
aggression from the North. Their removal will only stabilize relations
between our countries and allow our ultimate reunification."
"You really think it's the right thing to do?"
"It could make us very rich men, Song-woo," Kang replied.
"We already are," the auto executive laughed as he snuffed out his
cigar in a porcelain ashtray. "We already are."
Kang shook hands good-bye with his fellow industrialist, then took a
quick ear-popping elevator ride a hundred floors down to the lobby of
the sprawling business center. An accompanying bodyguard attired in
black spoke into a handheld radio, and, seconds later, a red Bentley
Arnage RL limousine pulled up to the curb to collect them. As Kang
rode silently in the leather-bound backseat, he allowed a sense of
self-congratulations to overtake him.
The plan of events was going better than expected. The staged murder
of a young girl by the American airman had caused widespread outrage
across the country. Mothers were staging numerous protests outside of
American military bases, while a mob of loud anotous college students had marched on the U.S. embassy. Kang's corporate
administrative staff had orchestrated an intense letter-writing
campaign that bombarded a score of local politicians with demands to oust the foreign armed forces. And Kang's extortion of several
National Assembly leaders had initiated the political resolution that
South Korea's president would soon have to contend with. Now he was
working the business leadership community, which had the real clout
with both the media and the members of the National Assembly.
The North Korean leadership in Pyongyang was doing their part in the
deception by talking up reunification on every public front. As a
goodwill gesture signaling improved relations, they temporarily lifted
a majority of the travel restrictions to the north. With additional
fanfare, they announced that an army armored division was being pulled
back from the DMZ in a peaceful move, though failed to admit that they
were just being repositioned a short distance away. Facts to the
contrary, a peaceful and friendly front was being promoted in the
spirit that a Madison Avenue ad exec would admire.
The Bentley drove into downtown Seoul, turning through the gates of a
nondescript low-rise glass building marked with a small sign, stating
simply: kang enterprises-semiconductor division. The luxury car
continued past a crowded parking lot, then down a small alleyway that
led to the back of the building and the shoreline of the Han River. The
driver stopped in front of a private dock, where Kang's Italian motor
yacht was tied up. A servant welcomed Kang and his bodyguard aboard as
the engines were started, and, before he had entered the main cabin,
the yacht was cast off for its commute back to Kang's estate. Kang's assistant, Kwan, bowed as the tycoon entered a small inte-"or
cabin he used as a working office aboard the boat. As was his
tradition, Kwan provided daily briefings to his boss, either on board
the yacht or at the estate, at the end of each workday. A pile of
two-page briefing reports that bested the intelligence reports of many
Western
leaders lay stacked on the table. Kang quickly scanned the assorted
briefings, which detailed everything from forecast quarterly earnings
at his telecom subsidiary, to military exercises of the South Korean
army, to personal profiles of which politician was cheating on his
wife. Items related to subversive activities or from protected sources
were printed on a special orange paper that dissolved when immersed in
water and were destroyed immediately after Kang's viewing.
After addressing a number of business issues, Kang rubbed his eyes and
asked, "What have we heard from Tongju on the Back/e?"
Kwan's face visibly paled. "We have a problem with the marine
equipment for the recovery operation," he replied tentatively. "The
Japanese submersible we leased was damaged while being transported to
the Baekje. It was the fault of some careless dockworkers."
Kwan watched as a vein stood out on Kang's temple and began throbbing
violently. The anger rose quickly in the man but came out in a controlled hiss.
"This bungling must stop! First we lose two of our agents in America
on a simple assassination attempt and now this. How long before
repairs to the damage can be completed?"
"At least three months. The Shinkai is out," Kwan said quietly.
"We have a timetable to adhere to," Kang replied with agitation. "We're
talking days, not months."
"I have initiated a complete search of available submersibles in the
region. The other potential Japanese deep-water submersible is
undergoing a refit, and all the Russian vessels are currently operating
in Western waters. The nearest available submersible that is suitable
for the recovery is a Ukrainian vessel currently operating in the
Indian Ocean. It will take three weeks to have her on-site,
however."
"That is too late," Kang mumbled. "The momentum we have built in the
National Assembly for the referendum is peaking. There will be a
forced vote within a few weeks. We must act before then. I need not
remind you that we had committed to strike during the G8 assemblage,"
he said, his eyes simmering with anger. An anguished silence filled the room. Then Kwan ventured to speak.
"Sir, there may be another option. We were told that an American
scientific research vessel has been operating in Japanese waters with a
deep-sea submersible. I was able to track the vessel down earlier
today as it was taking on fuel in Osaka. It is a NUMA ship, fully
capable of deep-water recovery."
"NUMA again?" Kang mused. His face pinched up as he contemplated the
successful foundation he had laid for the project and the potential
risk of delay. Finally, he nodded his head at Kwan.
"It is imperative that we initiate the recovery as soon as possible.
Obtain the American submersible, but do it quietly and without
incident."
"Tongju is there to lead the operation," Kwan replied confidently. "At
your instructions, he will proceed. He will not fail us."
"See to it," Kang replied, his dark eyes boring through Kwan with
seething intolerance.
Six-foot swells carrying caps of white foam atop their shoulders pushed
and prodded at the Sea Rover, causing her decks to roll gently with the
undulating seas. A high-pressure front was slowly moving out of the
East China Sea, and Captain Morgan noted with satisfaction that the strong southerly winds had gradually softened since they had entered
the sea located southeast of the Japanese mainland the night before. As
Morgan watched from the bridge, a gray dawn slowly washed the research
ship in a bath of muted light. Near the rising and falling bow, he
spotted a solitary figure standing at the rail scanning the horizon. A
wavy patch of black hair could be seen fluttering in the wind above the
upturned collar of his navy blue foul-weather jacket.
Dirk breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air, tasting the damp
saltiness of it on his tongue. The ocean always invigorated him, both
physically and mentally, the blue vastness providing a tranquil tonic
that
Uowed him to think and act more clearly. Not one capable of working
behind a desk, he was addicted to the outdoors, flourishing when at one
with what Mother Nature had to offer.
After watching a pair of gulls arc lazily above the ship in search of a
morning meal, he made his way aft and climbed up to the elevated
bridge. Morgan thrust a steaming mug of coffee into his hand as he
entered the ship's control room.
"You're up early," the captain boomed, a jovial grin on his face even
at the early hour of the day. "Didn't want to miss out on any of the fun," Dirk replied, taking a
long draw at the coffee. "I figured we would be approaching the search
area shortly after dawn."
"Pretty near," Morgan said. "We're about forty minutes from the
Swordfisffs reported position where she sank the Japanese sub."
"What's the depth here?"
A young helmsman in a blue jumpsuit eyed the depth monitor and crisply
announced, "Depth 920 feet, sir."
"Looks like territory for a deep-water AUV search," Dirk said.
"I'll have Summer wake up Audry and get her ready for work," Morgan
replied with a grin.
Audry was the variant of an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle, which the
NUMA scientists who built her had instead dubbed "Autonomous Underwater
Data Recovery Vehicle." A state-of-the-art self-propelled sensing
unit, Audry contained a side-scan sonar, a magnetometer, and a
sub-bottom profiler, all packaged into a torpedo-shaped casing that was
simply dropped over the side of the ship. The combined sensors
provided the capability to seismically map the seafloor for natural or
man-made objects, as well as peer beneath the seabed for buried
anomalies. The fish-shaped sensor could skim above the seafloor at a depth of five thousand feet, propelled by a powerful battery pack,
which eliminated the need for a lengthy and cumbersome tow cable.
As the Sea Rover approached the search area, Dirk assisted Sum* mer in
downloading the search parameters into Audry's navigatiot| computer.
"We'll use the side-scan sonar only so we can run wider search! lanes,"
Dirk instructed. "If the I-411 is out there, we ought to be able| to
see her sitting up off the bottom."
"How large a search grid?" Summer asked as she tapped instructions
into a laptop computer.
"We have only a rough fix from the Swordfish, so we'll likely have
plenty of ground to cover. Let's set the initial search grid at five
by five miles."
"That's still within range of the data relay system. I'll do a quick
systems check, then we should be ready to deploy."
As Audry's software program was reconfigured, the Sea Rover dropped a
pair of self-positioning transducers into the water at either end of
the search grid. With built-in GPS satellite receivers, the
transducers would relay underwater navigational guidance to Audry that
would enable the vehicle to run a precise back-and-forth grid pattern several dozen feet above the seafloor. Audry in return would upload
packets of data to the transducers at periodic intervals, detailing the
sonar's search results.
"Ready with the winch," a crewman's voice shouted.
Dirk gave the thumbs-up signal, then he and Summer watched as the
eight-foot-long, lemon-colored survey vehicle was lifted out of a rack
on the rear deck and lowered over the side railing into the water. A
white plume of spray from the tail indicated that Audry's small
propeller was churning, then the grips from the winch were let go.
Lunging like a thoroughbred out of the gates at Santa Anita, the
torpedo- shaped vehicle surged down the length of the Sea Rover before
submerging under a wave and into the depths.
"Audry has some legs on her," Dirk noted.
"She's undergone a recent modification and is now capable of running
her surveys at a speed of 9 knots."
"At that pace, she may not give me much time for my favorite part of
the search."
"What's that?" Summer asked, a quizzical look on her face.
"Why, having a beer and a peanut butter sandwich while waiting for the results," he grinned.
While Audry motored back and forth down neat imaginary lanes a hundred
feet above the seafloor, Summer monitored the vehicle's progress on a
computer display aboard the Sea Rover. At twenty-minute intervals, a
digital data upload was wirelessly transmitted from the transducers to
the ship, where further electronic processing converted the binary data
bits into a graphical image of the sonar readings. Dirk and Summer
took turns scanning through the images of the seabed, searching for
linear or angular shapes that might signify a shipwreck.
"Looks like a pepperoni pizza," Dirk mused as he studied the
rock-strewn bottom, seeing odd-shaped boulders that threw off round
shadows against the flat backdrop.
"Don't tell me you're hungry again," Summer replied, shaking her
head.
"No, but I bet Audry is. What kind of mileage does she get on a tank
of battery acid?"
"The batteries for high-speed operation are only designed to last eight
hours. We never run her past seven hours, though, to make sure she has
enough juice to propel herself from deep water to the surface. She's
been in the water now about six hours," Summer said, glancing at her watch, "so we'll need to call her back for a battery change within the
next hour."
A pop-up window suddenly appeared on the computer screen, signaling
receipt of the latest data upload.
"Only one more file to go till we've covered the first search box,"
remarked, standing up from his computer console chair and
stretching his arms. "I better identify the boundaries of the next
search grid. Can you take a look at the next data feed?"
"Sure, I'll just go ahead and find it for you," Summer joked as she
took his seat and typed a string of commands into the keyboard. A new
set of images appeared on the screen, a five-hundred-meter swath of
ocean bottom scrolling from top to bottom, which resembled the aerial
view of a hard-packed dirt road through the desert. Summer had
adjusted the color images in a golden hue so that the occasional rock
or mound on the bottom cast a brown-tinted shadow. She studied the
monitor closely, watching the same monotonous sea bottom glide by.
Suddenly, a dark smudge appeared on the top right side of the screen
and grew larger as the readings rolled down. The smudge was a shadow,
she quickly realized, created by a long tubular shape that was crisply
defined in a dark shade of russet.
"My word, there it is!" she squealed, surprised at her own voice. A small crowd gathered around Summer as she replayed the image at a
slow speed several times. The distinct outline of a submarine was
clearly evident, complete with an upright conning tower that cast a
long shadow to one side. The image roughened near one end of the
vessel, but Summer measured the object at well over three hundred
feet.
"Sure looks like a submarine, and a big one," she said, not sure
whether to trust her eyes.
"That's our baby," Dirk said confidently. "Looks just like the image
we scanned of the I-403."
"Nice work, Summer," Morgan offered as he approached the commotion.
"Thanks, Captain, but Audry did all the work. We better pull her
aboard before she makes her way to China."
Summer typed in a new handful of commands and a signal was relayed from
the transducers to the underwater vehicle. In a matter or seconds,
Audry terminated the search pattern and propelled herself upward, where
she broke the water's surface a quarter mile away from
the Sea Rover. Summer, Dirk, and Morgan watched as a retrieval team in a rubber Zodiac scooted over to the idling yellow sensor and clamped it
to the gunwale. The team slowly made their way back alongside the
research ship, where Audry was hoisted out of the water and replaced in
her cradle on the stern deck.
As the second of the two transducers was hoisted back aboard, Dirk
admired a large exploration vessel that was inching past them a mile
away, a Japanese flag wafting off its high bow platform.
"Cable-laying ship," Morgan said, catching Dirk's gaze. "She followed
us out of the Inland Sea."
"She's a beauty. Doesn't appear to be in any hurry," Dirk said, noting
the vessel's slow speed.
"Must be operating under a daily billing rate contract," Morgan
laughed, then turned his attention to ensuring the transducers were
securely aboard.
"Maybe," Dirk replied, smiling, but a vague caution tugged at the
recesses of his mind. He shook off the feeling and refocused his
thoughts on the task at hand. It was time to take a look. at the
I-411 up close and personal.
The crew of the Sea Rover wasted no time in making preparations to
investigate the submerged target. Captain Morgan brought the ship around and positioned it directly above the target, using the GPS
coordinates identified by Audry. Computerized side thrusters on the
research vessel were activated and the Sea Rover was parked in place,
constantly self-adjusting its position against the wind and current
with the thrusters to remain fixed within a few inches of the
designated mark.
On the aft deck, Dirk, Summer, and First Officer Ryan carefully walked
through a pre dive checklist for the Starfish. Specifically designed
for deep-water scientific exploration, the Starfish was a high-tech
submersible capable of operating in depths up to two thousand meters.
Resembling a giant translucent ball on a forklift, the Starfish
cat-tied two operators in a six-inch-thick reinforced acrylic bubble
that offered a panoramic view of the sea. Wedged into a bright orange
supporting buttress, the see-through sphere was filled with a myriad
of
sensors, still and video cameras, and coring devices. Four sets of
adjustable thrusters were mounted behind and beneath the bubble, which
provided the sub with a high degree of maneuverability. Adding to the
functionality were a pair of steel articulating arms mounted on either
side of the bubble, which could be used for collecting samples and
manipulating the multiple data analysis devices. Since the right
mechanical arm was larger in size than the left, the whole submersible
took on a crablike appearance when operating on the seafloor. "I think we're set," Summer said, eyeing the last item on her
clipboard. "You ready to get wet?"
"Only if I get to drive," Dirk grinned back.
Clad in aqua-colored NUMA jumpsuits, the two siblings threaded their
way into the tiny chamber through a hatch in the rear. Though cramped
inside, Dirk and Summer sat comfortably in a pair of padded captain's
chairs, which faced out the front of the acrylic bubble. Dirk slipped
on a communications headset and spoke to First Officer Ryan.
"This is Starfish," he said, checking the system. "Ready when you are,
Tim."
"Prepare for deployment," Ryan's voice rang back.
An overhead boom reeled up a thick cable attached to the submersible by
a pair of eyelets, raising the underwater vessel straight into the air
and suspending her three feet above the deck. As the Starfish hung
floating in the air, Ryan pushed a button on a side console and the
deck suddenly split open beneath the submersible, sliding on rollers to
either side of the deck. Exposed beneath the dangling submersible was
the pale green water of the East China Sea. Ryan hit another switch
and a circular band of underwater floodlights burst on, outlining the
perimeter of the large moon pool cut into the Sea Rover's rear hull section. A large meandering grouper was caught illuminated Dy the
sudden flash of light and quickly bolted from beneath the odd hole in
the ship's hull. The orange submersible was slowly dropped through the
hole and into the water, the lifting cable released after Dirk
confirmed that all systems were operational aboard the Starfish.
"Cable is released," Ryan's voice announced over Dirk's headset. "You
are free to swim. Happy hunting, guys."
"Thanks for the drop," Dirk answered. "I'll honk the horn when we get
back from the store."
Dirk tested the thrusters one last time as Summer opened a ballast
tank, allowing a flood of salt water to fill the chamber. Negative
buoyancy was quickly achieved and the submersible began slowly dropping
into the depths.
The pale green water gradually dissolved to brown, then faded to an
inky black as the Starfish sank deeper. Summer flicked on a switch and
a powerful bank of xenon arc lights illuminated their path, though
there was little to see in the murky water. Dependent on gravity to
reach the bottom, it took about fifteen minutes to make the nearly
thousand-foot descent to the seafloor. Despite the frigid water
temperatures outside, the occupants soon became warm from the
electronic equipment churning about them in the insulated acrylic and Summer finally turned on an air-conditioning unit to keep themselves
cool. Attempting to make the time go faster, Dirk rehashed a few of
Jack Dahlgren's stale jokes while Summer brought her brother up to date
on the sea pollutant survey taken off Japan's eastern coast.
At nine hundred feet, Summer began tweaking the buoyancy level to slow
their descent and avoid smacking hard on the bottom. Dirk noticed the
water visibility had cleared, though the seas were devoid of much life
at that depth. Gradually, through the murk, he eyed a familiar dark
shape looming up beneath them. "There she is. We're right on her."
The shadowy black superstructure of the I-411's conning tower reached
out to them like a tiny skyscraper as the Starfish descended amidships
of the giant submarine. Much like he had found with the I-403, Dirk
observed that the I-411 was sitting upright on the bottom, tilted at
just a fifteen-degree angle. Surface encrustation was much less severe
than on the I-403 and the big sub looked as if she had been
underwater only a few months, not years. Dirk activated the Starfish's
thrusters and backed away slightly from the approaching vessel while
Summer adjusted their buoyancy to remain neutral at 960 feet, just even
with the submarine's deck.
"She's enormous!" Summer exclaimed as her eyes took in the sub's huge
girth. Even with Starfish's bright lights, she could see only a
portion of the entire vessel. "Definitely not your run-of-the-mill World War Two U-boat," he replied.
"Let's see where she got hit."
Maneuvering the thrusters, Dirk propelled the submersible along a path
down the starboard flank of the submarine, gliding just a few feet
above its rounded topsides. Circling around the stern, Summer pointed
out the tips of the I-411's two giant bronze propellers poking out of
the muddy bottom. Moving forward along the port side, they traveled
about fifty feet before a huge gash appeared at the waterline.
"Torpedo hit number one," Dirk called out, eyeing the fatal impact from
one of the Swordfish's torpedoes. He positioned the Starfish so that
its lights shined into the irregular opening. Inside, a circular mass
of twisted and jagged metal shined back at them, like the open jaws of
an iron-toothed shark. Turning and moving forward again, the
submersible crept along the silent wreck another thirty feet before a
second opening appeared.
"Torpedo hit number two," Dirk said.
Unlike the first gash on the port flank, the second hole was oddly
centered higher up, along the edge of the topside deck, almost as if
the explosive force had been delivered from above. "You're right, this must have been the second torpedo impact," Summer
speculated. "The stern must have already dropped under from the first
hit, and the sub rolled back from the initial recoil when the second
torpedo hit her here."
"Pretty good firing from the Swordfrish. They must have caught her at
night, while she was running on the surface."
"Is that the aircraft hangar?" Summer asked, pointing to a large
tubular appendage that ran lengthwise along the rear deck to the
conning tower.
"Yes. Looks like it was blasted open in the explosion," he said as
they glided over toward the opening. A twenty-foot section of the )
hangar adjacent to the deck had simply disappeared in the carnage.
Under the beam of the floodlights, they could see a three-bladed air|
craft propeller mounted on the backside of the hangar wall as they
floated outside peering in. Applying power to the thrusters, Dirk
turned the vehicle and zoomed forward, gliding past the I-411's
conning tower with its multiple gun platforms still in place. The
Starfish proceeded down the forward deck before turning and hovering
off the bow near one of the large diving planes, which sprouted off the
submarine like a giant wing.
"That concludes the scenic portion of the tour," Dirk said. "Let's see
if we can find out what she carried." "We better check in with the gang upstairs first," Summer said,
slipping on her communications headset and pushing the transmit
button.
"Sea Rover, this is Starfish. We've found the Easter Bunny and are
proceeding to hunt for the eggs."
"Roger," Ryan's voice crackled back. "Be careful with the basket."
"I think he's more concerned about his submersible than he is about
us," Dirk deadpanned.
"A typical man," Summer mused, shaking her head. "Places emotional
feelings on inanimate mechanical objects."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Dirk replied
facetiously.
As he spoke, he gently guided the Starfish above the submarine's bow
section, studying the forward deck. After several minutes, he spotted
what he was looking for.
"There's the forward hatch to the upper torpedo room. If they follow
suit with the I-403, that's where the biological ordnance would have been loaded and stored."
Dirk maneuvered the Starfish in front of the hatch before setting the
submersible down onto the deck of the I-411 and killing the
thrusters.
"How's your breaking and entering skills?" he asked of Summer.
Unlike on the I-403, the forward hatch was closed and battened tight by
a flush-mounted wheel. Summer activated a joystick control hidden in
the armrest of her chair and powered the hydraulics to the
submersible's right retractable arm. As she manipulated the controls,
the metal appendage sprang from the side of Starfish and extended
forward in a clumsy stretch. Slowly she dropped the arm down toward
the hatch, adjusting the toggle control with short flips to maneuver
the device. With the precision of a surgeon, she opened the clawlike
hand and dropped it down to the hatch, wedging the fingers into the
open slots of the hatch wheel on the first attempt.
"Nicely done," Dirk admired.
"Now, if she'll just open," Summer replied. With the flick of a second
toggle control, the articulated grip of the mechanical claw began to
twist. Dirk and Summer both pressed their faces to the bubble window,
intent on seeing the wheel turn. But the seal that had been locked for
sixty years didn't budge. Summer tried toggling the grip back and forth a half-dozen more times but to no avail.
"So much for my hydraulic grip," she finally muttered.
"Keep a hold on the wheel," Dirk instructed. "We'll try a little
leverage."
In an instant, he powered up the thrusters and lifted the Starfish a
few inches off the deck. With Summer gripping the hatch wheel with the
claw, Dirk applied full reverse thrust and tried to break the seal with
the momentum of the entire submersible. The wheel held tight, so he
began rocking the Starfish forward and backward, trying to get a quick
burst of leverage against the hatch.
"I think you're going to rip the arm off," Summer cautioned.
With silent determination, he kept trying. On the next tug, he
observed a barely perceptible movement in the wheel. Another blast and
the seal broke at last, the wheel jerking a quarter spin. "That's
showing it who's boss," Summer said. "Just don't tell Ryan that his
baby's right arm is now a few inches longer than it used to be," Dirk
smiled.
Hovering over the hatch, Summer was quickly able to spin the locking
wheel to its stops with the articulated claw. Dirk then backed the Starfish away, and, with Summer holding on, the hatch finally swung up
and open. Repositioning the submersible in front of the opening, they
peered into the hole but could see nothing but a black void.
"I guess this is a job for Snoopy. You have the controls," Summer
said.
Dirk pulled out a laptop control module and pressed the power on
button. A row of lights lit up green as the unit was activated.
"Ready, go fetch," he murmured while pressing a toggle switch that
engaged a tiny thruster.
From an external cradle tucked beneath the acrylic bubble popped out a
small tethered Remote Operated Vehicle. No larger than an attache
case, the tiny ROV was little more than a self-illuminated video camera
wedged against a small set of electronic thrusters. Able to probe and
prod into tight spaces, Snoopy was an ideal tool for exploring the deep
and dangerous niches of a submerged wreck.
Summer watched as Snoopy sprang into view and quickly ducked into the
open hatch amid a spray of small bubbles. Dirk punched another console
button and a live video feed from the ROV appeared on a color monitor.
Watching the monitor to steer, he guided the vehicle around the
now-familiar torpedo room. Snoopy skirted down one row of torpedoes,
where the camera showed all five of the huge steel fish still resting
in their racks. Circling to the other side of the bay, a duplicate scene was replayed on the opposite side of the torpedo room-The I-411
was clearly not anticipating battle when the Swordfish surprised and
sank her.
But Dirk wasn't interested in torpedoes. Methodically, he drove
Snoopyto the Prow f ^e torpedo room, then systematically swept the ROV
back and forth across the bay, slipping a few feet toward the stern
with each pass until he was satisfied that every square foot had been
viewed.
"No sign of the canisters or their crates. But there is a second
torpedo room below where they could have been stored."
"Can you get Snoopy down there?" Summer asked.
"There's a floor hatch for loading the torpedoes, but I don't think
Snoopy is going to lift that open. I may know of another route."
Scanning the room with Snoopy\ camera lens eye, he spotted the rear
hatch door that led to the chief's quarters. The hatch door was still
open and Dirk maneuvered the ROV through it a few seconds later.
"Over there," Summer said, motioning to a corner of the monitor.
"There's a ladder that looks like it leads to the deck below." Dirk danced the ROV around a mass of debris and down an open hatchway
in the floor. Dropping down to the deck below, Snoopy sniffed out the
doorway to the lower torpedo room and- entered the second bay of
warheads. Though slightly smaller due to the more tapered sides of the
submarine's hull, the bay was an exact duplicate of the torpedo room
above it. And just as they had seen once before, the camera showed all
ten of the deadly Type 95 torpedoes resting peacefully in their racks.
Though near the limit of the self-coiling tether that provided Snoopy
its power, Dirk carefully maneuvered the ROV around the full confines
of the room. The camera showed a full complement of torpedoes in the
bay but nothing else. The empty room glared back at them vacantly.
"It would appear," Summer said, shaking her head with disappointment,
"that there are no eggs to be had."
As Dirk carefully guided the small ROV back to the Starfish, he began
whistling the old Stephen Foster standard "Swanee River." Summer
looked at her brother with abashed curiosity.
"You seem awfully happy, given that the biological bombs are missing in
action," she said.
"Sister, we may not know where they are, but we sure know where they
ain't. Now, if it was me, I'd want to keep those eggs close to the
hen." Summer took a second to digest the comments, then her face brightened
slightly.
"The deck hangar? Where the aircraft are stored?"
"The deck hangar," Dirk replied. "And the Swordfish was even kind
enough to leave the door open for us."
Once Snoopy was secure in its cradle, Dirk activated the main thrusters
and the Starfish shot off down the deck of the submarine to the second
torpedo blast. The detonation hole was easily large no ugh to allow
the Starfish to drop into the interior, but the 11.5-foot ijarneter of
the hangar was just fractionally too tight to allow any room for the
submersible to maneuver any farther. Dirk studied the gash in the
aircraft hangar before inching the Starfish into the opening. The deck
had been blasted away in pockmarked sections, leaving step-through
holes that led into the dank bowels of the submarine. Dirk slowly
guided the Starfish lower until he spied firm decking near the forward
edge of the gap that was large enough to support the submersible. Out
of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the airplane propeller they
detected earlier was hanging just to his right. He gently eased lower
until the Starfish's supporting skids tapped onto solid decking.
As he powered off the Starfish's thrusters, a momentary silence
filled The submersible. Together, they peered down the enclosed hangar that stretched in front of them like an endless tunnel. Then the quiet
was broken by a muffled metallic clunk than rang through the water.
"Dirk, the propeller!" Summer shouted, pointing out the bubble window
toward the right.
The mounting bracket that held the spare three-bladed Seiran bomber
propeller had long ago corroded in the salt water yet against all
reason had somehow maintained sufficient integrity to hold the heavy
blade onto the wall for sixty years. Not until the stirred waters from
the Starfish's thrusters blasted against it did it decide to give up
its mission and crumble from the wall in a rusty glob of dust. As the
bracket fell away, the heavy propeller dropped straight to the deck,
landing on the tips of its lower two blades with a clang.
But the show wasn't over. They watched in helpless fascination as the
propeller fell forward, its upper blade skimming just in front of the
Starfish's bubble window, inches from Summer's face. It appeared to
move in slow motion as the force of the water suspended the movement of
the steel blades. A secondary clang echoed through the water as the
blade and nosepiece hit home, the entire assembly dragging across the submersible's right robotic arm and falling onto the front
skid plates. A cloud of brown sediment rose and obscured their vision
for a moment, then, as the water cleared, Summer noticed a small trail
of dark fluid rising up in front of them, as if the Starfish were
bleeding. "We're pinned," Summer gasped, eyeing the heavy propeller lying across the front skids.
"Try the right arm. See if you can lift the blade up and I'll try and
back us out," Dirk directed as he powered up the thrusters.
Summer grasped the joystick and toggled it back to raise the arm. The
metallic appendage began to rise briefly, then fell away limp. She
repeatedly toggled the joystick control back and forth but there was no
response.
"No good," she said calmly. "The blade must have cut the hydraulics.
The right arm is as good as amputated."
"That must have been the fluid we saw. Try the left arm," Dirk
replied.
Summer configured a second joystick and applied power to the
submersible's left mechanical arm. Working the controls, she tried
stretching the arm across the viewing window and down to the fallen
propeller. Since the left arm was both smaller and shorter than the
right arm, it allowed for less maneuverability. After several minutes
of bending and twisting the arm in various configurations, she finally
worked the claw to a position where she could grab the edge of the
propeller blade.
"I've got a grip, but it's at an awkward angle. I don't think I'll be able to exert enough pressure," she said.
Pushing at the controls, her words fell true. The arm attempted to
pull the propeller up but nothing budged. Several further attempts met
with the same result.
"Guess we'll have to barge our way out," Dirk replied, gritting his
teeth.
Applying full-throttle power to the thrusters, he tried to elevate
the
Starfish and slip back and away from the fallen propeller. The
electronic thrusters hummed and vibrated violently as they clawed at
the water with all their might, but the weight of the propeller was
just too great. The submersible sat still as a rock while its
thrusters beat the water madly, kicking up a dirty cloud of silt around
them. He adjusted the thrusters forward and backward, trying to rock
their way out, but it was no use. After several fruitless attempts,
Dirk shut off the thrusters and waited for the brown cloud to settle.
"We'll just needlessly burn up our batteries if we continue to try and
slide out," he said dejectedly. "We just don't have enough thrust to
pull ourselves away from the prop." Summer could see the wheels churning in her brother's head. It wasn't
the first time she had been trapped underwater with Dirk and she felt
reassurance knowing that he was with her. Just months before, they had
nearly died together off Navidad Bank when their undersea research
habitat had rolled into a crevasse from the force of a killer
hurricane. Only the last-second arrival by her father and Al Giordino
had saved them from a slow death by asphyxiation. But this time, her
father and Giordino were a thousand miles away.
Out of the murky darkness, voices of the past began to whisper. The
long-dead crew of the I-411 seemed to call out to Dirk and Summer to
join them in a cold, watery grave a thousand feet under the sea. The
silent black sub exuded a morbid sense that sent a shiver up Summer's
spine. The stirred waters around them calmed and they could peer again
into the depths of the hangar. She could not help but dwell on the
fact that they were lodged in an iron tomb for dozens of brave Imperial
Navy sailors. Forcing the macabre image from her mind, she tried to
refocus her attention on the logical demands of their situation.
"How much time do we have left?" Summer asked, the desperation of their
situation beginning to sink in.
Dirk glanced at a row of gauges to his side. "We're fine until the scrubbers give way to the loss of battery power. It'll be lights out
in about three hours, then another hour or so for the air to go. We
better contact the Sea Rover." His voice was muted but matter-of-fact.
Summer activated the communication system and called Ryan on the Sea
Rover but was met with silence in return. After several additional
attempts, the receiver crackled in her earpiece.
"Starfish, this is Sea Rover. We do not copy, please repeat, over,"
came a faint and fuzzy call from Ryan.
"Our com signal must be blocked by the submarine's bulkheads," Dirk
said. "We can hear them, but they can't hear us."
"I'll keep trying in case they can pick up sporadic signals."
Summer continued calling for another ten minutes, speaking in a loud,
clear voice, but received only the same frustrating reply from
Ryan.
"It's no use. They can't hear us. We're on our own," Summer finally
conceded.
Dirk began flipping switches on the console, shutting down all
nonessential electronics in order to conserve battery power. His hand
came to the controls that powered Snoopy and he hesitated. "Any objection to taking Snoopy for a walk?"
"We came here to explore the hangar, so we might as well finish the
job. We still need to determine if the biological weapons are aboard
or if there's any evidence they've been removed."
"My thoughts exactly," Dirk said as he powered up the tiny ROV.
Grasping the controls, he worked the vehicle out of its cradle and over
the fallen propeller, then elevated it to eye level in front of the
Starfish. Ahead lay the long dark shaft of the hangar stretching into
the gloom toward the conning tower. He quickly toggled the ROVs
thrusters forward and Snoopy sailed into the darkened hangar.
Both their eyes shifted from observing the illuminated ROV out the
viewing bubble to watching Snoopy's field of vision on the color
monitor as it moved away from the submersible. The hangar appeared
empty at first, but, as Snoopy moved forward, silt-covered objects
began
materialize. The camera lens glided up to a large encrusted mound
ositioned on a platform to one side, beyond which several large
cab-nets protruded from the hangar walls.
"A spare aircraft engine," Dirk remarked as he aimed Snoopy's eyes at
the long metal block. "I'll bet those are storage bins for other spare parts and mechanic's
tools," Summer added, pointing at the image of the cabinets.
"No doubt there's a floor jack in there somewhere," Dirk lamented,
knowing there was no way of retrieving any tools that might aid their
escape.
Slowly he led Snoopy down the cavernous hangar before nearly driving
the ROV into a grouping of thin metal sheets hanging vertically.
Backing up the camera, Dirk identified the structure as the tail
assembly of an airplane, with the tip of the vertical stabilizer folded
down, as well as both horizontal stabilizers. Swinging Snoopy ahead
and to the side, they could clearly see it was part of the fuselage of
an Aichi M6A1 Seiran float plane
"Wow," Summer murmured, impressed by both the size and condition of the
twin-seat bomber. "Hard to believe they could fold up a plane and
slide it in here."
Dirk led Snoopy alongside the fuselage for a side view of the craft.
The camera showed that the wings were still attached to the fuselage
but folded back toward the tail like the wings on a duck. Faintly
visible beneath the silt, they could still make out the familiar red
Japanese meatball" insignia painted on the wingtips. "It's still amazing to me that they could store, launch, and retrieve
aircraft from a submarine," Summer pondered.
"Just roll the fuselage out onto the forward deck, raise the tail
stabilizers, bolt on the wings and floats, and launch it off the
catapult. A trained crew of four men were capable of assembling and
launching a plane in under thirty minutes."
"I guess it's a good thing these big Sen Toku boats weren't around
earlier in the war," Summer replied.
Dirk kept Snoopy nosing forward through the hangar. Gliding past the
fuselage, the cameras revealed a pair of the plane's giant pontoons
strapped to a wooden pallet on the deck. A blast from the ROV's
thrusters dusted a layer of silt and mud off one of the pontoons,
exposing a forest green paint scheme on the topsides and a shark gray
tone on the pontoon's belly. A similar camouflage paint pattern would
be found on the wings and fuselage.
Once past the pontoons, the hangar grew empty for several feet as the
ROV passed through a separate open compartment. Like its beagle
namesake, Snoopy sniffed along, gingerly examining each silt-covered
object or debris item carefully via the touch of Dirk's fingers. A set
of low-slung racks gradually grew out of the darkness on either side of
the hangar holding what Dirk immediately recognized as torpedoes. Four of the metallic fish rested in each rack, aerial torpedoes that at
thirteen hundred pounds each were much smaller than the massive
submarine-launched torpedoes found belowdecks.
Dirk and Summer stared at the monitor, straining to see evidence of
additional armament. But no other weaponry was visible. Dirk turned
and noticed Summer peering at her watch, grimly cognizant of each
minute that passed.
"Let's keep going. There should be at least one more plane in here,"
Dirk said, trying to keep her mind off the inevitable. The ROV again
moved through a vacant compartment before emerging into the next hangar
section. Seconds later, the tail and fuselage of a second Seiran
bomber emerged into view, complete with folded wings. Just beyond was
its matching pair of floats, strapped to the deck by cables. An
assortment of wall-mounted tool bins followed and then twenty feet of
empty space. Snoopy finally bumped up against the giant round hatch
door that led to the submarine's forward deck.
"Well, that's it," Dirk said solemnly. "We've covered the length of
the hangar and no sign of any aerial bombs other than the torpedoes.
Summer said nothing for a moment, subconsciously biting her lower lip
in dejection. "Well ... there was no indication of a forced entry
anywhere, nor did the silt appear to have been disturbed anytime
recently. Perhaps they were destroyed in the torpedo blast?" "Could be. There's still a small section of hangar behind us we could
take a look at."
Dirk quietly steered Snoopy back toward the submersible, reeling in its
dangling electronic power cable while it progressed. The cockpit fell
silent as brother and sister contemplated their predicament. Dirk
silently cursed their bad luck and failure to locate the aerial bombs.
As the ROV passed the second plane's fuselage and approached the first
plane's set of pontoons, a quizzical look fell over Summer's face.
"Dirk, hold it there for a second," she said quietly, focusing on the
monitor.
"What is it?" he asked while neutralizing the position of the ROV.
"Look at the pontoons. Do you notice anything different?"
Dirk studied the monitor for a moment, then shook his head.
"The pair at the end of the hangar were cabled directly to the deck,"
Summer said. "But these two have a platform under each of them."
He looked at the images and his brow furrowed. Each of the pontoons
sat balanced on a square-shaped platform roughly two feet high. Dirk eased the ROV around and alongside the base of one of the
pontoons, then positioned it next to the platform. Spinning the ROV
around, he applied the thrusters hard for a few seconds to try and blow
away the encrusted sediment. He repositioned the ROV, then waited for
the resulting cloud of sediment to subside. Peering through the murk,
they could clearly see an exposed section of the platform. It was a
hardwood crate built from what appeared to be mahogany. Dirk carefully
studied the entire platform.
"By God, that's got to be it."
"Are you sure?" Summer questioned.
"Well, I can't say what's inside, but the exterior is the same
construction and dimension as the bomb canister crates that I found
smashed open on the I-403."
Dirk surveyed the crate from all angles, then confirmed that a
matching crate was wedged beneath the second pontoon. Summer made a
notation on the video files, documenting the exact location in the
hangar where the crates were found. Pitt observed that each crate
appeared to be held in place by the force of the pontoon, which was
securely tied to the hangar deck by a half-dozen thick steel cables
that crisscrossed the top of each float. "Nice eye, Summer. You get a beer for that catch."
"Make mine a bottle of Martin Ray Chardonnay," she replied with a half
smile. "I'm just glad we know where they are now."
"It's going to take someone a little more doing to get these out of
here."
"Us too, for that matter," Summer replied glumly.
The wheels in Dirk's mind were still churning to compute an escape plan
as he guided the ROV back toward the submersible. He lost
concentration when Snoopy's bright underwater lights approached and
shined brilliantly into the submersible's cockpit. Blinded in the
glare, he instinctively steered the ROV down toward the hangar deck as
he brought it closer to the Starfish. But as it approached, the ROV
suddenly hung suspended, failing to move the last few feet to its
cradle.
"Dirk, Snoopy's umbilical is caught on something," Summer noticed,
pointing out the bubble window.
Dirk followed her guide and could see in the murkiness that the ROV's
cable had snagged on some sort of debris lying on the hangar deck,
about twenty feet in front of them. "I'm surprised we even made it so far through this obstacle course," he
replied.
Reversing direction, he backed up the ROV until the cable straightened
from its grasp around what looked to be a small engine sitting in a
tubular frame three feet off the ground.
"A gas-powered compressor, I bet," he said, noticing a pair of decayed
hoses connected to one end of the motor.
"What's with the big handle?" Summer asked, eyeing a large metal tod
protruding from one side of the block. A round, shovel-type grip was
attached to the end.
"It has an old mechanical starter. Kind of like pulling the rope on a
lawn mower, only pumping the handle cranks the motor over. I saw a
Swiss-made compressor on a dive boat once that had the same setup-"
Dirk stared at the handle for a moment, not moving the ROV.
"You're going to bring Snoopy home?" Summer finally asked.
"Yes," he replied with a sudden gleam in his eye. "But first he's
going to help get us out of here."
On board the Sea Rover, nervous apprehension was creeping over the captain and crew. It had been nearly ninety minutes since they last
communicated with the Starfish and Morgan was anxiously preparing to
call in an emergency rescue. The Sea Rover was not carrying a backup
submersible, and the nearest NUMA submersible was at least twelve Hours
away.
"Ryan, let's contact the Navy's Deep Submergence Unit. Notify them of
our situation and request the ETA on a deep-water rescue vehicle,"
Morgan barked, silently dreading the thought.
If Dirk and Summer were in real trouble, he knew they had only a matter
of minutes, not hours. Their chances of rescue would be as slim as a
dime.
"Okay, Summer, hold the take-up reel." Dirk had positioned Snoopy near
the top of the hangar ceiling a few feet past the compressor when he
gave the command to Summer. She pressed a button on the console that
stopped an automatic spool from reeling in the ROV's power cable. Dirk
gently moved the ROV back toward the compressor, watching the cable
slacken beneath it. Like an anaconda coiling about its prey, he
carefully manipulated the ROV in a circular motion above the
compressor, letting the slack cable wrap loosely around the protruding
handle. After dancing the ROV around and around several times, he
successfully engineered five loops about the handle, which he tightened
by drawing the ROV up and away. "Okay, activate the take-up spool and I'll pull with Snoopy!" "That
compressor must weigh three hundred pounds. Even underwater, you'll
never budge it," Summer replied, wondering if her brother had lost his
mind.
"It's not the compressor I'm after, it's the handle."
Toggling the ROV's controls, he increased the power to Snoopy, now
pointed in the direction of the submersible. The ROV surged forward
until its power cord tightened around the metal handle. Its small
thrusters churning the water, the little ROV fought to move forward but
could not muster enough force to budge the handle. Then Summer joined
in, reeling in the other end of the cable with the automatic take-up
spool until the cord went taut around the base of the handle. Though
both ends of the handle were now being yanked at, it was the lower end
snagged by Summer that did the trick. The boxed end of the metal bar
slid off the sprocketed knuckle that turned the flywheel and the whole
handle slipped free of the compressor, gliding through the water toward
the Starfish. Dirk carefully dragged it in a horizontal position, so
as not to lose his coiled grip, and gently tugged it to the front of
the submersible.
"I don't think Ryan is going to appreciate how you're treating his
ROV," Summer said with feigned concern. "I'll buy him a new one if this works."
"And what exactly is it that you have in mind?" Summer asked, still
not sure of his intent.
"Why, just a little bit of leverage, my dear sister. If you'd be so
kind as to grab my newfound crowbar with the left mechanical arm,
you'll see what I mean."
Dirk guided the ROV close to the left side of the Starfish, towing the
handle with it. Summer then activated the controls of the left
mechanical arm and opened its clawlike hand. Working in unison, they
brought the two devices together until Summer could securely snatch one
end of the handle with the vise-strong claw. Dirk then slackened the
ROV cable and slowly backed Snoopy away, unraveling the cable off the
free end of the bar. Once clear, he activated the cable spool up and
returned Snoopy to the Starfish, securing the ROV in its cradle.
"For a beagle, Snoopy makes for a pretty good retriever," Summer
remarked.
"Let's see now if our mechanical arm can make for a good floor jack,"
Dirk replied.
His eyes studied a row of battery ampere gauges on the submarine's control panel. They had spent more than an hour operating the ROV and
their power level had been drained to barely thirty percent. Time was
running short if they were to have any hope of making it back to the
surface on their own.
"Let's do this on one try. Purging tanks," he said, pushing a pair of
buttons that pumped water out of the ballast tank in order to increase
buoyancy. He then powered up the main thrusters to the submersible.
Summer had meanwhile brought the mechanical arm around the front of the
Starfish to its full dexterity and studied the position of the wedged
propeller. It would have to be lifted and pushed forward slightly for
them to pry themselves away, but there was little space to work the
handle in. After leaning the handle against one of the skids and
shortening her grip, she was able to work eight inches of the metal bar
under the tip of the fallen propeller.
"Ready," she said tentatively, wiping a sweaty palm on her pant leg.
Dirk was also sweating profusely, as the cramped cockpit had grown hot
once the air-conditioning was shut down to conserve power.
"Pry us out of here," Dirk said, his hand at the ready on the thruster
controls. With tense anticipation, Summer gently shifted the controls
that raised the mechanical arm. Where the hydraulic power of the arm
was insufficient to lift the arm on its own, the added leverage of the
metal handle prying against the deck was just enough to budge it.
Creeping ever so slowly, the propeller blade rose an inch, then two, then a few more. Dirk could feel the rear of the submersible tilt off
the deck slightly from the added buoyancy. When Summer had safely
jimmied the blade above the height of the front skids, he slammed the
power controls to maximum reverse thrust.
There was no immediate blast of power or skyrocketing acceleration by
the Starfish but rather just a slight jerk as it backed tail first on
the deck. The submersible slid up and away from the grasp of the
propeller as the blade slipped down the compressor handle and clanged
back to the hangar deck just inches in front of the Starfish's
skids.
"Nicely done, sis. What do you say we go get some fresh air?" Dirk
said, adjusting the thrusters to raise the Starfish up and out of I-411's hangar.
"I'm with you," Summer replied with obvious relief.
Almost the second they cleared the walls of the hangar deck, the deep
voice of Ryan blew loudly through communication earphones.
"Starfish, this is Sea Rover. Do you read, over," came a monotonous
tone that had obviously been repeating the phrase a thousand times over
in the last few hours. "This is Starfish" Summer responded. "We read you loud and clear. Have
initiated ascent, please stand by for recovery."
"Roger, Starfish" Ryan replied in a suddenly excited pitch. "You have
some folks worried up here. Do you need assistance?"
"Negative. We just stubbed our toe down here. All is well; we'll be
topside shortly."
"Copy that. Standing by for recovery."
Their ascent time, aided by controlled positive buoyancy, was slightly
quicker than their descent, and in ten minutes they could make out the
glowing bright lights of the Sea Rover's moon pool. The faint
outline of the ship appeared as the submersible drew closer and Dirk
tweaked the Starfish's thrusters with what little remaining power he
had to guide them to the center of the glowing ring of beacons. Dirk
and Summer both let out a silent sigh of relief as they popped through
the hole in the ship's bottom and bobbed to the surface of the pool.
Morgan, Ryan, and a half-dozen crew members ringed the moon pool and
watched intently as the Starfish was plucked from the water by a hoist
and lowered gently to the deck. Dirk powered down the submersible as
Summer opened the rear hatch and the two climbed out for a grateful
breath of fresh air.
"We were afraid you got lost down there," Morgan smiled, then looked quizzically at the compressor handle that was still lodged in the grip
of the left mechanical arm.
"That's our walking stick," Summer explained. "We took a walk where we
ought not to have gone and had a little trouble getting back out."
"Well," Morgan asked, unable to refrain from the other concern on his
mind, "what did you find?"
"Two cartons of eggs waiting to be delivered," Dirk said with a grin.
The Sea Rover's crew worked feverishly to repair the Starfish's
mechanical arm and replenish the submersible's drained batteries while
Dirk, Summer, and Morgan formulated a salvage strategy. Reviewing the
video footage recorded by Snoopy, they calculated the exact position in
the sub's hangar where the bomb crates were situated. Studying the
video closely, they determined that the hangar's bulkhead walls were
constructed in ten-foot sections.
"We should be able to cut through the original seams and lift out a
ten-foot piece of bulkhead alongside the pontoons," Dirk said, tapping
a frozen video image with a pencil. "The Starfish is eight feet wide,
so that should give us enough room to maneuver close and remove the
bombs with the mechanical arms." "We're fortunate in that the currents around the wreck are only about 1
to 2 knots, so we'll be able to work unimpeded by the seas. It will
still take us a couple of dives, though," Summer added.
"Ryan can alternate dives with you two," Morgan said. "Why don't you
grab a few hours' rest while we turn the submersible around and prepare
for some cutting?"
"You don't have to ask me twice," Summer yawned in reply. Her sleep
was short-lived, however, when Dirk woke her three hours later and they
prepared for another dive. With a fresh set of batteries the Starfish was released again and they made their slow descent to the submarine. The submersible hovered off the side of the hangar facing the blast hole, then slowly moved sideways toward the conning
tower. At six-foot intervals, measured by the width between the two
semi-extended mechanical arms, Dirk would push the submersible forward
and scratch a measuring mark on the encrusted surface with the left
claw. At the tenth interval, or sixty feet from the torpedo gash, he
scratched a rough A on the side of the hangar.
"This is where we cut," he said to Summer. "Let's see if we can find
the seams."
Dragging one of the claws along the surface of the hangar, Dirk thrust
the submersible sideways, leaving a long scratch along the wall. Moving
back and closely examining the scarred section, which bled a dirty rust
and gold, they quickly found an exposed vertical crease, representing
the seam where two plates of the watertight hangar were welded together. As expected, another vertical seam was found ten feet away.
While the Starfish hovered, Summer scraped away at the seams, using the
claw like a knife, exposing the weld lines. When she was finished, a
square outline in the shape of a garage door had been etched on the
hangar.
"So much for the easy part," Dirk said. "You ready to cut?" "Pop
these on and let's get started," Summer replied, handing him a pair of
welder's protective glasses while donning a pair herself. Taking
control of both mechanical arms, she reached into a basket mounted on
the front skid pad and with the right claw retrieved an electrode
holder, connected via a reinforced line to a 230-amp DC power source
inside the submersible. With the left claw, she attached an iron oxide
non exothermic cutting rod into the electrode holder and flicked on the
power. Unlike a typical underwater cutting rod, which required a
supply of oxygen to fuel the burn, the iron oxide rods simply required
a power source to generate a superheated cutting arc. The less
complicated design was more practical for welding at remote underwater
depths. The electrical surge popped through to the end of
the rod, igniting a brilliant arc of yellow light that flared from the
tip, burning at several thousand degrees.
"Let's start at the top right corner and work down," Summer directed.
Dirk maneuvered the submersible to the corner seam and held it stationary while Summer extended the right mechanical arm toward the
hangar wall until the high-temperature flame flared against the
surface. With the Starfish suspended against a light current, Summer
applied the heat from the arc to cut through the sixty-year-old plating
weld. Progress was measured in inches, as the swaying of the
submersible undermined the cutting efficiency. But, gradually, a
surgical line appeared on the hangar wall, which lengthened as Dirk
slid the Starfish down the seam. After fifteen minutes, the electrode
rod burned down to the stub. Summer shut off the electrical power and
replaced the electrode, then powered it up again and continued cutting.
The tedious process continued until a fine cut was made around the
entire perimeter seam of the hangar wall. With just a few inches to
go, Summer worked the free mechanical claw into an open gap and grabbed
onto the panel. She then cut the last of the seam, then yanked with
the secured claw. The cut section broke free and fell back onto the
main deck of the submarine with a swirling cloud of sediment.
Dirk backed the Starfish away and waited for the water to clear before
moving up to their newly created entryway. As he maneuvered back in,
he could see that they had measured perfectly. The pair of aircraft
pontoons sat directly in front of the opening, the wooden crates
sitting just below. He crept the submersible in as close as he could
get, bumping the hangar ceiling a time or two before setting it down on
the deck near a large protruding iron loop. Through the circular
eyelet ran several cables, which secured the nearest pontoon to the
deck while the submarine was in motion. "Let's torch those cables, then figure out a way to slide that pontoon
out of the way," he suggested.
Summer reignited the underwater torch and quickly cut through the first
of three steel-braided cables. The corroded lines disintegrated
quickly under the flame of the cutting rod and she soon ate through the
second cable. She was surprised when the pontoon lurched slightly as
the second cable fell away. When the third cable cut free, she was
shocked to see the pontoon rise gracefully off the deck and float to
the top of the twelve-foot hangar ceiling.
"It's still holding air," she blurted.
"Compliments to the engineers who built her. That will make our job a
little easier," Dirk replied as he maneuvered the Starfish alongside
the wooden crates. Summer grabbed control of both mechanical arms and
gently danced their claws over one of the containers. Manipulating the
metal fingers, she grasped the top lid on either side and lifted the
arms up. The once durable hardwood lid rose like a damp pancake before
it split in two as Summer tried to place it off to one side.
"So much for the boxed set," Dirk said drily. Inside, however, they could see the bonanza. Six silver-porcelain
aerial bombs sat secure and intact, aligned in a neat row. Dirk and
Summer looked at each other with a profound sense of relief.
"Guess it's our lucky day after all," Summer said triumphantly.
"They're still here, safe and sound."
Dirk carefully inched the Starfish closer to the crate as Summer
prepared for the harrowing prospect of removing the fragile bombs from
their disintegrating case.
"Be gentle, sis. Remember, they're made of glass," he cautioned.
Summer hardly needed the warning as she manipulated the mechanical arms
with great caution. Working with the nearest bomb, she gently slid the
canister away from the others, then gingerly worked the claws
underneath either end. Moving with patient deliberation, she lifted
the bomb up and away, then set it into a padded mesh box that had been
hastily attached to the front of the submersible. Confident that the
canister was stable, she moved the arms back and retrieved the next
bomb in the crate. Lifting and laying it next to the first snugly in
the box, she grasped its tail fin with one claw, then snatched the fin
of the first bomb with the other claw and locked both arms in place.
"Bombardier to pilot. Ready for takeoff," she said. Fearful of
damaging dangerous cargo, two bombs would be all that the Starfish would safely transport at a time.
The submersible made a slow ascent to the surface, where the bombs were
carefully unloaded and stored in a makeshift container that the ship's
carpenter had hurriedly constructed.
"Two down, ten to go," Dirk reported to Morgan and Ryan. "Both crates
are readily accessible with the mechanical arms, so, if the second
batch is intact, we should be able to recover all twelve canisters."
"The weather is holding," Morgan replied. "If we work through the
night at the same pace, we should have the recovery operation complete
by morning."
"I'm all for that," he replied with a grin. "With all these dives, I'm
beginning to feel like a yo-yo."
Less than a mile away, Tongju peered at the NUMA vessel through a pair
of high-powered marine binoculars. For nearly forty minutes, Kang's
personal executioner studied the Sea Rover, making careful mental notes
on passageways, stairwells, hatches, and other elements of the ship
that he could detect in the distance. At last satisfied with his
observations, the bald assassin entered the Baekje's bridge and walked
into a small side anteroom. A pug-faced man with short-cropped hair
sat in a wooden chair intently studying a set of ship plans. He stiffened slightly as Tongju entered the room.
"Sir, the assault team has studied the plans to the NUMA research
vessel that was relayed by the Kang Shipping corporate office. We have
formulated an assault and seizure strategy and are prepared to commence
at your direction." Ki-Ri Kim spoke in a clipped, blunt tone that
could be expected from a former special operations commando of the
Korean People's Army.
"From the bits of underwater communication that we have been
able to intercept, it appears that they have located the weapons and
are in the process of retrieving them from the seabed," Tongju said in
a quiet voice. "I have notified the captain that we will be launching
the operation tonight."
A broad grin fell over the commando's face before he uttered the single
word "Excellent."
"As we formulated," Tongju continued, "I will lead Team A to capture
the starboard and bow sections and you will lead Team B to take the
port and stern sections. Have the men assembled for a final briefing
at 01:00. We will commence the strike at 02:00."
'"My men will be ready. They are curious to know, however, if we will
be expecting any resistance?" Tongju snarled a confident reply. "None whatsoever."
Shortly after midnight, the Starfish bobbed to the surface of the moon
pool, its bright orange frame reflecting golden rays through the water
from the blazing underwater lights. Dirk and Summer stood watching on
the deck as the submersible was hoisted from the water and parked
gently on a platform. A pair of technicians working the graveyard
shift rolled a portable hoist to the submersible's front skids and
began the delicate process of removing the two porcelain bombs wedged
into the mesh basket.
Dirk walked around and helped open the Starfish's rear entry hatch
and lent a hand as Ryan and an engineer named Mike Farley corkscrewed
their way out of the cramped compartment.
"Nice work, Tim. That makes a total of eight. I take it you accessed
the second case without any problems?" Dirk asked.
"Piece of cake. We cut the cables on the second pontoon and she
floated out of the way like the first. Mike deserves the credit,
though. He operates those mechanical arms like a surgeon."
A likable, soft-spoken man who smiled constantly, Farley grinned modestly. "The second crate fell apart like it was made of mashed
potatoes. But all six bombs were lying there intact. We snatched the
first two, and the remaining four are readily accessible. Be mindful
of the current, though, it seems to have picked up since our last
dive."
"Thanks, Mike, will do."
Dirk proceeded to help the technician crew change out the batteries on
the Starfish, then methodically worked through the pre dive checklist,
ensuring that all onboard systems were operating properly. Shortly
after 1 a.m." he and Summer squeezed back into the submersible and
were released into the moon pool for another dive to the I-411. They
relaxed in their slow descent, saying little to each other. The
around-the-clock, repetitive dives were beginning to take their toll,
casting a veil of fatigue over them. But Dirk was enlivened by the
fact they were recovering the bombs intact and would soon find out what
biological agent they contained.
Summer let out a wide yawn. "Wish I was back in my bunk snoozing like
the rest of the crew," she murmured. "We'll have the last two dives
complete before everyone even wakes up."
"Look on the bright side," Dirk smiled. "We'll be first in line for
breakfast." They came out of the darkness like muted demons, gliding across the
water in silence. Black-clad men in black rubber boats dashing across
a blackened sea. Tongju led the assault from the first boat,
accompanied by five gritty-looking and heavily armed commandos, while
Kim followed behind in a second boat with a similar contingency.
Together they raced toward the Sea Rover in rubber Zodiacs propelled by
high-power electric motors, beefed-up versions of the trolling motors
used by lake fishermen to cruise quietly. Only, these boats were
capable of running at 30 knots, emitting just a barely detectable hum.
Running in the dead of night, the only audible evidence of their
presence were the waves smacking against their semirigid hulls. On
board the Sea Rover, the helmsman on watch glanced at a sweeping
radarscope on the bridge, observing the large smudge of a ship off the
starboard bow. The large cable ship that had stood a mile off the Sea
Rover since they arrived on site was still sitting parked in the same
position. He watched as a pair of faint white smudges appeared
against the screen's green background periodically, positioned
somewhere between the two ships. Too faint for a vessel this far from
shore, he reckoned. More likely some cresting waves registering on the
equipment.
The two rubberized cresting waves throttled back as they approached
within a hundred meters of the NUMA ship, creeping the remaining
distance at a slow crawl. Tongju brought his boat alongside the starboard flank of the Sea Rover and waited momentarily while Kim's
craft skirted around the ship's stern and eased up on the port side. In
unseen unison, a pair of rubber-coated grappling hooks sailed up from
the sea on either side of the ship, catching secure grips around the
Sea Rover's lower-deck railing. Narrow rope ladders trailing off the
grappling hooks provided the means of entry. In orderly unison, the
commandos quickly scrambled up the swaying lines.
On the port deck, a sleepless marine biologist was taking in the night
sky when he heard something strike the ship. A pronged hook
materialized around the railing just a few feet away. Curious, he bent
over the side to look down the trailing rope just as a black-capped
head emerged from the other side. In mutual surprise, the two men
banged heads together with a crack. The startled scientist fell back,
groping for words to cry out, but, in an instant, the commando was on
deck, brandishing an assault rifle. The rifle stock caught the
unfortunate biologist across the jawbone and the man crumpled in an
unconscious heap.
The two commando teams assembled independently, then moved forward
along the deck, intent on subduing the bridge and radio room first
before any calls for help could be sent. Silently creeping through the
sleeping ship, their 2 a.m. raid found the vessel ghostly quiet.
On the bridge, the Sea Rover's helmsman and second officer were
sipping coffee while discussing college football. Without warning, Tongju and two of his men burst through the starboard wing door, aiming
their weapons at the men's faces.
"Down on the deck!" Tongju yelled in clear English. The second officer quickly dropped to his knees, but the helmsman panicked.
Dropping his coffee, he bolted for the port wing in a futile attempt at
escape. Before Tongju or his men could cut the man down, one of Kim's
commandos appeared in the doorway, striking the man in the chest with
his assault rifle, then kicking him in the groin for good measure. The
helmsman withered to the deck, groaning in agony.
Scanning the bridge, Tongju saw that the adjacent communications bay
was empty and nodded at one of the commandos to stand guard over the
equipment. He then walked toward the door to the captain's cabin
situated off the back of the bridge. With a silent nod, he ordered one
of his men to charge in.
Morgan was asleep in his bunk when the commando burst into his cabin,
flicked on the light, and leveled his AK-74 assault rifle at the
captain's head. The salty captain awoke immediately and sprang out of
bed clad in T-shirt and boxers, bullying toward the man with the gun.
"What's this all about?" he barked, storming his way toward the
bridge. The startled commando hesitated in the doorway as the burly
captain bore toward him. With a nearly invisible flick of his arm,
Morgan knocked the muzzle of the firearm away from his chest and toward the ceiling, then, with his free right hand, shoved the commando out
the door with the strength of a barreling freight train. The shocked
commando went sprawling across the bridge, falling on his backside and
sliding with a thud into the forward bulkhead.
The commando was still sliding across the deck when Tongju leveled his
Glock 22 semiautomatic pistol and fired a single shot at Morgan. The
.40 caliber slug ripped into and through Morgan's left thigh, throwing
a spray of blood onto the wall behind him. Morgan cursed as he grabbed
his leg before crumpling to the deck.
"This is a United States government vessel," he hissed defiantly.
It is my ship now," Tongju replied coolly, "and any more insolence from
you, Captain, and I shall place the next bullet into your skull." To
emphasize his words, he stepped forward and flung his right leg toward
the kneeling captain, the heel of his black boot striking Morgan high on the cheekbone and sending him sprawling flat to the
deck. The proud captain slowly gathered himself back to his knees and
stared quietly at his captor, eyes burning with hatred.
Unable to warn his fellow shipmates, Morgan could only watch helplessly
as the small team of intruders took over his ship. Little resistance
was met elsewhere on the vessel as the commandos rounded up the
sleeping crew at gunpoint. Only in the engine room did a brawny
machinist's mate surprise one of the commandos, crushing a pipe wrench through his skull. The machinist was quickly subdued by gunshots from
another assailant, but the wounds would not prove lethal. Sporadic
gunfire began to resonate throughout the ship as the commando teams
worked through the Sea Rover. In less than twenty minutes, the assault
team had achieved their objective and taken control of the 350-foot
research vessel.
Tim Ryan and Mike Farley were in the undersea operations control room
monitoring the current dive of the Starfish when a pair of commandos
burst in on them. Ryan could only mutter a "What the hell?" over the
underwater communications system before he was yanked away from the
control station at gunpoint with Farley in tow.
Like sheep led to the slaughterhouse, the shipboard crew was herded in
groups of three and four to the rear deck of the Sea Rover. Astern of
the moon pool was a recessed cargo hold where the submersible and other
equipment was stored when not in use. Under Kim's direction, the
hold's heavy steel hatch cover was winched off with one of the Sea
Rover's cranes. The frightened captives were then forced down a
steel ladder into the dark, cavernous bay.
Tongju approached Kim on the rear deck with a bound and limping Morgan
in tow, another commando prodding the captain forward with the barrel
of his assault rifle. "Report?" Tongju asked bluntly.
"All objectives achieved," Kim reported proudly. "One casualty in the
engine room, Ta-kong, but all ship's compartments are now secure. We've
transferred all the captives to the stern hold. Jin-chul reports that
eight units of ordnance have been located intact in the ship's
auxiliary laboratory," he added, nodding toward a wiry commando
standing next to a prefabricated structure across the deck. "The
submersible is currently deployed in recovery of additional
ordnance."
"Very well," Tongju replied with a rare smile that revealed a set of
heavily yellowed teeth. "Contact the Baekje. Tell her to tie up
alongside and prepare for transfer of the ordnance."
"You won't get far," Morgan growled, spitting out a mouthful of blood
as he spoke.
"But, Captain," Tongju replied with an evil smirk, "we already have."
A thousand feet beneath the Sea Rover, Summer was carefully placing the
tenth aerial bomb into the makeshift holding tray alongside the ninth
canister she had plucked from the bottom just moments before. She
again secured both bombs with the mechanical arms, then turned to Dirk
when she was finished. "Ten down, two to go. You may take us home now, Jeeves."
"Yes, m'lady," he replied in a Cockney accent, then he actuated the
submersible's thrusters and backed out of the tight confines of the
hangar. As they cleared the deck of the I-411, Summer radioed up to
the Sea Rover's control room.
"Sea Rover, this is Starfish. Have secured the next batch and are
preparing to ascend with the goods, over."
The call was returned with silence. She tried calling several more
times as they started their ascent but again received no response from
the surface.
"Ryan must be asleep at the wheel," Dirk said.
"Can't blame him," Summer replied while suppressing a yawn. "It is
two-thirty in the morning."
"I just hope the guy on the crane is awake," he smirked.
As they neared the surface, they spotted the familiar glow of the moon
pool lights and maneuvered the Starfish into the center of the ring,
where they bobbed gently to the surface. Dirk and Summer paid scant
attention to the shadowy figures on the deck as the clank of the main hoist was dropped and attached to the submersible and they began to
power down its electronic equipment. It was only when they were jerked
roughly out of the water and swung wildly to the stern deck, nearly
colliding with the port bulkhead, that they realized something was
amiss.
"Who the hell's working the crane?" Summer cursed as they were set
down harshly on the deck. "Don't they know we've got two bombs
aboard?"
"It sure ain't the Welcome Wagon," Dirk said drily as he stared out of
the bubble window.
Directly in front of them, an Asian man in a black paramilitary outfit
stood holding an automatic pistol to the stomach of Captain Morgan.
Dirk looked beyond the man's long Fu Manchu mustache and crooked yellow
teeth splayed in an evil grin and focused on the eyes. They were cold,
black eyes that portrayed a menacing air of utter indifference. They
were, Dirk knew, the eyes of an experienced killer.
Summer gasped at the sight of Morgan. A makeshift bandage was wrapped
about his left thigh but failed to cover the rivulets of dried blood
that was splattered down his leg. His cheekbone was bruised and
swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and his eye had already begun to
blacken. More dried blood ran from his mouth and onto his shirt. Yet
the crusty captain stood unflinching, his lack of fear so prominent that Summer failed to notice he was still wearing a pair of boxer
shorts.
A pair of commandos suddenly jumped in front of the Starfish's acrylic
bubble, waving their AK-74s about wildly in a show for Dirk and Summer
to exit the submersible. The gun muzzles were quickly poked in their
faces as they climbed out of the submersible and were marched over to
Morgan and Tongju.
"Mr. Pitt," Tongju said in a low voice. "Good of you to join us.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance," Dirk
replied sarcastically.
"A humble servant of the Japanese Red Army whose name is unimportant,"
Tongju replied with feigned graciousness, bowing his head slightly.
"I didn't realize there were still any of you fruitcakes left outside
of jail."
Tongju just held his grin, not moving a facial muscle. "You and your
sister have fifteen minutes to replenish the submersible's batteries
and prepare to retrieve the final two ordnance," he said calmly.
"They are both damaged and in pieces," Dirk lied, his mind racing to compute a plan of action.
Tongju calmly raised the Glock pistol aimed at Morgan's side and held
the muzzle to the captain's right temple. "You have fourteen minutes,
at which time I shall kill your captain. Then I will kill your sister.
And then I will kill you," he said coldly, his lips parting in a
self-satisfying grin.
Dirk could feel the blood racing through his veins as he glared at the
madman in anger. Then the delicate touch of Summer's hand on his
shoulder dispelled any thoughts of rash action.
"Come on, Dirk, we haven't much time," she said, guiding him to a
wheeled cart that had been rolled out with replacement batteries for
the submersible. Morgan looked at Dirk and nodded in concurrence.
Fighting the feeling of total helplessness, he reluctantly began
transferring the batteries to the Starfish, all the while keeping one
eye glued to the commando leader.
As they prepped the submersible for a last dive, the final remnants of
the ship's crew were marched by and forced into the rear hold at
gunpoint. Summer grimly noted the frightened look on two lab analysts
as they were prodded roughly down the hatchway.
Working quickly, Dirk and Summer replaced the submersible's power
supply in just over twelve minutes. There would be no time for the standard post operation and pre dive system checks normally per
formed before the submersible was returned to the water. They would
have to hope the Starfish was operational for one more dive.
Tongju walked over in a measured clip and glared up at the two
Americans, who both towered over him.
"You will promptly retrieve the remaining ordnance and return to the
vessel without any nonsense. You have ninety minutes to complete your
dive successfully or there will be severe consequences."
"If I were you, I think I'd be worrying about the consequences from our
military forces for pirating a government ship," Summer spat angrily.
"There will be no consequences," Tongju replied, smiling thinly, "for a
ship that no longer exists."
Before Summer could respond, Tongju spun on his heels and walked away,
replaced by two commandos who stepped forward with their assault rifles
drawn and aimed.
"Come on, sister," Dirk muttered. "There's no use arguing with a
psychopath." Dirk and Summer threaded themselves back into the Starfish, then were
roughly jostled into the air by the crane operator. As they were
prepared to be let go, Dirk watched through the acrylic bubble as
Morgan was roughly manhandled to the stern hold and forcefully pitched
down into the container. A commando on a stern deck crane hoisted up
the massive steel hatch and positioned it over the rear hold before
lowering it in place. Secured over the hold, the hatch imprisoned the
entire ship's crew in darkness below.
With a violent splash, the Starfish was crudely dropped into the moon
pool a second later and released from the ship's cable.
"He means to sink the Sea Rover" Dirk said to Summer as they began
their slow descent to the bottom.
"With the entire crew locked in the hold?" she asked, shaking her head
in disbelief.
"I think so," he said somberly. "Unfortunately, there's not much we
can do in the way of calling for help."
"Our underwater communication system won't do any good, and any surface
calls we might try wouldn't have the range to reach anybody in this
region except a few Chinese fishermen."
"Or the cable ship that is evidently supporting these characters," he added, shaking his head.
"Our intelligence heads apparently underestimated this Japanese Red
Army," Summer said. "Those guys didn't look like a rogue band of
ideological extremists with dynamite strapped to their backs."
"No, it's apparent they are well-trained military professionals.
Who-ever's running their operation is obviously skilled and well
funded." "I wonder what they intend to do with the bombs?" "An attack
in Japan would figure. But there's obviously more to this Japanese Red
Army than meets the eye, so I wouldn't want to wager on what their
intent is."
""I guess we can't worry about that for now. We've got to figure out a
way to save the crew."
"I counted eight commandos, and there was no doubt a few more on the
bridge and elsewhere on the ship. Too many to overpower with a couple
of screwdrivers," Dirk said, examining the contents of a small toolbox
mounted behind his seat.
"We'll need to quietly get some of the crewmen out of the hold to help
us. If we had enough people, maybe we could overpower them." "I don't
relish the thought of going unarmed against an AK-74, but there might
be a chance in numbers. Getting the lid off that storage hold is the problem. I'd need a couple of uninterrupted minutes on the stern
crane, but I don't think our friends in black would be too obliging."
"There must be another way out of that hold," Summer wondered.
"No, unfortunately, there isn't. I'm sure it matches the Deep
Endeavor, where it was designed strictly as a storage hold and is
blocked off from any entry amidships by the moon pool."
"I thought Ryan had run a power cable down there once from someplace
other than the open hatch cover."
Dirk thought hard for a moment, trying to jog his memory. After a long
minute, a light finally clicked on.
"You're right. There's a small venting hatch that opens on the
bulkhead just aft of the moon pool. It's really more of an air vent,
designed to release the buildup of noxious gases if chemicals are
stored in the hold. I'm pretty sure a man could squeeze through it.
The problem for Morgan and the crew is that it's sealed and locked from
the outside."
"We've got to figure out a way to unlock it," Summer willed.
Together, they worked through several contingency plans, finally
settling on an order of attack based on their opportunities once aboard the Sea Rover. It would take timing, skill, and a dose of daring to
pull off. But mostly it would take luck.
Dirk and Summer fell silent as their minds conjured up gruesome images
of the Sea Rover sinking with all hands, their friends, and coworkers
trapped in the airtight hold. Then the specter of the I-411 suddenly
rose up in the blackness before them and they washed the images from
their minds. With the clock ticking, they went about their business of
retrieving the final two canisters of death. Dirk maneuvered the
submersible into the hangar as before, setting the Starfish down within
easy reach of the remaining ordnance. As Summer began manipulating the
mechanical arms by sight through the acrylic bubble, Dirk observed the
video camera feed on the monitor, which recorded every moment of the
recovery. He watched while Summer gently lifted the first canister and
was placing it in the recovery basket when he suddenly powered up
Snoopy and grabbed the remote vehicle's controls. In an instant, he
nudged the ROV out of its cradle just a few inches, then spun the tiny
machine around until its nose was pressed against the submersible's
skid plates and applied full
thrusting power. The tiny ROV went nowhere, but its water jets stirred
up a thick cloud of muck and sediment in front of the Starfish. In a
flash, the water visibility went to zero amid a cloud of brown.
"What are you doing?" Summer demanded, freezing the mechanical arm controls.
"You'll see," he said, although there was nothing to see at all. After
reaching over and fidgeting with Summer's controls for a moment, he
then powered down the ROV's thruster. It took two minutes for the
seawater to clear enough that Summer could proceed with seizing the
final canister.
"You want to try that trick again?" she asked after depositing the
bomb into the basket.
"Why not?" he replied, hitting the ROV thruster again and stirring up
another muddy cloud for the camera.
Once the water cleared and both canisters were pinned into the basket,
Dirk edged the submersible away from the submarine and they began their
slow ascent. Halfway to the surface, they traded positions, squirming
over one another so that Summer controlled the submersible movements
while Dirk manned the controls of both mechanical arms.
"Okay, take us on up," Dirk instructed. "As soon as they drop us onto
the deck, I'll need you to create a diversion." While he spoke, he
worked the left mechanical arm away from its locked position on the
weapons basket and flexed it straight out to its full extension so that
it poked out from the Starfish like a lance. Summer trusted her brother's instincts implicitly, and had little time
to argue anyway. The ringed lights of the moon pool soon came into
view. Summer steered the Starfish to the center of the opening, then
they broke surface with a rush of bubbles and foaming seawater. A
metallic clank was heard as the lifting hook was attached to the
submersible and the diminutive vessel was yanked from the water. Summer
peered out at Tongju and a half-dozen other commandos as the
submersible swung through the air. Her brother, she noted, was intently watching their forward progress while gently adjusting the
mechanical arm's position. When they were crudely dropped to the deck
by the inexperienced crane operator, she saw Dirk jam the arm controls
all the way forward. The metal claw bounced forward along the deck as
they stopped, coming to a halt near the rear bulkhead. Four feet off
to the side was the small, sealed venting hatch that led to the storage
hold.
"Our boy on the crane came through," Dirk muttered. "We're in the
ballpark."
"I guess it's showtime," Summer replied with a nervous look.
Moving quickly, she stripped out of her NUMA jumpsuit, revealing a lean
body that was clad in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit covered by a
large T-shirt. Reaching under the shirt, she unhooked her bathing top
and let it fall to the floor, then grabbed the loose base of her
T-shirt and tied a knot with the material just above her navel. The ightened shirt clearly revealed the shapely contour of her full breasts
and midriff. Dirk helped open the escape hatch, then quickly returned
lo the manipulator arm controls as Summer burst out of the
submersible.
Tongju was busy talking to the crane operator with his back toward the
submersible when Summer crawled out. Seeing him turned away, she
hurriedly approached the nearest commando, who stood glaring at her
exposed features with a leer. His leer turned to shock as Summer
shouted at the top of her lungs, "Get your hands off me, creep!"
Her words were followed by an open-hand slap to the man's face that
nearly sent him sprawling. If her bikini and tight shirt hadn't
already attracted everyone's attention, then her decking one of their
fellow commandos suddenly brought every eye on the ship upon her.
Every eye except Dirk's. Capitalizing on the commotion, he powered the
mechanical arm to its full lateral reach, just barely stretching its
extended claw to the bulkhead vent hatch. Grabbing the lockdown handle
with the claw, he nudged it to the unlocked position and pulled n it
just a hair, to ensure the hatch would open. Quickly letting go,
he eased the arm back alongside the Starfish, then powered it down.
Scampering out the submersible's entry hatch, he stood casually in^
back of the submersible as if he'd been there all along. "What is this all about?" Tongju hissed as he approached Summer, \ his
Glock pistol drawn and aimed at her midsection.
"This pervert tried to assault me," Summer screeched, jerking a thumb
toward the slack-jawed commando. Tongju let fly a stream of
obscenities until the confounded gunman shrank like a wilting violet.
The commando leader then turned back to Summer and Dirk, who now stood
behind his sister.
"You two, back in the submersible," he commanded in English, the muzzle
of his Glock pointing the way.
"Jeez, a guy can't even stretch his legs around here," Dirk complained
as if it were his biggest concern at the moment. As they made their
way back into the submersible, they noticed for the first time that the
Japanese cable-laying ship was heaving to alongside the Sea Rover.
Though little longer than the NUMA vessel, the Japanese ship had a much
higher superstructure and seemed to tower over the Sea Rover. The
Baekje was hardly alongside a minute before a huge crane on her stern
deck swung over the Sea Rover's side rail trailing a cable with an
empty pallet that spun lazily in the breeze. From inside the
submersible, they watched as the pallet was dropped to the deck beside
them. A trio of black-clad commandos then rolled several storage
containers out of the Sea Rover's auxiliary laboratory and secured
them to the pallet. Each container, they knew, held one of the biological bombs encased in a cushioned sheath.
The Baekje's crane operator quickly transferred the pallet back and
forth several times in the predawn darkness until all of the bomb
containers were aboard the Japanese ship. The empty pallet then became
a bus, ferrying the commandos to the ship a handful at a time. From
belowdecks, a black-clad gunman appeared and conversed briefly with
Tongju. Dirk noticed Tongju break into a thin smile, then pointed to
the submersible and barked out an order. The cable hook was released from the pallet and attached to the Starfish.
"Guess we're changing rides," Dirk commented when the cable was pulled
taut.
This time the submersible was hoisted smoothly into the air. Dirk
rapidly jabbed the mechanical arm out and rapped three times on the
rear bulkhead with the claw before being pulled up and off the deck. He
and Summer watched the Sea Rover fall away beneath them as they were
carried over the water and deposited on a high stern deck of the
Baekje. Climbing out of the submersible, they were welcomed by a pair
of armed thugs, who prodded them toward the ship's railing with their
guns.
"I've had about enough of the assault rifle hospitality," Dirk
muttered. "I bet they feel naked when they don't have a gun in their hands,"
Summer replied.
From their vantage point, they watched as the remaining commandos were
ferried over on the pallet, Tongju riding with the last batch.
"Dirk, is it my eyes or is the Sea Rover sitting lower in the water?"
Summer asked with alarm in her voice.
"You're right," he agreed, studying the ship. "They must have opened
the sea cocks. She's listing a little to starboard as well."
The pallet carrying Tongju swung to the deck and the commando leader
jumped off, landing lightly on his feet. He immediately approached the
two captives.
"I suggest you say good-bye to your ship," he said without feeling.
"The crew is trapped in the hold, you murderous swine!" Summer cried
out.
Charged by emotion, she took a lunging step toward Tongju in anger. The
trained killer reacted instinctively, launching a vicious right kick to
Summer's midsection, sending her sprawling backward. But his trained reflexes were not swift enough to ward off the unexpected
quickness of Dirk, who sprang forward and threw a solid left hook just as Tongju regained his footing. The crushing blow landed on Tongju's
right temple, sending him dropping to one knee, where he teetered on
the verge of blacking out. The nearby gunmen immediately jumped on
Dirk, one of them ramming an assault rifle into his stomach as two
others held back his arms.
Tongju gradually regained his senses and rose to his feet, then stepped
purposely over to Dirk. Thrusting his face close to Dirk's chin, he
spoke in a calm voice dripping with menace.
"I shall enjoy watching you die in the manner of your shipmates," he
said, then brusquely turned and walked away.
The remaining commandos roughly herded Dirk and Summer down a side
stairwell and along a narrow corridor before shoving them into a small
cabin berth. The cabin door was slammed shut behind them and locked
from the outside, where two men remained on guard.
Dirk and Summer quickly shook off the pain from their blows. Staggering
past two twin beds wedged into the tiny cabin, they pressed their faces
against a small porthole on the outside bulkhead.
"She's lower in the water," Summer observed with dread in her voice.
Through the porthole, they could see the Sea Rover still floating alongside the Baekje, the seawater creeping inexorably closer to the
tops of her gunwales. No sign of life appeared on the decks, and the
big research vessel had all the appearance of a listing ghost ship.
Dirk and Summer searched for signs of movement aft of the moon pool but
saw nothing.
"They've either relocked the vent hatch or Morgan can't get to it, Dirk
cursed.
"Or he doesn't know it exists," Summer whispered.
Beneath their feet, they heard then felt an increased rumbling as the
Baekje's engines were engaged and the big cable ship slowly pulled
away from the sinking NUMA vessel. The predawn light had yet to edge
over the black night sky and it took just a few minutes before the
sight of the Sea Rover fell away into a fuzzy grouping of twinkling
lights.
Dirk and Summer strained to watch the NUMA ship as the Baekje increased
speed and distance. The twinkling lights eventually dissolved beneath
the horizon until they could see nothing more of their ship and
comrades.
SIR, we seem to have lost all contact with the Sea Rover?" Rudi Gunn
looked up slowly from his desk. His bespectacled blue eyes bore into the NUMA field support analyst standing nervously before him.
"How long ago?" Gunn probed.
"Our communications link fell nonresponsive a little over three hours
ago. We continued to receive a digital GPS position update, which
showed they were still fixed on site in the East China Sea. That
signal was lost approximately twenty minutes ago."
"Did they issue a distress call?"
"No, sir, none that we received." Despite ten years of service with
the agency, the analyst displayed obvious discomfort at being the
bearer of bad news to senior management.
"What about the Navy vessel? They were assigned an escort."
"Sir, the Navy rescinded their frigate escort before Sea Rover left port
in Osaka due to an exercise commitment with the Taiwanese Navy.
"That's just great," Gunn exclaimed in frustration.
"Sir, we've requested satellite imagery from the National
Reconnaissance Office. We should have something within the hour." "I want search and rescue craft in the air now," Gunn barked. "Contact
the Air Force and Navy. See who's got the closest resources and get
them moving. Quick!"
"Yes, sir," the young man replied, nearly jumping out of Gunn's
office.
Gunn mulled over the situation. NUMA research ships had the latest in
satellite communications equipment. They wouldn't just disappear
without warning. And the Sea Rover had one of the most experienced and
competent crews in the NUMA fleet. Dirk must be right, he feared.
There must be a powerful operation that was pursuing the biological
bombs on board the I-411.
With a foreboding sense of dread, Gunn picked up his telephone and
buzzed his secretary.
"Dark, get me the vice president."
Captain Robert Morgan was not a man to go down easy. Shaking off his
shattered femur and broken cheekbone as if they were a sprain and a
scratch, he quickly took order of his shaken crew after being
unceremoniously tossed into the confined storage hold. Seconds after
his arrival, the heavy steel hatch cover was slammed down above them,
the crash of the massive lid thrusting the compartment into complete
darkness. Frightened whispers echoed off the steel walls while the dank air hung thick with the odor of diesel fuel.
"Don't panic," Morgan bellowed in response to the murmurs. "Ryan, are
you in here?"
"Over here," Ryan's voice rang back from a corner.
"There should be a spare lightweight ROV secured in the rear. Find
some batteries and see if you can't get the lights rigged," he
ordered.
A dim light suddenly glowed in the back of the hold, the narrow beam of
a portable flashlight clasped in the paw of the Sea Rover\ chief
engineer.
"We'll get it done, Cap'n," growled the Irish-tinged voice of the
engineer, a red-haired salt named Mcintosh.
Ryan and Mcintosh located the spare ROV in a storage cradle, and
further rummaging under the faint light produced a stockpile of battery
packs. Ryan proceeded to cut one end of the ROV's power cable and
spliced several internal lines to the battery pack terminals. Once he
configured a complete circuit, the ROV's bright xenon lights burst on
in a blinding shower of blue-white luminescence. Several crew members
standing near the ROV's lights squinted their eyes shut tight at the sudden surge of light in the blackened hold. Under the bath of light,
Morgan was able to examine his shipboard crew and the onboard team of
scientists, which he noted were huddled in small groups throughout the
hold. A mix of confusion and fear was reflected in the faces of most
of the men and women.
"Nice work, Ryan. Mcintosh, move those lights across the hold, please.
Now, then, is anybody hurt?" the captain said, ignoring his own severe
injuries.
A quick tally revealed a score of cuts, bumps, and bruises. But aside
from the wounded machinist and a broken leg suffered by a geologist
when he fell into the hold, there were no other serious injuries.
"We're going to get out of this," Morgan lectured confidently. "These
goons just want the items we've been salvaging off the Japanese
submarine. Chances are, they'll let us out of here just as soon as
they've smuggled the materials off to their ship," he said, internally
doubting his own words. "But, just in case, we'll figure out a way to
pop the lid on our own. We've certainly got plenty of manpower to do
it with. Mcintosh, swing that light around again, let's see what we've
got to work with around here."
Mcintosh and Ryan picked up the portable ROV and walked it toward the
center of the hold, then slowly turned it in a 360-degree circle the
bright beams spraying an arc of light over the people and objects in its path. As a storeroom for the Starfish, the hold resembled a large
electronic parts bin. Coils of cabling hung from the bulkheads, while
spare electronic components were stored in multiple cabinets mounted on
the aft wall. Racks of test equipment lined one side of the hold,
while at the forward end of the bay a sixteen-foot Zodiac inflatable
boat sat on a wooden cradle. Off to one corner, a half-dozen
fifty-five-gallon drums of gasoline were wedged alongside two spare
outboard motors. Ryan held the light shining on the drums for several
minutes, illuminating a series of iron rungs that ran up the bulkhead
and under an overhang in back of the drums.
"Captain, there's a venting hatch located up those rungs that opens up
onto the aft moon pool deck," Ryan said. "It locks from the deck side,
but there's a chance it may have been left open."
"One of you men there," Morgan barked at a trio of scientists huddled
near the drums. "Climb up that ladder and see if the hatch is
unlocked."
A barefoot oceanographer clad in blue pajamas jumped at the captain's
request and scampered up the metal rungs, disappearing into a narrow
vent shaft that was carved through the overhang. A few moments later,
he climbed back into view, his feet now sensitive to the crude ladder
steps. "It's locked solid, Captain," he said with disappointment.
Mcintosh suddenly piped up from the center of the hold.
"Cap'n, I think we can construct a couple of spars from the wooden
supports underneath that Zodiac," he said, pointing an arm toward the
rubber boat. "With six or eight men on each, we ought to be able to
prod up a corner of the main hatch."
"Poke it off with a couple of big chopsticks, eh? That, indeed, might
work. Go to it, Mcintosh. You men over there, help get that Zodiac
off its stand," he growled at a party assembled near the boat.
Limping over, he grabbed hold of the boat's bow and helped muscle it
off the wooden stands and onto the deck. Several men assisted
Mcintosh in dissecting the support cradle and laying out its separate
pieces while the ship's carpenter assessed how to reassemble the material into several spars.
While they worked, they could hear the muffled voices of the commandos
on deck and the whirring and clanking of the Baekje's crane as it
loaded and hoisted away the I-411's ordnance. At one point, the faint
echo of machine-gun fire was heard emanating from a distant part of the
ship. A short time later, Morgan detected the sound of the Starfish
being hoisted out of the moon pool and dropped to the deck, followed by
the shrieking cry of a woman's voice he knew to be Summer's. The activity above them grew quieter after some banging on the bulkhead
above their heads. Eventually, the humming of the cranes and the
sporadic voices fell silent. As it became evident that the commandos
had left the ship, Morgan quietly wondered about the fate of Dirk and
Summer. His thoughts were suddenly jarred by the rumble of the
Baekje's engines vibrating through the hold as the cable ship pulled
away from Sea Rover.
"How are we coming along, Mcintosh?" he asked loudly to mask the sound
of abandonment, although he could clearly see the progress in front of
him.
"We've two spars together and are close to completing a third," the
chief engineer grunted. At his feet were three uneven-looking wooden
poles, roughly ten feet in length. Each was constructed of three
separate pieces of timber, crudely indented at either end with a hammer
and screwdriver and fitted together in a notched tongue-and-groove
fashion. Metal sheeting cannibalized from a test rack was hammered
around the joints for stability and finished off in a wrapped layer of
the handyman's favored duct tape.
As Mcintosh sifted through the remaining pieces of scrap wood, a sudden
rushing noise drifted up from the bowels of the ship. In a few
minutes, the sound doubled in intensity, resembling the rumbling waters
of a turbulent stream. Mcintosh stood slowly and addressed the captain in a somber, matter-of-fact voice.
"Sir, they've opened the sea cocks. They mean to sink her."
Several unseen voices gasped in horror at Mcintosh's words and numerous
cries of "No!" echoed through the hold. Morgan ignored them all.
"Looks like we'll have to make do with three spars," the captain
replied calmly. "I need seven men on each pole. Let's get them up
now."
A rush of men moved forward and grabbed the spars as the first drops of
seawater began trickling into the hold through a half-dozen small bilge
drains mounted flush on the hold's deck. Within minutes, they were
sloshing around in ankle-deep water as the men positioned the ends of
the spars against the forward corner of the hatch, next to the entry
ladder. On the top step, a man stood with a two-foot-high triangular
block of timber, his job to insert it under the open hatch lid and keep
it wedged open.
"Ready ... lift!" Morgan shouted.
In unison, the three teams of men pressed the tips of their spars
against the hatch cover eight feet over their heads and pushed up with
all their might. To everyone's surprise, the hatch cover burst open
several feet, letting in a spray of muted light from the deck lights, before its weight shifted and the heavy cover slammed back down.
The forlorn man at the top of the ladder froze an instant before trying
to insert the block wedge and was too late. The hatch crashed down
about his head as he tried to shove the wedge into the open gap, the
lip nearly taking off the fingers of his right hand. The shaken man
took a deep breath, then nodded at Morgan that he was okay to try
again.
"All right, let's give it another try," Morgan commanded as water now
swirled about his knees, the salt water stinging his open leg wound.
"One ... two ... three!"
A loud crack ripped through the hold as the top joint on one of the
spars broke clean in two, the loose section falling into the water with
a splash. Mcintosh waded over and examined the damaged end piece,
finding the grooved joint had broken completely off.
"Not good, sir," he reported. "Will take some time to repair." "Do
what you can," Morgan barked. "Let's continue with two spars ...
Heave!"
The remaining men shoved at their spars but it was a lost cause. There
was no way of getting enough manpower behind the two spars to apply
enough leverage. Additional men crowded in to try and help, but there was simply not enough room to put more hands on the timbers and
push. Twice the men strained with the additional force and were able
to pry the hatch open a few inches, but it was not nearly enough to
block it so that a man could escape. The surging seawater was now up
to Morgan's waist and he could see in the faces of the crew that the
terror of drowning was about to incite panic in the hold.
"One more try, men," he urged on while somewhere in the back of his own
mind he morbidly calculated the estimated duration it took for a man to
drown.
With adrenaline pumping, the men jammed the two spars against the hatch
cover one last time with all their might. This time, they seemed to
find their strength and the lid began to creak up. But just as they
pressed their leverage, another crack echoed through the hold. A
second spar splintered at the joint and the hatch cover clanged back
shut. Somewhere in a darkened corner a voice blurted out, "That's it,
we're finished."
It was enough for a trembling cook standing near the gasoline drums to
lose his nerve.
"I can't swim, I can't swim!" he cried out as the water level inched
up his chest.
In a frightened panic, he grabbed onto the iron rungs that ran to the vent hatch and scurried up into the shaft. Reaching the top rung in
darkness, his frenzied terror continued and he began pounding on the
small round hatch cover with his fists, crying to be let out. In a
state of complete shock, he suddenly felt the hatch give way under his
hands and drift open. With his heart pounding in disbelief, he
squirmed through the hatch and stood on the deck beside the moon pool
dumbfounded. It took nearly a full minute before his racing pulse
began to slow and he regained composure over his senses. Realizing
that he wasn't going to die just yet, he scrambled back into the hatch
and down the ladder a few steps, then shouted into the hold at the top
of his lungs.
"The hatch is open! The hatch is open! This way, everybody!"
Like an army of angry fire ants, the panicked crew swarmed to the
ladder, crushing one another to escape. By now, most of the crew were
treading water or clinging to the bulkheads, while a few drifted about
the hold clinging to the now-floating rubber Zodiac. The small ROV
also drifted freely, casting its bright lights in a surreal glow about
the hold.
"Ladies first," Morgan shouted, deferring to the traditional rule of
the sea.
Ryan, who stood near the ladder on his toes chin high to the water, tried to restore order amid the chaos.
"You heard the captain. Ladies only. Back off, you," he growled at a
pair of male biologists clamoring to get up the ladder. As the female
crew members rapidly scurried up the vent and out the hatch, Ryan
succeeded in maintaining some semblance of order with the dozens
waiting their turn. Across the hold, Morgan could see that the water
level was rising too fast. There was no way everyone was going to get
out in time, assuming the ship didn't suddenly sink from under their
feet to begin with.
"Ryan, get up that ladder. See if you can get the main hatch off,"
Morgan ordered.
Ryan didn't take time to answer, following a ship's nurse up the ladder
as fast as his legs would carry him. Squirming through the hatch and
falling to the deck, he was shocked at what his eyes beheld. In the
early dawn light, he could see that the Sea Rover was sinking fast by the
stern. Seawater was already washing over the sternpost, while the
bow poked up toward the sky at better than a twenty-degree angle.
Scrambling to his feet, he saw a young assistant communications officer
helping others move to a higher level on the ship.
"Melissa, get to the radio room and issue a Mayday," he shouted,
running past her. He climbed a short stairwell to the rear hatch, his eye catching the
sparkle of a light in the far distance to the north, the cable ship
heading off over the horizon. Jumping up onto the hatch, he allowed
himself a second to let out a brief sigh of relief. The rising waters
off the stern had not yet lapped over the edge of the hatch nor had
inundated the aft crane. In their haste, the commandos had even left
the crane's hook-and-boom assembly attached to the hatch.
Sprinting to the crane, he hopped into the cab and fired up its diesel
engines, immediately shoving the hand controls to raise the boom. With
unbearable slowness, the boom gradually rose into the air, lifting the
massive hatch cover up with it. Ryan wasted no time rotating the boom
a few feet to starboard before jumping out of the cab, leaving the
hatch cover dangling in the air.
Rushing to the edge of the hold, he found more than thirty men bobbing
in the water fighting for their lives. The water level had already
risen to within a foot of the hatch. Another two minutes, he figured,
and the men would have all drowned. Reaching his arms in, he began
tugging and grabbing at the men one by one, yanking them up and out of
the hold. With those on deck helping, Ryan had every man out within a
matter of seconds. He ensured that he personally eased the final man
out of the water, Captain Morgan.
"Nice work, Tim," the captain winced as he wobbled to his feet. "Sorry that I didn't personally check the vent hatch in the first
place, sir. We could have gotten everyone out sooner had we known it
was actually unlocked."
"But it wasn't. Don't you get it? It was Dirk who unlocked it. He
knocked on the door for us but we forgot to answer."
A look of enlightenment crossed Ryan's face. "Thank God for him
and Summer, the poor devils. But I'm afraid we're not out of the woods
yet, sir. She's going down fast."
"Spread the word to abandon ship. Let's get some lifeboats in the
water, pronto," Morgan replied, stumbling up the inclining deck toward
the bow. "I'll see about sending a distress."
As if on cue, Melissa the communications officer came scrambling across
the deck half out of breath.
"Sir," she gasped, "they've shot up the communications system ... and
satellite equipment. There's no way to send a Mayday."
"All right," Morgan replied without surprise. "We'll deploy our
emergency beacons and wait for someone to come looking for us. Report
to your lifeboat. Let's get everybody off this ship now." While heading to assist with the lifeboats, Ryan now noticed that the
Starfish was missing. Slipping into the auxiliary lab, he found that
the recovered bomb canisters had been neatly removed, dissolving any
doubts about the reason for the assault.
After their ordeal in the storage hold, an unusual calmness fell over
the crew as they abandoned ship. Quietly and in composed order, the
men and women quickly made their way to their respective lifeboat
stations, glad to have a second chance at life despite the fact their
ship was sinking beneath their feet. The advancing water was
proceeding rapidly up the deck and two lifeboats closest to the stern
were already flooded before they could be released from their davits.
The assigned crew was quickly dispersed to other boats, which were
being launched to the water in a torrid frenzy.
Morgan hobbled up the sloping deck, which was now inclined at a
thirty-degree angle, till reaching the captain's boat, which sat loaded
and waiting. Morgan stopped and surveyed the ship's decks a last time,
like a gambler who had bet, and lost, the farm. The ship was creaking
and groaning as the weight of the salt water filling its lower
compartments tugged at the vessel's structural integrity. An aura of
sadness enveloped the research ship, as if it knew that it was too soon
for it to be cast to the waves. At last confident that all the crew were safely away, Morgan threw a
sharp salute to his vessel, then stepped into the lifeboat, the last
man off. The boat was quickly winched down to the rolling sea and
motored away from the stricken ship. The sun had just crept over the
horizon and cast a golden beam on the research ship as it struggled for
its last moments. Morgan's lifeboat was just a few yards away from the
Sea Rover when her bow suddenly rose sharply toward the sky, then the
turquoise ship slipped gracefully into the sea stern first amid a
boiling hiss of bubbles.
As the ship slipped from view, its traumatized crew was overcome by a
solitary sensation: silence.
Something's rotten in Denmark." Summer ignored her brother's words and
held a small bowl of fish stew up to her nose. After uninterrupted
confinement for most of the day, the heavy door of their cabin had
burst open and a galley cook wearing a white apron entered with a tray
containing the stew, some rice, and a pot of tea. An armed guard
watched menacingly from the hallway as the food was set down and the
nervous cook quickly left without saying a word. Summer was famished
and eagerly surveyed the food as the door was bolted back shut from the
outside.
Taking a deep whiff of the fish stew, she wrinkled her nose.
"I think there's a few things rotten around here as well," she said. Moving on to the rice, she drove a pair of chopsticks into the bowl and
began munching on the steamed grains. At last bringing relief to her
hunger pangs, she turned her attention back to Dirk, who sat gazing out
the porthole window.
"Aside from our crummy lower-berth cabin, what's bugging you now?" she
asked.
"Don't quote me on this, but I don't think we're headed to Japan."
"How can you tell?" Summer asked, scooping a mound of rice into ] her
mouth.
"I've been observing the sun and the shadows cast off the ship. We
should be heading north-northeast if we were traveling to Japan, but
it appears to me that our course heading is more to the northwest."
"That's a fine line to distinguish with the naked eye."
"Agreed. But I just call 'em as I see 'em. If we pull into Nagasaki,!
then just send me back to celestial navigation school."
"That would mean we're heading toward the Yellow Sea," she replied,
picturing an imaginary map of the region in her head. "Do you think we're sailing to China?"
"Could be. There's certainly no love lost between China and Japan.
Perhaps the Japanese Red Army has a base of operations in China. That
might explain the lack of success the authorities have had in tracking
down any suspects in Japan."
"Possibly. But they'd have to be operating with state knowledge or
sponsorship, and I would hope they'd think twice before sinking an
American research vessel."
"True. Then again, there is another possibility."
Summer nodded, waiting for Dirk to continue.
"The two Japanese hoods who shot up my Chrysler. A forensics doctor at
the county morgue thought that the men looked Korean."
Summer finished eating the rice and set down the bowl and chopsticks.
"Korea?" she asked, her brow furrowing.
"Korea."
Ed Coyle's eyes had long since grown weary of scanning the flat gray
sea for something out of the ordinary. He nearly didn't trust his eyes when something finally tugged at the corner of his vision. Focusing
toward the horizon, he just barely made out a small light in the sky
dragging a wispy white tail. It was exactly what the copilot of the
Lockheed HC-130 Hercules search-and-rescue plane had been hoping to
see.
"Charlie, I've got a flare at two o'clock," Coyle said into his
micro-phoned headset with the smooth voice of an ESPN sportscaster.
Instinctively, he pointed a gloved hand at a spot on the windshield
where he'd seen the white burst.
"I got her," Major Charles Wight replied with a slight drawl while
peering out the cockpit. A lanky Texan with a cucumber-cool demeanor,
the HC-130's pilot gently banked the aircraft toward the fading smoke
stream and slightiy reduced airspeed.
Six hours after departing Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, the
search-and-rescue pilots had started wondering whether their mission
was a wild-goose chase. Now they crept to the edge of their seats,
wondering what they would find in the waters beneath them. A grouping
of white dots slowly appeared on the distant horizon, gradually growing
larger as the aircraft approached.
"Looks like we've got us some lifeboats," Wight stated as the specks
grew into distinguishable shapes. "Seven of them," Coyle confirmed, counting the small boats stretched in
a line. Morgan had rounded up all the lifeboats and lashed them
together, bow to stern, in order to keep the survivors together. As
the Hercules flew in low over them, the crew of the Sea Rover waved
wildly in response and let out a collective cheer.
"Roughly sixty heads," Coyle estimated as Wight brought the plane
around in a slow circle. "They look to be in pretty good shape."
"Let's hold the PJs, drop an emergency medical pack, and see if we can
initiate a sea pickup."
The PJs were three medically trained para rescue jumpers in the back of
the plane ready to parachute out of the HC-130 at a moment's notice.
Since the crew of the Sea Rover appeared in no imminent danger, Wight
opted to withhold their deployment for the time
being. A lo adman at the back of the Hercules instead lowered a big
hydraulic door beneath the tail and, at Coyle's command, shoved out
several emergency medical and ration packs, which drifted down to the
sea suspended from small parachutes.
An airborne communications specialist had meanwhile issued a distress
call over the marine frequency. Within seconds, several nearby ships
answered the call, the closest being a containership bound for Hong Kong from Osaka. Wight and Coyle continued to circle the lifeboats for
another two hours until the containership arrived on the scene and
began taking aboard survivors off the first lifeboat. Satisfied they
were now safe, the rescue plane took a final low pass over the
castaways, Wight waggling the wingtips as he passed. Though the pilots
could not hear it, the tired and haggard survivors let out a robust
cheer of thanks that echoed across the water.
"Lucky devils," Coyle commented with satisfaction.
Wight nodded in silent agreement, then banked the Hercules southeast
toward its home base on Okinawa.
The large freighter had let go a welcoming blast of its Kahlenberg air
horn as it glided toward the lifeboats. A whaleboat was lowered to
guide the shipwreck victims around to a lowered stairwell near the
stern, where most of the Sea Rover's crew climbed up to the high deck.
Morgan and a few other injured crewmen were transferred to the
whaleboat and hoisted up to the containership's main deck. After a
brief welcome and inquiry by the ship's Malaysian captain, Morgan was
rushed down to the medical bay for treatment of his wounds.
Ryan caught up with him after the ship's doctor had tended to the NUMA
captain's leg and confined him to a bunk next to the crewman with the
broken leg. "How's the prognosis, sir?"
"The knee's a mess but I'll live."
"They do amazing things with artificial joints these days," Ryan
encouraged.
"Apparently, I'll be finding that out in an intimate way. Beats a peg
leg, I guess. What's the state of the crew?"
"In good spirits now. With the exception of Dirk and Summer, the Sea
Rover's crew is all aboard and accounted for. I borrowed Captain
Malaka's satellite phone and called Washington. I was able to speak
directly with Rudi Gunn and informed him of our situation after
briefing him on the loss of the ship. I let him know that our
recovered cargo, along with Dirk, Summer, and the submersible, is
believed aboard the Japanese cable ship. He asked me to express his
thanks to you for saving the crew and promised that the highest levels
of the government will be activated to apprehend those responsible."
Morgan stared blankly at a white wall, his mind tumbling over the
events of the past few hours. Who were these pirates that had attacked
and sunk his ship? What was their intent with the biological weapons?
And what had become of Dirk and Summer?. Not generating any answers,
he simply shook his head slowly. "I just hope it won't be too late."
After sailing north for a day and a half, the Baekjegradually arched
its bow around toward an easterly heading. Landfall was spotted at
dusk, and the ship waited until dark before creeping into a large
harbor amid a hazy fog. Dirk and Summer surmised that they had, in
fact, sailed to Korea and correctly guessed that they were in the
South's large port city of Inchon, based on the number of
internationally flagged freighters and containerships they passed
entering the port.
The cable-laying ship moved slowly past the wide-spaced commercial
docks that busily loaded and unloaded huge containerships around the
clock. Turning north, the Baekje crept past an oil refinery terminal,
snaking around a rusty tanker ship before entering a dark and less
developed corner of the harbor. Drifting past a decrepit-looking
shipyard housing scores of decomposing hulks, the ship slowed as it
approached a small side channel that ran to the northwest. A guard hut
with a small speedboat alongside stood at the entrance to the
channel, beneath a rusting sign that proclaimed, in Korean: kang
MARINE SERVICES----PRIVATE. The Baekje^ captain maneuvered the ship gently into the channel and
proceeded several hundred yards at a slow creep before rounding a sharp
bend. The channel fed into a small lagoon, which was dwarfed by a
massive pair of covered docks that sat at the opposite end. As if
pulling a car into the garage, the Baekjeh captain inched the ship into
one of the cavernous hangars that towered a solid fifty feet above the
ship's forecastle. The ship was tied off under a field of bright
halogen lamps that hung from the ceiling, while a large hydraulic door
quietly slid shut behind them, completely concealing the vessel from
outside eyes.
A crane immediately swung over and a half-dozen crewmen began unloading
the ordnance containers, which were lowered to the dock under Tongju's
supervision. Once the bomb canisters were stacked on the deck in an
orderly pyramid, a large white panel truck backed down the dock to the
cargo. Another group of men, wearing powder blue lab coats, carefully
loaded the weapons into the back of the truck, then drove away from the
ship. As it turned a corner at the end of the dock, Tongju could see
the familiar blue lightning bolt emblazoned on the side of the truck,
beneath the words kang satellite telecommunications CORP.
Kim approached as Tongju watched the truck exit the hangar through a
guarded doorway.
"Mr. Kang will be quite pleased when he learns that we have recovered
all of the ordnance," Kim stated. "Yes, though two of the twelve are worthless. The submersible pilots
cracked open the last two shells and released the armament into the
water. An accident, they claim, due to a loss of visibility in the
water."
"An inconsequential loss. The overall mission was quite successful."
"True, but there is still a difficult operation ahead of us. I am tak
tag the prisoners to Kang in order for him to interrogate them. I
trust
that you will administer to the ship preparations satisfactorily," he
stated rather than asked.
"The reconfiguration of the vessel, as well as the replenishment of
fuel and provisions, will begin immediately. I will ensure that the
ship is ready to depart the minute our cargo is reloaded."
"Very well. The sooner we get to sea, the better our chances of
success."
"We have surprise on our side. There is no way we can fail," Kim said
confidently. But Tongju knew otherwise. Taking a long puff on a lit cigarette, he
considered the element of surprise. It could indeed mean the
difference between life and death.
"Let us just hope that our deception endures," he finally replied
thoughtfully.
Belowdecks, Dirk and Summer were roughly roused from their cabin cell,
a thick-necked guard first handcuffing their wrists behind their backs
before shoving them out of the room. They were marched at gunpoint to
a gangway leading off the ship, where Tongju stood watching with a
sneer on his face.
"It was a lovely cruise. You never did show us where the shuffle-board
court was located, however," Dirk said to the assassin.
"Now, be honest," Summer piped in. "The food didn't exactly warrant a
five-star rating."
"The American sense of humor is hardly amusing," Tongju grunted, his
cold eyes showing that he was not the least bit entertained.
"By the way, what exactly is the Japanese Red Army doing in Inchon,
Korea?" Dirk asked bluntly.
A barely perceptible arch crossed Tongju's brow. "Most observant, Mr. Pitt." Then, ignoring his captives further, he
turned to Thick Neck, who cradled an AK-74 leveled at the pair.
"Take them to the high-speed launch and lock them in the forward berth
under guard," he barked, then turned on his heels and marched to the
bridge.
Dirk and Summer were marshaled down the gangplank and across the dock
to a smaller side slip, where a sleek-looking motor yacht was tied up.
It was a thirty-one-meter South Pacific marine high-speed catamaran,
painted a teal blue. Designed and built for passenger ferry service,
it had been refitted as a fast oceangoing personal luxury yacht.
Equipped with four-thousand-horsepower diesel engines, the luxury cat
could cruise along at speeds over 35 knots.
"Now, this is more my style," Summer commented as they were prodded
aboard and locked in a small but plushly appointed center berth.
"No windows this time. Guess Mr. Hospitality didn't like your Inchon
crack," Summer added as she curled her way into a small salon chair,
her hands still cuffed behind her back.
"Me and my big mouth," Dirk replied. "At least we now have a rough
idea of where we are." "Yes ... right in the middle of deep kimchi. Well, if we got to go, at
least we get to go first class," she said, admiring the walnut paneling
and expensive artwork adorning the walls. "These guys certainly have
some deep pockets for a second-rate terrorist organization."
"Apparently, they have some friends at Kang Enterprises."
"The shipping company?"
"A large conglomerate. We've seen their commercial freighters around
for years. They're also involved in some other high-tech businesses as
well, though I'm only familiar with their shipping division. I met a
guy in a bar once who worked as an oiler on one of their ships. He
told me about their enclosed repair and storage facility in Inchon.
Never seen anything like it. There's supposedly a dry dock at one
end,
and the place is chock-full of state-of-the-art equipment. The cable
ship had the Kang trademark blue lightning bolt on the funnel. This
has to be the place."
"Glad to see all that time you spent as a barfly is finally paying
off," Summer quipped.
"Research. Strictly research," he smiled. Summer suddenly turned serious. "Why would a South Korean business be
mixed up with the JRA? And what do they want with us?"
Her words were interrupted by the throaty roar of the catamaran's
diesel engines as they were fired up astern of their cabin.
"I guess we'll soon find out."
Tongju crossed over and boarded the catamaran as the ropes were cast
off, the fast boat burbling along the dockage at a crawl. The huge
hangar door slid to the side again, allowing the catamaran to exit the
enclosed building. As they slipped through the doorway, Tongju glanced
back at the big cable ship towering over them.
An army of workmen was already crawling about the Baekje like a swarm
of bees. A heavy-duty crane was removing the giant cable-laying wheel
from the stern deck, while teams of painters re sprayed the topside
decks. Elsewhere, construction crews were cutting the superstructure
in some areas while adding compartments and bulkheads in other places.
A work detail hung over the fantail, re beading and painting the ship's
name, while another team painted the funnel a golden yellow. In just a
matter of hours, the entire ship would be transformed to another vessel
that even the trained eye would have trouble detecting. It would be as
if the cable ship Baekje never existed. The fiery bantam marched through the executive corridors of NUMA's
headquarters as if he owned the building, which, in fact, he
essentially did. Admiral James Sandecker was a revered figure
throughout the halls, offices, and laboratories of NUMA, the legacy of
his founding the agency with a handful of scientists and engineers
several decades before. Though diminutive in size, his blazing blue
eyes and bright red hair with matching goatee simply advertised the
burning intensity with which he operated twenty-four hours a day.
"Hello, Darla, you're looking stunning today," he said graciously to
the forty-something secretary typing on a computer. "Is Rudi in the
executive conference room?"
"Good to see you again, Admiral," the woman beamed as her eyes roved to
a pair of Secret Service agents struggling to keep up with the
fast-moving chief. "Yes, Mr. Gunn is waiting for you inside. Please
go right in."
Though still regarded as the Admiral by his NUMA comrades, the rest of
the world knew him as Vice President Sandecker. Despite a lifelong
aversion to the subversive world of Washington politics, Sandecker was
persuaded by President Ward to fill the shoes of the vice presidency
when the elected veep unexpectedly died in office. Sandecker knew the
president to be a man of honor and integrity who would not force his
second-in-command to remain a wallflower. The fiery admiral immediately broke the mold of past vice presidents. Far from being a
figurehead and emissary for state funerals, Sandecker held a strong
position in the administration. He vigorously spearheaded defense and
security reforms, increased the funding and focus of
government-sponsored scientific research, and led the point for
environmental conservancy initiatives and all matters relating to the
seas. At his bullying, the administration successfully strong-armed a
worldwide ban on whaling by all industrialized nations, as well as
implementing a host of tough penalties and sanctions on ocean
polluters.
Sandecker burst through the door to the conference room, immediately
hushing the group of NUMA officials deliberating the loss of the Sea
Rover.
"Thanks for coming over, Admiral," Gunn said, jumping up and showing
his boss to the head of the table.
"What's the latest information?" Sandecker asked, dispensing with the
usual around-the-table pleasantries.
"We've confirmed that the Sea Rover has, in fact, been sunk after being
attacked in the East China Sea by a small armed force that infiltrated
the vessel. Miraculously, the crew escaped from a locked storage hold
minutes before the ship went under. They were able to make it into the lifeboats, where they were later spotted by an Air Force
search-and-rescue plane. A nearby freighter was alerted, and they have
since been picked up. The freighter and crew are en route to Nagasaki
as we speak. All but two of the crew have been accounted for." "She
was boarded by force?"
"A stealth commando team of unidentified nationality got aboard her at
night and took over the ship without a struggle."
"That's Bob Morgan's ship, isn't it?"
"Yes. The old goat apparently put up a fight and took a gunshot wound
to the leg during the struggle. I spoke with Ryan, his exec, who told
me that he's expected to pull through in good shape. According to
Ryan, the boarders claimed to be with the Japanese Red Army. They made
their escape in a cable-laying ship bearing the Japanese flag."
"Odd choice of attack ship," Sandecker mused. "I take it they
absconded with the biological bombs that had been recovered from the
I-411?"
"Ryan confirmed as much. They had nearly completed the recovery
operation at the time of the attack. The Starfish was missing when the
crew escaped from the hold, and Ryan believes it was hoisted onto the
attack ship, perhaps with the submersible's missing pilots." "I'll call the State Department and request an immediate dragnet from
the Japanese naval resources." Sandecker pulled an enormous Dominican
Republic cigar out of his breast pocket and. lit the green stogie,
sending a thick plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "Shouldn't be too
difficult to peg a cable ship when she slips into port."
"I've alerted Homeland Security, who is working along those same lines.
They don't seem to believe the Japanese Red Army has the skill or
technology to create a domestic threat with the weapons but are now
looking at possible ties to Al Qaeda and a few other terrorist
organizations."
"I wouldn't bet against it," Sandecker replied drily as he rolled the
cigar between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll brief the president this
afternoon. Someone is going to damn well pay for destroying an
American government vessel," he snarled, his eyes ablaze.
The inhabitants of the conference room nodded in collective agreement.
Though a large organization, there was a close-knit sense of family
within the agency and an act of terror against fellow colleagues
halfway around the world was still felt strongly by those at home.
"We share your sentiments, Admiral," Gunn replied quietly.
"By the way, the two crewmen that are missing?" Sandecker asked. Gunn swallowed hard. "Summer and Dirk Pitt. Presumed abducted with
the Starfish"
Sandecker stiffened in shock. "Good Lord, not them. Does their father
know?"
"Yes. He's in the Philippines with Al Giordino trying to contain an
underwater environmental hazard. I spoke with him by satellite phone
and he understands that we are doing everything we can right now."
Sandecker leaned back in his leather chair and gazed at the cloud of
blue cigar smoke drifting above his head. God have mercy on the fool
that would harm that man's offspring, he thought.
Seven thousand miles away, the blue catamaran ripped across the west
coastal waters of Korea like a top fuel dragster running the traps.
Summer and Dirk were nudged and rocked in their luxury confinement as
the speedy yacht tore through the swells at almost 40 knots. A pair of
Korean fishermen in a rickety sampan cursed vehemently as the cat
stormed perilously close by, the powerful boat's wake washing waves
over the sides of the tiny fishing boat.
After two hours of hard running, the catamaran turned inland and slowed
its speed as it threaded its way through the sprinkling of small
islands that dotted the mouth of the Han River. The pilot maneuvered the boat upriver another hour until spotting the semi hidden channel
that curled into Kang's Kyodongdo Island lair. Passing through the
inlet that he knew was monitored by hidden video cameras, the pilot
guided the catamaran across the cove to the floating dock at the base
of the sheer-walled compound. Inching to a stop, the blue catamaran
was tied up astern of Kang's gleaming white Benetti yacht.
Dirk and Summer remained locked in their cabin as Tongju strode
off the craft and rode the elevator up the cliff to Kang's private
enclave. Kang sat in his cherrywood-paneled executive office with
Kwan, studying the financial statements of a radio component
manufacturer that he intended to acquire via hostile takeover. He
looked up slowly when Tongju entered and bowed.
"Captain Lee of the Baekje has sent word that your mission was a
success," Kang stated through tight lips, offering no hint of
satisfaction.
Tongju nodded slightly. "We acquired the ordnance after it was
salvaged by the American vessel. Ten of the devices were still intact
and have been determined to be usable," he continued, neglecting to
mention that Dirk had sabotaged the other two canisters.
"More than a sufficient quantity to proceed with the operation," Kang replied.
"The weapon scientists aboard the Baekje were most pleased. The
devices were immediately transferred to the biological research
laboratory upon our arrival at Inchon. The lab chief assured me that
the necessary refinement and containment will be complete within
forty-eight hours."
"At which time I trust the Baekje's reconfiguration will be
complete?"
Tongju nodded in reply. "She will be ready to set sail on time."
"Schedule is critical," Kang continued. "The mission must be achieved
ahead of the National Assembly referendum vote."
"As long as there is no delay with the ordnance, we will be ready,"
Tongju assured him. "The shipyard workers had already made impressive
progress by the time we departed the dock facility."
"We cannot tolerate another miscalculation," Kang said coldly.
Tongju squinted slightly, unsure of his boss's meaning. Ignoring the
comment, he continued speaking.
"I have brought two of the captives from the American vessel with me. The pilots who operated their submersible. One of them is the
man responsible for the death of our two agents in America. I thought
perhaps you might wish to entertain him personally," he said, placing a
sinister emphasis on the word entertain.
"Ah, yes, the two missing crew members from the NUMA ship."
"Missing crew members?"
Kwan stepped forward and thrust a news story gleaned from the Internet
into Tongju's hands.
"It is all over the news," Kwan said. "Research vessel sunk in East
China Sea; all but two saved," he quoted from a headline in Chosun
I/bo, Korea's largest newspaper.
Tongju's face went pale but he didn't move a muscle. "That is
impossible. We sank the vessel with the crew sealed in a storage hold.
They could not have all escaped."
"Escape they did," Kang said. "A passing freighter picked up the crew
and took them to Japan. Did you not watch the ship go under?"
Tongju shook his head. "We were anxious to return with the salvaged material at the earliest possible moment," he said quietly.
"It is being reported that the ship suffered an accidental fire on
board. Apparently, the Americans are afraid of publicizing yet another
terrorist incident," Kwan said.
"As well as revealing the true nature of their presence in the East
China Sea," Kang added. "Perhaps the lack of media reporting will
temper their investigation into the incident."
"I am confident that we maintained our false identity. My assault team
was of mixed ethnicity and only English or Japanese was spoken while on
the American ship," Tongju replied.
"Perhaps your failure to dispose of the crew was not a bad thing," Kang
stated with a slight glare. "It will further embarrass the Japanese
and keep the American intelligence effort focused on Japan. They will,
of course, be searching for the Baekje. The sooner she can be put back
to sea, the better."
"I will provide a continuous update from the shipyard," Tongju replied.
"And the two Americans?"
Kang perused a leather-bound schedule book. "I am traveling to Seoul
for an engagement with the minister of unification this evening and
shall return tomorrow. Keep them alive until then." "I shall give them a last supper," Tongju replied without humor.
Kang ignored the comment and stuck his nose back into a stack of
financial documents. Taking the clue, the assassin turned and departed
Kang's office without making a sound.
A half mile from the Inchon enclosed dock where Baekje was undergoing
its cosmetic refit, two men in a dingy pickup truck slowly circled a
nondescript shipyard building. Empty pallets and rusting flatbed
carriers littered the grounds around the windowless structure, which
was marked by a faded kang shipping company sign perched over the main
entrance. Dressed in worn coveralls and grease-stained baseball caps,
the two men were part of a heavily armed undercover security team
numbering two dozen strong who patrolled the supersecret facility
around the clock. The dilapidated exterior of the building hid a
high-tech engineering development center filled with the latest super
computing technology. The main and upper floors were dedicated to
developing satellite payloads for Kang's satellite communications
business. A small team of crack engineers worked to incorporate
concealed eavesdropping and reconnaissance capabilities into
conventional telecommunication satellites that were sold for export and
launched by other regional governments or commercial companies. Hidden
in the basement, and heavily guarded, was a small microbiology
laboratory whose very existence was known by only a handful of Kang employees. The small cadre of scientists who worked in the lab had
mostly been smuggled in from North Korea. With their families still
living in the northern provinces, and forceful patriotic mandates
placed upon them, the microbiologists and immunologists had little
choice in accepting the nature of their work with hazardous biological
agents.
The I-411's deadly bombs had been quietly transferred into the lab,
where an ordnance expert had assisted the biologists in separating the
powdery smallpox virus from the sixty-year-old compartmentalized aerial
bombs. The viruses had been freeze-dried by the Japanese, allowing the
pathogens to remain inert for storage and handling. The smallpox-laden
bombs were designed to maintain their deadly efficacy for the duration
of the submarine's voyage until hydrogenated upon deployment. Over
sixty years later, their porcelain casings had repelled all destructive
effects from decades of submersion. The aged bomb payloads were still
every bit as potent as when they were loaded.
Placing samples of the cream-colored powder into a bio safe container,
the biologists carefully initiated a controlled reconstitution of the
viruses using a sterile water-based diluent. Under a microscopic eye,
the dormant, block-shaped microorganisms could be seen waking from
their long slumber and bouncing off each other like bumper cars as they
resumed their lethal state. Despite the long period of dormancy, only
a small percentage of the viruses failed to rejuvenate. The research lab was run by a highly paid Ukrainian microbiologist
named Sarghov. A former scientist with Biopreparat, the old Soviet
Union civilian agency that fronted the republic's military biological
weapons program, Sarghov had taken his knowledge of bio weapon genetic
manipulation and sold his skills in the marketplace to the highest
bidder. Though he never desired to leave his homeland, his stock as a
budding scientific leader in the agency was tarnished when he was
caught in bed with the wife of a politburo member. Fearing for his
life,
he made his way through Ukraine to Romania, where he hopped a Kang
freighter in the Black Sea. A hefty bribe to the ship's captain led
him to higher contacts in the company, where his scientific skills were
recognized and soon put to illicit use.
With ample resources, Sarghov quietly compiled a high-tech DNA research
laboratory stocked with the equipment and tools necessary for a skilled
bioengineer to splice, dice, isolate, or recombine the genetic material
of one microorganism to another. In the confines of Sarghov's secret
laboratory, a smorgasbord of dangerous bacterial and viral agents was
littered about the facility, the seeds he cultivated to create a garden
of death. But he still felt impotent. His stock was a commoner's
cache of easily acquired agents, such as the hepatitis B virus and
tuberculosis mycobacterium. Potentially lethal agents in their own
right, they were nothing like the deadly Ebola, smallpox, and Marburg viruses he had worked with during his days at the Russian facility in
Obolensk. Sarghov's feverish attempts at creating a knockout killer
agent with the resources at hand had failed. He felt like a boxer with
one hand tied behind his back. What he needed and desired was a truly
lethal pathogen, one from the A-list.
His gift to evil science came from an unexpected source. A North
Korean agent in Tokyo had infiltrated a government records disposal
center and intercepted a cache of classified Japanese documents.
Expecting to find a bonanza of current Japanese security secrets, the
agent's handlers in Pyongyang were angered to find that the records
were old World War II classified documents. Included in the heist were
reports relating to Imperial Army experiments with biological weapons,
records that were to be destroyed for fear of embarrassing the
government. A sharp intelligence analyst stumbled upon the Imperial
Army's involvement with the final missions of the I-403 and I-411,
however, and Sarghov was soon on his way to his own supply of Variola
major.
In the Frankenstein world of genetic engineering, biologists have found
it a daunting task to create an entirely new organism from
scratch. But manipulating existing microorganisms through deliberate
mutation, then prompting their reproduction to useful quantities, has
been an ongoing art since the seventies. Laboratory-formulated
agricultural crops that are resistant to pestilence and drought have been a major societal benefit of such bioengineering, along with the
more controversial creation of super developed livestock. But the dark
side of genetic surgery has always been the potential creation of a new
strain of virus or bacteria with unknown, and possibly catastrophic,
consequences.
For a man of his propensity, Sarghov was not content simply to
regenerate the supply of smallpox. He had much more up his sleeve.
With help from a Finnish research assistant, Sarghov acquired a sample
of the HIV-1 virus, the most common source of acquired immune
deficiency syndrome. Delving into the HIV-1 viral makeup, Sarghov
synthesized a key genetic element of the horrifying AIDS virus. Taking
his freshly reconstituted batch of smallpox virus, the scientist
attempted to grow a new mutated bug, integrating the highly unstable
HIV-1 virus. Boosted by the synthetic element that acted to stimulate
recombination, mutant viruses were soon cultivated and then reproduced
in mass. The result was a new microorganism that contained the
attributes of both individual pathogens. Microbiologists sometimes
refer to the process as a "chimera." Sarghov's chimera combined the
highly contagious lethality of smallpox with the immunitive destroying
abilities of HIV-1 into one deadly super virus
Reproducing the mutant pathogen in large quantities from scratch was a
time-consuming process despite the ferocity of the virus. Limited by
Kang's schedule, Sarghov maximized the quantities as best he could, then freeze-dried the resulting mutant viruses much as the Japanese had
years before. The crystallized super virus was then mixed into the
larger stores of freeze-dried smallpox virus from the aerial bombs,
creating a diversified toxic compound. The entire batch was processed
and refined a second time with boosters that would accelerate the
rejuvenation process.
The now easily disseminated mixture was delicately packed into a series
of lightweight tubular containers resembling the insert to a roll of
paper towels, which were then stacked on a gurney and transported out
of the lab. The packaged viral amalgamate was rolled upstairs to the
satellite payload assembly bay, where a team of mechanical engineers
took over, inserting the tubes into larger stainless steel cylinders
that encapsulated a hydrogenation tank and fittings. The process was
repeated under bright floodlights several times over until five of the
large cylinders were assembled and placed into large shipping crates. A
forklift arrived and loaded the crates onto the same white Kang panel
truck that had delivered the ordnance, now making a return trip to the
covered dock with a highly revitalized form of the weapon.
Sarghov grinned in delight, knowing a large payday was coming his way.
His exhausted team of scientists had met the mark, verifying that the
ancient smallpox virus still packed a lethal punch, then boosting its
strength to murderous proportions. In less than forty-eight hours,
Sarghov's biologists had processed the sixty-year-old virus into an
entirely new killer, the likes of which the world had never seen before.
What DO you mean the ship has yet to materialize?" Gunn rasped in
dismay.
The section chief of the FBI's International Terrorism Operations, a
compact man named Tyler, opened a file on his desk and perused the
contents as he spoke.
"We've had no information on the whereabouts of the cable ship Baekje.
The Japanese National Police Agency has been monitoring shipping
traffic in every port in the country, physically checking every ship
that remotely resembles the description offered by your NUMA crew.
They've come up empty so far."
"Have you checked ports outside of Japan?"
"An international notice has been posted with Interpol, and it is my
understanding that the CIA has been asked to provide inputs at the
request of the vice president. At this time, no confirming information
has been received. There's a million places she could be hiding, Rudi,
or she could have been scuttled herself."
"What about satellite imagery of the site where Sea Rover was sunk?"
"Bad timing there, unfortunately. With the recent flare-up of political tensions in Iran, the National Reconnaissance Office has
repositioned several of its high-resolution imaging resources to the
Middle East. The East China Sea is one of many dead spots right now
that is only covered by periodic scans from non-geosynchronous
satellites. Which all means that the Baekje could move five hundred
miles between covering passes. I'm waiting for the historical images
from the last few days but have been told not to be too hopeful."
Gunn's anger softened as he realized that the slightly balding G-man in
the starched white shirt was a competent professional doing the best
with the resources he had available. "Any headway on the ship's
history?" he asked.
"Your man Hiram Yaeger gave us a good head start on that one. Yaeger
was the one who tentatively identified the ship as the Baekje, based on
a worldwide review of ship registries through his NUMA computer bank.
Apparently, there are less than forty known cable-laying ships of the
size and configuration reported by your NUMA rescued crew. We narrowed
the list down to twelve that were owned or leased in the Asia Pacific
region and the Baekje came up missing in action." The FBI man paused
as he leafed through the folder before extracting a white sheet that
carried the blurred markings of a fax copy across its header.
"Here we are, details of the vessel. Cable-laying ship Baekje, 445
feet long, gross tonnage of 9,500. Built by the Hyundai Mipo Dockyard
Company, Ltd." Ulsan, South Korea, in 1998. Owned and operated by Kang Shipping Enterprises, Inchon, South Korea, from 1998 to 2000.
Since 2000, ship has been under lease to the Nippon Telegraph and
Telephone Corporation, Tokyo, Japan, for cable-laying services in and
around the Sea of Japan."
Setting the folder down, he stared straight into the eyes of Gunn.
"NTT's operating lease expired six months ago, at which time the Baekje sat unutilized in a Yokohama dock. Two months ago,
representatives from NTT renegotiated a one-year lease of the ship and
took possession of the vessel with their own crew. Port records show
she was unaccounted for during a five-week period, then appeared
briefly back in Yokohama approximately three weeks ago. She was
believed sighted in Osaka, where she apparently tailed the Sea Rover to
the East China Sea."
"Was the ship seized from NTT?"
"No. NTT officials were shocked to learn that their name was on a
revised lease agreement for the vessel since their fiber-optic cable
route had been completed. The NTT corporate representatives that
leased the ship were, in fact, impostors who buffaloed the Kang
Shipping agents. The Kang people produced the paperwork, everything
looked legitimate to them, though one representative thought it odd at
the time that the NTT people were providing their own crew, which they
had not done in the past. The Kang Shipping people are apparently
scrambling to file an insurance claim on the vessel now." "Sounds like there must have been some inside information somewhere.
Any known links between the Japanese Red Army and Nippon Telegraph and
Telephone?"
"None that we've established yet, but we're looking into it. NTT's
executives are cooperating fully and seem eager to clear their name
from a possible connection. Official corporate sponsorship looks
unlikely, so the Japanese authorities are focusing on a possible
employee faction somewhere within the company."
Gunn shook his head discouragingly. "So we've got a four-hundred-foot
ship that has vanished into thin air, a U.S. government vessel that has
been sunk, and an empty list of suspects. Two of my people have been
kidnapped, possibly murdered, and we have no idea where to even look
for them."
"We're frustrated, too, Rudi, but we'll get them eventually. Sometimes,
these things just take time."
Time, Gunn thought. Just how much time did Dirk and Summer still have,
if any at all?
The hot shower felt delicious. Summer let the steaming water pelt her
body for more than twenty minutes before finally willing herself to turn off the shower control knobs and reach for a towel. It had been
nearly four days since her last bout with cleanliness, she mentally
calculated, rerunning over in her mind the events of the last few days.
Stepping from the marble-tiled shower, she dried herself with a fluffy
towel, then wrapped the fabric around her body, tucking the loose end
under an armpit. Before her stretched an immense marble counter with
double sinks and gleaming gold fixtures set beneath an expansive
beveled mirror that stretched to the high ceiling. You had to give
these unsmiling thugs some credit, she thought. Someone around here
has taste.
After an uncomfortable night's sleep in the motor yacht, where she and
her brother took turns sleeping on the twin bed with their hands cuffed
behind their back, a trio of armed guards marched them ashore in the
morning. Peering at the massive residence perched on the stone bluff
above them, Dirk remarked, "Kind of reminds you of the Berghof, doesn't
it?" The stone structure with the commanding view over the Han River
did bear a passing resemblance to Hitler's vacation lair in the German
Alps. The image was made all the more complete with the surrounding
array of black shirted henchmen.
Prodded to the rock-enveloped elevator, they rode up to an interior
corridor level beneath the main quarters and were escorted to a pair of
guest rooms In rough English, a guard barked, "Prepare for dining with
Mr. Kang, two hour." While Summer showered, Dirk surveyed his plushly decorated adjoining
room for a potential means of escape. The windowless rooms dug into
the face of the cliff, the only entry or exit being the corridor hall,
where two armed guards stood in front of each room's open door. If
they were going to make an escape, it probably wasn't going to happen
here, he figured.
As Summer dried her wet hair, she briefly became lost in the luxury and
allowed herself to enjoy the surroundings. She sniffed at an array of
exotic lotions and perfumes aligned on the marble counter, settling on
an aloe vera body lotion and a lilac-scented fragrance. A rack of silk
clothing stood in the corner, a conspicuous offering for female guests.
Running her fingers through the brightly colored collection of
petite-sized robes and dresses, she spotted a flaming red pullover
dress with matching short jacket that looked like it might fit.
Squirming into the silk dress, she eyed herself in the mirror and
admired the results. A little tight in the bust, but a fair
representation of a china doll, albeit tall and red-haired, she
thought, smiling at the reflected image. Finding an assortment of
shoes at the foot of the rack, she rummaged through a dozen pairs
before finding a black set of low-heeled flats that fit. Wedging the
shoes on, she cursed as a thumbnail cracked while tugging at a heel.
Instinctively, she rummaged through the bathroom counter, bypassing
combs and brushes before discovering one of a woman's essentials: an
emery board. Not a cheap cardboard version, the metal file sported a small flat porcelain handle. Admiring the tiny tool, she absently
stuck it in a side pocket after smoothing her thumbnail. An instant
later, a pounding at the room door indicated her interval of private
luxury was over.
Exiting the room into the corridor at gunpoint, Summer found Dirk
standing casually with two rifle muzzles pointed at his back. He
looked at his sister in the stunning silk dress and let fly a wolf
whistle.
"I'm afraid we've only got a few rats to guide your chariot tonight,
Cinderella," he joked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the two
guards behind him.
"I see you've decided to stick with the Mr. Goodwrench look," she
countered, observing that he wore the same grease-and-sweat-stained
NUMA jumpsuit he'd worn since they were abducted.
"Afraid my available wardrobe was a little on the short side," he said,
pulling the cuffs of his jumpsuit up to midcalf range for emphasis.
"Never did care much for the Alfalfa sartorial look."
The four guards grew annoyed with their chattering and forcefully
guided them to the elevator, where they rode silently up one floor. The
doors opened on Kang's impressive dining room, with the broad vista
shimmering through the picture windows. Kang sat at the head of the dining table, quietly reviewing the contents of a leather-bound folder,
while Tongju stood erect off his left shoulder. The Korean magnate
looked the part of an industrial captain, attired in a custom-fitted
navy blue suit from an expensive Hong Kong tailor, with complementary
maroon silk tie. His steely slate eyes darted toward the elevator
briefly, then returned to the documents before him, his face a mask of
cold austerity.
Dirk and Summer were escorted to the table, where their eyes briefly
drank in the scenic river scape view through the window before settling
on their captor host. They both mentally noted how the cove below was
fed by a narrow winding inlet that led to the wide river in the
distance. Standing before the table, Summer felt a chill run up her
spine as Tongju shot her a lascivious look, while Kang peered up
coldly. Her minor gaiety at being clean and finely dressed withered
away in the palpable presence of evil. She suddenly felt foolish in
the silken outfit and subconsciously clasped her hands in front of her
waist in nervous fear. But her anxiety diminished after she glanced
over at Dirk.
If her brother felt any fear, he didn't show it. Dirk stood tall with
his chin thrust out defiantly, yet carried a bored-with-it-all look on
his face. He seemed to enjoy peering down with derision at Tongju, who
stood nearly ten inches shorter. The assassin paid no heed and instead
spoke directly to his boss. "The submersible operators from the NUMA vessel," he said with a touch
of disdain.
"Dae-jong Kang," Dirk retorted, ignoring Tongju, "CEO of Kang
Enterprises."
Kang nodded slightly, then motioned for Dirk and Summer to sit down.
The guards eased back to a side wall, where they kept a vigilant watch
over the two captives, while Tongju slid into a chair opposite Dirk.
"Mr. Pitt here was responsible for the death of our two men in
America," Tongju said, his eyes narrowing on Dirk.
Dirk nodded in mute satisfaction. It was as he suspected, the clear
connection between the salvage efforts on both Japanese submarines, as
well as the murder attempt on Vashon Island.
"A small world," Kang replied.
"Too small for mass murderers like you," Summer hissed in a low voice,
her anger taking rise.
Kang ignored the comment. "A pity. The men in Seattle were among
Tongju's top agents." "A tragic accident, really," Dirk replied. "You must learn to recruit
employees with better driving skills," he added, his cold glance at
Tongju met by an equally frigid stare back.
"Fortuitous indeed, as we otherwise may have lost your generous
assistance in salvaging the I-411," Kang said. "I am most curious as
to what led you to the submarines."
"Luck, mostly. I discovered that an earlier Japanese submarine had
launched a few cyanide shells at the Oregon coast and wondered if
someone had recovered some similar shells and used them in the
Aleutians. It wasn't until I dove on the I-403 and discovered the
remains of the aerial biological bombs that it became evident that
there was something more afoot."
"A shame that the bombs were damaged during the vessel's sinking," Kang
said. "They would have been much easier to recover than those from the
I-411."
"But you did recover one bomb canister intact, which you discharged in
the Aleutian Islands."
Kang showed a hint of surprise at Dirk's remark. "Of course," he
replied. "Rather interesting how the Japanese combined a chemical and
biological agent in one weapon. Our test release revealed that the efficacy of the biological agent was hampered by the dual release,
although the chemical component was more potent than we anticipated."
"Potent enough to kill two U.S. Coast Guardsmen," Summer commented.
Kang shrugged. "How did you come to have such a focus with the death
of two sailors in the Aleutians? Were you there?"
Summer shook her head in silence. Then Dirk spoke up.
"I was piloting the helicopter that your 'fishing trawler' shot
down."
Kang and Tongju looked at each other with suspicious eyes. "You are
rather a resilient man, Mr. Pitt," Kang finally stated.
Before he could respond, a side door swayed open and two men in white
waiter's jackets glided over to the table hoisting large silver trays
above their shoulders. A colorful array of seafood dishes was spread
before each place setting, followed by a glass of Veuve Clicquot
champagne. Dirk and Summer, having not eaten a full meal in days,
calmly attacked the food as the probing conversation continued.
"Your government... is rather displeased with the Japanese, I suspect,"
Kang prodded. "Your shady activities under the guise of the Japanese Red Army was a
clever ruse but uncovered for what it was by my government. Your two
flunky hit men were easily traced to Korea," Dirk lied, grinning at
Tongju. "I suspect the authorities will be banging on your door any
minute now, Kang."
A brief look of agitation on Kang's brow suddenly softened. "A
commendable effort. But the truth is that the two men had no idea
themselves who their employer was. No, I think it is apparent that you
know nothing of our intent."
"The long-standing animosity of Korea toward Japan for their many years
of brutal colonization is well known," Dirk said, continuing the
pretext. "It would be no surprise to expect the warped minds
possessing these type of weapons to use them on a historical adversary,
which in your case is the Japanese."
A thin smile crossed Kang's lips and he sat back in his chair with
satisfaction, less from the meal than from Dirk's words.
"A nice bluff, Mr. Pitt. The fact that your NUMA vessel was neither
armed nor escorted during the salvage operation tells me that your
country did not think much of your discovery on the I-403. And your
presumptive guess as to the operative use of the biological weapons is
quite off the mark." "What exactly is your ... intended use of the weapons?" Summer
stammered.
"Perhaps your own country," Kang teased as the color drained from
Summer's face. "Or perhaps not. That is neither here nor there."
"The smallpox vaccine is readily available in the United States in
quantities sufficient to vaccinate the entire population," Dirk
countered. "Tens of thousands of health workers have already been
inoculated. A release of the smallpox virus might create a minor
panic, at best. Certainly, there's not much risk of creating an
epidemic."
"Certainly a release of Variola major, or common smallpox, would
register only a small nuisance. But your vaccinations would be useless
against a chimera."
"A 'chimera'? Of Greek lore? A monster-part lion, part goat, and part
serpent?"
"Indeed. Another monster, if you will, would be a hybrid mix of
virulent agents combined into a single organism that maintains the
lethal components of each element. A biological weapon against which
your vaccinations would be laughably impotent." "But, in God's name, why?" Summer cried.
Kang calmly finished his meal and set his napkin on the table, folding
it into neat thirds before speaking.
"You see, my country has been divided against itself since your
incursion in the fifties. What you Americans fail to understand is
that all Koreans dream of the day when our peninsula is united as one
nation. Constant interference from outside meddlers will keep us from
achieving that dream. Just as the presence of foreign military forces
on our soil creates an impediment to the day when unification becomes a
reality."
"The American military presence in South Korea ensures that the dream
of unification will not be realized at the point of a North Korean
bayonet," Dirk replied.
"South Korea no longer has the stomach for a fight, and the military
power of North Korea offers the leadership and stabilizing force
necessary to restore order during reunification."
"I don't believe it," Summer muttered to Dirk. "We're having lunch
with a cross between Typhoid Mary and Joseph Stalin."
Kang, not understanding the remark, continued speaking. "The young people of South Korea today have had their fill of your military
occupation and abuses to the citizenry. They are not fearful of
unification and will help pave the way for a speedy resolution."
"In other words, once the U.S. military is removed the forces of North
Korea will march south and unify the country by force."
"Absent the U.S. defensive forces, military estimates suggest that
eighty percent of the South Korean Peninsula can be overrun within
seventy-two hours. Casualties will be necessary, but the country will
be unified under Workers' Party rule before the United States, Japan,
or any other outside interfering force has the opportunity to react."
Dirk and Summer sat in stunned silence. Their fears of a terrorist
plot using the Japanese smallpox had been well founded, but they had no
suspicion of the magnitude at stake: no less than the overthrow or the
Republic of Korea in conjunction with the wholesale death of millions
of Americans.
"I think you may be underestimating the resolve of the United
States, particularly in the face of a terrorist attack. Our president
has shown no hesitation in applying swift and fearsome retribution,"
Dirk said.
"Perhaps. But retribution against whom? The pattern of events all still points to a Japanese source ..."
"The Japanese Red Army again," Dirk interjected.
"The Japanese Red Army. You see, there simply are no other
likelihoods. Your military, intelligence, and political resources will
be focused entirely on Japan while, at the same time, we will be
mandating through our government the removal of all U.S. military
personnel from the Korean Peninsula within thirty days. Your country's
knee-jerk media will be in a frenzy over the epidemic casualties and so
focused on finding a culprit in Japan that the American military
expulsion from Korea will be a minor news item until well after the
fact."
"The intelligence community will ultimately see past the Red Army
facade and trace the actions back to you and your communist pals up
north."
"Perhaps. But how long will that take? How long has it been for your
government to solve the 2001 anthrax killings in your own capital? When
and if that day should come, emotions will no longer be running high.
It will all be a 'moot point," as you say."
"Killing millions of people and calling it 'moot'?" Summer injected.
"You are sick." "How many of my countrymen did you kill in the fifties?" Kang retorted
with a flash of anger in his eyes.
"We left plenty of our own blood on your soil," Summer replied, glaring
back at Kang.
Dirk peered across the table at Tongju, whose dark eyes were narrowly
focused on Summer. The assassin was not accustomed to people speaking
belligerently to Kang, and most certainly not a woman. While his face
remained expressionless, a piqued intolerance oozed from his gaze.
"Aren't you overlooking your own business interests?" Dirk said to
Kang, deflecting the tone. "Your industrial profits won't continue to
accrue if the almighty state Workers' Party suddenly takes the
reins."
Kang smiled weakly. "You Americans, always the capitalists at heart.
As it is, I have already arranged the sale of half my holdings to a
French conglomerate, with payment in Swiss francs. And when my
homeland is reunited, who better to help manage the state control of
South Korea's industrial resources than myself?" he said arrogantly.
"A tidy arrangement," Dirk replied. "A pity there won't be a nation
around that will be interested in purchasing the ill-gotten goods of a
totalitarian regime." "You forget China, Mr. Pitt. A huge market in and of itself, as well
as a friendly conduit for funneling goods to the world markets. There
will, of course, be a business interruption during the transfer of
power, but output will quickly recover. There is always a demand for
inexpensive, quality products."
"Sure," Dirk said sarcastically. "Name me one quality consumer product
that ever came out of a communist country. Face it, Kang, you're on
the losing end of a new global authority. There's no longer room for
warped despots who screw their own countrymen for personal wealth,
military might, or grand delusions of greatness. You and your buddies
in the north might have a few laughs along the way, but, at the end of
the day, you'll all be steam rolled by a concept foreign to you called
'freedom." "
Kang sat stiffly for a moment, a long look of annoyance settling over
his face. "Thank you for the civics lesson. It has been a most
enlightening meal. Good-bye, Miss Pitt, good-bye, Mr. Pitt," he said
coldly.
With a glance to the side wall by Kang, the guards were instantly upon
them, pulling the two to their feet. Dirk had thoughts of grabbing a
dinner knife off the table and having a go at the guards but was dissuaded when he saw Tongju pointing a Glock pistol at his
chest.
"Take them to the river cave," Kang barked.
"Thanks for the warm hospitality," Dirk muttered at Kang. "I look
forward to returning the privilege."
Kang said nothing, nodding at the guards instead, who forcibly pushed
the pair toward the elevator. Dirk and Summer glanced at each other
with a knowing look. Their time was short now. If they were to make
it out of Kang's grasp alive, they would have to act soon.
The immediate problem was Tongju and his Glock 22. Any resistance
would be futile while the assassin kept his gun aimed at them, as there
was little doubt he would use it without hesitation. Tongju followed
the four guards as they herded Dirk and Summer to the elevator, his
pistol still drawn. As the doors slid open, two pairs of hands shoved
them forcefully to the rear of the elevator. Tongju barked something
in Korean, and then, to Dirk's relief, remained standing in the dining
hall with one of the guards, a menacing look of satisfaction on his
face as the elevator doors slid shut.
The elevator was cramped with five bodies in it, which would work to
their advantage. Dirk glanced at Summer and nodded ever so slightly,
his sister acknowledging the silent message with a quick wink. She immediately grabbed her stomach and groaned, leaning forward as if she
were about to vomit. The nearest guard, a chunky man with a shaved
head, took the bait and bent down slightly toward Summer. Like a cat
mistakenly pouncing onto a hot stove, she suddenly sprang her body
upright, jerking her knee into the man's groin with all the might she
could muster. The man's eyes nearly burst out of their sockets as her
knee hit home and he doubled over in agony, a shriek of pain quivering
from his lips.
Summer's move was all Dirk needed to neutralize guard number two. As
all three guards' attention turned initially to Summer, he launched an
uppercut that connected squarely on the man's jaw, nearly
lifting him out of his shoes. Dirk watched from inches away as the
man's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the floor
unconscious.
Guard number three took a small step back as the fighting broke out and
attempted to raise the muzzle of his rifle at Dirk. Summer reacted by
grabbing the shoulders of the man she'd kneed and shoving his
hunched-over body toward the standing guard. The still-groaning bald
man swayed heavily into his taller accomplice with just enough force to
offset the other man's balance. It was enough time to allow Dirk to
step over the fallen guard and let go a left cross that landed a
glancing blow on the gunman's temple. The dazed guard tried to counter with a braced karate kick, but Dirk's right fist was already there,
mashing solidly into the man's larynx. The guard's face turned blue as
he fought to take in air and he dropped to his knees, grabbing his
throat with both hands. Dirk grabbed the man's assault rifle and swung
it around viciously, striking the stock against the face of the guard
struggling with Summer. The blow threw the man against the back of the
elevator, where he slid to the floor unconscious.
"Nice work, Smokin' Joe," Summer praised.
"Let's not wait for round two," Dirk gasped as the elevator descent
slowed beneath their feet. He checked that the safety on the assault
rifle was turned off, then prepared to leap out of the elevator as the
doors opened. Only there was no where to go.
As the doors slid open, the muzzles of three AK-74s were thrust in, the
compensators at the end of the gun barrels poking into their faces. A
security guard sitting at a bank of television monitors had witnessed
the fracas in the elevator over closed-circuit video and quickly
dispatched a cadre of guards in the vicinity.
"Saw!" the guards yelled in Korean, their meaning perfectly clear.
Dirk and Summer froze in their tracks, wondering what degree of hair
triggers existed on the assault rifles pointed their way. Dirk gently
dropped his rifle to the ground, detecting a stirring in the elevator
behind him. Too late, he turned to see the third guard staggering from
the elevator while swinging the butt of his rifle toward his head. He
tried to duck but the gun handle was too far along its way toward the
top of his skull, where it collided with a thump.
For an instant, he saw a blinding light and shining stars, and, through
the fog, an odd glimpse of Summer's feet. But that soon gave way to a
fading darkness that turned to black as the curtain closed and he
crumpled to the ground in a limp heap.
A throbbing jolt of pain shooting down from the top of his skull to the
tip of his toes was the first evidence sent to his brain that he was
still alive. As consciousness slowly seeped back to Dirk, his mind
performed a physical inventory, denoting via neural signals which parts
of the body were deviating from their normal state. Pain signals from
his wrists, arms, and shoulders began registering as if they were
pulling at a great weight, but were easily outclassed by the agonizing
pangs from his head. More confusing to his senses was the feeling from
his feet and legs that he was standing in a bucket of water. As the
shroud of fog gradually lifted, he opened his eyes to a wet, dark, and
gloomy cave.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Summer's voice echoed through
the gloomy cavern. "You didn't happen to get the license number of the truck that hit me?"
he said groggily.
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't carrying insurance."
"Where the hell are we?" Dirk asked, his mind beginning to register
the concepts of time and space.
"A side cavern, just off Kang's floating dock. That cool water
nibbling at your navel is the River Han."
The bucket of water he thought he was standing in was in fact a cavern
full of rising river water. His vision now cleared, Dirk could see
through the murky light that Summer was spread-eagled and handcuffed to
two large barge anchors. Large weights rather than actual anchors,
they were nothing more than a three-foot-square block of concrete. The
white blocks were slickened with a decade's coating of pale green
algae, with a rusty iron mooring ring protruding from the top. Dirk
saw that there were nearly a dozen of the weights aligned in a row
across the floor of the cavern. He and Summer stood adjacent to each
other, their arms stretched wide with each wrist handcuffed to
adjoining blocks.
Dirk's eyes wandered about the dim cavern. In the fading dusk light
that filtered through the mouth of the cave, he could see the distinct line on the wall that he was looking for. It was the high-water mark,
which he noted uncomfortably ran two feet above their heads.
"Death by slow drowning," he said.
"Our Fu Manchu friend, Tongju, was most insistent," Summer replied
grimly. "He even prevented one of the guards from shooting you so that
we could wallow down here together."
"I must remember to send him a thank-you card." Dirk looked down and
saw that the water was now sloshing around his rib cage.
"Water's rising pretty fast."
"We're near the mouth of the Han River, so there's plenty of tidal
surge at work." Summer gazed fearfully at her brother. "I'd estimate
that the water level has risen over a foot in the last hour."
Seeing the despair in his sister's eyes, Dirk's mind engaged in high
gear to determine a means of escape. "We have another hour and a half,
tops," he calculated.
"I just remembered something," Summer said, crinkling her brow. "I've got a small nail file in my side pocket. Might be like trying to
kill a pterodactyl with a flyswatter, but it might help." "Sure, toss
it over," Dirk replied. "This one mooring ring looks pretty mangy," she said, tugging at her
left wrist. "If I could just get one hand free."
"Maybe I can help." Dirk slid his legs toward Summer, leaning his
torso at an angle along the concrete blocks for support. Raising one
leg, he slid his foot along until the sole of his shoe met up with the
face of the protruding iron. Applying as much pressure as he could, he
pressed his weight hard against the top of the metal ring.
Nothing happened.
Shifting his foot so that his heel was against the ring, he pushed once
more. This time, the ring bent a fraction toward Summer. Jamming his
weight repeatedly against the stanchion, he gradually forced the ring
to bend over nearly ninety degrees.
"Okay, I'll need your help in pushing it back upright," he said. "Let's
try it on the count of three."
Slipping his foot to the backside of the ring, he counted to three,
then pulled his leg toward him. Summer pushed with her manacled hand
and they gradually shoved the ring back to its original vertical
position. "Well, that was fun," Dirk said while resting his leg. "Let's try it
again."
For twenty minutes, they toggled the ring back and forth, the movement
gradually becoming easier as the tensile strength of the old iron
weakened. With a last strong kick by Dirk, the ring finally snapped
off its concrete base, freeing Summer's left arm. She immediately
twisted her hand around and dug into the small side pocket of her silk
jacket and produced the porcelain-handled nail file.
"I've got the file. Should I try on the handcuff itself or the mooring
ring?" she asked.
"Go for the ring. Even though it's thicker, it will be much softer to
cut through than the hardened stainless steel handcuffs."
Using the small file like a hacksaw, Summer began grinding away at the
base of the mooring ring. Working the file with any degree of accuracy
beneath the murky river water and fading cavern light would have been a
Herculean task for most, but Summer's extensive diving experience gave
her a leg up. Years of exploring and excavating historic shipwrecks in
foul visibility had heightened her sense of touch to the extent that
she could nearly tell more about a wreck from her hands than by her
eyes.
With some measure of hope, she felt the file cut rapidly through the outer layer of the rusty ring. Her confidence waned when the blade met
up with the hardened inner core of the iron ring and progress slowed to
a snail's pace. The rising water was now level with her chest and the
pending urgency unleashed a surge of adrenaline. Summer worked the
blade back and forth as fast as she could muster underwater, gaining
ground millimeter by millimeter. Taking quick breaks from sawing, she
placed her hands on the iron ring and pushed and pulled it to weaken
the metal. Alternating sawing and prodding with an intermittent gulp
or two of river water, she at last broke through the ring and freed
herself.
"Got it," she exclaimed with victory.
"Mind if I borrow that file?" Dirk asked calmly, but Summer had
already kicked and swum her way over and begun cutting into the ring
grasping his right hand. As she worked the file, she mentally noted
that it had taken her roughly thirty minutes to cut through the first
ring and that the water level was now nearly to their shoulders. The
water was rising faster than she anticipated and would be well above
Dirk's head in less than an hour. Despite aching fingers and limbs,
she rubbed the file ferociously against the iron.
Dirk, waiting patiently as Summer filed away, began whistling the old
1880s tune "While Strolling Through the Park One Day." "That's not helping," Summer gasped, then smiled to herself at the
silly tune. "Now I won't be able to get that ridiculous song out of my
head."
Sure enough, he quit whistling, but the tune kept replaying over and
over in her head. She was surprised to find it became a good sawing
mantra that provided a rhythm to her hand movements.
While strolling through the park one day,... With each syllable, she
applied a cutting stroke to the iron, creating an efficient sawing
cadence. in the merry merry month of May.
I was taken by surprise by a pair of roguish eyes.
In a moment my poor heart was stole away.
The water level had now crept up over her chin and she found herself
taking in gasps of air, then submerging briefly to keep the file
clawing in one spot. Dirk was beginning to strain to keep his face out
of the water while applying alternating tugs and shoves on the ring as
Summer sawed tirelessly on. A muffled metallic ting finally echoed
beneath them as the ring broke loose under their combined pressure.
"Three down, one to go," Summer gasped, taking in a lungful of air
after being submerged for several seconds. "Let me give you a breather," Dirk said, grabbing the file from Summer
with his free hand. The release of his right hand gave him a few extra
inches of breathing room, but it was not enough to file the last
mooring ring without submerging. Taking a deep breath, he ducked under
the surface and began filing rapidly on the ring that held down his
left wrist. After thirty seconds, he bobbed to the surface, sucked in
some fresh air, and plunged back under. Summer stretched her cramped
fingers, then swam to Dirk's left side and waited for him to surface.
Like a pair of tag team wrestlers trying to floor Hulk Hogan, they
passed the file back and forth and ducked underwater, attacking the
iron ring with muscle and fervor.
As the minutes wore on, the water level in the cavern crept higher
and higher. Each time Dirk surfaced for a gasp of air, he felt himself
stretching farther and farther to raise his mouth and nose above water.
The handcuff shackle on his left wrist dug into his flesh as he
instinctively yanked hard to escape the clutch of the massive barge
weight.
"Save your strength for getting out of here," he told his sister as the
inevitable truth drew closer that they were running out of time. Summer
said nothing as she grabbed the file out of his hand and plunged back
beneath the surface. Dirk half-floated with his head tilted back, his
face just barely out of the water, drawing a few deep breaths. He could feel the water wash over his face in ripples and stretched for
one last deep breath before pulling himself under. Grasping Summer's
wrist, he pulled the file out of her hand and began a last furious rush
at cutting through the iron. Feeling the gouge with his thumb, he
could tell that they had cut only a third of the way through. There
was just too far to go.
The seconds felt like hours as Dirk made a final effort to break free.
He could feel his heart beating like a bass drum as it struggled to
pump oxygen into his depleted blood. In the murkiness, he could feel
that Summer was no longer by his side. Perhaps she had finally taken
his advice and sought escape. Or perhaps she just couldn't bear to be
with him during his final gasp of life.
He paused from filing for a second to try pushing his weight against
the ring. He could generate little leverage, however, and the iron
ring held firm. Again, to the file he went, making furious strokes
with the flimsy metal blade. His ears began pounding with each beat of
his heart. How long had he been holding his breath now? A minute, two
minutes? It was difficult to remember.
Light-headedness fell over him as spots began to creep into his vision.
He exhaled what remaining air was left in his lungs and fought the
temptation to open his mouth and gulp in. His heart pounded stronger
and it became a mental fight against succumbing to panic. A light
current seemed to push him away from the mooring ring, but his hand muscle grasped the file tightly in a death grip. A white veil was
being drawn across his vision and a distant voice inside was telling
him to let go. As he fought a last battle with the voice, his ringing
ears detected a deep thump and then a strange vibration rippled up his
arm and through his body just before his mind tumbled into a dark and
empty void.
*-.""
Summer knew that THEY were at least twenty minutes from filing through
the iron ring and that there would have to be another way to free her
brother. Abandoning Dirk, she dove to the cavern floor, searching and
groping for another tool or device, anything that would help break the
manacle. But the flat, sandy bottom yielded nothing, just the row of
mooring weights, one after the other. Kicking ahead with one hand
guiding along the blocks of concrete, she touched a large chunk of
concrete that had broken off one of the weights when it had been
dropped too close to another. Gliding beyond the debris, she reached
the last block, where she felt something flat and squishy like soggy
leather fall away in her hand. A harder piece beneath it was narrow
and curved, which she identified as the sole of a boot. A stick leaned
against it, which she started to grab, then let go in horror. It was no
stick, she could tell, but the femur bone of a skeleton that was still
wearing the boot. Another victim of Kang's savagery, the corpse had
long ago been left chained to the anchor. Recoiling, she turned to swim back toward Dirk and bumped her head square
into the fallen chunk of concrete. The broken piece was roughly square shaped, weighing about ninety pounds. She surveyed the block with her
hands to get around it, then hesitated. It might be the answer, she
decided, and was the best she could do under the circumstances.
Kicking up for a quick breath of air, she dove back down and muscled
the block off the floor and up to her chest. On dry land, she would
have struggled mightily to lift the heavy weight, but underwater the
block was more yielding. Moving quickly, she shuffled down the row of
weights to her brother, fighting to keep the chunk balanced. Feeling
rather than seeing Dirk, she turned and backed into her brother,
pushing his body away from the block that held his left wrist. She
noted apprehensively that his body gave way rather limply, unlike his
normal stone like stature.
Lining herself up with the mooring weight as best she could, she took a
step and lunged forward, throwing herself and the broken chunk of
concrete at the iron ring. In a slow-motion haze, Summer floated
through the water with a slight ripple before the effects of gravity
took over. But her timing was perfect. In the fraction of a second
before her forward momentum was replaced by sinking gravity, the
concrete chunk hit home on the iron ring. An audible clang, muffled by
the water, told Summer that she was on target as she let go of the
block. The rusty mooring ring, weakened just enough by the frantic
filing, succumbed to the weight of the blow and snapped neatly off the anchor.
Summer immediately grabbed Dirk's arm and felt down to the wrist, which
now dangled loosely. In a burst, she pushed her brother to the
surface, took a deep breath of air herself, then towed his limp body to
a small rock ledge, pulling him up and out of the water. She knelt by
his side to administer CPR when his body suddenly stirred, his head
turning to one side. With a groan, he expunged a small flood of water
from his mouth and replaced it with a heaving lungful of air. Rising
unsteadily to his elbows, he turned to Summer and gasped, "I feel like
I drank half the river. Remind me to stick to bottled water next
time."
The words barely gurgled out of his mouth when he leaned over and
retched a second time, then sat up and rubbed his left wrist. Eyeing
his sister, he was pleased to see she appeared unharmed and in good
spirits.
"Thanks for pulling me out," he said. "How did you finally get the
ring off?"
"I found a loose chunk of concrete and flung it against the stanchion.
Thankfully, I didn't take your hand off in the process."
"Much obliged for that," he muttered, shaking his head. After catching their breath, they rested for nearly an hour, slowly
regaining their strength as Dirk purged the remaining water from his
lungs, inhaled moments before Summer broke the iron grip that had
nearly drowned him. What lit de sunlight that earlier wafted through
the mouth of the cavern had long since vanished with nightfall, leaving
them prone in the cave in near-total blackness.
"Do you know the way out of here?" Dirk asked once he felt fit to
move.
"The mouth of the cave is less than fifty meters away," Summer said,
"just a short distance to the east is Kang's dock."
"How'd we get in here in the first place?" he asked.
"A small skiff. I forgot that you slept through the scenic portion of
the cruise."
"Sorry I missed it," Dirk replied, rubbing a small gash on the top of
his head. "We'll to have to borrow a boat from Kang if we want to get
off this rock. There was a small speedboat tied up behind his floating
palace when we came in and docked. Maybe it's still there."
"If we can untie it from the dock and drift it out into the cove
undetected before starting it up, it may buy us some more time." Summer shivered as she spoke, her body feeling the effects of the cool river
dousing.
"Back in the water, I'm afraid. You know the way out, so lead on."
Summer ripped the side seam of the silk dress up to her hip to allow
more freedom for swimming, then slipped back into the cool murky water.
Dirk followed as they swam and groped their way along the narrow
winding cavern, moving toward a pale gray circular patch of light that
faintly shimmered against the surrounding darkness. The murmur of
distant voices gave them a momentary pause as they approached the
cave's exit. Swimming around a tight bend, the oval mouth of the
cavern opened up before them, the night sky twinkling with starlight
while the glittering reflection of Kang's dockside floodlights danced
about the water's surface. Dirk and Summer swam silently out of the
cavern entrance to a small rock outcropping a few yards away. The
algae-slickened boulders afforded a safely concealed vantage point from
which they could observe the dock and adjacent grounds.
For several minutes, they hung quietly against the rocks, studying the
moored boats and shoreline for signs of movement. There were three
boats tied up to the floating dock that ran parallel to the shore. Just
as Dirk recalled, a small green patrol speedboat was wedged between
Kang's large Italian luxury yacht and the high-speed catamaran on which
they had arrived. No signs of life were visible on any of the three
boats, which were all tied up in a row bow to stern. Dirk knew that a small live-aboard crew would be present on the larger vessel.
A lone sentry finally emerged in the distance, walking slowly along the
shoreline. As he passed under a floodlight, Dirk could clearly see the
glint of an assault rifle slung under the man's shoulder. Casually,
the guard strode out onto the dock and alongside the three boats,
pausing for several minutes near the large yacht. Growing bored, he
strode back down the dock and onto shore, advancing along a stone
walkway toward the estate elevator, where he deposited himself in a
small security station at the base of the cliff.
"That's our man," Dirk whispered. "As long as he stays in that hut,
his view of the speedboat is overshadowed by the larger boats." "Now's
the time to steal it, before he makes the next round." Dirk nodded and
the two of them pushed away from the rocks and began swimming silently toward the dock. He kept an eye on the
guardhouse while mentally computing how long it might take to hotwire
the speedboat's ignition in the dark if the keys weren't conveniently
left in the boat.
They swam well away from the dock, so as not to arouse suspicion until
they were directly offshore of the speedboat, then slowly worked their
way in toward it. With handcuffs still clasped to their wrists, their
swimming motions felt clumsy, but they quietly kept their hands under
the water as they stroked. Furtively approaching the dock, they were blocked from view of the
guardhouse until they reached the stern of the boat, where they again
had a view of the shore. The guard was still in the security hut,
where he could be seen sitting on a stool reading a magazine.
Using hand motions, Dirk directed Summer to remove the boat's stern
line while he would swim forward and take care of the bowline. Moving
along the boat's hull, he felt the looming presence of Kang's yacht
towering over him as he crossed the smaller boat's bow. Stretching to
grab the mooring line in order to pull himself to the dock, he suddenly
heard a sharp click directly above him and he froze still in the water.
A spark of yellow light erupted briefly, and, in the glow, he could see
the ruddy face of a guard lighting a cigarette on the fantail of Kang's
yacht no more than ten feet away.
Dirk didn't move a muscle, steadying himself with one hand clasped on
the speedboat's prow, careful not to disturb the quietly lapping water.
He watched patiently as the red ember of the cigarette rhythmically
flared like a crimson beacon as the guard inhaled on the tobacco. Dirk
found himself holding his breath, not for himself but for Summer, whom
he hoped would avoid detection at the stern of the boat. The guard
fully enjoyed his smoke, pulling at it for ten minutes before flinging
the butt over the railing. The burning stub landed in the water just
three feet from Dirk's head, extinguishing with a hiss. Waiting until he heard the padded sound of footsteps move away from the
railing, Dirk ducked underwater and swam toward the rear
of the speedboat. Surfacing just astern of the boat's propeller, he
found Summer waiting with an impatient look on her face. Dirk shook
his head at her, then quietly pulled himself up the rear transom of the
speedboat and peered toward the pilot seat. In the darkness, he could
just barely make out the dashboard ignition, which winked back at him
void of a key. He slunk back into the water and looked at Summer, then
reached for the loose mooring line in her hands. She was surprised
when he ducked underwater for a minute, then surfaced empty-handed,
expecting that he was going to retie the line to the dock, instead him
pointing offshore. Summer followed his finger and began swimming
silently away from the boat. When they were safely out of earshot,
they stopped and rested.
"What was that all about?" Summer asked with a tinge of annoyance.
Dirk described the guard positioned on the stern of Kang's yacht.
"There wasn't much chance without the starter key. As close as the
boats are together, he'd have seen or heard me trying to rummage around
hot-wiring the ignition. Chances are, there's a guard or two on the
catamaran as well. I think we're going to have to settle for the
skiff."
The small skiff that Kang's thugs had used to ferry Dirk and Summer into the cavern was pulled up onto the shore, adjacent to the dock.
"That's awfully close to the guardhouse," Summer noted.
Dirk looked ashore, spotting the guard still sitting in the guardhouse,
about twenty meters from the skiff. "Stealth it will be," he said
confidently.
Kicking back toward shore, they swam widely around the docked boats and
approached the rocky beach from the east side. When their feet touched
bottom, Dirk had Summer wait in the water while he crept slowly to the
shoreline.
Inching his way out of the water, he crawled snakelike on his belly
toward the boat, which was wedged between two rocks about twenty feet
from the water. Using the boat as a shield between him and the
guardhouse, he burrowed alongside the wooden skiff until he could peer
over the side. A spool of line, coiled on the front bench and tied to
a small bow cleat, caught his eye. Reaching over the gunwale, he
unfastened the line and pulled the coil to his chest, then burrowed
backward over the loose pebble beach to the boat's stern, which faced
the water. Running his hand along the top of the transom, he felt a
bolt-hole for attaching an outboard motor and ran one end of the line
through, tying it securely. Scurrying on his belly back into the water, he played out the line
until he reached the end of its fifty-foot length. Summer swam over
and they huddled together, hunched over in four feet of water with just
their heads poking above the surface.
"We'll reel it in like a marlin," Dirk whispered. "If anybody gets
wise, we can duck back behind those rocks by the cavern," he said,
tilting his head toward the protruding boulders nearby. Placing
Summer's hands on the line, he leaned back in the water and gradually
began applying tension to the line. Summer tightened her grip and then
threw her weight onto the line as it drew taut.
The small boat jumped easily from its perch, emitting a jarring grind
as its hull scraped across its rocky berth. They quickly eased off the
line and stared toward the guardhouse. Inside, the guard still had his
nose stuck in the magazine, impervious to the noise made by the boat.
They quietly took up the slack and continued to reel the boat toward
them a foot at a time, stopping periodically to ensure they had not
attracted any attention. Summer held her breath as the boat approached
the water's edge, letting out a long sigh when they tugged it fully
into the water, the scraping sound at last ceasing.
"Let's tow her out a little farther," Dirk whispered, winding the
towline over his shoulder and kicking toward the center of the cove.
When they were a hundred meters from the shoreline, he tossed the line
into the boat and pulled himself over the side, then grabbed Summer's hand and pulled her aboard.
"Not exactly a Fountain offshore powerboat but I guess she'll do," he
said, surveying the interior of the small boat. Spying a pair of oars
under the bench seat, he popped the shafts into the side oarlocks and
dipped the blades into the water. Facing the stern of the skiff, with
Kang's compound illuminated in the background, he pulled heavily on the
oars, propelling the small boat swiftly into the center of the cove.
"It's about a mile to the main river channel," Summer estimated. "Maybe
we can find a friendly South Korean naval or Coast Guard vessel on the
river."
"I'd settle for a passing freighter."
"Sure," Summer replied. "Just as long as it doesn't have a Kang
Enterprises lightning bolt on the funnel."
Glancing toward the shoreline, Dirk suddenly detected a movement in the
distance and squinted to better see across the water. As his eyes
focused, he grimaced slightly.
"I'm afraid it's not going to be a freighter offering us the first
lift," he said as his knuckles tightened their grip on the oars. The dock side guard had grown bored with his magazine and decided to
patrol the moored boats once again. A fellow guard stationed on Kang's
yacht was from a neighboring province and he loved to harass the man
about the lack of attractive women in his home region. Walking toward
the dock, he at first failed to take notice of the empty beach, but
then tripped as he stepped onto the dock ramp. Grabbing the side rail
to steady himself, his eyes fell to the ground nearby, detecting the
scarred indentation of a boat that had been dragged across the pebbly
beach. Only, the boat was gone.
The embarrassed guard quickly radioed his discovery to the central
security post and, in an instant, two heavily armed guards came running
from the shadows. After a brief but heated exchange, several
flashlights were produced, their yellow beams rapidly waved in a
chaotic frenzy about the water, rocks, and sky in a frantic search for
the missing skiff. But it was the guard on the stern of Kang's yacht
who located the two escapees. Shining a powerful marine spotlight
across the water of the cove, he pinpointed the small white boat
lurching across the waves.
"Not a good time to be in the limelight," Summer cursed as the rays of
the distant searchlight fell over them. The clattering burst of an
assault rifle rattled across the water, accompanied by the whistling of
bullets that raced harmlessly over their heads. "Get down low in the boat," Dirk commanded his sister as he pulled
harder on the oars. "We're out of accurate firing range but they could
still get off a lucky shot."
The small skiff was just midway across the cove and Dirk and Summer
would be sitting ducks for a gunman in Kang's speedboat, which could be
on them in a matter of seconds. Dirk silently hoped and prayed that
nobody would notice the boat's stern line as they rushed to chase after
them.
On shore, one of the guards had already jumped into the green speedboat
and started the motor. Tongju, awakened by the gunfire, burst out of
his cabin on the catamaran and began barking inquiries at one of the
guards.
"Take the speedboat. Kill them if you have to," he hissed.
The two other guards scrambled into the speedboat, one of them casting
off the bowline as he jumped aboard. In the rushed moment, none of the
men noticed that the stern line was dropped over the outboard side. The
pilot saw only that the lines to the dock cleat were free. As the boat
drifted clear of the dock, he jammed it into gear and pushed the
throttle all the way to its stops.
The green boat surged forward for a split second, then mysteriously stopped dead in its tracks. The engine continued to scream with a
whine, churning at high rpm, but the boat sat drifting lazily. The
confused pilot pulled back on the throttle, unsure of what was causing
the lack of forward motion.
"Idiot!" Tongju screamed from the deck of the catamaran with
uncharacteristic emotion. "Your stern line is caught in the propeller.
Put someone over the side to cut it free."
Dirk's handiwork had paid off. Diving under the speedboat, he had
tightly wrapped the stern line around the propeller and its exposed
shaft, clogging its ability to spin freely. The heavy hand of the
pilot on the throttle had only served to wind the line tighter,
spinning it up and into the drive shaft coupling in a laborious mess.
It would take a diver twenty minutes to cut and yank free the mass of
coiled rope embedded in the driveline.
Realizing the speedboat's predicament, Tongju burst into the cabin of
the catamaran's pilot.
"Start the engines. Get us under way immediately," he barked. The
groggy pilot, clad in a pair of red silk pajamas, nodded sharply and
made his way quickly to the wheelhouse.
Three-quarters of a mile away, Dirk grunted as he pulled another stroke
of the oars, his heart pounding fiercely. His shoulder and arm muscles began to burn from the strenuous effort to propel the skiff faster, and
even his thigh muscles ached from pushing against the oars. His tired
body was telling himself to slow the pace but his mental will pushed to
keep rowing with all his strength. They had gained a few precious
minutes by sabotaging the speedboat, but Kang's men still had two more
boats at their disposal.
In the distance, they could hear the deep muffled exhaust of the
catamaran as its engines were started and revved. As Dirk rowed in a
controlled rhythm, Summer helped guide him through the inlet they
approached at the far end of the cove. Kang's compound and boats
suddenly drifted from view as they began threading their way through
the S-curved inlet.
"We've got maybe five minutes," he exhaled between strokes. "You up
for another swim?"
"I can't exactly glide through the water like Esther Williams with
these," she said, holding up the two handcuffs that dangled from her
wrists, "but I can certainly do without another dose of Kang's
hospitality-" She knew better than to ask whether Dirk was up for a
strenuous swim. Despite his exhausted state, she knew her brother was
like a fish in the water. Growing up in Hawaii, they swam in the warm
surf constantly. Dirk excelled at marathon swimming and routinely swam five-mile ocean legs for pleasure.
"If we can make it to the main channel, we may have a chance," he
said.
The inlet grew dark as they made their way past the first bend and the
lights of Kang's compound became shielded by the surrounding hills. The
otherwise still night was broken only by the faraway sound of the
catamaran's four diesel engines, which they could detect were now
throttled up. Like a machine himself, Dirk rhythmically tugged at the
oars, smoothly dipping the blades in and out of the water in a long,
efficient stroke. Summer acted as coxswain, offering subtle course
changes to guide them through the channel in the shortest route
possible while offering periodic words of encouragement.
"We're coming up on the second bend," she said. "Pull to your right
and we should clear the inlet in another thirty meters."
Dirk continued his even stroke, easing off the left oar with every
third pull to nose the bow into and through the bend. The beating
drone of the catamaran's engines grew louder behind them as the speedy
boat ripped across the cove. Though his limbs ached, Dirk seemed to
grow stronger with the approach of their adversary, propelling the
small boat even faster through the flat water.
The ebony darkness softened around them as they rounded the last bend of the inlet and rowed into the expansive breadth of the Han River.
Patches of starry lights twinkled across the horizon, shining from
small villages scattered along the river and hillsides. The faint
lights were the only clue to the river's width, which stretched nearly
five miles across to the opposite shore. In the late hour of the
night, traffic on the river was almost nonexistent. Several miles
downstream sat a handful of small commercial freighters, moored for the
night while
waiting to traverse the Han to Seoul at first daylight. A brightly
illuminated dredge ship was slowly making its way upstream nearly
across from Dirk and Summer but was still some four miles away.
Upriver, a small vessel with an array of multicolored lights appeared
to be moving down the center of the river at a slow pace.
"Afraid I don't see any passing water taxis," Summer said, scanning the
dark horizons.
As Dirk tried to row toward the center of the river, he could feel the
current pushing them downstream. The river's flow was aided by an
outgoing tide that pulled at the remains of the Han River as it
dispersed into the dusky waters of the Yellow Sea. He eased off the
oars for a moment to survey their options. The dredge ship looked
appealing, but they would have to fight the crosscurrent to reach it,
which would be near impossible once they took to the water. Peering downriver, he spotted a small cluster of yellow lights on the opposite
shore twinkling fuzzily through the damp air.
"Let's try for the village there," he said, pointing an oar in the
direction of the lights, which were about two miles downstream. "If we
swim directly across the river, the current should carry us pretty
close." "Whatever entails the least swimming."
Unbeknownst to both was the fact that the Korean demarcation line ran
through this section of the Han River delta. The twinkling lights
downriver were not a village at all but a heavily garrisoned North
Korean military patrol boat base.
Any further contingency planning was suddenly dashed by the abrupt roar
of the high-speed catamaran as it burst out of the inlet. A pair of
bright spotlights flared from beside the wheelhouse, sweeping back and
forth rapidly across the water. It would be only seconds before one of
the beams fell on the small white skiff heading across the river.
"Time to exit stage right," Dirk said, swinging the boat around so that
the bow pointed downstream. Summer quickly slipped over the
side followed by Dirk, who hesitated a moment, flinging a pair of life
jackets out away from the boat before he rolled into the water.
"Let's angle across and slightly upriver to put as much distance as possible between us and the drifting boat," he said.
"Right. We'll surface for air at the count of thirty."
The clatter of machine-gun fire suddenly tore through the night air
while a seam like spray of bullets slapped into the water a few yards
in front of them. One of the spotlights had found the skiff and a
guard opened fire as the catamaran raced toward it.
In unison, Dirk and Summer ducked under the water, kicking down to a
depth of four feet before angling into the current. The powerful flow
of the river made them feel like they were swimming in place as they
inched their way toward mid-river Gaining ground upriver was hopeless
as the current overpowered them, but it pushed them downstream at a
much slower pace than the drifting skiff.
The deep pulsations of the catamaran's diesel engines resonated through
the water and they could feel the boat as it approached the skiff.
Counting time with each breaststroke, Dirk hoped that Summer would not
get separated from him in the darkness. Swimming at night in the black
water, their only indication of direction was the tug of the river's
current. As he approached the count of thirty, he eased slowly to the
surface, breaking the water with barely a ripple.
Just ten feet away, Summer's face emerged from the water and Dirk could hear her breathing deeply. Glancing briefly at each other, then back
toward the skiff, they quickly gulped a deep swallow of fresh air and
resubmerged, kicking back into the river current for another count of
thirty.
The quick glimpse Dirk made toward the skiff was a reassuring one.
Kang's catamaran had barreled in on the skiff from upriver with guns
blazing and was now creeping up close to assess the damage. No one on
board had bothered to look across the river, assuming that Dirk and
Summer were still in the boat. In their brief time in the water,
they
had already established a separation of nearly a hundred meters from
the skiff.
As the catamaran approached the drifting boat, Tongju ordered his
gunmen to cease firing. There was no sign of the two escapees, whom
Tongju expected to find sprawled dead in the bottom of the
bullet-ridden boat. Looking down from the upper deck of the catamaran,
Tongju cursed to himself as they pulled alongside and shined a light
into the skiff. The small boat was completely empty.
"Search the surrounding water and shoreline," he ordered crisply. The
catamaran circled around the skiff while the spotlights were splayed
across the water, all eyes peering intently into the darkness.
Suddenly, a gunman on the bow of the catamaran yelled out. "There, in the water ... two objects!" he cried, pointing an arm off
the port bow.
Tongju nodded at the words. This time they are finished, he thought
with ruthless satisfaction.
After their fourth submerged interval, Dirk and Summer reunited on the
surface and took a moment to rest. Fighting their way across the
current, they had distanced themselves from the skiff by almost four
hundred meters.
"We can swim on the surface for the time being," Dirk said between deep
breaths. "Give us a chance to see what our friends are up to."
Summer followed her brother's lead and rolled onto her back, kicking
into a backstroke that allowed them to watch the distant catamaran as
they moved farther across the river. Kang's boat was idling near the
skiff, its spotlights circling the immediate area around them. Shouting
erupted from the catamaran and the boat suddenly raced downriver a
short distance. Gunfire exploded again for a moment, then ceased as
the boat stopped in the water.
Tongju had raced the catamaran toward the two objects spotted floating
on the water and watched with disdain as his gunmen blasted away at the empty life vests that Dirk had tossed into the water. The
boat idled around the life jackets for several minutes, waiting for the
two escapees to surface in case they were hiding submerged nearby,
before resuming the search. Dirk and Summer struggled toward midriver
as they watched the catamaran begin making a wide-circle search around
the skiff and life jackets. With each loop around the still-drifting
skiff, the catamaran's pilot enlarged the circle in an ever-expanding
spiral.
"Won't be too many more minutes before they work their way up and out
our direction," Summer lamented.
Dirk scanned the watery horizon. They had worked their way about a
mile into the river but were still barely a quarter of the way across
the vast waterway. They could turn back and try for the nearest
shoreline, but that would entail crossing the path of the advancing
catamaran. Or they could continue with their original plan of
traversing the river toward the lights on the opposite shore. But
fatigue was beginning to creep up on them, hastened by their long
immersion in the cool water. Another three-mile swim would be a tall
order, made more difficult by the repeated submergings they would have
to perform to avoid Kang's boat. Whether they could in fact survive
the game of cat and mouse with Tongju and his gunmen would be uncertain
at best. But there was a third option. The small vessel with the colored lights
that they had earlier noticed upriver was approaching on a nearby path
about a half mile away. In the darkness, Dirk had trouble identifying
the boat, but it appeared to be a wooden sailing vessel of some kind. A
small red sail, revealed under the white mast light to be square shaped
in dimension, was raised near the bow, but the boat didn't appear to be
moving much faster than the current.
Dirk gauged the path of the boat and swam another hundred yards toward
the center of the river, then stopped. Summer swam past before
realizing her brother had halted.
"What gives? We need to keep going," she whispered after swimming back
to him.
Dirk nodded downriver toward the catamaran. The sleek vessel had
arced well out into the river as it circled downstream. He mentally
calculated the trajectory of the yacht if it held its current circular
course.
"They'll be within sight of us on the next upriver pass," he said
quietly.
Summer could see he was right. The bright beams of the searchlights would shine upon their position on the next loop. They would have to
remain submerged for several minutes to guarantee their concealment.
Dirk took a quick glance upriver. "Sister, I think it's time for
Plan
B."
"Plan B?" she asked.
"Yes, Plan B. Stick out your thumb and start hitchhiking."
The large wooden sailboat creaked lazily down the river, its foremast
sail and a small auxiliary motor pushing it along just 3 knots faster
than the current. As the vessel crept closer, Dirk could see that it
was a three-masted Chinese junk of about twenty-five meters in length.
Unlike most dilapidated sailing boats in this part of the world, the
junk appeared to be maintained in pristine condition. A string of
multicolored Chinese lanterns hung gaily from bow to stern, lending a
party like atmosphere to the boat. Constructed entirely of rich
teak-wood, the highly varnished surfaces seemed to glisten under the
swaying overhead lamps. Somewhere belowdecks, a pair of stereo
speakers blared out an orchestral tune, which Dirk recognized as a
Gershwin melody. Yet despite the festive atmosphere, there was not a
soul to be seen on deck. "Ahoy! We're in the water. Can you help?"
Dirk's muted shout went unanswered as the junk approached. He repeated
the call, careful not to draw attention from the catamaran, which had
completed a downstream turn and was now headed upriver. Swimming
closer to the moving junk, Dirk thought he detected a shadowy movement
on the stern, but, again, there was no response to his call for help. He tried a third time, failing to notice as he
spoke that the muffled drone of the junk's motor audibly raised a
note.
The junk's golden teak hull began gliding past Dirk and Summer, an
ornately carved dragon on the prow eyeing them maliciously in the water
less than ten feet from the starboard beam. Like a phantom in the
night, the junk slipped by strangely impervious to the voices calling
from the water. As the stern and rudderpost floated past, Dirk
abandoned hope of rescue from the junk and angrily wondered whether the
pilot was asleep, drunk, or both.
Peering toward the slowly approaching catamaran, he was startled by a
sudden splash in the water near his head. It was an orange plastic
float tied to a coil of rope, trailing back to the stern of the junk.
"Grab hold and hang on tight," he instructed his sister, making sure
Summer had a strong grip on the line before grasping it himself. As
the line quickly drew taut, the force of the junk sailing faster than the river momentarily jerked them underwater. With a face full of
water, they were dragged along the river's surface like a fallen
water-skier who forgot to let go of the towline. Dirk slowly began
pulling himself up the line hand over hand as his legs flailed out
behind him. Reaching the high, blunt stern of the junk, he shimmied up
the rope almost vertically until reaching the stern railing. A pair of
hands emerged from the darkness, grabbing about his lapels and
forcefully yanking him over the railing and onto the deck.
"Thanks," Dirk muttered, paying little heed to a tall figure in the
shadows. "My sister is still on the line," he gasped, standing and
grabbing the line at the stern rail and pulling at it. The tall man
stepped up behind him and clasped the line, throwing his weight into it
with Dirk. Together, they hoisted Summer up the railing like a gigged
flounder until she flopped over the railing and onto the deck in a
soggy heap. A high-pitched bark erupted from across the deck and, in
an instant, a small black-and-tan dachshund raced over to Summer and
began licking her face.
"Dark night for a swim, don't you think?" the stranger said in
English.
"You're American," Dirk stated with surprise.
"Ever since being born in the Land of Lincoln," came the reply. Dirk studied the man beside him for the first time. He stood
six-foot-three, nearly matching his own height, though he carried a
good twenty pounds more heft. A wave of unruly white hair and a
matching goatee indicated that he was at least forty years his senior.
The man's blue-green eyes, which seemed to twinkle with mischief under
the hanging lights, touched a nerve with him. He felt as if he was
looking at an older version of his own father, he finally decided.
"We're in great danger," Summer injected, rising to her feet. She
scooped up the small dog as she stood and rubbed its ears briskly,
which produced a sharp wag of its tail. "Our research vessel was sunk
by these murderers and they mean to kill us," she said, nodding
downriver toward the catamaran that was circling slowly in their
direction.
"I heard the machine-gun fire," the man replied.
"They intend to make another deadly attack. We need to alert the
authorities," she pleaded.
"Thousands of additional lives are at risk," Dirk added somberly.
The white-haired man perused the odd pair up and down. Summer, soaked
but elegant still in her ripped silk cocktail dress, appeared an
unusual companion for Dirk, who was battered and bruised in a shredded blue jumpsuit. Neither attempted to conceal the handcuff shackles that
dangled from their wrists.
A slight grin fell across the man's lips. "I guess I'll buy it. We
better hide you belowdecks until we get past that cat. You can stay in
Mauser's cabin."
"Mauser? How many people are aboard?" Dirk asked.
"Just me and that fellow who's kissing your sister," he replied. Dirk
turned to see the small dachshund happily licking the water off
Summer's face.
The junk's owner quickly led them through a bulkhead door and down a
flight of steps that led to a tastefully decorated stateroom.
"There's towels in the bath and dry clothes in the closet. And here,
this will warm you up." He grabbed a bottle sitting on a side table
and poured them each a glass of the clear fluid. Dirk downed a shot
quickly, tasting a bitter flavor from the smooth liquor that clearly
packed a high alcohol content.
"Soju," the man said. "A local rice brew. Help yourself while I try
to get us past your friends in the cat." "Thank you for helping us," Summer replied appreciatively. "By the
way, my name is Summer Pitt, and this is my brother, Dirk."
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Clive Cussler."
Cussler returned to the junk's exposed wheel and slipped the engine
into gear, tweaking the throttle slightly higher while nosing the bow
farther toward midriver It took only a few minutes before the
catamaran approached from downstream, pulling alongside and washing the
junk in a flood of spotlights. Cussler slipped on a conical straw
peasant's hat and hunched his tall frame low at the wheel.
Through the glare of the lights, he could see several men pointing
automatic weapons at him. As the catamaran crept to within inches of
the port beam, an unseen man on the bridge barked a question across
through the boat's PA system. Cussler replied by shaking his head.
Another command echoed across from the catamaran as the spotlights
bounced about the junk. Cussler again shook his head, wondering
whether the waterlogged coil of rope and wet pairs of footprints across
the deck would be detected. For several long minutes, the catamaran
held steady at the junk's side as if waiting to board. Then, with a
sudden blast of its engines, the catamaran roared away, resuming its
river search closer to shore.
Cussler guided the junk down the last vestiges of the Han River until
its waters were swallowed by the Yellow Sea. As the sea-lanes opened and the potential for nearby water traffic fell away, Cussler punched a
handful of electronic controls at the helm. Hydraulic winches began to
whir as lines were pulled and yards were raised, pulling the
traditional red, square-shaped lug sails of a classic junk to the peak
of the main- and mizzenmasts. Cussler manually tied off the out haul
lines and then powered off the small diesel motor. The old junk now
leaped through the waves under the graceful power of its sails.
"You've got a beautiful vessel," Dirk said, emerging from belowdecks
dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Summer followed him onto the deck,
clad in an oversized pair of coveralls and a man's work shirt.
"The standard Chinese merchant ship that dates back almost two thousand
years," Cussler replied. "This one was built in Shanghai in 1907 for a
wealthy tea trader. She's made entirely from a hard teakwood called
"Takien Tong." She's extremely durable and surprisingly seaworthy."
"Where did you find her?" Summer asked.
"A friend of mine found her abandoned in a Malaysian boatyard and
decided to refurbish her. Took him six years to complete the job.
After he grew bored with sailing, I traded him a few antique cars for
her. Plan to cruise the Asian Pacific in her. Started in Japan and am
going to work my way down to Wellington." "You sail her by yourself?" Summer asked.
"She's been modified with a strong diesel engine and hydraulic lifts
for the lug sails which are linked to a computerized automatic pilot.
She's a breeze to manage, and can, in fact, sail herself."
"Do you have a satellite phone aboard?" Dirk asked.
"Afraid not. A ship-to-shore radio is the best I can offer you. I
didn't want any phone calls or Internet messages bothering me on this
cruise."
"Understandable. Where are you headed, and, for that matter, where are
we located now?" he asked.
Cussler pulled out a marine navigation chart and held it under the weak
light of the helm console. "We're entering the Yellow Sea about forty
miles northwest of Seoul. I take it you aren't interested in staying
aboard till Wellington?" he grinned, running an index finger across
the chart. "How about Inchon?" he continued, tapping the map. "I can
drop you there in about eight hours. I believe there's a U.S. Air
Force base located somewhere near there."
"That would be great. Anywhere we can find a phone and get ahold of
someone at NUMA headquarters." "NUMA," Cussler said, mulling over the word. "You're not from that
NUMA ship that sank southwest of Japan?"
"The Sea Rover. Yes, we are. How did you know about that?" Summer
asked.
"It was all over CNN. I saw them interview the captain. Told how the
crew was rescued by a Japanese freighter following an explosion in the
engine room."
Dirk and Summer stared at each other in disbelief.
"Captain Morgan and the crew are alive?" she finally blurted.
"Yes, that was the fellow's name. I thought he said the whole crew was
rescued."
Summer retold the story of their attack on the ship and abduction by
Kang's men and their uncertainty over the fate of their crew members.
"I suspect there's more than a few people out there looking for you,"
Cussler said. "You're safe for now. There's some sandwiches and beer
in the galley. Why don't you two grab a bite and get some rest. I'll
wake you when we reach Inchon." "Thank you. I'll take you up on that," Summer replied, heading
belowdecks.
Dirk lingered a moment, standing at the rail and watching the first
glimmer of daybreak attempt to paint the eastern horizon. As he
contemplated the events of the past three days, a hardened resolve
surged through his exhausted body. By some miracle, the Sea Rover's
crew had survived the sinking of the NUMA research ship. But Kang
still had blood on his hands, and the stakes were now dramatically
higher. If what Kang had told them was true, then millions of lives
were at risk. The madman would have to be stopped, he knew, and
quick.
on
Sea Launch platform Odyssey and airship Icarus
June 16, 2007 Long Beach, California
Though it was A cool, damp Southern California morning, Danny Stamp
could feel the sweat beginning to drip from his underarms. The veteran
engineer was as nervous as a teenager on prom night awaiting his first
make-out session. But as those who knew him could affirm, he always
felt this way when his baby was on the move.
No diaper-clad infant, his baby today was a 209-foot Zenit-3SL liquid-fuel rocket that was in the delicate process of being
transferred to its launch platform. The roundish and slightly balding
launch vehicle director peered purposefully over the railing of a large
ship's superstructure as the $90 million rocket he was responsible for
inched into view below his feet. As the huge white cylinder rolled
slowly out of its horizontal berth on a centipede like cradle, Stamp's
eyes were drawn to the large blue letters emblazoned on the rocket's
housing that read sea launch.
Incorporated in the nineteen nineties, Sea Launch was an international
commercial venture formed to provide rocket-launch services a *
geared primarily for satellite telecommunications operators. The
American aerospace giant Boeing was the prime founder, signing on to
handle launch operations as well as integrating the customer's
satellite payloads into the rocket housing. Turning swords into
rubles, a pair of Russian companies joined the consortium by providing
the actual rockets, or "launch vehicles," as they are known in the
parlance. Ex-military rockets that once carried nuclear warheads, the
Zenits were tried-and-true launch vehicles that were perfectly suited
to commercial applications. But it was a Norwegian firm, Kvaerner,
that provided perhaps the most unique asset to the venture. Starting
with a used North Sea oil platform, the Oslo firm constructed a
self-propelled floating launchpad that could be positioned for
launching in almost any ocean waters of the world. Though an interesting selling point, practicality dictates that there
is only one area on the globe worth launching from and that is the
equator. For a geosynchronous satellite, which remains in a fixed
relative orbital position following the earth's rotation, there is no
more direct path to orbit than from the equator. Less rocket fuel
burned in pushing a satellite to orbit can allow for a heavier
satellite payload. Satellite owners, seeking to maximize revenues from
their multimillion-dollar investments, can thus add more capacity to
their satellites or additional operating fuel to extend the satellite's
life. Integrating the satellites into the launch vehicle in Long
Beach, then sailing the rocket to the equator for launch had grown from
an intriguing idea to an efficient business model in the high-stakes,
high-risk game of commercial space operations.
A handheld Motorola radio fastened to Stamp's belt suddenly cackled
with static. "Rollout complete. Ready for crane hook-up," barked the
unseen voice. Stamp paused and studied the Zenit rocket, which
protruded from the ship's stern like a stinger on a wasp. In an
unusual bid for flexibility, the Sea Launch team actually assembled the
rocket and its payload in the bowels of a custom-fitted ship named the
Sea Launch Commander. Officially known as the "Assembly and Command
Ship," the 660-foot cargo-designed vessel contained myriad computer
bays on its upper deck, as well as a mission operations command center,
which directed the complete launch operation at sea. On the lower deck was a cavernous assembly compartment that housed the Zenit rocket
components. Here, an army of white-smocked engineers and technicians
bolted together horizontally the segmented Russian rocket sections
utilizing a rail system that ran nearly the length of the ship. Once
the rocket assembly was complete, the mission satellite was
encapsulated into the upper-section payload fairing and then the entire
launch vehicle was rolled at a snail's pace out the stern of the Sea
Launch Commander.
"Proceed with hookup. Transfer when ready," Stamp spoke into the radio
with a slight Midwestern accent. He glanced up at a huge crane system
built onto the edge of the towering launch platform. A pair of tilted
M-shaped trusses extended off one end of the platform, dangling several
lines of thick cable. The floating platform, christened Odyssey, had
been positioned just aft of the Sea Launch Commander, its crane system
hanging directly above the prone rocket. The crane's winch lines were
silently dropped down to the launch vehicle, where teams of engineers
in hard hats attached the cables to a series of slings and lift points
along the length of the rocket.
"Sea Launch Commander, this is Odyssey" a new voice blared through
Stamp's radio. "Ready to transfer launch vehicle."
Stamp nodded to a short fellow standing beside him, a bearded man named
Christiano who captained the Sea Launch Commander. Christiano spoke into his own radio.
"This is Commander. Proceed with transfer at will. Good luck,
Odyssey."
Seconds later, the cable lines drew taut and the horizontal rocket was
lifted slowly off its cradle. Stamp held his breath as the Zenit
rocket was hoisted high into the air until it hung suspended far above
the decks of the Commander. The unfueled rocket was just a fraction of
its launch weight, so the process was akin to lifting an empty beer
can. But Stamp couldn't help feeling nervous watching the huge rocket
dangling in midair above him.
After a tantalizingly slow rise to the top of the launch platform, the
crane operations crew activated the movable winch and the launch
vehicle was tugged horizontally into an environmentally controlled
hangar on Odyssey's high deck. Once the tip of the rocket had cleared
the hangar doors, the entire launch vehicle was gently nested down into
a wheeled cradle. When the floating platform reached the designated
launch site, the cradle device would roll the rocket out of its hangar
and tilt it up on end for firing.
"Launch vehicle secure. Well done, gentlemen. The beers are on me
tonight. Odyssey out." Stamp visibly relaxed, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Piece
of cake," he said to Christiano as if the outcome was never in doubt.
"Looks like we'll make the scheduled launch date in seventeen days
after all," Christiano replied as he watched the empty launch vehicle
cradle slide back into the ship's lower-deck hangar. "The long-range
weather forecast is still looking favorable. After final checks and
fueling, the Odyssey can depart in four days and we'll follow in the
Commander forty-eight hours later after additional spares and
provisions are put aboard. We'll easily catch up with her before
reaching the launch site."
"A good thing, too," Stamp said with relief. "There's a penalty clause
in the customer contract that's a killer if we are late to launch."
"Nobody could have predicted the dockworkers' strike would delay
receipt of the Zenit rocket components by fifteen days," Christiano
said, shaking his head.
"The launch vehicle team did a heckuva job making up lost schedule. I'm
not looking forward to seeing the overtime charges but the team must
have set a record for assembly and integration. Even with our paranoid
customer shielding the mission payload from everyone."
"What's so terribly secretive about a broadcast television satellite?"
"Search me," Stamp said, shrugging his shoulders. "Typical Asian lack
Wind reticence, I guess. The whole operation doesn't make sense to me.
They've got a relatively lightweight satellite that they could have
easily launched off the Chinese Long March rocket for a couple of
million dollars less than our fees."
"Angst with the Chinese isn't an unusual sentiment in the Far East."
"True, but usually overlooked when it comes to dollars and cents.
Perhaps it's due to the head of the telecommunications firm. He's
apparently a real maverick."
"He owns the company outright, doesn't he?" Christiano asked, his eyes
searching skyward trying to recall.
"Yep," Stamp replied. "Dae-jong Kang is one rich and powerful man."
Kang leaned back in the padded leather chair of his cherry-wood study
and listened intently as a pair of engineers from his Inchon facility
provided a technical briefing. Tongju safsilently at the back of the
room, his dark eyes scrutinizing the men out of habit. One of the
engineers, a slight, disheveled man with glasses and a deeply receding
hairline, spoke to Kang with a raspy voice. "As you know, the Koreasat 2 satellite was delivered to the launch
provider's facility approximately three weeks ago, where it was
encapsulated inside the payload fairing, or nose cone section, of the
Zenit rocket. The entire launch vehicle has since been loaded onto the
self-propelled launch platform, which is preparing for departure to the
equator."
"There have been no security lapses?" Kang asked, throwing a cold
glance toward Tongju.
The engineer shook his head. "We've had our own security team
protecting the satellite around the clock. The Sea Launch team
suspects nothing. By all external appearances, the satellite is
designated for television broadcast services. Now that the satellite
is enshrouded
in the rocket housing, there is little chance of suspicion." The
engineer swallowed a sip of coffee from an overflowing mug, spilling a
few drops of the hot liquid on the sleeve of his worn checkered sport
coat. The brown stain matched a similar pattern of spots on his tie.
"The aerosol device ... it was verified as operational?" Kang asked.
"Yes. As you know, we made a number of modifications from the
small-scale model that was tested in the Aleutian Islands. There is no
longer a dual agent capability, as the deployment of the cyanide mixture was eliminated from the mission. Plus, the system was
redesigned with removable canisters that will allow us to arm the
payload with the bio agent just hours before launch. And, of course,
it is a much higher volume system. The Aleutian test model, you may
recall, carried less than five kilograms of biochemical compound, while
the satellite vehicle will deploy 325 kilograms of the chimera agent
after hydrogenation Before the satellite was encapsulated at the Sea
Launch facility, we conducted a final late-night test under secure
conditions. The test results were flawless. We are confident the
aerosol system will operate as designed over the target."
"I do not expect any failures from our equipment," Kang stated. "The
launch operation will be the most critical phase of the mission," the
raspy-voiced engineer continued. "Lee-Wook, have we obtained the
necessary command and control data to proceed with an independent
launch?"
The second engineer, a younger, greasy-haired man with a broad nose,
was clearly intimidated by Kang's presence.
"There are two primary components to the launch process," Lee-Wook
replied, stuttering slightly. "The first is positioning and
stabilizing the floating launch platform, then erecting, fueling, and
preparing the rocket for launch. We have obtained the Sea Launch
operating procedures for these steps," he said, neglecting to mention
the cash bribes involved, "which our team has reviewed and practiced thoroughly. In addition, we have obtained the services of two
Ukrainian launch specialists formerly employed by Yuzhnoye, the
manufacturer of the Zenit rocket. They are assisting with trajectory
and fueling computations and will be on hand to assist with the
mechanical preparations."
"Yes, I am aware of the enticements required to obtain them," Kang
replied with distaste. "I believe the Russians could teach the West a
thing or two about capitalistic extortion."
Lee-Wook ignored the comment and continued speaking, his stutter
finally under control. "The second critical component is the actual
launch initiation and flight control. During a normal launch at sea,
the Sea Launch assembly and command ship performs these controls. For
our launch, this duty will be handled by the Baekje. We have refitted
the ship with the necessary communications equipment and computer
hardware required to execute the launch and flight control," Lee-Wook
said, his voice almost at a whisper. "Our last input has been the
software that monitors, tracks, and commands the launch vehicle. The
actual launch from the floating platform is a highly automated process,
so the software plays a critical role. There are several million lines
of software code that support the launch, telemetry, and tracking
phases."
"Have we re-created the necessary software for our mission?" "It would have required many months to write and test the software on
our own. We were fortunate in that all of these software programs are
contained within the databases of the assembly and command ship. As
the payload customer, our team has had almost unlimited access to the
ship for the last three weeks while the Koreasat 2 satellite was being
integrated with the launch vehicle. Once on board, our systems team
found it relatively easy to breach the vessel's mainframe computers and
acquire the software code. Under the nose of their computer experts,
we downloaded copies of the software and, over a four-day period,
transmitted the code by satellite link direct from the Sea Launch
vessel to our laboratory at Inchon."
"But I was told the Baekje, or Koguryo as she is now called, left port
a day ago."
"We have already transferred a portion of the program to the ship-board computers and will download the remaining software while the "
ship is in transit via satellite."
"And you have determined the optimal flight path to achieve maximum
dispersal of the agent?" Kang asked.
"We can theoretically launch up range of the target as far as four
thousand kilometers away; however, the probability of accurately
striking the target is quite small. There is no guidance system for the sub-orbital payload, so we are relying on wind, thrust, and launch
positioning to reach the strike zone. Utilizing normal Pacific wind
conditions, our Ukrainian engineers have determined that positioning
the launch platform approximately four hundred kilometers up range of
the target will maximize the accuracy of delivery. Adjusting for
atmospheric conditions at the time of launch, we can expect the
pay-load to fall to earth within a five-kilometer radius."
"But the aerosol system will be activated well before that," the first
engineer injected.
"Correct. At an elevation of six thousand meters, the aerosol, or
payload system, will be activated. This will occur shortly after the
nose cone fairing has been discarded during flight. In its descent,
the pay-load system will be traveling nearly eight kilometers downrange
for every one kilometer of descent. A vapor trail of the armed agent
will thus be dispersed along a forty-eight-kilometer-long corridor."
"I would have preferred that the launch not take place so close to the
North American mainland," Kang said with a wrinkled brow, "but if the
accuracy of the mission dictates such then so be it. The flight
trajectory will be controlled by the rocket burn?"
"Precisely. The Zenit-3SL is a three-stage rocket designed for pushing
heavy payloads into high orbit. But our desired maximum altitude is
less than fifty kilometers, so we will not fuel the second and third stages and will short-fuel the first stage. We can terminate the burn
at any time, which we will program to do at slightly over a minute into
the flight. As the launch vehicle coasts in flight to the east, we'll
initiate separation of the payload section from the rocket boosters,
then release the payload housing. The mock satellite will deploy the
aerosol system automatically and disperse the agent until impact."
"Are we positive the American missile defense systems pose no risk?"
"The American antiballistic system is still in its infancy. It is
geared toward intercontinental ballistic missiles that are launched
from thousands of miles away. They will have no time to react. Even
if they did, their intercept missiles would arrive after we have
initiated separation. They might harmlessly destroy the rocket
boosters at best. No, sir, there will be no stopping the payload
deployment once we have launched."
"I am expecting the countdown to occur while the G8 leaders are in the
target area," Kang stated bluntly.
"Weather permitting, we have scheduled the launch to coincide with the
pre-summit assembly in Los Angeles," the engineer said nervously.
"I understand that you will see things through from Inchon?" "The telecommunications lab is in constant communications with the
Koguryo and will be monitoring the launch live. We of course will be
advising the shipboard crew during the countdown preparations. I trust
that you will be able to join us in viewing the launch?"
Kang nodded. "As my schedule permits. You have done exceptional work.
Bring the mission to success and you will bring high honor to the
Central People's Committee."
Kang nodded again, indicating that the briefing was over. The two
engineers glanced at each other, then bowed to Kang and quietly
shuffled out of the study. Tongju rose from his seat and stepped to
the front of the large mahogany desk.
"Your assault team is in place?" Kang asked his quiet enforcer.
"Yes, they remained aboard ship in Inchon. With your indulgence,
I have arranged for a company jet to fly me to an abandoned Japanese
airstrip in the Ogasawara Islands, where I will rejoin the vessel for
the operation."
"Yes, I expect you to lead the assault phase." Kang paused for a
moment. "We have come a long way in implementing our plan of deception
to risk failure now," he said sternly. "I will hold you responsible
for the continued secrecy of our operation." "The two Americans ... they surely drowned in the river," Tongju
replied in a hushed tone, catching Kang's drift.
"There is little they know or could prove even if they somehow
survived. The difficulty lies in maintaining the deception once the
mission succeeds. The Japanese must be painted as the responsible
party, with no recourse."
"Once the strike is made, the only physical evidence will be aboard the
Koguryo!"
"Precisely. Which is why you must destroy the ship after the launch."
Kang spoke as if he were asking for a napkin at a cocktail party.
Tongju arched a brow. "My assault team will be on the ship, as well as
your many satellite telecommunications experts?" he questioned.
"Regrettably, your team is expendable. And I have already ensured that
my top satellite engineers are remaining in Inchon during the
operation. It is the way it must be, Tongju," Kang said, showing a
rare hint of empathy.
"It will be done." "Take these coordinates," Kang said, passing an envelope across the
desk. "One of my freighters bound for Chile will be waiting at that
position. Once the launch is initiated, have the captain sail the
Koguryo to within sight of the freighter and scuttle her. Take the
captain and two or three men, if you wish, and make your way to the
freighter. Under no condition must the Koguryo be apprehended with the
crew aboard."
Tongju nodded in silence, accepting the mass murder assignment without
question.
"Good luck," Kang said, rising and escorting him to the door. "Our
homeland is counting on you."
After he left, Kang returned to his desk and stared up at the ceiling
for a long while. The wheels were in motion now. There was nothing
more he could do but wait for the results. Eventually, he pulled out a
file of financial reports and began methodically calculating his next
quarter's expected profit.
The G8 Summit meeting is a forum that was created by former French
president Giscard d'Estaing in 1975. Designed as a conference for the
leaders of the major industrialized nations to come together and
discuss global economic issues of the day, the summit is by tradition
restricted to heads of state only. No controlling advisers or staff
members are allowed, just the top world leaders thrown together once a year in a private and informal setting. Though the meetings
occasionally result in little more than a prized photo op, the agendas
have expanded beyond global economics over the years to include issues
of world health, the environment, and combating terrorism.
Having recently passed a major global warming legislative package, the
president of the United States was anxious to promote his environmental
protection initiatives on a world stage as host of the next summit.
Following in the tradition of recent nation hosts, President Ward had
selected the scenic and tranquil setting of Yosemite National
Park as the site of the summit. The remote location, he knew, would
deter the usual throng of urban protesters. But in an out-of-character
bow to the worldwide amour with Hollywood, he had agreed to host a
pre-summit reception at a posh Beverly Hills hotel the day before, to
be attended by the current crop of top movie actors and film industry
moguls. Not surprisingly, the invitation was accepted by each of the
leaders of Japan, Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Canada, and the
United Kingdom, rounding out the complete G8 membership ranks.
What the president and his security advisers had no way of knowing was
that the G8 reception in Beverly Hills was ground zero for Kang's
missile payload.
Adverse weather, unforeseen mechanical problems, a thousand and one things could throw off the timetable, Kang knew. But the goal was set.
Make a successful strike while the major leaders of the free world were
assembled and the shock value would be incalculable. Even without
striking the assembled G8 leaders, the terror from the planned attack
would rock the world.
Arcing across the sky from an unseen launch position in the Pacific
Ocean, the aerosol dispenser would be timed to activate as the pay-load
crossed landfall. Commencing its release over the beachfront of Santa
Monica, the payload would dump its deadly agent in a swath across
northern Los Angeles, streaking over the mansions of Beverly Hills, the
film studios of Hollywood, and on past the suburban enclaves of
Glendale and Pasadena. Passing over the Rose Bowl, the viral canisters
would finally run dry and the empty payload would plunge to an
obliterating impact somewhere in the San Gabriel Mountains.
The light mist settling to the ground would be innocuous to the people
on the street. Yet over the next twenty-four hours, the dispersed
viruses would remain alive and highly contagious, even in its low
concentrated dose. Through the hustle and bustle of LAs main tourist
corridor, the unseen viruses would latch onto unsuspecting
victims, without discriminating among men, women, or children.
Rejuvenated by their living hosts, the viruses would silently launch
their internal cellular attacks. Like a quietly ticking time bomb,
there would be no initial clues or symptoms of infection during the following two-week incubation period. Then, suddenly, a frightening
horror would strike.
At first, it would appear as a small trickle of people staggering to
their doctor's office complaining of fever and body aches. Quickly,
the numbers would swell, soon swamping hospital emergency rooms
throughout Los Angeles County. With the disease having been eradicated
for over thirty years, health professionals would be slow to identify
the culprit. When the diagnosis of smallpox was finally made and the
extent of the outbreak realized, pandemonium would ensue. A frenzied
media would fan the hysteria as more and more cases were diagnosed.
County hospitals would be mobbed by the thousands as every
hypochondriac with a headache or elevated fever rushed to see a
physician. But that would be just the tip of the iceberg for health
officials. As thousands of new smallpox cases suddenly appeared, the
health facilities would be woefully unprepared to provide the primary
treatment for smallpox victims: quarantine. Without an adequate
ability to isolate confirmed cases, the epidemic would grow
exponentially. Kang's scientists had conservatively estimated that
twenty percent of the people exposed to the released vapor would
succumb to infection. With over eighteen million people in the Los
Angeles metropolitan area, even the narrow swath of the payload's
flight path would expose two hundred thousand people to the germ,
infecting some forty thousand. The real expansion would come two weeks
later, as those initially infected would have spread the contagious germs unknowingly during their first few days of illness. Medical
experts had modeled a tenfold explosion in smallpox cases from those
first exposed. In a month's time, nearly half a million people in
Southern California would be fighting the lethal disease.
Fear would spread faster than the smallpox infection itself, made
more shocking by the vision of the president and other G8 world leaders
fighting the lethal disease. As the epidemic gained strength, cries of
help from citizens, health care workers, and the media would quickly
overwhelm the federal government. Federal authorities would assure the
nation that all would be safe, as sufficient smallpox vaccinations were
on hand to inoculate the entire national population. The Centers for
Disease Control would deliver the vaccinations to local health
authorities to quickly counter the spreading scourge. But to those
already exposed to the virus, the vaccinations would come too late to
be of any help. And to many who received the vaccination, it would
turn out to be useless as well.
For to the horror of health care and public officials, the veracity of
the chimera virus would suddenly come to life. By virtue of its
re-combinant strength, the killer bug would prove itself largely immune
to the U.S. stockpiled smallpox vaccinations. With the death toll
mounting, distressed health officials and scientists would scramble to
develop an effective vaccination that could be mass-produced, but that
would take months. In the meantime, the viral plague would begin sweeping across the country like a tidal wave. Tourists and travelers
from Los Angeles would unknowingly carry the live virus to points all
over the nation, sparking new outbreaks in a thousand different cities.
As the vaccinations were found to be ineffective, authorities would
resort to the last available means of stopping the epidemic: mass
quarantine. Public assemblies and gatherings would be banned in a
desperate attempt to halt the viral storm. Airports would close,
subways halted, and buses parked as mandatory travel restrictions would
be imposed. Businesses would be forced to furlough employees while
local governments curtailed their services to avoid debilitating their
entire workforce. Rock concerts, baseball games, and even church
gatherings would all be canceled in fear of sparking new outbreaks.
Those who would venture out for food or medicine would only do so clad
in rubber gloves and surgical masks.
The economic impact to the country would be devastating. Whole
sale industries would be forced to shut down overnight. Furloughed and
laid-off workers would spike unemployment rates to double that of the
Great Depression. The government would teeter on insolvency as tax
revenues would dry up while the demand for food, medical, and social
services would explode. In a few short weeks, the national output
would fall to the level of a third world country.
A further crisis would ensue in defending the national security. The highly contagious disease would rip through the armed forces, infecting
thousands of soldiers and sailors living in close quarters. Entire
army divisions, air wings, and even naval fleets would be
incapacitated, reducing the effective military force to a paper tiger.
For the first time in nearly two centuries, the country's ability to
defend itself would be seriously endangered.
In the civilian population, health facilities and morgues would be
stretched beyond their breaking point. The number of sick and dying
would quickly reach a critical mass, overwhelming available resources.
Despite operating around the clock, the country's available crematories
would rapidly be overrun with the dead. Like a scene from Mexico City
at the conquest of Cortes, stacks of dead bodies would accumulate in
overwhelming numbers. Makeshift crematories would hastily be assembled
to burn the dead in mass, reproducing the ancient funeral pyres of
old.
In homes and apartments, citizens would be forced to live like
incarcerated prisoners, afraid to mingle with neighbors, friends, or
even close relatives for fear of risking infection. Rural inhabitants
would fare best, but in the major cities few families would be spared
the affliction. The diseased would be carefully quarantined while
family members burned sheets, towels, clothing, furniture, and anything
else that might have caught an ambient germ.
The lethal virus would take a deadly toll across all ages and races. But hardest hit would be working adults, forced to expose themselves to
greater risk of infection in order to provide food for their families.
With millions of adults lying dead, the raging disease would create
an
immense class of orphaned children across the land. In a terrible
replay of Western Europe after World War I, an entire generation would
nearly be lost, vanished in just a few months' time. Only a SARS-like
containment of infected travelers, after being alerted by the initial
U.S. outbreaks, would prevent the scourge from decimating other
countries in a similar fashion.
To those infected, the disease would wreak a rapid and horrifying
progression of agony. Following the two-week incubation period, a
burning rash would emerge on the infected after the initial onset of
fever, starting in the mouth and spreading to the face and body. The
stricken would be highly contagious at this stage, where face-to-face
contact, or even shared clothes and bedding, would easily spread the
disease. Over the course of three or four days, the rash would expand
and painfully develop into hard raised bumps. The mass of
horrid-looking skin lesions, produced with the sensation of a hot torch
to the skin, would then gradually dry and scab over. For two to three
more weeks, the afflicted would battle the body-morphing disease until
all of the scabs had fallen away and the last risk of transmission
subsided. All the while, the sick would be forced to fight it alone, as smallpox has no cure once the virus is unleashed in the body.
The survivors, if lucky, would be left with just the telltale pitted
scars on their skin as a constant reminder of their ordeal. Less
fortunate survivors would end up blind as well. The one-third of
infected persons who lost the fight would die a painful death, as their
lungs and kidneys slowly shut down under the viral onslaught.
But the horror would not end there. For still hidden in the smallpox
outburst was the specter of HIV. Slower acting and less detectable but
all the more deadly, the HIV attributes not only made the chimera virus
resistant to the smallpox vaccine but continued a viral path of
destruction in the surviving victims. Thriving in an already weakened
immune system, the virus would surge through the victims, destroying
and altering cells in a barbaric invasion. While most HIV victims
succumb to its debilitating effects in the course of a decade, the
chimera would attain lethality in just two to three years. Like a
satanic roller coaster, yet another wave of death would surge across
the country, striking down the poor souls who had overcome the initial
bout with smallpox. While the smallpox pandemic would claim a thirty
percent mortality rate, the HIV death rate would hover near ninety
percent. An already shocked and numbed nation would face a death pall
the likes of which had never been seen in its history before.
By the time the chimera ran its course, tens of millions would lie dead in the U.S." with untold more around the world. Not a family would go
unscathed by its black touch and not a soul would live free from the
fear of a lethal biological shadow in the doorway. Amid the initial
unfolding of the scourge, few would pay concern to political
disturbances around the world. And, on the far side of the globe, when
the old ally of South Korea was overrun by its totalitarian neighbor to
the north there would be little response from the devastated nation
aside from a feeble cry of protest.
The Chinese junk looked like an antiquated relic amid the modern
freighters and containerships swarming about Inchon Harbor. Cussler
carefully threaded the high-sterned sailing vessel through a maze of
midmorning commercial traffic before easing into a small public marina
that was nestled between two large cargo docks. An odd assortment of
beat-up sampans and expensive weekend sailboats encircled the marina as
he motored the teak junk to a transit dock and tied up. He gave a
quick knock on the spare cabin door to wake its slumbering occupants,
then brewed a large pot of coffee in the galley as a marina employee
refilled the junk's fuel tank.
Summer staggered out into the sunshine of the aft deck holding the
dachshund in her arms as Dirk followed a few steps behind, trying to
suppress a yawn. Cussler threw a mug of coffee in their hands, then
ducked belowdecks for a moment before emerging with a hacksaw in his
grip. "Might be a good idea to off-load those handcuffs before going ashore,"
he grinned.
"I'll be only too happy to dispose of these bracelets," Summer
concurred, rubbing her wrists.
Dirk peered around the neighboring boats, then turned to Cussler.
"Anybody follow us in?" he asked.
"No, I'm quite sure we arrived alone. I kept a keen watch, and
zigzagged our course a few times just to be sure. Nobody seemed intent
on following us. I bet those boys are still cruising up and down the
Han River looking for you two," he laughed.
"I sure hope so," Summer said with a shudder, stroking the small dog's
ears for comfort.
Dirk picked up the hacksaw and began cutting into the shackle on
Summer's left wrist. "You saved our lives back there. Is there
anything we can do to repay you?" he asked while gliding the saw blade
evenly across an edge of the handcuff.
"You don't owe me anything," he replied warmly. "Just stay out of any
more trouble and let the government take care of those hoodlums." "Can do," Dirk replied. After efficiently sawing through both of
Summer's shackles, he relaxed while she and Cussler took turns cutting
through his handcuffs. When the last shackle fell free, he sat up and
downed the last of his coffee.
"There's a phone in the marina restaurant you can use to call the
American embassy, if you like. Here, take some Korean won. You can
use it to make the call and buy a bowl of kimchi," Cussler said,
passing Summer a few purple-colored bills of the national currency.
"Thanks, Mr. Cussler. And good luck on your voyage," Dirk said,
shaking the man's hand. Summer leaned over and kissed the old sailor
on the cheek. "Your kindness was overwhelming," she gushed, then
patted the dog good-bye.
"You kids take care. Be seeing you."
Dirk and Summer stood on the dock and waved good-bye as the junk eased
out into the harbor, smiling as Mauser barked a final farewell from the
bow deck. They made their way up a set of well-worn concrete steps and
entered a faded yellow building that was a combination marina office,
sundry store, and restaurant. The walls were draped in the traditional
lobster trap and fishing net motif that sufficed for interior
decorating in a thousand seafood restaurants around the world. Only,
this one smelled like the nets were hung up while still dripping wet with salt water.
Dirk found a phone on the wall in back and, after several failed
attempts, completed a connection to NUMA headquarters in Washington.
The NUMA operator required only minimal convincing before patching the
call through to Rudi Gunn's home line, despite the late hour on the
East Coast. Gunn had just dropped off to sleep but answered the phone
on the second ring and nearly flew out of bed when he heard Dirk's
voice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Dirk hung up
the phone.
"Well?" Summer asked.
Dirk glanced toward the smelly restaurant with a look of adventure.
"I'm afraid it's time to take the man up and sample some kimchi while
we wait for a ride," he replied, rubbing his stomach with hunger.
The hungry pair downed a Korean breakfast of hot soup, rice, tofu
flavored with dried seaweed, and the omnipresent side dish of fermented
vegetables, kimchi, which nearly blew smoke out of their ears from the
spiciness. As they finished their meal, a bulky pair of U.S. Air Force
security police strode sternly into the restaurant. Summer waved the
two men over and the senior of the two men confirmed their identity.
"I'm First Sergeant Bimson, Fifty-first Fighter Wing Security Forces. This is Staff Sergeant Rodgers," he continued, nodding to his
partner. "We have orders to escort you to Osan Air Base without
delay."
"The pleasure will be all ours," Summer assured him as they stood and
left the marina restaurant, following the airmen to a government sedan
parked outside.
Though Seoul was actually a shorter distance to Inchon than Osan Air
Base, Gunn had elected to take no chances with their safety, ordering
their transport to the nearest military base. The airmen drove south
from Inchon, winding through mountainous hills and past flooded rice
paddies before entering the sprawling complex of Osan, which started
life as a lone airfield constructed during the Korean War. The modern
base now hosted a large contingent of combat-ready F-16 fighter jets
and A-10 Thunderbolt II attack planes, deployed in the forward defense
of South Korea.
Entering the main gate, they traveled a short distance to the base
hospital, where a fast-talking colonel greeted Dirk and Summer and led
them to a medical examination room. After a brief checkup and
treatment of Dirk's wounds, they were allowed to clean up and then
given a fresh set of clothes. Summer laughed that the baggy military
fatigues provided did nothing for her figure. "What's our travel situation?" Dirk asked of the colonel. "There's an
Air Mobility Command C-141 bound for McChord Air Force Base leaving in
a few hours that I'm holding a pair of first-class seats on. Your NUMA
people have arranged a government aircraft to transport you from
McChord to Washington, DC, after you arrive. In the meantime, you are
welcome to rest here for a bit, then I'll take you by the officers'
club, where you can grab a hot meal before jumping on that twenty-hour
plane ride stateside."
"Colonel, if we have the time I'd like to contact an in-country Special
Ops unit, preferably Navy, if that's at all possible. And I'd like to
make a phone call to Washington."
The Air Force colonel's face turned up indignantly at Dirk's mention of
the word Navy. "There's only one Navy base in the country and that's
just a small operations support facility in Chinhae near Pusan. I'll
send over one of our Air Force S.O. captains. As I think about it,
there are SEALs and UDTs running in and out of here all the time. He
ought to be able to help you out."
Two hours later, Dirk and Summer climbed aboard a gray Air Force C-141B
Starlifter with a large contingent of GIs headed stateside. As they
settled into their seats in the windowless transport jet, Dirk found an
eye mask and a pair of earplugs in the seat back in front of him.
Donning the sleep aids, he turned to Summer and said, "Please don't
wake me till we're over land. Preferably, land where they don't serve seaweed for breakfast."
He then pulled down the eye mask, stretched out flat in the seat, and
promptly fell fast asleep.
The fire was minuscule by most arson standards, burning less than
twenty minutes before it was brought under control. Yet the targeted
damage had been carefully calculated with a precise outcome in mind.
It was two in the morning when the fire bells sounded aboard the Sea
Launch Commander, jolting Christiano from a deep sleep in his captain's
cabin. In an instant he was on the bridge, alertly checking the ship's
fire control monitors. A graphic image of the ship showed a single red
light on the ship's lower topside deck.
"Conduit room on the shelter deck, just forward of the launch control
center," reported a dark-haired crewman manning the bridge watch.
"Automated water mist system has been activated."
"Cut all electrical power except for emergency systems to that part of
the ship," Christiano ordered. "Notify the port fire station that we
require assistance."
"Yes, sir. I have two men en route to the conduit room and am awaiting
their report." While at port, the Commander carried only a skeleton marine crew aboard
around the clock, few of whom had any degree of firefighting training.
A rapidly spreading fire could easily gut the ship before sufficient
help arrived, Christiano knew. The captain looked out a bridge window,
half-expecting to see smoke and flames erupting from the ship but there
were none. The only indication of fire was the acrid odor of burned
electrical components that wafted through his nostrils and the distant
shriek of a port fire truck rumbling toward the pier. His attention
turned toward a handheld radio clipped to the crewman's belt as a deep
voice suddenly rasped through the bridge.
"Briggs here," the radio crackled. "The fire is burning in the conduit
room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is
okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent
combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was
triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on
her before she spreads I think we can contain it."
Christiano grabbed the radio. "Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the
way. Bridge out."
Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a
smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large
walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's
electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned
into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood
back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue
haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by
Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire
extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing
the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see
flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher
empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering
in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight
reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not
likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the
bridge.
"The fire is extinguished. Briggs out."
Though the flames were extinguished, the damage had been done. It
would take another two hours before the melted mass of wire, cabling,
and connectors stopped smoldering and the Port of Long Beach Fire
Department declared the ship safe. The pungent smell of an electrical
fire hung over the ship like a cloud, refusing to go away for days.
Danny Stamp arrived at the ship shortly after the fire crew left, the
launch director having been summoned by Christiana Sitting with the
captain in the adjacent launch control center, he shook his head as he
listened to the damage assessment from the Sea Launch Commander's computer operations manager.
"You couldn't have picked a worse place for a fire to break out," the
systems man said, his face tinted red in frustration. "Literally every
launch ops computer on the ship runs through that room, as well as most
of the test and tracking monitors. We'll have to rewire the whole
works. It's a complete nightmare," he said, shaking his head.
"What about the actual hardware?" asked Stamp.
"Well, if you want to call that the good news, there was no damage to
any of our hardware resources. I was really concerned with the
potential for water damage, but, thankfully, our own crew put down the
flames before any hoses were let loose on board."
"In order to go operational, then, we're just talking about restringing
the hardware. How long will that take?"
"Oh, man. We've got to rebuild the conduit room, order and obtain a
couple miles of cable, some of it custom application, and re
string the whole system. That would take three or four weeks at best
under normal circumstances."
"Our circumstances are a pending launch with significant delay
penalties. You've got eight days," Stamp replied, staring hard into the eyes of the computer manager.
The frazzled man nodded his head slowly, then got up to leave the room.
"Guess I've got to get a few people out of bed," he muttered while
slipping out through a side door.
"Do you think he can do it?" Christiano asked once the door had closed
shut.
"If it can be done, then he'll get us close."
"What about the Odyssey} Do we hold her in port until the damage to the
Commander'is repaired?"
"No," Stamp said after mulling over the question. "The Zenit is loaded
and secured aboard the Odyssey, so we'll send her out as planned. We
can still make the equator with the Commanderin half the time the
platform will take to get there. And there's no harm in having the
Odyssey wait on station a few days if we're a little late getting out.
That's just more opportunity for the platform crew to prep for the
launch."
Christiano nodded, then sat silently in thought.
"I'll notify the customer of our revised plans," Stamp continued. "I'm sure I'll have to do a Kabuki dance to keep them calm. Do we know the
cause of the fire yet?"
"The fire inspector will take a look first thing in the morning.
Everything points to a short, probably some defective cable
couplings."
Stamp nodded silently. What next? he wondered.
The Long Beach fire inspector stepped aboard the Sea Launch Commander
promptly at 8 A.M. After performing a cursory examination of the charred
conduit room, he proceeded to interview the fire response team and
other crewmen on duty when the fire started. He | then returned to the
site of the blaze and methodically examined the burn damage, taking
photographs of the blackened room and making notes. After carefully
scrutinizing the charred cables and melted fittings for nearly an hour,
he satisfied himself that there was no evidence present indicating
arson.
It would have taken an excruciatingly attentive analysis to detect the
proof. But beneath his soot-covered boots, there were the peculiar
minuscule remains of a frozen orange juice container. A chemical
analysis of the container would show that a homemade napalm mixture of
gasoline and Styrofoam chunks had been mixed and stored in the small
container. Planted by one of Kang's men days before and ignited by a
small timer, the tiny fire bomb had splattered its flaming goo about the conduit room in a rain of fire, quickly incinerating its contents.
With the overhead sprinkler system sabotaged to appear faulty, the
damage was assured, as scripted. Enough damage to delay the Sea Launch
Commander from sailing for several days, but not enough to raise
suspicions that the cause was anything but accidental.
Stepping past the charred and indistinguishable juice container, the
inspector paused outside the conduit room as he completed his fire
assessment. "Electrical short due to faulty wiring or improper
grounding," he wrote in a small notebook, then stuck his pen in his
shirt pocket and made his way off the ship past a gang of oncoming
construction workmen.
A slow gray drizzle was falling at McChord Air Force Base south of
Tacoma when the C-141 lumbered in from its transpacific flight. The
big jet's tires screeched on the damp runway before the aircraft rolled
to a stop in front of a transit terminal, where its engines were shut
down and the large rear cargo door lowered to the tarmac.
Holding true to his word, Dirk had slept nearly the entire flight and
exited the ramp feeling refreshed but hungry. Summer followed behind
in a groggier state, having slept unevenly in the noisy aircraft. An
air transit lieutenant located the pair and escorted them to the base
officers' club for a quick hamburger before returning them to the
flight line. Spotting a phone booth, Dirk eagerly dialed a local number.
"Dirk, you're all right!" Sarah answered with obvious relief.
"Still kicking," he chimed.
"Captain Burch told me you were aboard the NUMA ship that sank in the
East China Sea. I've been worried sick about you."
Dirk beamed to himself, then proceeded to tell her an abbreviated
version of events since flying to Japan.
"My gosh, the same people that released the cyanide in the Aleutians
intend to launch a larger attack?"
"It appears that way. We hope to find out more when we get back to
D.C."
"Well, keep your friends at the CDC informed. We have a terrorism
emergency response team in place to combat sudden chemical or
biological outbreaks."
"You'll be the first one I call. By the way, how's the leg?" "Fine,
though I'm still getting used to these blasted crutches. When are you
going to autograph my cast?" Dirk suddenly noticed Summer waving him toward a small jet parked on
the runway.
"When I take you to dinner."
"I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a weeklong conference on
environmental toxins," she said with disappointment. "It will have to
be the following week." "Consider it a date."
Dirk barely had time to sprint to the Gulfstream V jet that was warming
its engines on the tarmac. Climbing aboard, he was chagrined to find
Summer sitting at the center of attention, surrounded by a small group
of Pentagon colonels and generals on the jet bound for Andrews Air
Force Base.
The large executive jet buzzed over the Jefferson Memorial at six the
next morning en route to landing at the Air Force base located just
southeast of the nation's capital. A NUMA van was waiting for the pair
and whisked them through the light early morning traffic to the
headquarters building, where Rudi Gunn greeted them in his office.
"Thank God you're safe," Gunn gushed. "We were turning Japan upside
down looking for you and that cable ship." "Nice idea but wrong country," Summer said with a gibe. "There's some
folks here who'd like to hear about your ordeal first
hand," Gunn continued, hardly giving Dirk and Summer a chance to relax.
"Let's go to the admiral's office."
They followed Gunn as he led them around the bay to a large corner
office overlooking the Potomac River. Though Admiral Sandecker was no
longer the director of NUMA, Gunn subconsciously refused to acknowledge
the fact. The door to the office was open and they walked in.
Two men were seated at a side couch discussing coastal port security,
while Homeland Security Special Assistant Webster sat in a chair across
from them, studiously reviewing a file folder.
"Dirk, Summer, you remember Jim Webster from Homeland Security. This
is Special Agent Peterson and Special Agent Burroughs, with the FBI's
Counterterrorism Division," Gunn said, motioning a hand toward the two
men on the couch. "They've met with Bob Morgan already and are very
interested to know what happened to you after the Sea Rover was
sunk."
Dirk and Summer settled into a pair of wingback chairs and proceeded to
describe the entire course of events, from their imprisonment on board
the Baekje to their escape on the Chinese junk. Summer was surprised
to note that three hours rolled by on an antique ship's clock mounted on the wall by the time they finished their saga. The homeland
security administrator, she noted, appeared to turn whiter shades of
pale as their report progressed.
"I just can't believe it," he finally muttered. "Every shred of
evidence we had pointed to a Japanese conspiracy. Our whole
investigative focus has been centered on Japan," he said, shaking his
head.
"A well-designed deception," Dirk stated. "Kang is a powerful man with
considerable resources at his disposal. His means and abilities should
not be underestimated."
"You are certain he aims to target the United States with a biological
attack?" asked Peterson.
"That's what he insinuated and I don't believe he was bluffing. The
incident in the Aleutians would seem to have been a test application
of their technology to disperse a bio weapon into the air. Only now
they have boosted the strength of their smallpox virus to a much more
virulent form."
"Not unlike stories I've heard that the Russians may have created a
vaccine-resistant strain of smallpox back in the nineties," Gunn added.
"Only this one's a chimera. A deadly combination of more than one
virus that takes on the lethal elements of each," Summer said.
"If the strain is immune to our vaccines, an outbreak could kill
millions," Peterson muttered, shaking his head. The room fell silent
for a moment as the occupants considered the horrifying prospect.
"The attack in the Aleutian Islands proves that they have the means to
disperse the virus. The question becomes, where would they target a
strike?" Gunn asked.
"If we can stop them before they have the chance to strike, then it
doesn't matter. We should be raiding Kang's palace, and his shipyard,
and his other sham businesses, and we should be raiding them right
now," Summer said, slapping a hand on her leg for emphasis.
"She's right," Dirk said. "For all we know, the weapons are still on
board the vessel at the Inchon Shipyard and the story can end there."
"We'll need to assemble more evidence," the homeland security man said
flatly. "The Korean authorities will have to be convinced of the risk
before we can assemble a joint investigative force."
Gunn quietly cleared his throat. "We may be on the verge of providing the necessary evidence," he said as all eyes shifted his way. "Dirk
and Summer had the foresight to contact Navy Special Forces before
leaving Korea and briefed them on Kang's enclosed dock facility at
Inchon."
"We couldn't authorize them to act, but a well-placed call by Rudi got
them to at least listen to what we had to say," Summer grinned toward
Gunn.
"It's well beyond that now," Gunn explained. "After you and Dirk
departed Osan, we formally requested an underwater special ops
reconnaissance mission. Vice President Sandecker went out on a limb
to obtain executive approval in hopes we'll be able to locate a smoking
gun. Unfortunately, with the ruckus over our military deployment in
Korea it's a sensitive time to be nosing around our ally's backyard."
"All they need to do is snap a picture of the Baekje sitting at Kang's
dock and we've got proof positive," Dirk said.
"That would certainly boost our case. When are they going in?" Webster
asked.
Gunn looked at his watch, then mentally calculated the fourteen-hour
time difference between Washington and Seoul. "The team will be deployed in about two hours. We should know something early this
evening."
Webster silently gathered his papers, then stood up. "I'll be back
after dinner for a full debriefing," he grumbled, then made his way
toward the door. As he left the room, the others could hear just a
single word being muttered repeatedly from his lips as he vanished down
the hall: "Korea."
Commander Bruce McCasland looked up at the Korean night sky and
grimaced. A heavy bank of low rain clouds had drifted in over Inchon,
obscuring the earlier clear skies. With the low clouds came
illumination, the optical boomerang of light waves from thousands of
the port city's streetlamps, residences, and billboards. Refracting
off the clouds, the lights brightened the midnight hour with a fuzzy
radiance. For a man whose livelihood depended on stealth, the dark of
night was his best friend, the arrival of clouds a curse. Perhaps it
will rain, he thought hopefully, which would improve their cover. But
the dark clouds silently rolled by, holding their moisture with
taunting stubbornness.
The Navy SEAL from Bend, Oregon, hunched back down in the rickety
sampan and glanced at the three men lying low under the gunwale besides
him. Like McCasland, they were clad in black underwater wet suits,
with matching fins, mask, and backpack. As their mission was one of
reconnaissance, they were armed for only minimal close quarters combat, each carrying a compact Heckler & Koch MP5K 9mm submachine gun.
Clipped to their vests were an assorted mix of miniature still and
video cameras, as well as a pair of night vision goggles.
The weathered boat putted past the commercial docks of Inchon, trailing
a pall of blue smoke from its sputtering outboard motor. To the casual
eye, the sampan appeared like a thousand others in the region used by
merchants and tradesmen up and down the coastal Korean waters as a
common mode of transport. Hidden beneath its aged-appearing exterior,
however, was a fiberglass-hulled assault craft. With a high-speed
inboard motor, the covert boat was specially built to launch and
retrieve small teams of underwater special forces.
Meandering through the quiet north corner of the harbor, the sampan
approached within two hundred meters of the Kang Marine Services entry
channel. Exactly on cue, the twenty-two-foot boat's motor sputtered
and coughed several times, then died. Two SEALs, disguised as a pair
of derelict fishermen, began swearing loudly at each other in Korean.
While one of the men tugged at the outboard motor to restart it, the
other made a loud show of grabbing an oar and splashing it in the water
in a clumsy attempt to row them toward shore.
McCasland peered over the gunwale with a pair of night vision
binoculars trained on the sentry post at the mouth of the channel. Two
men looked back from the interior of their guard hut but made no move toward a black speedboat tied up a few feet away. Satisfied the guards
were too lazy to investigate further, he called quietly to the three
men beside him.
"In the water. Now."
With the gracefulness of a Persian cat leaping from a settee, the three
men slipped quietly over the side and into the water with barely a
gurgle. McCasland adjusted his faceplate, gave a thumbs-up to the two
"fishermen," then followed the frogmen over the side. Having grown hot
in the boat wearing the insulated wet suit, he was refreshed by the
cool water as it seeped against his skin. Clearing his ears, he
submerged to a depth of twenty feet, then leveled off, peering around
into the black gloomy murk. The dank polluted harbor water offered
only a few feet of visibility, which fell to zero at night without a
flashlight. McCasland ignored the blind diving conditions and spoke
into a wireless underwater communication system attached to his face
mask.
"Audio and nav check," he barked.
"Bravo here. Nav confirmed. Out," came one voice.
"Charlie here. Nav confirmed. Out," followed a second voice, this one
with a slight Georgia twang. "Delta here. Nav confirmed. Out," the third diver's voice copied.
"Roger, stand by," McCasland replied.
Above them, the two SEALs in the sampan had beached the boat next to a
battered and abandoned pier within sight of Kang's security men. Making
a show of repairing the boat, the two men clanged tools together and
cursed loudly as they pretended to fumble with the motor while the men
in the water carried out their mission.
Below the surface, McCasland activated his Miniature Underwater GPS
Receiver (MUGR), or "Mugger" as it was nicknamed. No larger than a
Palm Pilot, the small device contained a navigation system that was
calibrated by signals from the GPS satellite system. McCasland briefly
kicked up to a depth of ten feet, where the underwater receiver could
pick up the GPS signal and establish a fixed base point. A muted green
display screen popped on, displaying an animated trail that zigzagged
through and around a series of obstacles. Based on aerial survey
photographs and the description provided by Dirk and Summer, McCasland
had programmed a series of GPS way points into the Mugger. The
aggregate points created a path to the covered dock entrance they could
follow while completely submerged. All four divers held one of the
devices, which also showed one another's relative position with a tiny
flashing light. Swimming in complete darkness, they could follow the path to the covered dock while staying within just a few feet of one
another.
"Okay, let's move," he spoke into his faceplate after descending
again.
With a deep thrust of his fins, McCasland kicked forward into the inky
water, his eyes glued to the electronic compass and depth gauge, which
he ensured never wavered from the twenty-foot mark. Reaching the
entrance to the private ship channel, he turned and swam into the
narrow inlet, passing almost directly beneath the security guards'
speedboat, which bobbed on the surface well above him. Over
McCasland's shoulder, the three other SEALs followed in a triangular
pattern a few feet behind.
Day or night, the SEAL divers would have been nearly impossible to
detect due to their use of rebreathers. Forgoing the standard dive
tank of compressed air, which generates telltale exhaust bubbles
visible on the surface, the Navy divers utilized a Carleton
Technologies VIPER system for their air supply. Embedded within a
sleek-looking backpack, the VIPER rebreather provided pure oxygen to
the divers that was recirculated through a chemical scrubber, which
removed harmful carbon dioxide while dispelling only a minute amount of
exhaust. The streamlined system could enable the divers to remain
underwater for up to four hours should the need arise. But with no
visible exhaust bubbles rising to the surface, their whereabouts were safely concealed from the naked eye.
Following the Mugger's imaginary trail, the four divers swam through
the winding inlet, kicking through the black water until they
approached the entrance to the enclosed dock. The quarter-mile
submerged swim would have exhausted most sport divers, but years of
demanding physical training made it seem like crossing the street to
the hardened SEALs. Their heartbeats thumped just above resting as
they regrouped in front of the massive door to the enclosed dock.
McCasland then swam in a circular pattern until his hands found a pylon
that supported one side of the entrance. Following the pylon up, he
ascended slowly until finding the lower edge of the sliding door,
which
hung three feet beneath the water's surface. Confident he was at the
proper location, he descended again to the depth of the other divers.
"Proceed with preliminary recon. Regroup this position in three-zero.
Out."
From this point on, each diver had a different trail to follow inside
the covered dockyard. Dirk and Summer had drawn a detailed map of the
dock layout from memory, which was used to establish a different
reconnaissance point for each diver. McCasland had the farthest and
most dangerous assignment, to swim to the land's-end side of the dockyard for a frontal view of the facility. Two other divers would
reconnoiter the main dock to verify and film the Baekje, while the
fourth diver would stand by as backup near the entrance door.
The bright overhead lights of the hangar illuminated the upper water
shallows, casting a dark shadow from the dock's supporting concrete
pilings. McCasland found that at a depth of fifteen feet, he could
just make out the dark outline of the pilings in the water ahead of
him. He held the Mugger to his chest and kicked harder, using his
vision to guide him quickly down the length of the dock. After passing
dozens of pilings, a solid wall of concrete suddenly rose up before him
and he knew that he had reached the end of the pier. Resting against a
pylon, he readied a digital camcorder and prepared to surface, fighting
back an uneasy feeling of defeat. He had felt a strange void while
swimming beneath the pier, sensing an absence of the mass he thought he
should feel nearby even though it was out of sight.
Quietly breaking the water's surface beneath the edge of the dock, his
eyes confirmed the empty feeling in his stomach. The giant covered
dockyard was bare. There was no four-hundred-foot cable ship tied up
in front of him. In fact, the main dock was completely empty.
McCasland silently scanned the facility with his camera, finding only
one vessel in the entire structure, a beat-up tugboat perched on a
dry-dock. Nearby, a group of bored dockworkers on the graveyard shift
were chasing each other around in a forklift, the only signs of life in
the massive structure. His filming complete, McCasland ducked underwater and kicked back along
the dock toward the main entrance door. Reaching the support pylon, he
pulled up the Mugger and saw that the other three divers had already
returned and were waiting in the surrounding waters a few feet away.
"Mission complete," he said curtly, then swam off into the inlet.
The four SEALs made their way back to the beached sampan and silently
crawled inside. The mock fishermen suddenly found the cure to the
ailing motor and restarted the outboard engine. With more vocal
cursing, they cruised past Kang's inlet and motored off into the
night.
Once out of sight, McCasland sat up and took off his faceplate, taking
a breath full of the dank port air while staring at the twinkling
waterfront lights. A drop of rain struck him on the face, then another
and another. Shaking his head, he sat silently while a healthy deluge
opened up from the skies on the frustrated commando.
Webster, Peterson, and Burroughs returned to the NUMA headquarters
building at exactly six o'clock and found a subdued scene when they
arrived at Gunn's office. The results of the SEAL team's
reconnaissance mission had just been received, and Gunn, Dirk, and
Summer sat morosely discussing the report. "Disappointing news, I'm afraid," Gunn said. "The cable ship wasn't
there."
"How could it come and go without being seen?" Webster wondered.
"We've got Interpol and customs authorities on the lookout for that
vessel all throughout Asia Pacific."
"Perhaps a few of them are on Kang's payroll," Summer said.
Webster brushed aside the suggestion. "We're certain the
reconnaissance team didn't misidentify anything?"
"There apparently was nothing in the enclosed dock to see. A video
feed of the surveillance is being sent by satellite right now. We can
take a look for ourselves on the admiral's viewing monitor," Gunn
replied.
For the second time that day, he led a procession to the admiral's
former office. As he approached the corner suite, he was surprised to
hear a familiar laugh emanating from the office as a hazy cloud of
smoke drifted out the open door.
Entering the threshold, Gunn was shocked to find Al Giordino sitting on
the couch. With a wild wave of his dark curly hair askew, the newly
appointed NUMA director of underwater technology sat reclining with his legs up on the coffee table, a stubby cigar dangling from his lips. He
was dressed in a worn NUMA jumpsuit and looked like he just stepped off
a boat.
"Rudi, my boy, here flogging the crew a little late tonight, aren't
we?" Giordino asked before blowing a puff of smoke from the cigar
skyward.
"Somebody's got to mind the store while you're out basking on a warm
tropical beach."
Dirk and Summer grinned as they entered the room and spotted Giordino,
who was like a favorite uncle to them. They didn't immediately see
their father, who stood at the opposite end of the office gazing at the
lights across the Potomac. His six-foot-three frame stood tall against
the window, having lost little of its younger muscular leanness. A
touch of gray at the temples and a few slight wrinkles around the eyes
hinted at his age. The weathered, tan face of Dirk Pitt, the legendary
special projects director and now head of NUMA, broke into a broad grin
at the sight of his children.
"Dirk, Summer," he said, his sparkling green eyes glowing with warmth
as he threw his arms around his two kids.
"Dad, we thought you and Al were still in the Philippines," Summer said after giving her father a hug and a peck on the cheek.
"Are you kidding?" Giordino piped in. "The old man practically swam
across the Pacific to get back here when he heard you were missing."
The elder Pitt smiled. "I was just jealous of you two taking a tour of
Northeast Asia without me," he grinned.
"We made some notes of places to avoid," Dirk laughed in reply.
Pitt visibly warmed in the presence of his two kids. The veteran
marine engineer brimmed with a radiant serenity at the world that had
recently changed around him. His personal life had been completely
jarred by the sudden appearance of his two grown children just a few
years earlier whom he never knew existed. But they quickly became a
close part of his life, joining him in his underwater work, as well as
sharing personal time with him and his new wife. The sudden dose of
responsibility had nudged him to take stock of his life and he had
finally married his longtime love, Colorado congresswoman Loren Smith.
But the changes continued, as even his professional life saw an
upheaval. With Admiral Sandecker unexpectedly taking the vice
presidency, Pitt was suddenly thrust into the top spot at NUMA. While
special projects director, he experienced several lifetimes' worth of
adventure and challenges that took him to the four corners of the
globe. The hazards had taken a toll on him, both physically and
mentally, and now he was glad to ease back on the more vigorous demands of the job. As NUMA's chief director, his administrative and political
duties often exceeded his interests, but he still ensured that he and
Al spent plenty of time in the field, testing new equipment, exploring
prospective marine sanctuaries, or just pushing the limits of the deep.
Deep inside, the flame still burned brightly when it came to exploring
the unknown or solving an ancient mystery and his old-fashioned sense
of propriety never waned. The kidnapping of his children and the
sinking of the Sea Rover triggered an anger inside that brought back
the old resolve he'd felt time and again to make right in the world.
"Dad, what's the situation with the toxic Japanese cargo ship in the
Philippines?" Dirk asked. "I understand that it was leaky chemical
munitions causing the reef kill."
"That's right, a mixture of mustard and lewisite in this case. More
biochemical hazards left over from World War Two. We actually have the
leak contained. Nobody was volunteering to conduct a costly excavation
and removal of the munitions, so we did the next best thing. Bury
them."
"Lucky for us that underwater sandbank was right there," Giordino
explained. "We just fired up a water pump and filled the cargo hold
with sand, then sealed it back up. As long as nobody goes digging
around down there, there should be no more toxic leakage and the
damaged reef should rejuvenate itself in a few years." An administrative aid poked her head through the door and spoke to
Gunn. "Sir, the video feed from the Pentagon is available for viewing
now," she said, then disappeared out the door like a rabbit down a
hole.
Gunn seized the moment to introduce the Homeland Security and FBI men
to Pitt and Giordino, then herded everyone toward a large, flat-panel
monitor that was hidden behind a sliding panel. Typing in a few quick
commands on a keyboard, the screen suddenly illuminated with the image
of a large, enclosed dockyard. The camera's eye panned around the
facility, showing a series of empty docks. After less than a minute's
running time, the video ended and the screen went blank.
"That's Kang's facility, no doubt about it. But there's no sign of the
Baekje" Dirk said.
"The Navy report stated that a small tug and a speedboat were the only
vessels observed on Kang's property," Gunn said. "Like Elvis, the
Baekje has apparently left the building."
Webster cleared his throat. "I have confirmed with Interpol and the
Korean National Police that Inchon port traffic has been monitored
around the clock since the crew of the Sea Rover were rescued and the
alert bulletin issued. No vessel matching the Baekje's description
has been seen entering or departing the port since." "Someone's on the take," Giordino sneered.
Webster returned the comment with an indignant look. "A remote
possibility but not likely. Despite its heavy traffic, Inchon is not a
particularly large port. Somebody should have reported seeing her
depart."
"She may have made a stealthy getaway right after Dirk and Summer left
the ship," Gunn conjectured, "which was before the Interpol alert was
issued."
"Or there's another possibility," Pitt suggested. "The ship may have
been camouflaged or reconfigured to resemble another vessel. She may
have sailed out of port in broad daylight looking like an ordinary
tramp freighter."
"Or the Love Boat" Giordino added.
"Whatever her disposition, the fact remains that without the ship we
have insufficient evidence to make a move against Kang with the Korean
authorities," Webster said.
"What about Dirk and Summer?" Pitt replied with rising anger. "Do you
think they showed up on Korean soil aboard the Queen Mary?" "The proof against Kang has to be ironclad," Webster replied with a
stressed look. "There's a serious political problem with South Korea
right now. Our people in the State Department have their knees
shaking, and even the Pentagon is nervous as hell. The prospect of
losing our military presence in Korea is very real and nobody wants to
jeopardize a precarious situation at this critical juncture in time."
"So you're afraid to ask South Korea to investigate Kang?" Pitt
asked.
"This comes from the top. We're to stay away from Korea until after
the National Assembly vote on the expulsion of our military forces."
"What does the admiral have to say about this?" Pitt asked of Gunn.
Gunn shook his head slowly. "Admiral, er, Vice President Sandecker has
informed me that the president is deferring to the State Department for
reaction to the sinking of the Sea Rover. Dirk and Summer's indictment
of Kang has unfortunately resulted in the edict that Jim just
mentioned. Everyone is to lay low until after the National Assembly
vote. Apparently, intelligence reports have revealed secret business
dealings between Kang and the president of South Korea that go well
beyond their known public friendship. The president is afraid of
losing his support against the National Assembly measure if a
potentially embarrassing investigation is initiated." "Doesn't he understand the magnitude of the risk involved with the
weapons Kang possesses?" Summer asked incredulously.
Gunn nodded. "The president has iterated that once the resolution has
been voted upon, he will request an immediate and full investigation
from the Korean authorities into Kang's involvement with the sinking of
the Sea Rover and his potential connections to North Korea. In the
meantime, he has authorized Homeland Security to issue a heightened
domestic security advisory, with emphasis on aircraft and marine
vessels arriving from Japan and South Korea."
The younger Pitt began pacing across the room in frustration. "It's
too little too late," Dirk finally said in a low tone. "Promoting the
removal of U.S. forces in South Korea is part of Kang's strategy, using
the perceived terrorist threat from Japan as a diversion. Don't you
see? If he's going to attempt a strike on the U.S." it will happen
before the vote comes up in the National Assembly."
"Which is just ten days from now," Gunn said.
"Then we have to anticipate Kang's next move," Pitt injected with a
logical calmness. "We know he operates a large shipping line and
therefore has comprehensive knowledge of American port facilities. It
would figure that he would try to bring the weapons in via a commercial freighter, most likely on the West Coast."
"Much easier than smuggling it on an airplane," Giordino agreed.
"Probably send them over on a Japanese-flagged carrier."
"Or perhaps the elusive Baekje" Dirk added.
"Yaeger has the rundown on what to look for in the way of biological
components and likely storage," Gunn said. "I'll see that customs is
appropriately educated for their port inspections."
"That may still be too late," Pitt replied. "They could release the
agent as they're sailing into port, contaminating the whole region
before they dock. Think of San Francisco Bay, for example."
"Or even before they arrive at port, if there is a prevailing wind. The
release in the Aleutians was apparently launched by boat offshore of
Yunaska Island, so it's certainly possible they could strike without
entering port," Dirk said.
"The Coast Guard is tasked with port security under Homeland Security
jurisdiction and presently boards and inspects all incoming commercial
vessels shortly before arrival in port," noted Webster.
"But do they board and inspect offshore commercial vessels that are not
port bound?" Dirk asked. "I do not believe that the Coast Guard's resources are sufficient for
that to be considered part of their security mission. They have beefed
up their sea marshal program but still have a limited number of vessels
available that they can put to sea. Asking for expanded coverage along
the entire West Coast is well beyond their resource ability."
"What about the Navy?" Summer asked. "Why can't some ships of the
Pacific Fleet be pressed into service? With the national security at
risk, it seems to me we should press every available military vessel
into blockade duty."
"A good question with a sticky answer," Gunn responded. "It's a gray
area of the Navy's mission. They're never big on playing a supporting
role to the Coast Guard. They'd likely balk at the request until we
got the secretary of defense or the White House to press the issue.
I'll bring it up with the vice president, but, realistically, we're
talking a week at best before they could be brought online. And that
might be too late."
"There is another option," Pitt said, reaching into a desk drawer and
withdrawing a daily report of NUMA research vessel assignments. "Let's
see, the Pacific Explorer just arrived in Vancouver, the Blue Gill is
conducting a marine survey off Drake's Bay north of San Francisco, and
the Deep Endeavor is testing a submersible in San Diego. It's not a fleet of battleships but I can reassign three of my research vessels to
be in position off the major West Coast metropolitan ports assisting
the Coast Guard in two days."
"That would be a significant boost in offshore resources. And I'm sure
the Coast Guard would be grateful for the support," Webster said.
"Call it a temporary loan," Pitt said. "At least until Rudi can find a
way to bill back the charges."
"I'm sure we can work out some sort of compensation for our support
during this heightened state of alert," Gunn said, eyeing Webster with
a sharklike grin.
"It's settled, then. The West Coast NUMA fleet will initiate offshore
bomb-sniffing exercises at once. One thing, though," Pitt said to
Webster in a rigid tone. "Kang already sank one of my vessels, I don't
want to lose another. I want an armed cutter in the vicinity of my
ships at all times."
"Agreed. The interdiction teams will be alerted as well to the
possibility of an armed response."
"Good. Our team here will coordinate with the regional Coast Guard
surveillance squadrons. Rudi, you'll have to tear yourself out of the headquarters building. I'd like you to fly to San Francisco to set up
the Blue Gillwith the regional Coast Guard squadron and then see that
the Pacific Explorer is similarly assigned in the Seattle/ Vancouver
region. Dirk and Summer, I'd like you back on the Deep Endeavor in San
Diego to assist with surveillance off Southern California," Pitt
directed.
"What about me, boss?" Giordino asked with mock indignation. "Don't I
get a boat inspector's pass?"
"Oh, no," Pitt replied with a mischievous smile. "I have something
much higher in store for you."
There was little fanfare when a pair of scruffy tugboats began slowly
nudging the Sea Launch platform Odyssey away from her home dock. The
excitement surrounding a new launch had waned over the years, to the
extent that only a handful of family, friends, and corporate managers
stood and waved good-bye to the crew. A smaller platform crew also
brought out fewer than normal well-wishers. Only forty-two men manned
the big platform, roughly twenty fewer than usual, as Launch Director
Stamp held back many of the launch engineers to aid the fire repairs
being made on the support ship. Captain Christiano watched restlessly
from the bridge of the Sea Launch Commander v& the rocket-laden
platform crept away from the pier, offering a farewell to the crew and
vessel with a long blast from his ship's horn. Several decks beneath him, an army of electricians and computer technicians worked feverishly
around the clock to repair the control room fire damage in hopes that
the command ship could follow the platform out to sea in another three
or four days.
Christiano's greeting was met by a short horn blast from the Odyssey
that seemed to come from the clouds. The Odyssey's main platform deck
towered nearly a hundred feet above the water. An oceangoing vessel in
her own right, the floating platform relied on tugboats to get her
cleanly in and out of port. Although she could position herself on a
dime, visibility of small boats and harbor obstacles was precarious
from the pilothouse positioned high atop the structure so tugs were
utilized for safe navigation in congested waters.
The massive structure moved slowly past the port entrance jetty,
appearing like a mammoth tarantula creeping across the calm waters. The
converted North Sea oil platform rode high atop five thick support
columns aligned along each flank. Slicing through the waves barely
above the surface, the base of the columns rested upon a huge pair of
underwater pontoons, each stretching over four hundred feet in length.
Affixed to each aft pontoon hull was a pair of four-bladed propellers,
which could push the ungainly craft through the swells at speeds of up
to 12 knots. At over thirty thousand tons of displacement, the Odyssey
was the largest self-propelled catamaran vessel in the world and easily
the most impressive to the eye. Gliding past the entrance to Long
Beach Harbor, the platform crept another two miles offshore before the tugs ground to a halt.
"Stand by to take up tow lines barked the Odyssey's commander, a
no-nonsense ex-tanker captain named Hennessey.
The tugs released their tow lines which were quickly reeled in by the
Odyssey's crew. The platform's four three-thousand-horsepower direct
current motors were engaged, and, as the tugs peeled off to the sides,
the Odyssey moved forward under her own power. Riding high atop its
large pair of pontoons, the crew on the elevated platform swayed slowly
back and forth as if in a skyscraper during a windstorm. The powerful
Zenit rocket, tightly secured in its horizontal berth, was immune to
the gentle motion. The experienced crew went casually about their
duties, falling into a relaxed routine during the slow journey toward
the launch site as the beige coast of California gradually disappeared
from view. Hennessey gently increased power until the platform was
chugging along at 9 knots, then laid in a course to the southwest
toward the designated launch site fifteen hundred miles south of Hawaii
at the equator. No one suspected it was to be a destination they would
never see.
Fifteen hundred miles to the west, the Koguryo raced across the Pacific
like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. Only a diversionary stop in the
Ogasawara Islands to retrieve Tongju had slowed her pace since
departing Inchon. After skirting a storm front west of Midway, the vessel had encountered calm seas and a strong tailwind, allowing her to
churn east at top speed. Stripped of her bulky cable-laying equipment
and the miles of heavy cable normally stored belowdecks, the Koguryo
rode nine feet higher in the water than usual. Her four diesel engines
pushed the lightened ship along at a rapid 21 knots, propelling her
across the ocean at nearly six hundred miles a day.
On board, the large team of engineers and technicians readied
themselves for the coming Zenit rocket launch. A launch control
center, nearly an exact duplicate of the control room on the Sea Launch
Commander, had been constructed on a lower deck of the Koguryo and was
the site of continuous activity. The final batch of launch software
had been received from the Inchon lab and the software support team
loaded up a series of mock launch scenarios for the operations team.
Each day, the launch team worked their way through a series of sample
test launches until, after a week at sea, the simulations were
performed flawlessly. Told only that they would be controlling the
launch of a Kang satellite from a floating platform, the team had no
idea of the illicit mission they were actually supporting and looked
forward to firing off the actual rocket.
Tongju utilized the time at sea to hone his tactics for the assault on
the Odyssey. He and his commando team pored over blueprints of the
launch platform, calculating strike positions and coordinating force
movements, until he had a minute-by-minute plan of attack. The
commandos memorized their moves, cleaned their weapons, and generally stayed out of sight of the other crewmen as the ship moved closer and
closer to its target. After an evening meal with his assault team,
Tongju invited his second-in-command Kim back to his cabin. In the
privacy of his room, he explained Kang's order to scuttle the
Koguryo.
"I have provided Captain Lee with the rendezvous position where we are
to meet the waiting freighter. I did not inform him, however, of the
plan to sink his ship, only that we would be transferring the launch
crew to the other vessel for safety."
"You do not trust his obedience to Kang?" Kim asked, unaffected by the
prospect of murdering two hundred of his fellow shipmates.
"No, it is not wise. No sea captain desires to sink his own ship and
abandon his crew. We shall make our escape without him."
"How is the ship to be destroyed?"
Tongju reached under his cot and pulled out a small satchel, which he
handed to Kim.
"Semtex plastic explosives with wireless detonators. I intend to
activate the charges while the ship is in motion." He walked to a bulkhead and pointed at a small cutaway diagram of the
Koguryo pinned to the wall.
"By blasting a series of holes in the forward hull and bow sections
beneath the waterline, the momentum of the ship will force a rapid
flooding of the lower decks. The vessel will plunge to the bottom like
a submarine before the crew has a chance to react."
"There may still be the chance for some to escape on the lifeboats,"
Kim countered.
Tongju shook his head with a malignant smile. "I have applied a liquid
weld compound to all of the lifeboat davits. None of those boats will
be leaving this vessel without a considerable effort."
"And what about us?" Kim asked, a slight uncertainty creeping into his
voice.
"You and two others will leave with me on the assault boat. I will
convince Lee to let us depart the ship for an advanced surveillance
check once the freighter is detected within radar range. When he has
brought the Koguryo back up to speed, we will detonate the charges."
Kim let out a quiet sigh and nodded deeply. "It will not be easy to
abandon my assault team," he said quietly. "They are all good men but expendable. I will leave it to you to pick
the two men to join us. But first we must get the explosives planted.
Take your demolitions man, Hyun, and set the charges in the forward bow
compartments E, F, and G. Don't let any of the ship's crew observe
you."
Kim grasped the satchel tightly and nodded again. "It will be done,"
he said, then left the cabin.
After he left, Tongju stared at the diagram of the ship for several
minutes. The whole operation was a hazardous mission fraught with
risks and hidden dangers. But that was exactly the way he liked it.
On a collision course with evil, the Odyssey plodded along from Long
Beach at its meager pace,-the ungainly assembly churning up ten miles
of foam over the course of an hour. Cutting past the California
channel island of San Clemente, the Odyssey cruised due west of San
Diego shortly before midnight and soon after departed the territorial
waters of the United States. Fishing boats and pleasure craft
gradually vanished from the horizons as the platform pushed farther
into a desolate section of the Pacific Ocean west of Baja California.
By the end of the third day at sea, cruising some seven hundred miles
from the nearest landfall, the Odyssey shared the ocean with only a
small dot on the northeast horizon. Captain Hennessey watched with mild interest as the distant speck
slowly grew larger, bearing down on a southerly heading. When it
approached within five miles, he aimed his binoculars at the vessel,
eye-tog a stout blue ship with a yellow funnel. In the fading evening
dusk,
Hennessey made it out to be a research vessel or special-purpose ship
rather than a commercial freighter. He noted with annoyed curiosity
that the ship was on a perfect collision course with the Odyssey's
current heading. Hennessey stuck close to the helm for the next hour,
watching the other vessel as it inched to within a mile of his
starboard flank before appearing to slow and nose toward the southwest
behind him.
"He's slowing to cross our wake," Hennessey said to the helmsman,
dropping his binoculars from the mysterious blue ship. "The whole
empty Pacific Ocean and he's got to run right down our path," he
muttered, shaking his head.
The thought never occurred to him that it was anything more than a
coincidental encounter. Nor would he ever suspect that a trusted
crewman, one of a handful of Kang's men working on board as launch
technicians, was feeding their exact position to the ship using a
simple GPS receiver and portable radio transmitter. After crossing the
length of the Pacific, the Koguryo had picked up the radio transmission
twenty-four hours earlier and vectored in on the Odyssey's path like a homing pigeon to roost.
As the lights of the unknown ship twinkled off the Odyssey's port stern
in the evening darkness, Hennessey put the ship out of his mind and
focused on the empty blackness before him. They were still nearly ten
days to the equator and there was no telling what other obstacles might
cross their path.
The experienced assault team came quickly, in the dark of night and
with complete surprise. After shadowing the Odyssey for most of the
evening, the Koguryo had suddenly stopped its engines, letting the
self-propelled platform churn on toward the horizon. In the pilothouse
of the Odyssey, the night shift helmsman and watch officer relaxed as
the lights of the other ship fell away. With an autopilot steering the
platform, their only concerns were monitoring the radar screen and
weather forecast. But on an empty sea in the dead of night, there was
little cause for concern. Focus on duty waned as the two men paced the
bridge, engaging in a tireless debate about World Cup soccer rather
than studying the electronic monitors about them. Had either man
watched the radarscope more closely, they would have had an inkling of
things to come.
Far from changing course or making repairs, the Koguryo had stopped to
launch its high-speed tender. The open-decked, thirty-foot boat was a
spacious and luxurious assault craft for Tongju, Kim, and the dozen other men dressed in black commando outfits who sat brandishing their
assault rifles on leather-cushioned seats. Though low on stealth, the
boat provided a fast and stable means of crossing open water to strike
the platform with an ample attack force.
The tender bounded in darkness across the rolling waves, racing across
the open sea under a bright canopy of stars that spread from horizon to
horizon. The speedy boat quickly gobbled up ground between itself and
the moving platform, which was lit up against the night sky like a
Times Square marquee. As the tender's pilot approached the shadow of
the massive platform, he steered the boat dead center under the
structure, threading the boat between the Odyssey's twin pontoons.
Holding its speed, the boat darted under the platform and past the
thick support columns, barely skimming under a set of massive
triangular supports that horizontally crisscrossed the columns just
twelve feet above the water. Slowing to match speeds with the Odyssey,
he inched toward the forward starboard column, where a salt-encrusted
steel stairway led up to the heights above. When he edged to within a
few feet, one of the commandos leaped from the bow with a small line
and quickly tied it to the stairwell post. One by one, the remaining
commandos jumped onto the stairwell and began the long climb to the
platform above. Pausing at the top steps to catch their breath, the team paused for a moment to regroup
before Tongju nodded his head to proceed. The secure door to the
stairwell had been left unlocked by one of Kang's crewmen already
aboard and the commandos quickly slipped through and fanned out across
the deck. Though Tongju had studied photos and plans of the Odyssey, he was still
overwhelmed by the massive scale of the launch deck, which stretched
well over a football field in length. At the far end stood the launch
tower, separated by a large tract of open deck that led to the launch
vehicle hangar. Along the recessed starboard beam sat the massive fuel
storage tanks, which would gas up the rocket shortly before launch. On
either side of the launch vehicle hangar stood two small buildings that
housed the crew's quarters, offering accommodations for sixty-eight men
plus a galley and medical station. That would be the first target.
The assault team was primed to strike simultaneously, five men to the
hangar, three to the bridge, and the balance to the crew's quarters.
Most of the forty-two-man crew aboard the Odyssey had little to do
until the platform reached the launch site and spent the hours reading,
playing cards, or watching movies. By 3 a.m." only a handful of men
were still awake, mostly crewmen assigned to sail the platform or
monitor the launch vehicle. When the commandos struck the crew's
quarters with drill precision, the confused technicians and engineers
were too stunned to react. With a blast of light and prodding from the
muzzles of AK-74 assault rifles, the sleeping men were quickly roused
at gunpoint. Two men playing cards in the galley thought it was some
sort of equatorial prank before a swinging rifle butt knocked one to
the floor. A startled chef in the kitchen dropped a stack of pans at
the sight of the armed men, doing more to wake the disbelieving crew than the gunmen themselves.
In the launch vehicle hangar, it was a similar story. The small
commando team rapidly swept through the air-conditioned building that housed the cradled Zenit rocket, rounding up a handful of engineers
without a fight. On the bridge situated high atop the launch vehicle
hangar, the two men manning the helm couldn't believe their eyes when
Tongju walked in and calmly leveled his Glock pistol at the executive
officer's ear. In less than ten minutes, the entire platform was
secured by Tongju's men. Not a shot fired, the Sea Launch crew never
expected to be commandeered in the middle of the Pacific.
The commandos were surprised to find that most of the platform's marine
crew were Filipino while the launch team was an assorted mix of
American, Russian, and Ukrainian engineers. The subdued multinational
crew was herded to the galley where they were held at gunpoint, except
for the dozen of Kang's planted crew members and satellite company
representatives, who took over operational control of sailing the
platform. Even Captain Hennessey, captured and roughly bound by one of
Kim's men, was forced to the galley in shock, with the rest of his
crew.
On the bridge, Tongju radioed the Koguryo that the platform was taken
with no resistance. Examining an unfurled navigation chart left on a
side table, he barked at one of Kang's crewmen now manning the helm. "Revise bearing to fifteen degrees north-northeast. We are diverting
to a new launch site."
As the crack of dawn approached, the Koguryo maneuvered alongside the
northbound Odyssey and slowed to match speeds with the platform as it
mashed through five-foot swells. Edging to within twenty feet of the
Odyssey, Captain Lee held the Koguryo perfectly in tandem with the
moving platform's starboard beam. In the wheel-house of the Odyssey, a
nervous helmsman ensured that the autopilot was properly engaged as the
ex-cable-laying ship hove to alongside.
On the top deck of the hangar, Tongju supervised the movement of a
large crane as it was swung out over the starboard edge of the
platform. A heavy block and hook swung wildly from the end of the
crane for a moment before being lowered to the rear deck of the
Koguryo. A ready signal was relayed over the marine radio and the
crane began hoisting up a square metal container the size of a sofa,
which was swung over and lowered to the platform's main deck. Stored
inside were the special canisters containing the freeze-dried chimera
cultures ready to be inserted into the payload aerosol dispenser.
While the deadly virus was being hoisted to the platform, the Koguryo's
tender ferried over a dozen launch and payload specialists, who
immediately swarmed into the rocket hangar and began dissecting the
Zenit's payload section. An additional security contingent was also
ferried over to help relieve Tongju's assault commandos. Tongju returned to the pilothouse and peered out the heavy-paned
windows at the rolling sea two hundred feet beneath him. The swaying
of the platform was slight as the motion rolled up from the distant
pontoons beneath the surface. Gazing to his right, he saw the Koguryo
begin to peel away from the Odyssey, its ferrying services complete for
the time being.
"Increase speed to maximum," his said to the helmsman.
The nervous Filipino adjusted the propulsion controls on both pontoons
and then watched as the digital speed indicator slowly counted
upward.
"Twelve knots, sir. Maximum cruising speed," the seaman replied, his
eyes twitching back and forth.
Tongju nodded in satisfaction, then reached for an overhead radio
transmitter and called Captain Lee on the Koguryo.
"We are progressing on schedule. Please notify Inchon that we are in
control of the launch vessel and intend to initiate launch countdown in
approximately thirty hours. Out."
The apprehensive helmsman stared straight ahead, avoiding the gaze of Tongju. Whatever fearful thoughts tumbled around his head about
Tongju's intent were minuscule compared to the commando leader's true
objective.
IT took the launch vehicle engineers just under twenty-four hours to
convert the rocket's payload into a weapon of mass horror. Like
surgeons conducting a transplant operation, the engineering team
carefully removed several sections of the outer payload fairing and
delved into the inner workings of the mock satellite. Fake components,
built to resemble communication transponders, were removed and replaced
with small electric pumps, which would drive the aerosol system. Lines
and fittings were attached to the phony solar panels, which would open
in flight to spread the rejuvenated virus, disseminating it as a fine
mist across the California sky.
Working in protective clean room bunny suits, the technicians performed
a final test on the dispensing system, ensuring it was fully functional
for the short rocket flight. The final step of the operation was then
reached: inserting the chimera virus into the payload vehicle. The
canisters from Inchon containing the freeze-dried germs were carefully
mounted to the satellite frame and steel braided lines from
the hydrogenation tanks were connected to the aerosol system. When
activated, a software-controlled program would vacuum-mix the powdered
substance with purified water, then transfer the live fluid through the
vaporizer and out into the atmosphere. With the deadly cocktail loaded aboard, the payload fairing was
reassembled around the satellite. Propellant explosives were inserted
at key points inside the fairing to blast the payload doors away at the
appointed moment during flight. When the final section of the nose
cone housing was sealed into place, the tired engineering team
congratulated one another briefly and then staggered toward the crew's
quarters. A few precious hours of sleep was all they could ask for
before it would be time to start the final launch countdown.
Without publicly raising the color-coded Threat Advisory System, the
Department of Homeland Security quietly issued an elevated marine port
and airport security alert. Stepped-up screening and random searches
were performed on all aircraft and vessels originating from an Asian
locale, with special inspections for biological and chemical agents. At
Vice President Sandecker's insistence, the Coast Guard was ordered to
stop, board, and search all Japanese- or Korean-flagged inbound ships
with a fully armed security contingent. All available Coast Guard
cutters were put to sea along the West Coast, concentrated around the
commercial hubs of Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.
In San Francisco, Rudi Gunn coordinated NUMA's interdiction support
with the local Coast Guard commandant. When the research vessel Blue
Gllartived from Monterey, Gunn immediately assigned her picket duty ten
miles off the Golden Gate Bridge. He then jumped up to Seattle, where he directed local NUMA resources in support of coastal screening, and
enlisted the aid of the Canadian Coast Guard in Vancouver to search all
British Columbia-bound ships.
Dirk and Summer flew to San Diego, where they were welcomed by the
city's trademark seventy-two-degree balmy weather. Taking a short cab
ride from San Diego International Airport's Lindbergh Field to Shelter
Island, it took them only a few minutes to locate the Deep Endeavor
tied up at the end of a large municipal dock. As they approached the
ship, Dirk noticed that an odd-shaped submersible painted a metallic
burnt orange sat on the vessel's stern deck.
"Well, if it isn't the Prisoners of Zenda," Jack Dahlgren called from
the bridge wing upon spotting the twosome boarding the ship. Dirk's
close friend hopped down a stairwell and met them at the head of the
gangway.
"Heard you two enjoyed a seaside tour of the Korean Peninsula,"
Dahlgren laughed as he shook Dirk's hand firmly, then gave Summer a
hug.
"Yes, but we somehow missed the Mkhelin-mt&A attractions," Summer
grinned back.
"Now, wait, that DMZ tour was pretty stimulating," Dirk said, feigning
seriousness. Turning to Dahlgren, he asked, "You and the crew ready to do a little search-and-seizure work?"
"Yep. A Coast Guard team joined us an hour ago so we're ready to shove
off at any time.
"Good. Let's get after it, then."
Dahlgren escorted Dirk and Summer up to the bridge, where they were
greeted by Leo Delgado and Captain Burch, then introduced to a
uniformed Coast Guard sea marshal named Aimes.
"What's our intercept procedure, Lieutenant?" Dirk asked, noting the
insignia on Aimes's uniform.
"Call me Bill," replied Aimes. A studious man with cropped blond hair,
Aimes took his duty seriously but hated unnecessary formality "We'll be
assisting the regional Coast Guard vessels as a backup, when and if
commercial traffic gets particularly heavy. Otherwise, we'll be
assigned to ad hoc survey and reconnaissance. Under legislative rule,
we can intercept and board all inbound commercial vessels up to twelve
miles offshore. As NUMA's Coast Guard representative, I will lead all
boardings and searches with my team but will be assisted by several of
your crewmen who have undergone a brief training session."
"What are the chances we could actually locate a weapons cache or bomb hidden on a large containership?" Summer wondered.
"Better than you might think," Aimes replied. "As you know, we work
closely with the Customs Department under the direction of the Homeland
Security Department. Our customs agents are located at foreign ports
around the globe and are on site to inspect and seal all cargo
containers before the goods are allowed to ship. Upon arriving in U.S.
ports, containers are verified by customs agents as having not been
opened or tampered with before acceptance into this country. The Coast
Guard provides an advance check of the ship and containers before they
have a chance to reach port."
"There's plenty of places on a ship outside of the cargo containers
where somebody could hide a bomb," Dahlgren stated.
"That's a more difficult problem, but it's where the dogs come into
play," Aimes replied, nodding his head toward the far end of the
bridge. Dirk noticed for the first time that a pair of yellow Labrador
retrievers were tied to a bulkhead stanchion and lay asleep on the
deck. Summer had already made her way over to the dogs and begun
scratching them contentedly behind the ears.
"The dogs are trained to sniff out a variety of explosive compounds
commonly used in bomb manufacture. Best of all, they can run through a
ship in quick order. If a biological bomb is being smuggled in on a
containership, there's a good chance those boys could sniff out the explosives component of it."
"That's what we're looking for," Dirk said. "So, we'll be working off
of San Diego?"
"No," Aimes replied, shaking his head. "There's only minimal
commercial traffic that moves through San Diego and the regional Coast
Guard vessels are more than adequate to handle the volume. We've
been ordered to patrol a quadrant southwest of the Port of Los Angeles
in support of the L.A.-Long Beach Coast Guard Marine Safety Group. Once
on site, we'll coordinate local positioning and boarding through
Icarus!"
"Icarus?" Dahlgren asked.
"Our all-seeing eye in the sky on the project," Dirk said with a
knowing smile.
As the Deep Endeavor chugged toward the Pacific, cruising past Coronado
Island and a Navy aircraft carrier inbound from the Indian Ocean, Dirk
and Summer went aft and studied the strange submersible that faintly
resembled a steroid-augmented earthworm. The bullet-shaped vessel was
dotted with a series of bladed propulsion units mounted irregularly
about the main body like glued-on heat pumps. Strutted beneath the front of its bullet nose stood a giant coring device that stood ten
feet long, protruding upward like a unicorn's horn. Bathed in its
garish orange red metallic hue, the submersible reminded them of a
giant insect from a fifties horror film.
"What's the story on this contraption?" Summer asked of Dahlgren.
"Your father didn't tell you about the Badger? It's a prototype that
he authorized. That's why we were here in San Diego. Some of our
engineers have been working on a joint venture with Scripps Institute
to develop this hot rod. It's a deep-water corer designed to gather
sediment samples from the seabed. The scientific community is anxious
to gather sediment and organism samples around volcanic hydrothermal
vents, many of which are located ten thousand feet or deeper."
"What's with all the propulsion units?" Dirk asked. "To get to the
bottom in a hurry. She's a real speed buggy. Rather than waiting for
gravity to pull her to the seafloor, she has a hydrogen fuel cell power
plant that allows her to submerge at speed to the bottom. She allows
you to descend, take a core sample, and then pop back to the surface
without twiddling your thumbs all day. Less time spent diving and
surfacing means more core samples for the geologists to pick
through."
"And the boys at Scripps were actually willing to trust you behind the
wheel?" Summer asked with a laugh. "They didn't ask how many speeding tickets I have on land so I didn't
feel compelled to tell them," Dahlgren replied with mock innocence.
"Little do they know," Dirk grinned, "that they just loaned their new
Harley-Davidson to Evel Knievel."
The Deep Endea vor steamed up the California coast for three hours
before turning out to sea just before darkness. Dirk stood on the
bridge watching the ship's progress on a colored navigation map
displayed on an overhead monitor. As the coastline fell away behind
them, he observed the island of San Clemente scroll up on the map to
the west of their aligned path. He studied the map for a moment, then
turned to Aimes, who stood nearby examining a radarscope.
"I thought your interdictions were restricted to no more than twelve
miles from the coast? We're headed by San Clemente Island, which is
over fifty miles from the mainland."
"For normal coastal duty, we recognize the twelve-mile limit from the
mainland. The Channel Islands are technically a part of California,
however, so, legally, we can operate from the islands as an origination
point. For this mission, we have been given temporary authorization to
expand our normal interdiction zone, with the Channel Islands as a
baseline. We'll set up position about ten miles west of Santa Catalina as our base monitoring position."
Two hours later, they cruised beyond the large island of Catalina
and the engines slowed as they neared their station point. At a slow
crawl, the Deep Endeavor began patrolling a large north-to-south loop
west of the island, using the ship's radar as surveillance eyes. A
sprinkling of pleasure craft and fishing boats was all the radar
detected, along with a Coast Guard cutter on patrol nearby to the
north.
"We are positioned well south of the main shipping lane to L.A. and not
likely to catch much night traffic in this quadrant," Aimes said.
"We'll get tossed into the fray in the morning when Icarus shows up for
work. In the meantime, I suggest we take shifts and get some sleep."
Dirk took the hint and walked out onto the bridge wing, inhaling a deep
breath of sea air. The night was still and damp and the seas almost as
flat as a pancake. As he stood in the darkness, his mind tumbled over
his meeting with Kang and the less-than-implicit threat that the mogul
had delivered to Summer and him. Another week and the South Korean
Assembly vote would be history and the legal authorities could pursue
Kang with full fury. That's all they needed. A week without incident.
As he stared at the sea, a chilled gust of wind suddenly whisked his
face, then fell away again just as suddenly, leaving a tranquil and
seeming calm. By 9 p.m." the Odyssey had backtracked some three hundred miles and
was now approaching the designated launch position calibrated in
Inchon. Tongju, catching up on some lost sleep in Captain Hennessey's
cabin, was startled awake by a rapid pounding at the door. An armed
commando entered the room and bowed as Tongju sat up and began pulling
on his boots.
"So sorry to intrude," the commando said apologetically. "It's Captain
Lee. He has requested that you return to the Koguryo at once. There
is some sort of dispute with the Russian launch engineers."
Tongju nodded, then shook off the cobwebs and made his way to the
pilothouse, where he verified that the platform was still cruising
north-northeast at 12 knots. Radioing for the Koguryo's tender, he
made his way down the long flight of stairs on the forward piling and
hopped into the idling boat that awaited him. A short ride took him to
the nearby support ship, where Captain Lee was waiting for him.
"Come with me to the Launch Control Center. It's those damn
Ukrainians," the captain cursed. "They can't agree on where to
position the platform for launch. I think they're going to kill one
another." The two men made their way down a flight of stairs and along
an interior passageway to the expansive Launch Control Center. As Lee opened a side entry door, a loud staccato of foreign swearing burst
upon their ears. At the center of the room, a group of launch
engineers were huddled loosely around the two Ukrainian launch
specialists, who stood toe-to-toe with their arms in the air arguing
violently with each other. The crowd of engineers parted as Tongju and
Lee approached, but the Ukrainians didn't skip a beat. Looking on in
disgust, Tongju turned and grabbed a padded console chair, then lifted
it over his head and hurled it at the two jabbering engineers. The
gathered spectators gasped as the chair flew into the two men, smashing
into their heads and chests before ricocheting to the floor with a
crash. The stunned Ukrainians finally fell silent as they shook off
the blow from the flying chair and turned toward the two men. "What is
the issue here?" Tongju growled.
One of the Ukrainians, a goateed man with shaggy brown hair, cleared
his throat before speaking.
"It is the weather. The high-pressure front over the eastern Pacific,
specifically off North America, has stalled due to the push from a
low-pressure system in the south." "And what does this mean?"
"The normally prevailing high-altitude easterly winds have, in fact,
reversed and we are instead facing a strong headwind at the moment.
This has thrown off our planned mission flight profile by a
considerable margin." Shuffling through a file of papers, he pulled
out a sheaf of algorithmic paper containing numerous calculations and trajectory profiles handwritten in pencil.
"Our base mission plan has been to fuel the Zenit rocket first stage at
fifty percent of capacity, which will produce an estimated down-range
flight trajectory of 350 kilometers. Approximately fifty kilometers
of this distance is over the target region, where the payload system
will be activated. Thus, our planned launch position was three hundred
kilometers west of Los Angeles, assuming normal local weather patterns.
Given the present weather scenario, we have two options: either wait
for the low-pressure front to yield to the prevailing winds or
reposition the launch platform closer to the target."
"There's a third option," the other Ukrainian grumbled irritably. "We
can increase the fuel load in the Zenit to reach the target from the
original launch position." As he spoke, his counterpart stood shaking
his head silently.
"What is the risk of that?" Tongju asked the doubter.
"Sergei is correct in that we can adjust the fuel load to reach the
target from the original launch position. However, I have grave doubts
about the accuracy that we would achieve. We do not know the wind
conditions for the entire flight trajectory. Given the current unusual
weather pattern, the wind conditions along the entire flight path might
vary significantly from what we can measure directly above us. The launch vehicle could easily be diverted north or south of the intended
target by a large deviation. We could also overshoot the target by
tens of kilometers or, alternatively, undershoot the target by a
similar degree. There is just too much potential variability in the
flight path from this distance."
"A minor risk, compounded by speculation," countered Sergei.
"How long before normal weather patterns return to the area?" asked
Tongju.
"The low-pressure front has already showed signs of weakening. We
expect it to collapse over the next day and a half, with the dominant
high-pressure system prevailing in approximately seventy-two hours."
Tongju silently contemplated the arguments for a moment, then made his
decision without debate.
"We have a timetable to meet. We can ill afford to sit and wait for
the weather to change, nor can we risk diluting the target strike. We
shall move the platform closer to the target and initiate countdown as
soon as possible. How far must we move to mitigate the atmospheric
uncertainty?"
"To minimize the impact of the adverse winds, we must shorten the trajectory. Based on our latest wind measurements, we must position
ourselves here," the goateed Ukrainian said, pointing to a map of the
North American seaboard. "One hundred and five kilometers from the
coast."
Tongju studied the position silently for a minute, calculating the
added distance to cover. The proposed position was dangerously near
the coastline, he observed, noting a pair of offshore islands in close
proximity. But they could reach the spot and still launch within
Kang's desired time schedule. As all eyes in the room waited for his
command, he finally turned and nodded toward Lee. "Alter course at
once. We will position both vessels at the new position before dawn
and initiate launch countdown at daybreak."
You've got to be kidding me. A blimp?" Giordino scratched his chin,
then shook his head at Pitt. "You dragged me all the way across
country to go for a ride in a blimp?"
"I believe the preferred term is airship" Pitt said, throwing his
partner a mock look of indignation.
"A gasbag, by any other name."
Giordino had wondered what Pitt had up his sleeve after the two arrived
at LAX on an overnight flight from Washington. Rather than heading south from the airport, toward the Port of Los Angeles and adjacent
Coast Guard Marine Safety regional command, Pitt had turned their
rental car north. Giordino promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat
as the head of NUMA drove them out of the Los Angeles metro area.
Awakening later to find the specter of strawberry fields rushing past
the window, he rubbed his eyes as the car entered the tiny Oxnard
Airport and Pitt parked the vehicle near a large blimp moored to a
truck-mounted vertical boom.
Peering at the blimp, Giordino cracked, "I didn't think the Super Bowl
was scheduled for another couple of months."
The 222-foot long Airship Management Services Sentinel 1000 was, in
fact, much larger than the usual advertising blimps seen hovering over
football games and golf tournaments. An enlarged version of the
company's popular Skyship 600 series of blimps, the Sentinel 1000 was
designed to lift a useful load of nearly six thousand pounds by way of
an envelope that held ten thousand cubic meters of gas. Unlike the
rigidly framed dirigibles of the twenties and thirties that relied on
highly flammable hydrogen for lift, the Sentinel 1000 was a true
non-rigid blimp that utilized the safer element of helium to rise off
the ground.
"Looks like a runt nephew of the Hindenburg" Giordino moaned, eyeing
the silver-skinned airship warily. "You happen to be looking at the latest in surveillance and tracking
technology," Pitt said. "She's fitted with a LASH optical system. NUMA
is testing her out for possible survey use on coral reef and tide
studies. The system has already been used successfully to track
migrating whales."
"What is a "LASH system?"
"Stands for "Littoral Airborne Sensor-Hyperspectral." It's an optical
imaging system that uses a breakdown in the color band to detect and
track targets that the eye cannot see. Homeland Security is
considering using it for border security and the Navy for antisubmarine
warfare."
"If we can give it a test run over Malibu Beach, then I'm all for it."
A ground crewman wearing a NUMA identification badge climbed out of the
gondola as Pitt and Giordino approached the airship.
"Mr. Pitt? We've installed the radio set that the Coast Guard sent
up, so you'll be able to conduct secure communications with their
vessels. The Icarus has been weighed off for a landing equilibrium of
plus-one hundred kilograms when your fuel supply runs down to five
percent, so just don't run the tanks dry. The airship is also fitted
with both a water ballast system and an experimental fuel dump release,
should you need emergency lift." "How long can we stay aloft?" Giordino asked, eyeing a pair of ducted
propellers jutting from either side of the gondola's aft section.
"Eight to ten hours, if you go easy on the throttles. Enjoy your
flight, she's a joy to fly," he said, bowing slightly.
Pitt and Giordino climbed through the gondola door and into a spacious
cabin that was comfortably outfitted to seat eight passengers.
Squirming through a forward opening into the flight compartment, Pitt
took up the pilot's controls while Giordino plopped into the copilot's
seat. With a muffled roar, Pitt started the pair of turbocharged
Porsche 930 air-cooled engines mounted on the rear flanks of the
gondola, which served as propulsion. With the engines idling, Pitt
obtained clearance to take off from the airport control tower, then
turned to Giordino.
"Ready for takeoff, Wilbur?"
"Ready when you are, Orville."
Launching the blimp was not a simple action handled solely by the
pilots but rather a carefully orchestrated maneuver assisted by a large
ground crew. Outside the gondola, the Icaruis support crew, all
attired in bright red shirts, took up positions around the airship. A
pair of ropes attached to the blimp's nose were pulled taut by three men standing off either side of the bow while four additional men
grabbed onto side rails running the length of the gondola. Directly
forward of the wide cockpit window that ran nearly to his feet, Pitt
stared toward the crew chief, who stood at the base of the mobile
mooring mast. At Pitt's command, the crew chief signaled another
crewman, standing high atop the mooring mast, to release the nose
tether. In unison, the ground crew then tugged at the weightless
blimp, walking it away from the mooring mast several dozen yards to a
safe launching point clear of obstacles.
Pitt gave a thumbs-up signal to the crew chief, then reached over and
pulled down a pair of levers protruding from the center console, increasing the throttle to the twin engines. As the ground crew let
free of their clutches and moved clear, he gently pulled back on a
center yoke control mounted in front of his seat. The controls
manipulated the motor-driven propellers, which were each enclosed in
swiveling ducts. As he pulled on the yoke, the ducts tilted upward,
providing additional lift from the churning propellers. Immediately,
the blimp began to rise, creeping forward as it climbed. Almost
without the feeling of movement, the big airship rose off the ground
and into the sky with its nose pointed high. Giordino cheerfully waved
out an open side window to the ground crew below, who shrank to the
size of bugs as the airship rapidly gained altitude.
Despite Giordino's request for a low-flying pass over Malibu, Pitt
steered the airship directly offshore from Oxnard after leaving the grounds of the airport and soon leveled the blimp off at a height of
twenty-five hundred feet. The Pacific Ocean resonated a deep aqua
color under a bright sun, and the men easily counted out the northerly
Channel Islands of Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel under the
clear skies. As they floated east, Pitt noticed dew dripping off of
the blimp, its fabric sides warming under the rays of the morning sun.
He glanced at a helium pressure gauge, noting a slight rise in the
needle as the helium expanded from the warming temperatures and higher
cruising altitude. An automatic venting system would release any
excess gas if the pressure rose too high, but Pitt kept the blimp well
below its pressure height so as not to needlessly stave off helium.
The controls of the Sentinel 1000 were heavy in his hands and he noted
that the sensation of flying the blimp felt closer to sailing a
twenty-meter racing yacht than piloting an airplane. Turning the huge
rudders and elevators required some muscling of the yoke, which
resulted in an anxious pause before the ship's nose would gradually
respond. Correcting course, he absentmindedly watched the lines
dangling off the blimp's nose sway back and forth. A boat bobbed into
view beneath them, which he recognized as a charter fishing boat. The
tiny-looking day fishermen on the boat's stern suddenly waved up
at them with friendly abandon. There was something about an airship
that always seemed to strike a warm chord with people. They captured
the romance of the air, Pitt decided, offering a reminder of times past when flying was still a novelty. With his hands on the controls, he
could feel the nostalgia himself. Floating at a leisurely pace over
the water, he let his mind churn back to the days of the thirties when
mammoth dirigibles like the Graf Zeppelin and Hindenburg shared the
skies with the huge Navy airships Akron and Macon. Like the opulent
cruise ships of the same era, they offered a certain relaxed majesty
that simply no longer existed in modern travel.
When they reached a distance of thirty miles offshore, Pitt angled the
blimp south and began navigating a large, lazy arc off the Los Angeles
metropolis. Giordino powered up the LASH optical system, tied into a
laptop computer, which enabled him to spot the images of incoming
surface vessels up to thirty-five miles away. The freighters and
containerships came chugging in toward the ports of Los Angeles and
Long Beach at a sporadic yet endless pace. The big vessels hailed from
a variety of exotic-sounding home ports from Mumbai to Jakarta, though
China, Japan, and Taiwan accounted for the largest volume of traffic.
More than three thousand vessels a year entered the adjacent ports,
creating a constant stream of traffic that crawled across the Pacific
toward America's busiest port like ants to a picnic. As Giordino
studied the laptop, he reported to Pitt that he could spot two large
vessels inbound in the distance that figured to be commercial ships.
Squinting out the cockpit window, Pitt could just make out the leading
vessel on the horizon.
"Let's go take a look," Pitt replied, aiming the nose of the airship toward the approaching ship. Flicking a button on the Coast Guard
radio set newly installed in the cockpit, he spoke into his headset.
"Coast Guard Cutter Halibut, this is airship Icarus. We are on
station
and preparing to survey two inbound vessels approximately forty-five
miles due east of Long Beach, over."
"Roger, Icarus" came a deep-voiced reply. "Glad to have you and your
eyes in the sky with us. We have three vessels deployed and engaged in
current interdiction actions. We'll await your surveillance reports on
new inbound vessels as they approach. Out."
"Eyes in the sky," Giordino grumbled. "I'd rather be the stomach on
the sofa," he said, suddenly wondering if anyone had packed them a
lunch aboard the airship.
Throughout the night, the Odyssey had churned west, inching her way
closer to the California coast that she had departed just days before.
Tongju returned to the platform after resolving the launch position
dispute and stole a few hours of sleep in the captain's cabin before
rising an hour before dawn. Under the first trickles of morning light,
he watched from the bridge as the platform followed in the Koguryo's
wake, noticing the shadow of a sizable island in the distance off the starboard bow. It was San Nicolas Island, a dry and windblown rock
farthest from shore of all the Channel Islands and owned by the Navy
for use primarily as an amphibious training site. They continued west
for another hour before the radio crackled with the voice of Captain
Lee.
"We are approaching the location that the Ukrainian engineers have
indicated. Prepare to halt engines, and we will take up position to
the southeast of you. We will be standing by to initiate launch
countdown at your direction."
"Affirmative," Tongju replied. "We will set position and ballast the
platform. Stand by for positioning."
Tongju turned and nodded to one of Kang's undercover crewmen who was
piloting the Odyssey. With skilled confidence, the helmsman eased off
the platform's forward-propulsion throttles, then activated
the self-positioning thrusters. Using a GPS coordinate as a fixed
target, the computer-controlled system of forward, side, and rear
thrusters was activated, locking the Odyssey in a fixed position as if
parked on a dime.
"Position control activated," the helmsman barked in a crisp military
voice. "Initiating ballast flooding," he continued, pushing a series
of buttons on an illuminated console. Two hundred feet below the pilothouse, a series of gate valves were
automatically opened inside the twin pontoons and a half-dozen ballast
pumps began rapidly pumping salt water into the hollow steel hulls. The
flooding was imperceptible to those standing on the platform deck, as
the computer-controlled pumps ensured an even rate of flooding. On the
bridge, Tongju studied a computerized three-dimensional image of the
Odyssey on a monitor, its catamaran hulls and lower columns turning a
bright blue as the seawater poured in. Like a lethargic elevator ride,
as the men on the bridge watched rather than felt, the platform sank
slowly toward the waves. Sixty minutes passed before the platform
gently dropped forty-six feet, the bottom of its twin hulls submerged
to a stabilizing depth seventy feet below the surface. Tongju noted
that the platform had ceased its slow swaying evident earlier. With
its submerged pontoons and partially sunken pilings, the Odyssey had
become a rock-stable platform from which to launch a million-pound
rocket.
A buzzer sounded as the designated launch depth was attained, the
rising blue water on the monitor graphic having reached a red
horizontal line. The helmsman pressed a few more buttons, then stood
back from the console.
"Flooding complete. Platform is stabilized for launch," he said. "Secure the bridge," Tongju replied, nodding toward a Filipino crewman
who stood near the radarscope. A guard standing near the door was
waved over and quickly escorted the crewman off the bridge without
saying a word. Tongju followed out the rear of the bridge, entering a
small elevator, which he rode to the floor of the hangar. A dozen or so engineers were hovering around the huge horizontal rocket,
examining an array of computer stations that were wired directly into
the launch vehicle. Tongju approached a thick-haired man with round
glasses named Ling who headed up the launch operations team. Before
Tongju could speak, Ling gushed with a nervous testimony.
"We have verified final tests on the payload with positive results. The
launch vehicle is secure and all electromechanical systems have tested
nominal."
"Good. The platform is in the designated position and ballasted for
launch. Is the rocket ready to be transported to the launch tower?"
Ling nodded enthusiastically. "We have been awaiting word to proceed.
We are prepared to initiate launch vehicle transport and erection."
"There is no reason to dawdle. Proceed at once. Notify me when you
are ready to evacuate the platform."
"Yes, of course," Ling replied, then hurried over to a group of nearby
engineers and spoke at them rapid-fire. Like a band of scared rabbits, the engineers scattered in a fury to their collective posts. Tongju
stood back and watched as the massive hangar doors were opened,
revealing a railed path across the deck to the standing launch tower at
the opposite end of the platform. A series of electrical motors were
then started, which reverberated loudly off the hangar's interior
walls. Tongju walked behind a console panel and peered over Ling's
shoulder as the launch leader's hands danced over the control board.
When a row of lights suddenly glowed green, Ling pointed to another
engineer, who activated the mobile cradle.
The two-hundred-foot horizontal rocket rocked sluggishly toward the
hangar doors, its support cradle creeping forward on a countless mass
of wheels that churned like the legs of a centipede. With its base
thrusters leading the way, the rocket crept through the doors and into
the daylight, its white paint glistening under the morning sun. Tongju
strolled alongside the rolling launch vehicle, admiring the potent
power of the huge rocket while amazed at its massive girth in the prone
position. Several hundred yards away, the Koguryo stood off the
platform, a throng of crew and engineers craning from her top deck to
catch a glimpse of the big rocket under way.
Crossing the open deck, the mechanical caterpillar ground to a halt as
it reached the base of the launch tower. The upper section of the
rocket had not completely cleared the hangar and a sliding panel in the
hangar roof suddenly crept open to provide clearance. The transporter
was locked securely in place to the deck and then the erector mechanicals were engaged, activating hydraulic pumps that pushed gently
against the rocket's cradle. With delicate patience, the launch
vehicle was slowly tilted upright, its nose sliding through the hangar
roof opening, until it stood vertically against the launch tower. A
series of support braces clamped the rocket to the platform, while a
jumble of fuel, cooling, and venting lines were affixed and checked.
Several workmen on the tower plugged in a series of data cables that
allowed the engineers on the Koguryo to monitor the dozens of
electronic sensors embedded under the rocket's skin. Once the Zenit
was affixed upright, the erector transporter support cradle was gently
eased away, leaving the rocket braced only by the launch tower. With a
hydraulic murmur, the cradle was slowly lowered to its original
horizontal position and returned to the hangar, where it would be
sheltered out of harm's way during launch.
Ling spoke anxiously by radio to the Launch Control Center on the
Koguryo before dashing over to Tongju.
"Some minor anomalies, but, overall, the launch vehicle meets all major
prelaunch parameters."
Tongju looked up at the towering rocket with its payload of deadly
virus, aimed to rain death on millions of innocent people. The
suffering and deaths meant nothing to him, a man purged of emotional
empathy decades ago. The power he felt before him was all that mattered, a power greater than he had ever known before, and he
relished the moment. Gradually, his eyes played down from the tip of
the
rocket to its base, then swept slowly across the breadth of the plat
form, before settling on Ling. The engineer stood waiting anxiously
for a reply. Tongju let Ling wallow in discomfort a moment longer before breaking the silence in a deep, firm tone. "Very well," he said.
"Begin the countdown."
The crew OF the Deep Endeavor had quickly found interdiction support
duty to be a monotonous assignment. After two days on station, they
had only been requested to board and search one ship, a small freighter
from the Philippines carrying a shipment of hardwood timber. The
commercial shipping traffic that approached Los Angeles from the
southwest had been light and ably handled by the nearby Coast Guard
cutter Narwhal. The NUMA crew preferred to be put to work rather than
circle aimlessly waiting for action and quietly hoped traffic would
pick up in their quadrant.
In the ship's galley, Dirk sat sipping a cup of coffee with Summer
while she studied a report on coral mortality in the Great Barrier Reef
when a crewman approached and told them that they were wanted on the
bridge.
"We've received a call from the Narwhal," Delgado reported. "They're halfway through a container vessel search and asked us to confirm identification on a vessel approaching west of Catalina and
then stand by for possible interdiction."
"No advance identification from our eye-in-the-sky?" Dirk asked.
"Your father and Al took off in the Icarus this morning. They're
working their way down from the north and will probably make a pass
through our quadrant within the next couple of hours."
Summer peered out the bridge window to the north, spotting the Narwhal
bobbing alongside a large containership that rode low in the water from
its heavy cargo. Farther west, she spotted a red speck approaching on
the horizon. The Deep Endeavor's pilot was already steering an
intercept course toward it.
"Is that her?" Summer asked, pointing a finger toward the object.
"Yes," Delgado replied. "The Narwhal has already radioed her to halt,
so we'll intercept her after she's had a chance to slow. She's
reported herself as the Maru Santo out of Osaka."
An hour later, the Deep Endeavor hove to alongside the Maru Santo, a
rusty, multipurpose cargo freighter of small size by inter-Pacific
standards. Aimes's Sea Marshal team, along with Summer, Dahlgren, and
three other NUMA crewmen, climbed into a small launch and motored over to the freighter, tying up to a rust-stained stairwell that was lowered
over the side. Having made fast friends with the bomb-sniffing dogs,
Summer quickly volunteered to take the leash of one of the retrievers.
As Aimes and Dahlgren met with the freighter's captain to review the
manifest, the remaining contingent began a bow-to-stern search of the
ship. With the dogs leading the way, the search crew wedged through
the ship's holds, checking the container seals and examining several
loose crated shipments of running shoes and apparel manufactured in
Taiwan. A gritty Malaysian crew looked on with bored amusement as the
yellow Labs sniffed their way through the dimly lit crew's quarters.
Dirk stood on the bridge of the Deep Endeavor, studying the Japanese
cargo ship. A pair of the freighter's crew stood on the deck looking
back at the NUMA vessel. Dirk tossed a friendly wave as the two
men leaned against a railing in disheveled clothes, smoking cigarettes
and cracking jokes in an obviously relaxed manner.
"There is no threat from this ship," he turned and said with certainty
to Captain Burch.
"How can you be so sure?"
"The crew is too lax. The men on Kang's ship were no-nonsense
professionals, not the ragtag jovial sort on this tub. There would be
a slew of paranoid undercover security types running around as well," he added, recalling the image of Tongju and his men.
"Be worth noting to Aimes when he gets back. If nothing else, it's
still a good practice exercise for the boys. And, heck, I got Dahlgren
off the bridge for a few minutes at least," the captain smiled.
"We've still got to find them first. There's just too many places to
hide at sea," Dirk muttered.
As the search team appeared above decks for a moment, Captain Burch
picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. He noted a
pair of dots far to the southwest, then scanned to the north, taking in
the Narwhal as she started to pull away from the container-ship. Burch
started to drop the binoculars when a sudden glint caught his eye.
Raising the glasses and adjusting the focus, he smiled broadly, then
spoke to Dirk.
"I guess there will be a few less places to hide on the sea now that
our illustrious leaders of the deep are checking things out from the
balcony."
Two thousand feet above the calmly rolling swells of the Pacific, the
silver Icarus floated gracefully across the sky at thirty-five miles
per hour. While the elder Pitt handled the blimp's flight controls,
Giordino adjusted a row of dials at the base of a flat-panel color monitor. A WE SCAM long-distance camera mounted to the side of the
gondola, a supplement to the LASH imaging system, fed into the
monitor, providing a zoom image of objects located hundreds of yards
away. Pitt glanced from the flight controls to the monitor, which
displayed a close-up picture of the stern of a small boat where two
bikini-clad women were stretched out sunbathing.
"I hope your girlfriend doesn't catch wind of your voyeuristic
tendencies," Pitt laughed.
"Just testing the resolution," Giordino replied in a serious tone while
prankishly zooming the image in and out on one of the women's
behinds.
"Ansel Adams you're not. Let's see what that setup will read with a
real target," Pitt said, turning the airship west toward an outbound
vessel a few miles away. Dropping down a few hundred feet, Pitt nosed
the Icarus to starboard and increased the throttle, gradually gaining
ground on the departing ship. While still nearly a half mile away,
Giordino zoomed the camera lens onto the stern of the black-hulled
freighter, easily reading the name: "Jasmine Star... Madras." He
raised the camera along the ship's deck, noting a stacked array of
containers, before settling on the bridge mast, where the monitor
revealed a flag of India snapping crisply in the breeze. "Works like a
champ," Al said proudly. Pitt looked at the LASH screen on the laptop, which showed an empty
swath of sea in advance of the Indian freighter. "Nothing coming up on
the main shipping channel for the time being. Let's keep going south,
where it looks like there's a little more activity," he said, noting
several images on the left edge of the screen.
Maneuvering the blimp south, they soon passed over the Narwhal and the
containership she just searched, then they cruised over a portion of
Catalina Island. Passing back over the water, Giordino pointed out the
windshield toward a turquoise ship in the distance.
"There's the Deep Endeavor. Looks like she has gotten into the act as
well," he said, noting the red freighter idling nearby.
Pitt guided the blimp toward the NUMA ship, calling it up on the radio
as they approached.
"Icarus to Deep Endeavor. How's the fishing down there?"
"Nary a nibble," Burch's voice replied. "How are you gentlemen
enjoying your sightseeing flight?"
"Delightful, except for Al's incessant crunching at the caviar table,
which is interrupting my enjoyment of the in-flight movie. We'll see if we can't rustle you up some more business."
"Roger, we'd be much obliged."
Giordino adjusted the blimp's LASH system, examining it for targets.
"Looks like we've got an inbound vessel in the main shipping channel
about twenty-two miles to the northwest and what looks like a couple of
stationary targets eighteen miles to the west of us," he said, pointing
to some gray-and-white patches on the monitor that contrasted with the
blue ocean background.
Pitt looked at the laptop, then glanced at his watch. "We ought to be
able to catch the northwest ship on the fly. Let's go see what's
parked out here first," he replied, aiming the blimp to the west and
toward the two large smudges on the screen that were oddly sitting
still.
Firing A rocket off the Sea Launch platform is traditionally preceded
by a seventy-two-hour launch countdown. During the three-day
preparation, dozens of tests are performed to ensure that all support
systems are operational and all mechanical and computer systems aboard
the rocket are ready to withstand the violent rigors of launch. At
T-15 hours before launch, the engineers and all but a handful of
crewmen are evacuated from the platform as the final stages of the
countdown progresses. The assembly and command ship is then moved to a safe operating area four miles up range of the platform.
At T-5 hours, the last of the crewmen are evacuated from the platform
aboard a helicopter and the remaining countdown procedures are handled
remotely from the support ship. With less than three hours to go, the
hazardous operation of fueling the launch vehicle is performed
automatically, the kerosene and oxygen combustibles remotely pumped
into the rocket from the large storage tanks housed on the platform.
Once fueled, the decision is then left to the launch engineers aboard
the support ship to proceed with the launch and fire the rocket when
ready.
Absent the luxury of time, Ling's team of launch engineers consolidated
the Sea Launch firing procedures into a bare-minimum schedule.
Redundant and nonessential tests were scrapped, built-in launch holds
were eliminated, and the fueling time reduced on account of the
shortened flight plan. By their accord, they could launch the Zenit in
just eight hours from the time the Odyssey was ballasted and
stabilized.
Tongju stood on the platform near the base of the launch tower and
gazed at a large digital clock mounted on the roofline of the hangar.
The red illuminated numbers read 03:32:17, with the digits clicking
backward a second at a time. Three hours and thirty-two minutes until
liftoff. Barring a major technical difficulty, there would be no halting the launch now. In Tongju's eyes, it would soon come down to
the simple task of fueling the rocket and lighting it off.
But before the button could be pushed, the Koguryo had to obtain total
control of the launch process. Ling and his engineers first
established a radio link to the automated launch control system, which
was tested and verified through the Koguryo's launch control center.
Then there was the transfer of the Odyssey's own command system. A
wireless marine positioning system allowed the launch platform to be
remotely controlled after all personnel were evacuated for launch. like
a radio-controlled toy, the platform could be raised, lowered, or moved
by the touch of a keypad aboard the Koguryo. Once the controls had
been passed to the support ship, Ling approached Tongju on the deck.
"My work here is complete. Full system control now lies on the
Koguryo. My team and I must return to the support ship to resume
launch countdown activities."
Tongju glanced again at the countdown clock. "My compliments.
You are ahead of schedule. I will call for the Koguryo's tender and
you may take your men off the platform at once."
"You will not be joining us now?" Ling asked.
"I must secure the prisoners first, then my assault team will follow along. It is my desire to be the last man off the platform before
launch," Tongju said. "That is, except for the men who will not be
coming off at all," he added with a sinister smile.
"There's not supposed to be an oil platform located here."
Giordino's eyes shifted from the large square object on the water ahead
of them to an oversized navigational chart he'd folded on his lap. "No
man-made hazards are indicated in this region at all. I don't think
the Sierra Club is going to take kindly to some stealth drilling this
close to the coast."
"They might be even more perturbed when you tell them the oil platform
has a rocket aboard," Pitt replied.
Giordino squinted out the airship's windshield toward the approaching
platform. "I'll be. Give that man with the eagle eye a cookie."
Pitt turned the blimp as they approached, making a wide loop around the
platform and adjacent support ship, careful to avoid its airspace.
"Sea Launch?" Giordino asked.
"Must be. I didn't think they'd move it around with the rocket
standing upright, though." "I think they're parked," Giordino replied, noting there was no wake
from the nearby support ship. "You don't suppose they would be
launching from here?"
"No way. They are supposed to fire those things off from the equator.
They would at least be up north off the Vandenberg range if they were
going to try a live launch around here. Probably some sort of test,
but let's find out."
Pitt punched a switch on a marine band radio and hailed the platform
through his headset.
"Airship Icarus to Sea Launch platform. Over."
An empty pause ensued and then Pitt repeated the call. After another
lengthy lull, an accented voice finally replied.
"This is Sea Launch platform Odyssey. Over."
"Odyssey, what is the nature of your position? Do you require
assistance? Over."
Another long pause. "Negative."
"I repeat, what is the nature of your position?" A pause again. "Who is requesting inquiry?"
"Friendly sorts, aren't they?" Giordino said to Pitt.
Pitt shook his head slightly and spoke again into the radio. "This is
airship Icarus, supporting Coast Guard border security. Please
identify current state. Over."
"This is Odyssey. We are conducting system tests. Please stay clear.
Over and out."
"The guy's a regular Gabby Hayes," Giordino said. "Do you want to
stick around? We need to roll back north if we want to intercept that
incoming vessel," he said, pointing to the radar screen.
"I guess there's not much we can do from up here. Okay, we'll do our
job and play tag with the next inbound vessel. But let's have one of
the boys downstairs check this out," Pitt said, turning the airship
around to the north.
Giordino took to the radio as Pitt laid in an intercept course toward
the inbound commercial ship. "The Deep Endeavor and the Narwhal are
working this region. Deep Endeavor is still searching a Japanese
freighter, but the Narwhal is freed up at the moment. She says the platform is outside their twelve-mile operating limit, however."
"We're not asking for an interdiction boarding. Just request a remote
visual survey and verification with Sea Launch authorities."
Giordino spoke into the radio again, then turned to Pitt. "Narwhal
agrees and is on her way."
"Good," Pitt replied, watching the platform fade away in the distance
behind them. But he didn't feel good. A nagging sensation told him
they had missed something on their flyover. Something important.
Kim stood with Tongju on the bridge of the Odyssey watching the blimp
circle away to the north.
"They did not loiter for very long. Do you think they suspect
anything?" Kim asked.
"I do not know," Tongju replied, his eyes moving from the blimp to a
chronometer mounted on the bulwark. "The launch will take place in
just over two hours. There is no room for interference now. Return to
the Koguryo, Ki-Ri, and stand by with Captain Lee. If there is any
attempted outside hindrance, deal with it decisively. Do you
understand?"
Kim looked his commander squarely in the eye and nodded. "I understand completely." Dirk and Captain Burch listened in on the Deep Endeavor's Coast Guard
radio as Giordino asked the Narwhal to survey the Sea Launch platform
and support ship. Minutes later, the Narwhal called up the NUMA
vessel.
"Deep Endeavor, we have completed inspection of the containership
Andaman Star and are proceeding to the offshore platform for a visual
inspection. No incoming traffic in our quadrant is presently in range,
so you may accompany us at your convenience if desired. Over."
"Shall we take a look?" Captain Burch asked of Dirk.
"Why not? Business is slow. We can follow along once we're finished
here."
Burch glanced at the Japanese freighter, noting that Aimes and the
search crew were beginning to assemble at the rail, their inspection
nearly complete.
"Affirmative, Narwhal" Burch radioed to the Coast Guard vessel.
"We'll shadow you upon completion of our current inspection, in another
five or ten minutes. Out." "Wonder what piqued the old man's interest," Dirk asked rhetorically as
he and Burch peered across the horizon trying to make out the image of
the floating platform.
Three miles away, the Narwhalhzd stoked up its twin diesel motors and
was skimming across the waves at its top speed of 25 knots. The
eighty-seven-foot cutter was one of the newer Barracuda-class patrol
boats employed by the Coast Guard, designed to work out of smaller
ports and harbors. With their mission focused primarily on inspection
and sea rescue, the boat's crew of ten was only lightly armed with a
pair of 12.7mm machine guns mounted on the bow deck.
Lieutenant Bruce Carr Smith braced himself against a bulkhead in the
cramped bridge as the white-and-orange-trimmed boat lurched over a
swell, her bow slapping the sea with a spray of foam.
"Lieutenant, I've radioed command headquarters. Dispatch is going to
contact the Sea Launch port office to determine what's up with their
platform," the Narwhal's red-haired communications officer stated from
the corner.
Smith nodded in reply, then spoke to a boyish-looking helmsman manning
the wheel. "Steady as she goes," he said firmly.
The two dots they chased on the horizon gradually grew larger until the
distinct shapes of an oil platform and a utility ship drew into focus. The support ship was no longer aside the platform and Smith could see
that it was in fact moving away from the stationary platform. Smith
took a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that the Deep Endeavor
had completed her freighter inspection. The turquoise vessel was
moving away from the freighter and appeared to be following his path in
the distance.
"Sir, would you like to approach the platform or the ship?" the
helmsman asked as they drew nearer.
"Bring us alongside the platform for starters, then we'll go take a
look at the ship," Smith replied.
The small patrol boat slowed as it eased near the platform, which now
rode fourteen meters lower in the water under its ballasted state.
Smith looked in awe at the huge Zenit rocket standing at its launch
tower near the stern edge of the platform. Peering through binoculars,
he studied the platform deck but saw no signs of life. Surveying the
forward section of the platform, he caught sight of the launch
countdown clock, which now read 01:32:00, one hour and thirty-two
minutes.
"What the hell?" Smith muttered as he watched the digital numbers tick
lower. Grabbing the marine radio transmitter, he called to Odyssey. "Sea Launch platform, this is Coast Guard cutter Narwhal. Over." After
a pause, he tried again. But he was met only with silence.
"Sea Launch director of information, how may I help you?" a soft,
feminine voice answered over the phone line.
"This is the Eleventh District U.S. Coast Guard, Marine Safety Group,
Los Angeles, central dispatch. We're requesting mission and location
status of Sea Launch vessels Odyssey and Sea Launch Commander,
please."
"One moment," the information director hesitated, shuffling through
some papers on her desk.
"Here we are," she continued. "The launch platform Odyssey is en route
to her designated launch site in the western Pacific, near the equator.
Her last reported position, as of eight a.m. this morning, was at
approximately 18 degrees North Latitude, 132 degrees West Longitude, or
roughly seventeen hundred miles east-southeast of Honolulu Hawaii. The
assembly and command ship Sea Launch Commander is presently at port in
Long Beach undergoing minor repairs. She is expected to depart port
tomorrow morning to rendezvous with the Odyssey at the equator, where
the Koreasat 2 launch is scheduled in eight days."
"Neither vessel is currently located at sea off the coast of Southern
California?" "Why no, of course not."
"Thank you for the information, ma'am."
"You're welcome," the director replied before hanging up, wondering why
the Coast Guard would think the platform was anywhere near the coast of
California.
Smith was too anxious to dally for a response from the Los Angeles
Coast Guard Group and brought his vessel closer to the platform. The
Coast Guard lieutenant was annoyed at the lack of response from the
Odyssey, which had ignored his repetitive radio calls. He finally
turned his attention toward the support ship, which had now crept a
quarter mile away from the platform. Repeated radio calls to the ship
went unanswered as well.
"Sir, she's flying a Japanese flag," the helmsman noted as the Narwhal
moved toward the vessel.
"No excuse for ignoring a marine radio call. Let's move alongside the
vessel and I'll try to talk to them over the PA system," Smith
ordered.
As Narwhal moved out of the shadow of the platform, pandemonium struck at once. Coast Guard dispatch broke over the Narwhal's radio with word
that the Odyssey was reported a thousand miles away from California and
that her support ship was sitting docked in Long Beach. Aboard the
Koguryo, a handful of crewmen pushed aside a lower deck siding,
revealing a row of large cylindrical tubes pointing
seaward. Though in disbelief, Smith's instincts took over, correctly
assessing the situation and barking orders before he even realized the
words were flowing from his lips.
"Hard to port! Apply full power! Prepare for evasive maneuvers!" But
it was too late. The helmsman was just able to swing the Narwhal
broadside to the Koguryo when a plume of white smoke suddenly billowed
from the larger ship's lower deck. The smoke seemed to build at its
source before a bright flash burst forth. Then, out of the smoke, a
Chinese CSS-N-4 Sardine surface-to-surface missile erupted from its
launch tube, bursting horizontally away from the ship. Watching
mesmerized from the bridge, Smith had the distinct sensation of being
shot between the eyes with an arrow as he observed the missile charge
directly toward him across the water. The nose tip of the missile
seemed to smile at him in the fractional second before it smashed into
the bridge just a few feet away.
Carrying 365 pounds of high explosives, the Chinese missile had enough
demolition power to sink a cruiser. Striking at short range, the
cutter had no chance. The nineteen-foot missile ripped-into the Narwhal and exploded in a massive fireball, blasting the Coast Guard
ship and its crew into fiery bits that scattered across the water. A
small black mushroom cloud rose like a macabre tombstone above the
devastation as the flames died quietly on the water's surface. The
incinerated white hull, the only material remains of the ship left
intact, clung to the sea's surface in a futile battle to stay afloat.
Around her, flaming chunks of debris blazed in the water before slowly
sinking to the seabed. The smoldering hull clung to the surface for
nearly fifteen minutes before the fight left her and the last remains
of the Narwhal slipped under the surface with a gasping sizzle and a
wisp of steam.
My God, they've fired a missile at the Narwhall" Captain Burch cried
out as he watched the Coast Guard ship disappear in a cloud of smoke
and fire two miles ahead of the Deep Endeavor. Del-gado immediately
attempted to raise the Narwhalon the marine radio as the others peered
out the bridge window. Summer grabbed a pair of high-power binoculars
but there was little to be seen of the Narwhal, its shattered remains
obscured by a thick veil of smoke. Looking past the smoke, she scanned
the platform and the adjacent support ship, which she studied for a
long while.
"There's no response," Delgado said quietly after repeated attempts to
contact the Coast Guard vessel were met with silence. "There may be survivors in the water," Aimes stuttered, stunned at the
sudden demise of a boat and crew he knew well.
"I can't dare move any closer," Captain Burch replied with angst.
"We're completely unarmed, and they may well be aiming their next
missile at us as we speak." Burch then turned and ordered his helmsman
to stop engines and hold their present position.
Delgado spoke to Aimes. "The captain is right. We'll call for help
but we can't endanger our crew. We don't even know who or what we are
up against."
"It's Kang's men," Summer said, handing the binoculars to her
brother.
"You're sure?" Aimes asked.
She nodded silently with a shiver as Dirk surveyed the vessels. :
"She's right," he said slowly. "The support ship. It's the same
vessel that sank the Sea Rover. She's even flying a Japanese flag.
They've painted and reconfigured her, but I'll bet my next paycheck
it's the same ship."
"But why are they standing off here with the platform?" Aimes added, a
mask of confusion crossing his face. "There can only be one reason. They are preparing to launch a strike
with the Sea Launch rocket."
A subdued silence fell across the bridge as the gravity of the
situation sunk in. A disbelieving Aimes finally broke the hushed
confines.
"But the Narwhal. We've got to see if anyone's alive."
"Aimes, you need to get some help out here, and now," Dirk replied
brusquely. "I'll go see if there are any survivors."
Delgado looked at Dirk with a furrowed brow. "But we don't dare bring
the Deep Endeavor any closer," he cautioned.
"I don't intend to," Dirk replied without explanation as he quickly
exited the bridge.
Tongju gazed down from the Odyssey's bridge at the smoldering debris of
the Narwhal and stared quietly. There was no choice but for the
Koguryo to act against the Coast Guard vessel. It was what he had
ordered Kim to do. But they were positioned far enough off shore that
they should never have been detected in the first place. He knew now
that it was the encounter with the blimp that had raised suspicions.
Silently, he cursed the Ukrainian engineers for moving the launch site closer to shore, neglecting to consider that the final decision had
been his.
Pacing the Odyssey's bridge anxiously, he noted the launch countdown
clock read 01:10:00, one hour and ten minutes to go. A radio call from
the Koguryo crackled through the air, breaking his thoughts.
"This is Lee. We destroyed the enemy vessel, as you directed. There
is another vessel standing off two thousand meters. Do you wish us to
destroy her also?"
"Is she another military vessel? Over," Tongju asked, peering out the
bridge toward the distant ship.
"Negative. Believed to be a research vessel."
"No. Save your armament, we may need it later."
"As you wish. Ling reports that his launch team is securely aboard the
Koguryo. Are you ready to evacuate the platform?"
"Yes. Send the tender back to the platform, my remaining team will be
ready to evacuate shortly. Out."
Tongju hung up the radio transmitter, then turned to a commando
standing at the rear of the bridge. "Transfer the Sea Launch prisoners in small groups to the launch
vehicle hangar and lock them in the storage bay located inside. Then
assemble the assault team for transport back to the Koguryo!"
"You do not fear that the platform crew may survive the launch inside
the hangar?" the commando asked.
"The exhaust gases will likely kill them. I do not care whether they
live or die just as long as they are unable to interfere with the
launch.
The commando nodded, then slipped out the rear of the bridge. Tongju
slowly walked across the pilothouse, carefully examining the array of
marine electronics built into the lower forward bulkhead. Finding a
panel that contained the manual override switches to the automated
controls, he pulled out a combat knife and jammed the blade
into a side seam and pried open the cover. Grasping the mass of wires
inside, he yanked the serrated edge of his knife across and through the
bundle, rendering the switches useless. Continuing his trek through
the bridge, he gathered up a half-dozen keyboards attached to various
navigational and positioning computers and tossed them through an open
window, watching patiently as they splashed into the ocean below. A
trio of laptop computers quickly followed the long plunge to a watery demise. For good measure, he pulled out his Glock and fired several
rounds into an assortment of computer and navigation monitors
positioned about the bridge. As Ling had been ordered to do with the
launch control computers in the hangar, Tongju disabled the navigation
computers in the pilothouse, destroying any possibility of last-minute
intervention. With less than an hour till liftoff, all control of the
platform and the rocket was in the hands of the Koguryo, and there it
would remain.
"Let me go with you," Summer said. "You know that I can pilot anything
under the sea."
"It's just a two-seater, and Jack is the only one with experience in
this thing. It's better that he and I go," Dirk replied, nodding
toward Dahlgren as he prepared the deep-probe submersible for
launching. Grabbing his sister's hand, he looked deeply into her pearl
gray eyes.
"Get ahold of Dad and tell him what happened. Tell him we need help
right away."
Giving his sister a quick embrace, he added quietly, "Make sure Burch
keeps the Endeavor in a safe position even if something happens to
us."
"Be careful," she said as he quickly climbed up and into the submersible, sealing the hatch behind him. Squirming into the pilot's
seat beside Dahlgren, he saw that the submersible was fully powered up
and ready to go.
"Thirty knots?" Dirk asked with skepticism.
"That's what the owner's manual states," Jack Dahlgren replied, then
turned and gave a thumbs-up signal through the view port window. On
the stern of the Deep Endeavor, a crane operator nodded in reply and
lifted the bright red submersible off the ship's deck and over the
side, dropping it hurriedly into the ocean. The two men caught a quick
glimpse of Summer waving to them on the deck before they were engulfed
in the green water. With the NUMA ship's bow pointed toward the
platform, the submersible was effectively blocked from view by the Deep
Endeavor's superstructure and they were deployed without being seen.
A diver in the water released the cable hook, then gave a rap on the
side to signal they were free.
"Let's see what she'll deliver," Dirk said, activating the six
thrusters and pushing the throttles to their stops.
The cigar-shaped submarine surged rather than leaped forward, amid a
whine of electric motors and rushing water. Dirk adjusted a pair of
diving planes slightly until they were at a submerged depth of twenty
feet, then followed a compass-directed path toward the wreck of the Narwhal.
Through his hands, the ride felt like driving a vacuum cleaner. The
submersible bobbed and weaved through the current and maneuvered like
they were in a bowl of molasses. But with the buzzing of the thrusters
in his ears, there was no denying she was a speed demon. Even without
a relative speed gauge inside the submersible, Dirk could tell from the
water rushing past the view port that they were moving at a rapid
clip.
"I told you she was a thoroughbred," Dahlgren grinned as he monitored
an elapsed time clock on the console. Turning serious, he added, "We
should be approaching Narwhal's position in about sixty seconds." Dirk
gradually eased off the throttles a minute later, throwing the motors
into idle as the Badger's forward momentum waned. Floating to the
surface, Dahlgren adjusted the ballast tanks to keep them low in the
water in order to remain as covert as possible. With his expert touch,
the submersible just barely broke the surface, showing less than a foot
of its topside surfaces above the water.
A few yards in front of them, they could see the demolished hull of the
smoldering Narwhal, her stern raised high in the air at an awkward
angle. Dirk and Dahlgren barely had a chance to gaze at the hulk
before her stern tipped upward even higher, then the entire remnant
slipped quietly under the waves. Scattered about was a handful of
floating debris, some smoldering but none larger than a doormat. Dirk guided the Badger in a small circle around the wreckage, but there was
no sign of life in the water. Dahlgren solemnly radioed Aimes on the
Deep Endeavor and reported that all appeared lost in the explosion.
"Captain Burch asks that we return to the Deep Endeavor at once,"
Dahlgren added.
Dirk acted as if he didn't hear the comment and guided the submersible
closer to the platform. From their vantage point low in the water,
there was little on the platform deck they could see beyond the top
half of the Zenit and the upper portion of the hangar. But suddenly he
halted the Badger and pointed a finger past the rocket.
"Look, up there."
Dahlgren peered past the rocket but just saw the roof of the hangar and
an empty helipad. Squinting harder, he gazed down slightly. Then it
struck him. The large digital launch clock that read 00:52:00,
fifty-two minutes.
"That thing is going to fire off in less than an hour!" he exclaimed,
watching the seconds tick down lower.
"We've got to stop it," Dirk said, a tinge of anger in his voice. "We'll have to get aboard and quick. Though I don't know about you,
pardner, but I don't know a thing about missiles or platform
launches."
"Can't be anything more than a little rocket science," Dirk replied
with a grimace, then jammed the submersible's throttles forward,
surging the Badger toward the platform.
The metallic red submersible surfaced again near the stern of the
platform almost directly beneath the launch tower and Zenit rocket.
Dirk and Dahlgren peered up at a large set of panels that protruded
from the underside of the platform just below the base of the rocket.
The flame deflector was designed to divert and dampen the rocket's
fiery thrust, directing the launch tempest through the platform to the
ocean below. Thousands of gallons of fresh water were released seconds
before launch into the trench to help cool the exposed portions of the
platform during the blazing inferno during the rocket's slow rise off
the pad.
"Remind me not to park here when that torch goes off," Dahlgren said,
trying to visualize the conflagration that would surround them if the
rocket was ignited.
"You don't have to ask twice," Dirk replied.
Their attention turned to the platform's thick support columns, searching for a way up to the main deck. Dahlgren was the first to
spot the Koguryo's tender, tied up at the opposite side of the
platform.
"I think I see a stairwell on that forward column where the boat's tied
up," he said.
Dirk took a quick bearing, then submerged the Badger and quickly ran
her between the Odyssey's sunken pontoons to the bow end of the
platform. Bobbing to the surface, they rose just astern of the white
tender, where they floated cautiously eyeing the other craft.
"I don't think anyone is home," Dirk said, satisfied the boat was
empty. "Care to tie us off?"
Before he could get an answer, Dahlgren had already opened the
submersible's top hatch and climbed out. Dirk purged the Badger's
tanks of all seawater to attain maximum buoyancy, then nudged the
submersible forward till he tapped the stern of the tender. Dahlgren
immediately hopped from the sub to the boat, then from the boat to the
platform, tightly clutching a mooring line while he moved. Dirk
quickly shut down the submersible's power systems and climbed onto the
platform as Dahlgren tied off the mooring line. "This way to the penthouse," Dahlgren said in a gentlemanly tone as he
motioned an arm toward the adjacent stairwell. Climbing onto the metal
stairs, the two men moved rapidly, racing up the steps in a measured
pace, while careful to minimize the clamor of their movements. Reaching
the top flight of steps, they stopped for a moment and caught their
breath, then stepped onto the exterior deck of the platform.
Standing on the forward corner of the platform, they came eye to eye
with two enormous cigar-shaped fuel tanks that were encompassed by a
maze of pipes and tubing. The massive white tanks stored the Zenit's
flammable diet of kerosene and liquid oxygen. Beyond the tanks, at the
rear of the platform, they saw the Zenit itself standing like a lonely
monolith surrounded by open deck. They stood for a moment, mesmerized
by the size and sheer power of the rocket with
out even considering the lethality of its payload. Dirk then looked up
at the hangar towering beside them, capped by a helipad at its forward
edge.
"I'm pretty sure the bridge sits above the hangar. That's where we
need to get to."
Dahlgren studied the structure methodically. "Looks like we'll have to
go through the hangar to get there."
Without another word, the two men took off at a fast jog, wary of being observed as they dashed to the end of the five-story-high hangar.
Reaching the deck side with its open barn doors, Dirk carefully peered
around the edge to look inside. The long narrow hangar looked like a
huge empty cavern without the Zenit lying prone inside. With Dahlgren
on his heels, Dirk slipped around the door and into the hangar, moving
quietly behind a large generator mounted next to the wall. Voices
suddenly echoed across the empty chamber and the men froze in their
tracks.
Midway down the length of the hangar, a door flew open on the opposite
side and the voices fell quiet. Three gaunt-looking men in Sea Launch
jumpsuits staggered through the door and into the hangar followed by
two armed commandos. Dirk recognized the black commando outfits and
the AK-74 assault rifles as those he'd seen on the men who attacked the
Deep Endeavor. He and Dahlgren watched as the three men were marched
to a fabricated storage room situated near the far end of the hangar.
Two additional commandos stood guard over the storage bay and helped to
herd the Sea Launch workers inside before closing and locking the door
behind them.
"If we can get to the Sea Launch crew, they'll know how to stop the
launch," Dirk said in a low voice.
"Right. We ought to be able to take care of Mutt and Jeff, once their
friends leave," Dahlgren replied, motioning toward the two storage bay guards.
Creeping to a vantage spot near the transporter erector they waited and
watched as the first two commandos chatted with the guards for
a moment, then left through the side door. Ducking and weaving through
an array of electronic test racks and tool bins that lined the sides of
the hangar, Dirk and Dahlgren quietly crept closer to the guarded
storage bay. Along the way, they passed a rack of tools marked
hydraulic engineer. Hesitating for a second, Dirk grabbed a
long-handled wooden block mallet while Dahlgren grabbed an oversized
box wrench for insurance. Scrambling past the end of the transporter
erector they silently darted behind a work platform that sat a hundred
feet from the storage room.
"What now, maestro?" Dahlgren whispered, seeing that there was nothing
but open deck between them and the storage bay.
Dirk crouched against a wheel of the work platform and looked across
toward the guards. The two armed commandos were engaged in an animated
conversation with each other, paying little attention to the rest of
the hangar. He then took a studious look at the platform they had
ducked behind. It was a motorized work platform that rose up and down
to allow access to the topsides of the thirteen-foot-diameter rocket.
Dirk patted his hand on the wheel beside him and threw a crooked grin
toward Dahlgren. "Jack," he whispered, "I believe you shall drive in the front door
while I waltz in the back door."
Seconds later, Dirk quietly made his way down the side of the hangar,
careful to move only when the guards showed their backs in his
direction. After several short running bursts, he reached the rear of
the hangar, where he made his way across the width section undetected.
As long as the guards stayed positioned near the front of the storage
bay, he could approach from behind without being seen.
Dahlgren, meanwhile, was left with the more daring part of the
offensive. Climbing onto the motorized work platform, Dahlgren grabbed
hold of the cabled control box, then lay flat on the platform. A
canvas tarp was partially rolled up on one side, which he used to cover
himself with. Peering through a crack at the guards, he gently tapped
at the raise button on the controls when the guards were
turned the other way. With barely a whir, the platform rose a half
foot. Out of audio range, the two guards were oblivious. Dahlgren
waited again until the guards were looking away, then hit the control
button again, this time holding it down firmly. The work platform rose
quietly like an elevator, its electric motor barely humming. Dahlgren
held his breath and waited until the scaffold reached a height of
fifteen feet before releasing the button to stop. Peeking down at the guards, Dahlgren could see that the movement had gone undetected. "Now
for the fun part," he muttered to himself. Hitting the drive controls,
the entire work platform lurched forward on its four wheels, rolling
ahead at a slow crawl. Dahlgren adjusted the drive mechanism to aim
the platform directly toward the storage building and two guards, then
hunkered down under the canvas tarp and lay still.
The towering platform crept halfway across the hangar like a robot
before one of the guards detected its movement. From under the tarp,
Dahlgren heard an excited rush of gibberish in an Asian tongue, but,
thankfully, no sound of gunfire followed. A loud cry of "Saw!"
screeched through the air, and was repeated a few seconds later as the
confused guards called for the contraption to halt. Dahlgren ignored
the cry and kept rolling across the floor. Peeking through a crack in
the canvas, he saw the roofline of the storage shed approaching and
knew he was close to the guards. He waited until the platform rolled
to within five feet of the storage building, then pressed the stop
button. The confused guards fell silent as the raised platform quietly
rolled to a standstill.
The tension in the air was palpable and Dahlgren milked it for full
effect. Beneath him, the two guards stared nervously at the mysterious
platform, their fingers sweaty on the triggers of their guns. From
their vantage, the bewildering platform had rolled across the floor
empty but for a tarp and a loose spool of rope. Perhaps it was just a
simple mechanical failure that caused it to roll forward. Cautiously, they stepped closer to inspect the platform. Concealed in the tarp,
Dahlgren held his breath and then hit the control button.
Like a mechanical ghost, the platform suddenly began lowering itself.
The two guards jumped back as the accordion-support structure slowly
collapsed and the wooden scaffold dropped toward the ground. Then, at
a height of six feet, the platform abruptly stopped. The platform
stood a good six inches taller than either man and they both stood back
several feet, trying to eye who or what was driving the thing. Finally,
one of the guards approached on his tiptoes and began thrusting the
muzzle of his assault rifle into the roll of canvas while his partner
stood back peering around the hangar suspiciously.
Dahlgren knew that he would have only one chance to disable the guard
and discreetly extended his right arm above his head to prepare for the
blow. Through the ruffled canvas, he could feel the prodding of the
guard move closer until the thrusting muzzle finally struck home
against his thigh. The startled guard hesitated for a second before
pulling the gun back to fire. But it was all the time that Dahlgren
needed to swing the heavy box wrench out from under the canvas and down
hard in a pendulum motion toward the man's head. The hard metal face
of the wrench struck the guard square on the jaw with a muffled thump,
by some miracle not crushing the bone. But the blow was powerful
enough to send the man straight to sleep and the unconscious guard
crumpled raggedly to the floor without firing a shot. Dahlgren's strike had yanked back the screening cover of the canvas as
the second guard swung around to find his partner lying senseless on
the floor. Dahlgren stared back helplessly at the guard, holding the
bloody wrench clasped in his hand. Without hesitation, the guard
raised his AK-74 at Dahlgren and squeezed the trigger. But a
simultaneous blur from behind flew through the air and collided with
the back of the man's head, sending him tumbling to the ground as the
burst of fire sprayed from his gun. The jolt was just enough to alter
his aim and the bullets struck harmlessly beneath Dahlgren's raised
perch. As the guard fell to the ground, Dahlgren could see the tall
figure of Dirk standing twenty feet behind, a determined expression on
his face. In a desperate move to save his friend's life, Dirk had
tossed the mallet like a long-handled ax, the hammer spinning through
the air until the business end struck the guard's head like a croquet
ball.
The guard was only stunned by the blow, however, and dazedly rose to
his knees, trying to retrain his gun. Dahlgren quickly jumped from the
scaffold and reeled back to swing the wrench again when a burst of
gunfire split the air. Dahlgren froze as a neat row of bullet holes
popped through the platform support just inches from his head. The
sound of spent shell casings rattled across the floor as the echo of
the gunfire through the hangar gradually subsided. "I would advise you not to move either, Mr. Pitt," spat the menacing
voice of Tongju, who stood in the side doorway cradling a machine
gun.
Dirk and Dahlgren were held at gunpoint as Tongju and his team of
commandos herded the remaining Sea Launch crew members into the storage
shed. When Captain Christiano was lastly escorted in, one of the
guards turned to Tongju.
"These two as well?" he asked, nodding toward the NUMA captives.
Tongju shook his head no with a faint look of pleasure. The guard then
sealed the heavy metal door to the storage bay shut, securing the
handle with a chain and padlock. Locked inside, thirty Sea Launch
crewmen were crammed into a black, windowless box with no means of
escape.
Once the door was secured, Tongju walked over to the hangar wall, where
Dirk and Dahlgren stood staring at a pair of gun muzzles aimed at their
ribs. Tongju gazed at Dirk with a mixed look of respect and disdain.
"You have an annoying proclivity for survival, Mr. Pitt, which is
exceeded only by your irritating penchant for intrusion."
"I'm just a bad penny," Dirk replied. "Since you have taken such a keen interest in our operation, perhaps
you would enjoy a front-row viewing of the launch?" Tongju said,
nodding toward three of the guards.
Before Dirk could reply, the guards were prodding rifles into their
backs, steering them in the direction of the open hangar doors. One of
the guards reached up onto Dahlgren's work platform and snatched the
coil of rope that lay next to the canvas roll. Tongju hung back a
moment, ordering his remaining assault team to the tender, before
following behind. As they walked, the two prisoners glanced at each
other in mental search of an escape plan, but their options were slim.
Dirk knew that Tongju would not hesitate to kill them instantly, and
relish the opportunity.
Tongju caught up with them as they marched out of the hangar and into
the bright sunshine that washed down on the open deck.
"You know, of course, that military units are on their way to the
platform at this very moment," Dirk said to the assassin, silently
hoping his words were true. "The launch will be stopped and you and
your men will be captured, or perhaps killed."
Tongju looked up at the launch clock, then turned to Dirk and smiled,
his yellow-stained teeth glistening in the sunlight. "They will not arrive in time. And if they do, there will be no
consequence. The soft American military will not attack the platform
for fear of killing the innocent workers aboard. There is no way to
stop the countdown now. The launch will proceed, Mr. Pitt, and bring
an end to the meddlesome activities of both you and your countrymen."
"You'll never escape alive."
"Nor you, I'm afraid."
Dirk and Dahlgren fell silent as they trudged across the open platform,
feeling like two men marching to the gallows. As they approached the
launch tower, all of the men could not help but look up at the
shimmering white rocket that towered over them. The captives were led
to the very base of the standing rocket, which clung to the
tower several feet above them. Dirk and Dahlgren were shoved against a
tower bracing and ordered to stand still as the guard with the rope
began cutting it into several lengths with a serrated knife.
Tongju stood and casually unholstered his Glock, aiming it at Dirk's
throat, as a guard hog-tied his wrists and elbows behind his back and
around a tower support beam. The guard then tied his ankles together
and wrapped them to the beam before moving over to Dahlgren and roping
him to the tower in the same fashion. "Enjoy the launch, gentlemen," Tongju hissed, then turned and walked
away.
"We shall, knowing that vermin like you won't have long to breathe,"
Dirk cursed.
He and Dahlgren watched silently as Tongju and his men jogged across
the platform toward the forward support column and disappeared down the
stairwell. A few minutes later, they observed the tender speeding away
toward the Koguryo, which was now positioned nearly two miles from the
Odyssey. From their captive position, they had a clear view of the
launch clock as it ticked down to 00:26:00, twenty-six minutes. Dirk
looked up and morbidly studied the Zenit's huge thrusters that hung
several feet above their heads. At the first seconds of launch, 1.6
million pounds of thrust would be expelled onto them like a firestorm,
incinerating their bodies to ashes. At least it would be a quick
death, he thought.
"I guess that's the last time I let you talk me into crashing a party
uninvited," Dahlgren said, breaking the tension.
"Sorry, I guess we were a little underdressed," Dirk replied without
humor. He tugged and twisted at the binding ropes, searching for an
avenue of escape, but there was little room to even wiggle his hands. "Any chance you can slip your ropes?" he asked hopefully of
Dahlgren.
"Afraid not. This guy definitely earned his merit badge in knot
tying," Dahlgren said, pulling at his restraints.
A loud clanging across the platform seized their attention, which
was followed by a deep rumbling beneath their feet. The rushing sound
of flowing liquid bellowed up behind them, roaring up and overhead
through a series of pipes built into the launch tower. The pipes
creaked and groaned around them as they protested the flow of the
supercooled liquid oxygen and kerosene being pumped into the Zenit.
"They're fueling the rocket," Dirk observed. "Too dangerous to do with
the crew aboard so they wait until just prior to launch, after the
platform has been evacuated."
"That makes me feel so much better. I just hope the guy manning the
pump doesn't get sloppy and overfill the tank."
They both looked up at the rocket in apprehension, knowing that a spill
of liquid oxygen would burn right through their skin. The rocket
shuddered and wailed as it drank in the liquid fuel, seeming to come
alive with the infusion. Pumps and motors whirred above their heads as
priming fuel was released into the rocket engine's initial combustion chamber. Both men stared up in numbed silence at the mouth of the
rocket thrusters, contemplating the impending conflagration that would
rain upon them. Dirk thought of Sarah and felt a sudden pang in his
chest, realizing he would never see her again. Worse still, he
remembered that she was visiting Los Angeles. She, too, might well
succumb to the effects of the missile launch, a launch that he had
failed to prevent. Then his sister and father sprang to mind and he
felt remorse in that they would never know what befell his
disappearance. There certainly wouldn't be any remains left to bury,
he thought morbidly. His attention was drawn to a low hiss, caused by
puffs of white steam venting out of several safety valves along the
Zenit's exterior. As the chilled oxygen warmed in the daytime air, the
expanding vapor was purged from the rocket, accumulating in wispy
clouds above their heads. To the cruel irony of the two captives
awaiting death in their last minutes, the sky seemed to darken over
them as the vapor shadows obscured the rays of the sun. But Dirk's
heart suddenly skipped a beat when he realized that the shadow
cast over them above the rocket was slowly creeping across the platform
deck.
Even from high in the sky, the Sea Launch platform and Zenit rocket
looked impressive. But for the men in the Icarus, the focus was not
one of sightseeing. There was no puttering around the airspace this
time as the blimp came floating directly over the stationary platform.
"There's the Badger. She's tied up alongside the forward support
column," Giordino said, pointing toward a corner of the platform where
the red submersible could be seen bobbing in the water.
"Dirk and Jack clearly made it aboard," Pitt replied with a touch of
concern.
Upon receiving a radio call from Summer on the Deep Endeavorthat the
Narwhal had been attacked, Pitt immediately yanked the blimp around to
the south and came charging back at full speed. The twin Porsche
engines affixed to the gondola whined as the rpm's climbed and the
airship was pushed to its top speed of 50 knots. On the horizon, Pitt
and Giordino could see the black smoke from the Narwhal's smoldering
hull rising like a beacon before the ship slipped underwater. Pitt
willed the blimp toward the debris as fast as the ungainly airship
would go while Giordino focused the long-distance camera at the site
ahead. As they grew nearer, they observed the Koguryo distancing
herself from the platform, while discovering little remains of the
Coast Guard vessel through the magnified camera lens.
"You might not want to cruise too close to that support ship," Giordino
cautioned after several tight passes over the Narwhal site failed to
reveal any survivors. "You think she's carrying SAMs?" Pitt asked.
"She stung the Narwhal with a surface-to-surface, so it's a betting
chance."
"I'll keep the platform positioned in between us. That should dissuade
them from firing on us and, hopefully, alleviate your Hindenburg
fears."
Pitt brought the airship down to an altitude of five hundred feet and
eased back on the high-reving motors as they approached the platform.
Giordino focused the WES COM camera onto the Koguryo standing off in
the distance, eyeing it warily for signs of a potential strike on the
blimp. The shuttle boat suddenly lurched into view on the monitor as
it pulled up alongside the ship. Pitt and Giordino watched as Tongju
and the last of his assault team climbed onto the larger vessel. Pitt
noted that Jack and his son were not among the group.
"The last of the rats leaving the platform?" Giordino asked.
"Could be. Doesn't look like they are sending the tender back. Let's
see if we can find anyone left minding the store."
The blimp drifted over the stern of the platform and Pitt guided the
airship along the length of the portside deck toward the bow. Not a soul could be seen wandering the deck below. Giordino pointed out the
backward-ticking clock on the hangar, which read 00:27:00, twenty-seven
minutes. As they floated past the forward edge, Pitt turned and ran
across the Odyssey's bow and alongside the roof-mounted pilothouse.
Giordino swung the camera until it pointed into the windows of the
platform's command station. On the monitor, they could see clearly
into the bridge. Scanning back and forth, there was not a solitary
sign of life.
"Looks like the ghost ship Mary Celeste around here," Giordino said.
"No doubt about it. They're getting ready to light the fuse."
Pitt turned the blimp's controls again and brought the airship down the
length of the starboard side, then circled tightly around the Zenit
rocket. Plumes of white smoke spewed from the release valves on the
rocket, venting the warming fuel. Giordino panned up and down the
rocket with the camera system.
"She looks gassed and ready to roll at any minute."
"Twenty-six minutes, to be precise," Pitt said, eyeing the countdown
clock.
Giordino let out a whistle as he glanced at the clock. A slight
movement on the monitor brought his eyes back to the rocket display, but he still almost missed it. He curiously tweaked the focus down the
length of the rocket until the monitor suddenly filled with the image
of two men standing at the base of the tower.
"It's Dirk and Jack! They're tied to the tower."
Pitt stared at the screen for a moment and nodded, his eyes squinting
in recognition. Without saying a word, he quickly scanned the platform
for a spot to bring the blimp down. Though the rear deck of the
platform offered a large open space between the hangar and the launch
tower, a tall crane was angled up and inward, impeding the airspace.
The airship's fabric sides might gash open if contact were made with
the structure.
"Nice of them to leave the can opener out for us," Giordino said as he
peered at the imposing crane.
"No troubles. We'll just have to make like a helicopter."
Skimming over the hangar and descending rapidly, Pitt eased the blimp
down toward the large round helipad mounted above the pilothouse. With
a finesse touch, he eased the blimp down until the gondola lightly
kissed the pad.
"Can I trust you not to go off sightseeing without me?" Pitt asked as he hastily climbed out of the pilot's seat.
"Cross my heart."
"Give me ten minutes. If we're not back, then just get this thing the
hell away from the platform before she lights up."
"I'll keep the meter running," Giordino replied, giving Pitt a nod of
good luck.
In a flash, Pitt was out the gondola door and sprinting across the pad.
As he disappeared down a stairwell, Giordino looked at his watch and
anxiously started counting the seconds.
Tongju climbed aboard the Koguryo and immediately raced to the bridge,
where Captain Lee and Kim stood surveying the Odyssey.
"You cut your departure a little thin," Lee said soberly. "They have
already commenced fueling the rocket."
"A minor delay, due to an unexpected interruption," Tongju replied.
Scanning the horizon, he noted the airship drifting slowly back toward
the platform. "Have you detected any more approaching vessels?"
The captain shook his head. "No, none yet. Besides the airship, there
has just been the lone research ship that was following behind the Coast Guard vessel," he said, pointing to a radar blip on the opposite
side of the platform. "She's remained in her present position, two
miles to the northeast of the platform."
"And no doubt has radioed for assistance. Those damn Ukrainians, he
spat. "They have brought us too close to shore and placed the mission
in peril. Captain, we must get under way immediately after liftoff.
Adjust course due south at full power to Mexican waters before laying
in for our rendezvous point."
"What about the airship?" Kim asked. "It must be destroyed as well,
for it can track our escape."
Tongju studied the silver blimp, which sat hovering on the Odyssey's
helicopter pad.
"We cannot fire upon them while they are positioned near the platform.
They can do no harm at this late time. Perhaps they will stupidly burn
in the launch themselves. Come, let us enjoy the liftoff. We will
dispense with them later."
With Kim in tow, Tongju left the bridge and quickly made his way aft to
the launch control center. The brightly lit bay was packed with
white-coated engineers sitting at workstations arranged in a horseshoe
shape around the room. On the front center wall was a large flat-panel video screen that showed a full image of the Zenit rocket at the launch
tower, wisps of vapor emanating from its sides. Tongju spotted Ling
hunched over a monitor conversing with a technician and approached the
launch operations engineer.
"Ling, what is the launch status?" Tongju asked.
The round-faced engineer squinted at Tongju through his glasses.
"The fueling will be complete in another two minutes. One of the
backup flight control computers is not responding, there's a
low-pressure reading in one of the cooling lines, and the number two
auxiliary turbo pump indicator shows a fluid leakage."
"What does that mean for the launch?" Tongju asked, a sudden flush
rising over his normally placid face.
"None of the items, either individually or collectively, are mission
critical. All other systems are showing nominal. The launch will
proceed as scheduled," he said, eyeing a digital launch clock beneath
the video panel, "in exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-seven
seconds."
At twenty-three minutes and forty-six seconds, Jack Dahlgren looked up
from the Odyssey's ticking launch clock to the Icarus, which seemed
to be fixed hovering above the pilothouse. He knew there was no chance that they could have been spotted by the high-flying gondola, but he
still wondered if Pitt or Giordino might somehow find a way to stop the
launch. He strained to turn toward Dirk beside him, expecting his
friend to be looking at the blimp with hopeful optimism. Instead, Dirk
was oblivious to the airship, his full attention focused on defiantly
trying to break the bounds of his ropes. Jack started to offer some
words of encouragement but his lips froze when he saw a movement inside
the hangar. He blinked and took another hard look. Sure enough, he
could see it was a man sprinting through the hangar directly toward
them.
"Dirk, there's somebody coming our way. Is that who I think it is?"
Dirk glanced toward the hangar while continuing to strain at his bound
hands and feet. He squinted at the lone figure bursting out of the
hangar and tearing across the platform carrying what looked like a long
stick in his hand. The figure was tall and lean with dark hair and
Dirk suddenly stopped struggling at the ropes when he recognized the
gait.
"I don't ever recall seeing my father move that fast before," he said
to Dahlgren, a broad grin spreading across his face.
As the head of NUMA drew closer, they could see that it was a fire ax,
not a stick, that he toted in his right hand as he ran. Sprinting up to the tower, the elder Pitt smiled in relief at seeing that the two
men were uninjured.
"I thought I told you boys never to accept a ride with strangers," he
gasped, patting his son on the shoulder as he examined the rope
restraints.
"Sorry, Dad, but they offered us the moon and the stars," Dirk grinned,
then added, "Thanks for dropping by to get us."
"I've got a taxi waiting. Let's just get out of here before they
ignite this thing."
Eyeing the center of the rope, he took a full swing and laid the blade
through the rope that secured Dirk's elbows. With another swing, he
cut the wrist binds, the blade of the ax ringing loudly as it cut
through to the tower beam. As Dirk worked to untie his ankles, Pitt
repeated his Paul Bunyan routine on Dahlgren's ropes. The two men
quickly scrambled to their feet as Pitt tossed the ax aside.
"Dad, the Sea Launch platform team is locked up inside the hangar. We
need to get them out."
Pitt nodded. "I thought I heard some banging around in there. Lead
on." Almost as one, the three men dashed back across the open platform at
full speed, knowing that every second counted. As they ran, Dirk
looked at the launch clock above his head. Just twenty-one minutes and
thirty-six seconds remained before the platform would be engulfed in a
blasting inferno. As if that wasn't enough motivation to move faster,
a sudden whirring noise erupted from inside the hangar. An electronic
command had been issued from the Koguryo's launch control software and
the hangar's large barn doors began sliding closed in preparation for
the blastoff.
"The doors are closing," Dahlgren huffed. "We've got to hurry."
Like a trio of Olympic sprinters heading to the tape, the men bolted
side by side toward the shrinking gap of the closing doors. Though he
still had plenty of fire in his step, Pitt eased back as they
approached the opening and let Dirk and Dahlgren jump through first.
Following single file, he turned and slid sideways through the gap just
before the doors sealed shut.
Midway down the hangar, they could hear the sound of muffled voices and
a metallic banging as the men inside the metal shed fought
to extricate themselves. Dirk, Dahlgren, and Pitt scurried to the shed
and examined the chained and padlocked door as they caught their
breath. "That chain isn't going to give, but maybe we can pry the door off its
hinges ... if we can find a crowbar around here," Dahlgren said,
scanning the area for a potential tool.
Pitt glanced at the motorized work platform Jack had ridden across the
hangar and reached up and grabbed the control box, which dangled from
the railing.
"I think we've got our crowbar right here," he said, lowering the
platform a few feet, then rolling the device up to the front of the
shed. As Dirk and Dahlgren looked on, Pitt grabbed a loose end of the
padlock chain and wrapped it tightly around the platform's railing,
then yelled at the men inside the shed: "Stand back from the door."
Waiting a second, he then hit the raise button and watched as the
platform rose slowly, drawing the chain tight. The lifting mechanism
groaned and strained for a moment as the wheels of the platform rocked
across the floor. Then, with a loud crack, the shed's door ripped off
its hinges and popped into the air, slamming against the platform with
a shudder before dropping and dangling from the chain midair. Pitt
quickly backed the platform out of the way as the Sea Launch crew
surged out of the claustrophobic shed.
The crewmen had been given little to eat since the Odyssey was
commandeered and they appeared weak and haggard from the stress of their captivity. Yet an underlying anger purveyed over the men, a
group of seasoned professionals who didn't take kindly to having given
up their rocket and platform.
"Is the captain and launch manager here?" Pitt shouted over the cries
of thanks from the released crew.
A battered Captain Christiano elbowed his way through the throng,
followed by a thin, distinguished-looking man with a goatee.
"I'm Christiano, captain of the Odyssey. This is Larry Ohlrogge,
platform launch manager," he added, nodding to the man beside him
"Has the platform been secured from those scum?" he spat with
contempt.
Pitt shook his head. "They've evacuated the platform in preparation
for launching the rocket. We don't have much time."
Ohlrogge noted the erector transporter had been returned to the hangar
and that the hangar doors had been closed.
"We're talking minutes," he said with alarm in his voice.
"About eighteen, to be precise. Captain, get your crew to the helipad now," Pitt directed. "There's an airship waiting that can evacuate
everyone from the platform if we move quick."
Turning to Ohlrogge, Pitt added, "Is there any way we can stop the
launch?"
"The launch sequence is completely automated and controlled by the
assembly and command ship. Presumably, these terrorists have
duplicated that functionality on their own vessel."
"We can mechanically halt the fueling of the rocket," Christiano
noted.
"It is too late," Ohlrogge said, shaking his head. "There is an
override control in the bridge that would be our only hope at this late
time," he added grimly.
"The elevator at the rear of the hangar leads to the bridge deck. The
helipad is just above," Christiano said. "Then let's get moving," Pitt
replied.
Quickly, the group shuffled en masse to the rear of the hangar and
crowded around a medium-sized elevator.
"There's not enough room for all," Christiano stated, regaining his
captain's form. "We'll need three trips. You eight men first, then this group, then you ten men over there," he ordered, dividing the
crowd into three groups.
"Jack, you go with the first group and help them onto the Icarus. Let
Al know there's more on the way," Pitt said. "Dirk, you bring up the
last group, make sure everyone makes it out of here. Captain, we need
to visit the bridge now," he said, turning to Christiano.
Christiano, Ohlrogge, Dahlgren, and Pitt crowded into the elevator with
eight other men and waited impatiently as the elevator zipped up to the
bridge level above the hangar. Dahlgren quickly located a stairwell
off to one side that led to the helipad and herded the crewmen up to
the exposed deck.
As promised, the silver airship hung hovering several feet above the
pad, Giordino at the controls smoking a fat cigar. He quickly rotated
the swiveling propulsion ducts and brought the gondola down to the deck
as Jack ran up.
"Hi, sailor. Give a few girls a ride?" Dahlgren asked, poking his
head into the gondola doorway.
"Certainly," Giordino replied. "How many do you have?"
"About thirty, give or take," Dahlgren replied, looking suspiciously at the gondola's passenger compartment.
"Shove 'em in, we'll make them fit. But we better toss any unnecessary
weight if we want to get off the ground. Just make it quick, as I have
an aversion to getting baked alive."
"You and me both, pardner," Dahlgren replied, herding the first of the
crewmen aboard.
In addition to the two-seat cockpit, the gondola's passenger
compartment was configured to seat eight passengers in oversized
leather airplane-type seats. Dahlgren studied the arrangement and
grimaced at the prospect of squeezing all the men in and possibly
grounding the blimp. As the crew climbed aboard, he checked the
mountings of the seats and found that they had a quick-release
mechanism for temporary removal. He quickly unlatched five of the
seats and, with the help of a Russian engineer, tossed them out the
door of the gondola.
"Everybody to the back of the bus," he barked. "It's going to be
standing room only."
As the last man in his group wedged into the passenger compartment,
Dahlgren turned to Al.
"How much time do we have?" "About fifteen minutes, by my count."
The next group of crewmen began spilling off the stairs and sprinting
across the deck of the helipad. Dahlgren let out a slight sigh. There
would be time, if not room, to get every man to the blimp before
blastoff. But would it be enough time to stop the launch, he wondered,
catching sight of the Zenit rocket standing fueled and ready across the
platform.
Inside the Odyssey's bridge, Captain Christiano turned pale and shook
his head silently as he surveyed the bullet-ridden computer stations
and shattered glass that littered the floor. Walking to the navigation
station, he curiously noticed a lonely computer mouse dangling by its
cord, its companion keyboard nowhere to be seen. Ohlrogge observed
that the computer drive itself was undamaged.
"I've got scores of laptop computers downstairs. We can plug one in
and activate the platform controls," he offered.
"They have no doubt secured the automated controls," Christiano said
with disgust, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder toward the window.
Pitt followed his motion, observing the Koguryo sitting defiantly in
the distance. Returning his gaze to the captain, Pitt caught sight of
the Badger, still tied up in the water off the starboard support column far below.
"There is no time. It might take hours to work around," Christiano
continued, moving to the bridge's center console with a look of despair
on his face.
"You said there was a manual override on the bridge?" Pitt asked.
Christiano anticipated the results before his eyes reached the console.
They had simply known too much. How to navigate and ballast the
platform, how to fuel the Zenit, how to control and launch the rocket
from their own support ship. There was simply too much inside
knowledge for the terrorists not to have sabotaged the manual override.
With disappointing confidence in his beliefs, he looked down at a
jumbled mass of cut wires and smashed controls that offered the last
hope of halting the launch.
"Here's your manual override control," he swore, flinging a segregated
clump of wires and switches across the bridge. The three men stood in
silence as the mass of electronics bounced across the deck before
coming to a halt against the bulkhead. Then the bridge door opened and
Dirk thrust his head into the bay. From the looks on the other men's
faces, he knew that their attempt to prevent the launch had failed.
"The crew is all aboard the airship. I respectfully suggest we abandon the platform, and now."
As the last four men aboard the platform began to scramble up the
helipad stairwell to the waiting airship, Pitt stopped and grabbed his
son by the shoulder.
"Get the captain aboard the blimp and tell Al to take off without me.
Make sure he gets the airship up range of the platform before the
rocket fires."
"But they said there was no getting around the automated launch
controls," the younger Pitt protested.
"I may not be able to stop the rocket from launching, but I just might
be able to change its destination."
"Dad, you can't stay aboard the platform, it's too dangerous."
"Don't worry about me, I don't intend to stick around," Pitt replied,
giving his son a gentle shove. "Now get going."
Dirk looked his father in the eye. He had heard numerous tales of his
father placing the safety of others above himself and now he was seeing
it firsthand. But there was something else in his eyes. It was a calm
look of assurance. Dirk took a step toward the stairwell, then turned back to wish his father luck but he had already vanished down the
elevator.
Sprinting up the stairwell two steps at a time, the younger Pitt leaped
onto the deck of the helipad and looked on in amazement at the waiting
blimp. The gondola looked like a windowed can of sardines, with the
fish replaced by humans. The entire Sea Launch crew had managed to
squeeze aboard the passenger compartment, cramming into every available
square inch. The weakest of the crew were given the three passenger
seats that Dahlgren did not remove while the rest of the men stood
shoulder to shoulder in the remaining space. Scores of men hung their
heads out the side windows while one or two were even jammed into the
small bathroom at the rear of the gondola. The sight made a New York
City subway at rush hour look spacious by comparison.
Dirk ran over and wedged himself through the door, hearing Dahlgren's
voice somewhere in the mass telling him that the copilot's seat was
vacant. Half-crawling, he squirmed his way into the cockpit, taking
the empty seat alongside Giordino, who had moved to the left-hand
pilot's seat.
"Where's your dad? We need to get off this barbecue grill, pronto."
"He's staying put. Has one last trick up his sleeve, I guess. He said
to get the blimp up range of the platform, and that he'll meet you for
a tequila on the rocks after the show." "I hope he's buying," Giordino replied, then tilted the propeller ducts
to a forty-degree angle and boosted the throttles. The gondola chugged
forward, pulling the helium-filled envelope with it. But in
stead of rising gracefully into the air as before, the gondola clung to
the deck, dragging across the helipad with a dull scraping sound.
"We've got too much weight," Dirk stated.
"Get up, baby, get up," Giordino urged the mammoth airship.
The gondola continued to skid across the pad, heading to the forward
edge, which dropped straight down two hundred feet to the sea. As they
approached the lip of the helipad, Giordino adjusted the propellers to
a higher degree of inclination and jammed the throttles to their stops
but the gondola continued to scrape along the deck. An eerie silence
filled the cabin, as every man held his breath while the gondola
slipped over the edge of the helipad.
A falling surge suddenly hit the pit of everyone's stomach as the
gondola lurched down ten feet, then halted. The occupants were roughly
thrown forward as the blimp's fabric-covered tail bounced off the
helipad, pushing the nose of the blimp at a steep decline as the
airship's balance of weight cleared the edge. Continuing to jar forward, the tail finally scraped past the platform edge and the entire
blimp rushed nose first toward the sea.
Giordino had a split-second decision to make in order to save the
airship. He could either pull the thrusters all the way back to a
ninety-degree vector and hope the engine propulsion would overcome the
excess weight and hold the blimp at altitude. Or he could do the
complete reverse: by pushing down the thrusters, he could try to
increase the blimp's forward velocity, which would generate lift if he
gained sufficient speed. Staring at the looming ocean, he let the
momentum of the blimp guide his decision and calmly pushed the yoke
forward, accelerating their downward dive.
Cries of alarm wafted from the rear passengers as it appeared Giordino
was deliberately trying to crash into the sea. Ignoring the pleas, he
turned to Dirk in the copilot's seat.
"Above your head there is a water ballast release control. At my
command, hit the release."
While Dirk located the button on the overhead console, Giordino
focused his eyes on the altimeter. The dial was rolling backward
quickly from two hundred feet as their descent speed increased.
Giordino hesitated until the dial read sixty feet, then barked:
"Now!" In unison, Giordino yanked back on the yoke while Dirk activatec the
water ballast system, which instantly dumped a thousand pounds of water
stored in a compartment beneath the gondola. Despite the sudden
actions, there was no immediate response from the blimp. The massive
airship moved at its own deliberate pace, and, for an instant Giordino
thought he had acted too late. As the approaching ocean filled the
view out the cockpit windshield in a rush of speed, the nose gently
began to pull up in a sweeping arc. Giordino eased of the yoke to
level the airship as the gondola surged closer toward the sea, its nose
rising with agonizing slowness. With a sudden jolt, the base of the
gondola slapped the water's surface as the airship flattened from out of
its dive but bounded quickly up and off the surface. As every man
aboard held his breath, the blimp staggered forward a short distance
before slowly climbing a few feet above the water and holding steady.
As the seconds ticked by and the airship held in the air, in became
apparent that Giordino had pulled it off. Though risking high-speed
impact, the accelerated dive and last-second ballast release had been
just enough to keep them airborne.
The relieved men in the passenger compartment let out a cheer as
Giordino gingerly coaxed the blimp up to an altitude of one hundred
feet, the big airship slowly stabilizing under his steady hand.
"I guess you showed us who's master of the airship," Dirk laudedl "Yeah, and almost commander of a submarine," Giordino replied as he eased
the nose of the blimp to the east and away from the platform.
"Uprange and away from shore isn't exactly the direction I'd like to be
going at this altitude," he added, eyeing the Koguryo warily out the
window to port. "I radioed Deep Endeavor to get out of the way of the
rocket's flight path, so they should be cutting a wide swath around to
the north. We ought to keep them in sight in case we have to
ditch."
Dirk scanned the horizon, keeping one eye locked on the launch
platform. Far to the southwest, he spotted the distant mass of San
Nicolas Island. Peering to the northeast, he saw a tiny blue dot,
which he knew to be the Deep Endeavor. Then, just to the north of the
NUMA ship, he noticed a small brown mass rising from the sea.
"That landmass up ahead. I recall from the navigation charts that it's
a small channel island called "Santa Barbara." Why don't we head that
way? We can drop the crew there and have Deep Endeavor pick them up
before we get into any more trouble."
"And get back to find your dad," Giordino said, finishing Dirk's
thought. Dirk looked back at the platform with hesitation.
"Can't be much time left," he muttered. "About ten minutes," Giordino replied, wondering like Dirk what Pitt
could possibly pull off in such little time.
Physically surviving A launch on board the Odyssey was not impossible.
When a rocket was fired, the main thrust was directed beneath the
platform at ignition. The Odyssey had been constructed as a reusable
launch platform, and, in fact, had already withstood more than a dozen
launches. The deck, hangar, crew compartment, and pilothouse were all
built to withstand the fiery heat and exhaust generated from a powerful
rocket launch. What a human inhabitant was not likely to survive,
however, was the noxious fumes that engulfed the platform at blastoff.
A massive billow of exhaust from the spent kerosene and liquid oxygen
fuel all but buried the Odyssey in a thick cloud of smoke for several
minutes after liftoff, smothering the breathable air in the vicinity of
the platform.
But that was of little concern to Pitt as he jumped off the elevator
and raced out a back door of the hangar. He had no interest in hanging
around the platform when the Zenit was lit off. Instead, he was
hell-bent on making it to the bright red submersible he saw bobbing
in the water from the pilothouse window. Like a contestant running a
timed obstacle course, Pitt ran, jumped, and hurdled his way across the
platform to the corner column support and sprinted down the steps to the water's edge. In their haste to evacuate the platform, Tongju and
his men had not thought it necessary to let adrift the NUMA sub. Pitt
was thankful to find her still tied to the column steps as he
exhaustedly reached the water's edge.
Untying the line, he jumped aboard and scrambled down the Badger's top
hatch, sealing it closed behind him. In seconds, he had activated the
submersible's power systems and opened the ballast tank for submersion.
Engaging the throttles, he quickly maneuvered away from the Odyssey's
forward column and proceeded down the interior length of the platform
before positioning the submersible for the task at hand. Holding the
submersible steady, Pitt activated the controls to the bow-mounted
coring device and, with just minutes to spare, prayed that his
cockamamie plan would work.
The Korean launch team aboard the Koguryo watched the video screen with
curiosity as the silver blimp touched down on the Odyssey's helipad and
the crew of the platform jammed into the gondola. Kim grimaced with
anger but noted that Tongju remained calm.
"We should have killed the crew and destroyed that airship when we had
the opportunity," Kim hissed as they watched the Icarus lurch off the
platform. An alternate camera was turned toward the blimp, showing the
airship fight for altitude before turning out to sea. Tongju nodded
toward the video image with assurance. "She is overloaded and unable to make speed. We shall easily catch and
destroy her after the launch," he said quietly to Kim.
His eyes returned to the launch countdown and the noisy jabber of the
engineers within the control center. The room was a flurry of activity
and pressure as the final minutes drew to a close. Ling stood
nearby, reviewing the output from a series of launch vehicle
assessments. Beads of sweat rolled from his forehead in tense
anticipation despite the cool temperature of the air-conditioned bay.
For Ling, there was every reason to be nervous. In the world of space
vehicle delivery, there was an astounding rate of mortality. He knew
all too well that roughly one in ten satellite launches ended in
failure, and that the fault could come from a thousand and one sources.
Failure of the rocket at launch was still not an uncommon occurrence,
though most satellite losses were due to deploying the payload in an
incorrect orbit. The short, suborbital flight of the mission at hand
eliminated a great deal of the problematic issues associated with most
rocket flights, but the risk of a catastrophic launch failure never
went away.
Ling breathed easier as he digested the latest status updates. All
critical systems appeared operational. There was nothing to indicate
that the trustworthy Zenit rocket would not fire off in its usual dependable manner. With less than five minutes to go, he turned to
Tongju and spoke with a glimmer of confidence.
"There will be no launch holds. The countdown will proceed
unimpeded."
Their attention turned to the image of the rocket on the video screen
in its last minutes before takeoff. Despite the multitude of studious
eyes converged on the image of the rocket and platform, no one in the
room noticed the tiny movement at the periphery of the picture. Only
the camera saw as a dark-haired man ran to the edge of the platform and
scrambled out of sight down the corner column stairwell.
Pitt had wasted no time in engaging the full set of thrusters that
powered the Badger. Though he knew it was the worst possible place to
be, he quickly guided the submersible down the underbelly length
of the platform and maneuvered the vehicle to a stop alongside the rear
starboard support column. Directly above him was the recessed
launchpad flame deflector, which would route the titanic blast of the
Zenit's thrust toward the sea at liftoff.
Pitt turned the nose of the submersible until it was aimed at the
column, then backed away from the rotund support leg as he submerged
the vessel to a depth of fifteen feet. Using a set of manipulator
controls, he lowered the huge coring probe until it stretched perfectly horizontal in front of the submarine's prow, protruding like a medieval
jousting lance. Pitt braced his feet against the metal deck plate and
muttered, "Okay, Badger, let's see your bite," as he jammed the
throttles to full forward.
The shiny red submersible clawed its way through the water, quickly
gaining speed over the short distance to the column. Pushed by the
full weight and force of the submersible, the coring probe slammed into
the side of the massive steel column with a bang. Pitt held his breath
as he was jolted forward and continued to slide ahead until the nose of
the submersible slapped against the column. Rammed to a halt, he
quickly threw the thrusters in reverse and peered through the surging
bubbles as the submersible backed away from the column. A metallic
grating sound echoed back at him as the probe was drawn roughly off the
column. Through the murky and turbulent water, he caught a glimpse of
the coring probe jutting intact off the bow and he exhaled in relief.
As Pitt had hoped, the momentum of the speedy submersible had driven
the tip of the coring probe cleanly through the side of the support
column, opening an eight-inch-diameter hole.
Pitt felt a little like Ezra Lee on the Turtle. The Revolutionary War
volunteer had attempted to sink a British warship in David Bushnell's
small wooden submarine by drilling a hole in the side and attaching a
mine. Though the attempt failed, the Turtle would be remembered in
history as the first submarine ever used in combat. With the benefit of propulsion, Pitt backed the Badger away twenty feet and adjusted his
depth slightly, then reversed the thrusters and charged into the
column
again. Once more, the probe tore through the outer wall of the column,
leaving a neat round hole for the seawater to pour into.
Though abjectly crude, Pitt's mad ploy had an element of simple genius
to it. He calculated that if there was no way to stop the rocket from
lifting off, then, perhaps, there was a way to change its intended
destination. By creating an imbalance in the platform, he might at
least angle the rocket off its intended flight path. On such a short
flight, the rocket's guidance system would not have sufficient time to
fully correct the deviation and could miss its intended target by
miles. And there was no doubt that the Achilles' heel of the platform
at launch were the rear support columns. With the rocket standing
vertically at the extreme rear edge of the platform, the Odyssey had to
maintain a careful balance to handle the uneven weight distribution
across the entire platform. An active trim-and-heel system utilized
ballast tanks in the columns and pontoons to maintain stability,
managed by six large ballast pumps. By flooding the rear support
columns, there was a chance of destabilizing the launch deck. For
Pitt, it would be a desperate race against the ballast pumps to create
a material imbalance.
Like a passenger on a carnival ride gone amok, Pitt was violently thrown about the submersible as he rammed into the column time and time
again. Electronic equipment was jarred from its mounts, crashing and
flying about his feet with each impact. The nose section of the
submersible soon became battered after repeated collisions with the
column wall and small rivulets of salt water began streaming into the
interior through the damaged seams. But none of this mattered to Pitt.
The risk to himself and the submersible was the last concern on his
mind as the seconds to launch ticked down. One more time, he flung the
force of the submersible against the support column, poking a hole in
its surface like a rampant mosquito, the jab not drawing blood but
letting in a flood of water.
After more than a dozen strikes at the starboard column, Pitt spun the
leaking Badger around and raced toward the rear port support. Glancing
at his Doxa watch, he calculated there was less than two minutes before
liftoff. With a towering crash, he slammed into the other support
column, driving the probe to its base and further crumbling the nose of
the submersible. More water began leaking into the interior but Pitt
ignored it. With salt water sloshing around his feet, he calmly
reversed thrust and backed away for another stab at the column. As he
lined up for another assault, he wondered if his actions were the
futile gesture of an underwater Don Quixote charging at an errant
windmill.
Unknown to Pitt, his very first blow on the starboard support column had activated one of the ballast pumps. As the number of holes and the
amount of inrushing water increased, additional pumps were activated,
until all six pumps were engaged. The pumps operated at the base of
the columns, which were already submerged some forty feet under the
water. While the automated ballast system easily kept each pontoon
level with one another side by side, there was only limited means of
maintaining balance fore and aft. With the water level rising rapidly
in the stern support columns, it didn't take long before Pitt's
drilling overwhelmed the rear ballast pumps. The sinking stern of the
platform created a programming dilemma for the automated stabilization
system. Under normal conditions, the trim-and-heel system would
compensate the aft list by flooding the forward compartments and
lowering the overall platform depth. But the platform was in launch
position and had already been flooded to launching depth. Ballasting
the platform lower, the computer knew, risked damaging the low-hanging
thrust deflectors. In a handful of nanoseconds, the computer program
reviewed its software logic for priority actions. The results came
back unambiguous. During a designated launch countdown, the
stabilization system was to maintain launch depth as its first
priority. The sinking aft columns would be ignored.
Aboard the Koguryo, a red warning light began blinking id the launch
control room with less than two minutes to go. A bespectacled
engineer studied the platform stabilization warning for moment, then
jotted down some notations and briskly stepped over to Ling. "Mr. Ling, we have a platform stabilization warning," he reportec
"What is the deviation?" Ling asked hurriedly.
"An aft list of three degrees."
"That is inconsequential," he replied, brushing off the engineer.
Turning to Tongju, who stood at his side, he said, "A list of five
degrees or less is no cause for concern."
Tongju could almost taste the results of the launch now. There could
be no turning back now.
"Do not halt the launch for any reason," he hissed at Ling in a tense voice.
The chief engineer gritted his teeth and nodded, then stared nervously
at the waiting rocket that stood shimmering on the video screen.
The interior of the Badger was a jumbled mess of tools, computer parts,
and interior pieces that sloshed back and forth across the floor with
each jerk of the sub. Pitt remained oblivious to the carnage as he
rammed the submersible against the platform column for the umpteenth
time. Seawater slapped at his calves as he braced himself for yet
another collision, listening for the warning barn of the core probe as
it punched into the column side. Thrown harshly forward at impact, he detected the smell of burned wiring as yet another electrical component
shorted out from saltwater immersion. Pitt's hammering had turned the
submersible into a shattered hulk of its former self. The rounded
exterior bow had been pounded nearly flat, its coating of glittery red
paint roughly scraped away from the repeated blows. The coring probe
was bent and twisted like a piece of- licorice and barely clung to the
Badger by a pair of mangled brace supports. Inside, the lights
flickered, the water level rose, and the propulsion motors began dying
one by one. Pitt could feel the life ebbing from the submersible as he
listened to the groans and gurgles of the flailing machine. As he
tried to reverse the thrusters and back away from the column, a new
sound struck his ears. It was a deep rushing noise emanating far above
his head.
To the casual observer, the first sign of an imminent rocket blast off
the Sea Launch platform is the roaring rush of fresh water as it is
pumped into the deluge system. At T-5 seconds, a veritable flood of
dampening water is released into the flame trench positioned beneath
the launchpad. The effect of the massive water dousing is to lessen
the thrust exhaust effects to the platform, and, more important,
minimize potential acoustic damage to the payload from the maelstrom at
launch.
At T-3 seconds, the Zenit rocket begins groaning and stirring as its
internal mechanisms are activated and the massive rocket comes to life. Inside its metal skin, a high-speed turbine pump begins force-feeding
the volatile liquid propellant through an injector into the rocket
engine's four combustion chambers. Inside each chamber, an igniter is
activated, detonating the propellant in what amounts to a controlled
explosion. The exhaust from the fiery detonation, seeking the path of
least resistance, comes blasting out of each chamber through a
constricted nozzle at the base of the rocket. The power of thrust is
generated by the purged exhaust, enabling the Zenit rocket to defy the
force of gravity and lift itself off the launchpad.
But the final three seconds of countdown are all critical. In those
brief few seconds, onboard computer systems quickly monitor the engine
start-up, checking propellant mixture, flow rates, ignition
temperature, and a host of other mechanical readings affecting engine
burn. If a significant deviation is discovered in any of the engine
parameters, the automated control system takes over, shutting down the
engine and scrubbing the launch. A reinitialization of the entire
launch process is then required, which may take upward of five days
before another launch can be attempted.
Ling ignored the video screen of the Zenit at the launch tower and
instead stared at a computer display of critical measurements as the
final seconds of the launch countdown ticked toward zero. At T-1
second, a row of green lights burst onto the screen and Ling allowed
himself a slight breath of relief. "We have main engine thrust up!" he shouted aloud as the display told
him the computers were ramping up the rocket's RD-171 engine to maximum
launch thrust. Every eye in the room turned to the video screen as the
propellant floodgates were opened and the fuel burst
through the rocket's engine in a torrent. For a long second, the
rocket sat still on the pad as the fiery exhaust burst from its
nozzles, the flames licking the water deluge and spraying a thick cloud
of white smoke beneath the platform. Then, with a burgeoning burst of
power, the Zenit surged up off the pad. The launch tower clamps fell
away as the white rocket, erupting with 1.8 million pounds of thrust,
climbed up past the tower and into the sky with a blinding glare and
deafening roar.
A cheer rang through the launch control center as the engineers watched
the Zenit rise successfully off the platform. Ling broke into a broad
smile as the rocket climbed higher, grinning good-naturedly at Tongju.
Kang's henchman simply nodded back in satisfaction.
At the far side of the bay, the bespectacled engineer who monitored the
platform continued to stare mesmerized at the video image of the rocket
as it climbed into the crisp blue sky. Oblivious to him was the
computation on his computer monitor, which showed that the platform
stabilization deviation had continued to rise, creeping past fifteen
degrees in the last seconds prior to launch. Fifteen feet beneath the water's surface, Pitt's ears were bleeding
from the acoustical barrage. What started with the sound of a distant
freight train had rumbled into the bombardment of a thousand erupting
volcanoes as the Zenit's engine reached full thrust. The deafening
sound, Pitt knew, was only a warning of the real savagery to come. The
building force of the rocket's exhaust was deflected into the flame
trench, where thousands of gallons of water dampened the inferno. The
blasting force of the exhaust was little repressed, however, gathering
into a steaming cloud of fury that proceeded past the deflectors to the
open sea below the platform, where it pounded the water like a
sledgehammer.
Positioned almost directly beneath the launchpad, the Badger was
pummeled like a small toy, surging twenty feet down in a blast of
bubbles and vapor. Pitt felt as if he were trapped in a washing
machine as the submersible was tossed violently about. The seams of
the vessel twisted and groaned from the force of the surge and the
interior lights flickered from the shaking. A loose battery pack
bounced off Pitt's head, gashing his temple as the submersible nearly
turned turtle in the bellowing turbulence. Shaking off the blow, he
discovered a new worry when he braced a hand against the bulkhead
during a side roll. To his surprise, the bulkhead was searing hot. He
quickly pulled his hand away, cursing as he shook it in the air to cool. A sickening thought drew over him as he felt a heavy mist of
sweat dripping down his forehead and realized the water sloshing at his
feet was rapidly warming. The rocket's exhaust was creating a boiling
tempest around him, which might poach him alive before the rocket
cleared the platform.
A second, more powerful surge stuck the submersible as the rocket's
full thrust came to bear. The force of the current pushed the Badger
charging through the water in a contorted angle, nearly on its side.
Pitt clung to the controls for balance, unable to see ahead through the
turbulent water, which offered no visibility. Had he an inkling where
the submersible was headed, he might have braced himself for the
impact. But the collision came without warning.
Ripping with the surge like a raft down the Colorado River, the
submersible tore head-on into the side of the Odyssey's flooded port
pontoon. A metallic clap thundered through the water as the
submersible smacked against the immovable hull. Pitt was jerked from
the pilot's seat and flung against the forward bulkhead amid a rain of
loosened electronic debris as the interior lights fell black and a
series of hissing sounds erupted throughout the compartment. A
grinding noise told Pitt that the Badger was sliding along the pontoon
until another clang erupted and the submersible tilted over to one side
and jerked to a sudden stop. As Pitt collected his senses, he realized
that the submersible was wedged against the platform hull from the
force of the rushing water, perhaps entangled in one of the pontoon's drive propellers. Turned on its side against the huge pontoon, there was no way
that Pitt could open the entry hatch, dare he try to flood the interior
and escape to the surface. With a sickening awe, he realized that if
he wasn't soon baked alive he would face a swift death by drowning
trapped inside the leaking submersible.
Six thousand miles away, Kang smiled weakly as he watched a satellite
feed of the rocket bursting off the deck of the Odyssey.
"We have opened the genie's bottle," he said quietly to Kwan, sitting
across his desk. "Let us hope he follows his master's wishes."
Tongju watched intently as the Zenit climbed up past the launch tower
with a thundering reverberation that could be felt even inside the
bowels of the Koguryo's control center. A lingering applause still
rang through the control center as the jubilant launch crew cheered the
rocket's ascent. Ling afforded himself a wide smile as the computer
display told him that the Zenit's engine was operating at full thrust.
He peered at Tongju, who returned the glance by nodding tight-lipped in
approval.
"The mission is still far from over," Ling said, visibly relieved that
the rocket was finally under way. But the riskiest phase of the
mission was behind them now, he knew. Once the rocket was ignited, he
had little control, if any, over the outcome of the mission. With a quiet uneasiness, he settled in as a spectator to monitor the balance
of the flight.
From the cockpit of the Icarus, Al, Dirk, and Jack watched with dread
as the blast of the rocket shook across the open sea. Just seconds
before, Giordino had eased the struggling airship down onto a flat
clearing atop Santa Barbara Island, where the relieved Sea Launch crew
quickly jumped out of the overcrowded gondola. Captain Chris-tiano
hesitated at the cockpit doorway, stopping to shake hands.
"Thank you for saving my crew," Christiano said through a grim face
pained with disgrace for losing command of the Odyssey.
"Now that we can get airborne again, we'll make sure they don't get
away," Dirk replied with shared anger. He then pointed out the cockpit
windshield toward an approaching blue dot on the horizon.
"The Deep Endeavor's on her way. Get your men down to the shoreline
and prepare to transfer aboard."
Christiano nodded then stepped off the gondola, leaving it empty save
for Jack.
"All ashore," he uttered into the cockpit.
"Then let's get this gasbag back into the sky," Giordino grunted, turning the propeller ducts upward and advancing the throttles. With
roughly eight thousand pounds of human cargo suddenly off-loaded, the
blimp rose easily into the air. As Giordino aimed the airship back
toward the Odyssey, their eyes collectively caught the first billows of
smoke that indicated the launch was initiated.
The fuming exhaust of the burning liquid oxygen and kerosene propellant
bursting against the platform's water dampener system created a massive
white cloud of vapor that quickly enveloped the entire platform and
surrounding sea. For what seemed like minutes, the Zenit stood still
at the launch tower. To the men in the airship, there was a hopeful
moment where it appeared that the rocket was not going to leave the
pad, but finally the tall white rocket began to rise, its blinding
exhaust glaring like a fireball. Even a half-dozen miles across the
water, they could hear the sharp crackling sound of the combusting fuel
as the hot explosive thrust met the cool surrounding air, creating the
echo of an ax ripping through a pine log.
Though it was a powerful, almost beautiful sight, Dirk felt a sickening
knot in his stomach as he watched the rocket ascend. The glistening
white missile would host the most savage terrorist attack the world had
ever seen, resulting in a horrifying death for millions. And he had
failed to stop it. As if that was not punishment enough, he knew that
Sarah was somewhere in the target area of Los Angeles and might very
well be one of the strike's first victims. And then there was the fate of his father. Glancing forlornly at Giordino, he saw a grimace on the
old Italian's face the likes of which he had never seen before. It was
not a look of anger with the terrorists but an expression of concern
for the loss of a lifelong friend. As much as Dirk did not want to
face it, he knew that amid the noxious inferno of the rocket's blastoff
his father was somewhere on the platform fighting for his survival, or
worse.
Aboard the Deep Endeavor, Summer felt the same pangs of dread swell
through her body. Dirk had radioed the ship with news that the Sea
Launch crew had been rescued, but also that their father was somewhere
aboard the platform. When Delgado was the first to observe the rocket
igniting, she thought her legs had turned to rubber.
Grasping the captain's chair for support, she stared stoically toward
the platform as tears welled in her eyes. All fell silent on the
bridge around her as they watched in disbelief at the rocket as it
surged off the launchpad. As one, their thoughts were on the fate of
the NUMA leader, lost somewhere in the rocket's white plume of smoke.
"It can't be," Burch muttered in shock. "It just can't be."
Inside the Badger, the temperature was unbearable. The superheated
metal skin created a sauna effect with the water that was rising
inside. Pitt could feel himself on the verge of passing out from the
heat as he clawed his way back to the tilted pilot's seat. A handful
of lights still blinked on the control panel, indicating that the emergency life-support system still had power, but the propulsion
systems were long expired. Though his body was numb from the heat, his
mind quickly calculated that he had one chance to break free from the
grip of the pontoon. Through sweat-laden eyes, he reached forward and
mashed a control button market ballast pump. Then, grasping the
control yoke, he flung himself backward into the rising water, using
his full weight and remaining strength to yank the sub's rudder against
the burgeoning current. The rudder blade protested at first, then
swung slowly against the rushing water, fighting against Pitt's every
movement. With muscles aching and spots appearing before his eyes,
Pitt clung desperately to the yoke, fighting not to pass out. For a
second, nothing happened. All Pitt could hear was the
churning torrent of the water rushing against the sub, while the
temperature inside continued to rise. Then, almost imperceptibly, a
grinding noise struck his ears. Gradually, the noise grew louder,
matching the sound he had heard before. A faint smile crossed Pitt's
lips as he fought to maintain consciousness. Hang on, he told himself,
gripping the yoke tightly. Just hang on.
An eagle-eyed flight engineer, standing on a rocky hilltop of Santa
Barbara Island amid his stunned Sea Launch colleagues, was the first to
detect it. A subtle, almost invisible waggle at the base of the rocket
as it cleared the launch tower.
"She's oscillating," he said aloud. His surrounding crewmates, exhausted and stunned by the entire ordeal,
ignored his words and watched in angry disbelief as somebody else
launched their rocket from their platform. But as the rocket climbed
higher and higher into the sky, more of the experienced launch veterans
detected something amiss with the flight trajectory. At first, just a
murmur rippled through the assembled crew; then, an excited buzz jolted
the men like an electric shock. One man started to yell, cursing at
the rocket to burst, and then another followed suit. Before long, the
entire crew was jumping up and down while shouting at the soaring
rocket, cajoling the mechanical beast like some last-dollar bettors
urging a long-shot nag to the wire at Pimlico.
On board the Koguryo, the excitement of the launch had yet to wane when
a seated flight engineer turned to Ling and said, "Sir, the Stage One
engine indicates an active gimbaling beyond nominal flight plan
parameters."
The Zenit-3SL, like most modern rockets, was steered in flight by
adjusting, or gimbaling, the launch vehicle's engine, redirecting its
thrust to govern the rocket's heading. As Ling was aware, the initial
launch sequence called for no gimbaling until the rocket was in a
stabilized climb, then the navigation system would initiate slight
steering adjustments to guide the rocket toward the target. Only an
undetected imbalance would create an immediate steering correction from
launch. Ling walked over to the engineer's station and peered at the man's
computer monitor. His mouth fell open as he saw that the rocket's
engine was gimbaled to its maximum degree. He watched in silence as, a
second later, the engine adjusted back to its neutral position, then
gimbaled to the full extent in the opposite direction. Almost
immediately, the whole cycle started over again. Ling immediately
surmised the cause.
"Choi, what was the launchpad horizontal deviation at T-0?" he shouted
to the platform engineer.
The engineer looked back sheepishly at Ling and uttered in a barely
audible voice, "Sixteen degrees."
"No!" Ling gasped in a raspy voice as his eyes scrunched closed in a
panic of disbelief. The color rushed from Ling's face and he felt
himself grasping the computer monitor to steady his suddenly weakening
knees. With dire foresight, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at
the video screen of the charging rocket, waiting for the inevitable.
Pitt had no way of knowing the impact from his frenetic hole drilling.
But the dozens of gouges poked into the side of the support columns had
opened up a flood of incoming seawater that quickly overpowered the
Odyssey's ballast pumps. With the automated controls set to maintain the prescribed launch depth, the incoming water collected in the rear
support columns and tugged the platform down by its aft side. Firing
off the platform, the Zenit rocket was over fifteen degrees off
vertical center as it left the launchpad and immediately tried to
correct the deviation from its prescribed flight plan by shifting the
engine thrust. But at the low speed of takeoff, the initial command
was diluted so the engine position was tweaked again to its maximum
adjustment. As the launch vehicle gained speed, the adjustment quickly
became an over correction and the rocket's computers gimbaled the
engine in the opposite direction to counterbalance the movement. Under
normal conditions, the rocket might have been able to stabilize itself
with a few minor adjustments. But on this flight, the Zenit's fuel
tanks were only half full. The partially empty fuel tanks allowed the
liquid propellant to slosh back and forth during the thrust
inclinations, creating a whole new set of balancing dynamics. The
overtaxed stabilization control system tried vainly to smooth the
flight but, ultimately, exacerbated the situation and the rocket began
to waffle.
On video screens and satellite feeds, out an airship cockpit window,
and from a barren rocky island in the Pacific Ocean, a thousand eyes
stared transfixed at the streaming white rocket as it began a slow and
morbid gyration across the sky. What started as a slight wobble at
liftoff grew into a continuous waggle during ascent until the entire
rocket was shaking uncontrollably toward the clouds like an anorexic
belly dancer. Had Sea Launch been managing the flight, an automated safety control would have detonated the rocket as it veered out of
parameter. But the abort command had been deleted from the flight
software by Kang's crew and the Zenit was left to struggle upward in a
tortuous dance of death.
To the unbelieving sight of those who watched, the huge rocket swung
wildly in the sky before tearing itself apart from the inside out and
literally snapping in two. The lower Stage immediately disintegrated
in a massive fireball as the fuel tanks were simultaneously ignited,
swallowing everything in its radius with a cauldron of flame. Chunks
and pieces of rocket machinery not dissolved by the explosion rained
down over a swath of empty sea, while the high-altitude
mushroom cloud from the explosion hung in the blue sky as if painted
there.
The nose cone and upper stage of the Zenit oddly sailed free of the
carnage and continued speeding across the sky like a streaking bullet,
fueled only by momentum. In a graceful parabolic arc, the
smoke-trailed payload gradually lost energy and nosed down toward the
Pacific, smacking the surface with a watery geyser of debris miles
downrange from the initial explosion. As the sudden sound of silence
drifted over the water, the stunned observers stared miraculously at
the white rainbow of smoke that trailed the death flight and arched
quietly from horizon to horizon. ON A rocky beach of Santa Barbara Island, an elephant seal awoke from a
leisurely nap and cocked an ear toward the inland. The odd sound of
cheering wafted down the hillside from thirty or so men congregated on
a small bluff. The seal looked quizzically up at the disheveled group
of men, then stretched back out and resumed his nap.
For the first time in their lives, the Sea Launch platform crew of
technicians and engineers were happy to witness a launch failure. Men
cheered and whistled while others poked their fists in the air in
celebratory victory. As the launch vehicle blew up above their heads,
even Christiano grinned a sigh of relief as Platform Launch Manager
Ohlrogge slapped him on the back.
"Somebody was smiling down on us for once," Ohlrogge said.
"Thank God. Whatever those bastards were trying to launch could not
have been good."
"One of my flight engineers noted a roll oscillation right from launch.
Must have been a nozzle adjustment malfunction, or a stabilization
issue with the platform."
Christiano thought of Pitt and his comment before departing the
Odyssey. "Maybe that fellow from NUMA worked some magic." "If so, we owe him big."
"Yes, and somebody owes me, too," Christiano replied.
Ohlrogge looked at the captain quizzically.
"That was a ninety-million-dollar launch vehicle that just went up in
flames. There will be hell to pay when we pass that bill to the
insurer," the captain said, finally letting loose a laugh.
Kang flinched as he watched the satellite feed of the Zenit
disintegrate before his eyes. As the camera caught pieces of falling
debris, he silently reached for the remote control and turned off the
monitor.
"Though the strike has failed, the specter of the attack will still
represent a serious provocation to the American public," Kwan assured
his boss. "Anger will be high and the fallout against Japan
significant."
"Yes, our staged media security leaks should ensure that," Kang said,
suppressing his anger at the failure. "But the disappearance of the
Koguryo and launch team remains at hand. Their capture would corrupt
much of our hard work to date." "Tongju will fulfill his duties. He always has," Kwan replied.
Kang stared at the darkened television monitor for a moment, then
slowly nodded.
The mood in the Koguryo\ launch control center quickly turned from joy
to shock to sullen disappointment. In an instant, the mission
requirements of the launch team fell away and the assembled technicians
and engineers sat silently at their computer stations, staring at the
displays that no longer provided any launch data. No one seemed to
know what to do next and whispered quietly with one another.
Tongju threw a long, frigid glare toward Ling, then left the control
center without saying a word. As he made his way toward the bridge, he
called Kim on a portable radio and spoke briefly in a low voice. On
the bridge, he found Captain Lee staring out the starboard bridge
window at the smoke-trailed rain of debris that scarred the blue sky
with white strips of vapor.
"She shook herself apart," he said with wonder, then looked into the
blank eyes of Tongju.
"A problem with the platform," Tongju replied. "We must evacuate the
area immediately. Can we get moving at once?"
"We are standing by for departure. We just need to hoist in the tender, then we can be under way."
"There is no time," he hissed suddenly. "The American Coast Guard and
Navy may already be looking for us. Proceed under full power at once,
and I will personally cut the tender loose."
Lee looked at Tongju warily, then nodded.
"As you wish. Our course is already laid in. We shall make for
Mexican waters, then divert under cover of darkness for the rendezvous
position."
Tongju took a step to exit the bridge, then stopped suddenly. Out of
the forward window, he gazed at the smoke-enshrouded Sea Launch
platform. Approaching the platform from the northwest was the silver
blimp, now cruising several hundred feet above the water. Tongju waved
an arm in the direction of the Icarus.
"Alert your surface-to-air missile team. Take out that airship
immediately," he spat, then vanished out the door.
As the Roguryo's twin four-bladed propellers began churning the water
beneath the ship's hull, Tongju hustled his way back to the
portable stairwell that ran down the vessel's port flank. At the base of the stairwell bobbed the white tender, a mooring line tied across to
the railing. He noted bubbles of smoke rising from the boat's stern,
alerting him that the engine was running at idle. Quickly untying the
line, he coiled it in his hand and waited until the next passing wave
pushed the tender up against the side of the ship. With barely a step,
he hopped aboard the bow of the boat and shuffled toward the cabin,
tossing the coiled line into an empty bucket on deck. Inside the
cabin, he found Kim and two of his commandos standing beside the wheel.
"Everything aboard?" Tongju asked.
Kim nodded. "During the excitement of the launch, we moved our arms
and provisions on board, and even hoisted extra fuel aboard, without
any interference." Kim tilted his head toward the rear open deck where
four fifty-five-gallon drums of gasoline were tied off against the
gunwale.
"Let us drift off the stern for a moment, then we shall make our run to
Ensenada. When will the charges detonate?" Kim glanced at his watch.
"In twenty-five minutes." "Plenty of time for the missile crew to
destroy the airship." The Koguryo quickly churned away from the small
boat as the tender continued to idle in the low swells. When the
former cable ship had cleared a quarter mile of open water, Kim moved
the throttles to slow and crept forward with the bow pointed southeast.
In no time, he figured, they would look like another ordinary fishing
charter heading home to San Diego. Long after the Zenit had climbed into the sky and detonated, a thick
cloud of white smoke still hung over the Odyssey like a fog bank Ever
so gently, the light sea breeze began poking holes through the exhaust,
revealing sporadic patches of the launch platform through the haze.
"Looks like a bowl of clam chowder down there," Giordino said as he
banked the Icarus over the platform. While Giordino and Dahlgren
visually surveyed the platform for any signs of Pitt, Dirk activated
the LASH system and scanned for optical anomalies that might signify a
human being.
"Don't quote me but I think that baby is sinking," Dahlgren said as
they glided around the aft end of the platform and could make out an
exposed section down to the water. The men in the gondola could
clearly see that the aft support columns appeared shorter than the bow
columns.
a "She's definitely taking on water in the stern," Dirk replied...
"Wonder if that's the handiwork of your old man? He may have just
cost somebody a new rocket," Giordino said. "And maybe a new
launchpad," Dahlgren added.
"But where is he?" Dirk asked aloud. They could all detect that there
was no apparent sign of life on the platform. "The smoke is starting to clear. Once the helipad opens up, I'll take
us in for a closer look," Giordino replied.
As they drifted back toward the bow of the platform, Dahlgren looked
down and grimaced.
"Damn. The Badger's gone, too. Must have sank during the launch."
The threesome fell quiet, reflecting that the disappearance of the
submersible was the least of their losses.
Three miles to the south, a gunnery crewman on the Koguryo was
transferring the radar-derived coordinates of the blimp into a Chinese
CSA-4 surface-to-air missile guidance system. The slow-moving airship
was as easy an objective as the gunnery crew could ever hope to target.
With such a large object at close range, the odds of failing to strike
the blimp were nearly zero.
In an enclosed room adjacent to the dual missile canister, a weapons
control expert stood at a console transferring the firing guidance
through a missile command link. A row of green lights flashed at him
as the engagement radar embedded in the missile acknowledged a tar-get
lock. The man immediately picked up a telephone receiver that ran
directly to the bridge. "Target acquired and missile armed," he said in monotone to Captain
Lee. "Awaiting orders to fire."
Lee looked out a bridge side window toward the blimp hovering over the
platform in the distance. The high-powered missile exploding into the
airship would make for a spectacular display, he thought childishly.
Perhaps they should also destroy the distant turquoise vessel that
lingered on the edge of their radar screen and then make a clean
escape. But, first things first. He moved the receiver to his mouth
to issue the command to fire when suddenly his lips froze. His eyes
had detected a small pair of dark objects emerging from behind the
airship. He stood frozen and watched as the objects quickly
materialized into a pair of low-flying aircraft.
The F-16D Falcon fighter jets had been scrambled from an Air National
Guard base in Fresno minutes after a NORAD satellite had detected the
launch of the Zenit rocket. While flying toward the launch site, the
pilots were directed to the Koguryo with the help of the Coast Guard
distress call that had originated from the Deep Endeavor. The sleek
gray jets flew low above the water and burst over the Koguryo just a
few hundred feet above her fore bridge The crackling roar of the jets'
engines struck a second after their shadows had whisked by overhead,
rattling the windows of the bridge where Lee stood with a sickened look
on his face. "Stand down! Stand down and secure the battery!" he barked over the
phone. As the SAM was stowed away, Lee watched as the two fighter jets
gained altitude and began crisply circling the fast-moving ship.
"You!" he cursed at a crewman standing nearby. "Find Tongju and bring
him to the bridge ... at once."
The men in the blimp beamed in relief at the sight of the Air National
Guard jets circling above the Koguryo, having no idea how close they
were to being blasted out of the sky by the ship's SAM battery. They
knew that a horde of Navy ships was on the way and that there was
little chance the ship would escape apprehension now. They again
turned their attention to the smoke-covered platform below.
"The haze is lifting off the helipad," Giordino observed. "I'll set
her down if you boys want to jump off and take a look around."
"Absolutely," Dirk replied. "Jack, we can start with the bridge, then
move down to the hangar if the air is breathable."
"I'd start with the ship's lounge," Giordino said, trying to cut the
somber mood. "If he's okay, my money says he's mixing a martini and
eating up the ship's store of pretzels."
Giordino swung the blimp wide of the platform, bringing the airship
around with its nose into the wind. As he lined upon the helipad and began dropping altitude, Dahlgren stuck his head back into the cockpit
and pointed out the side window.
"Take a look over there," he said.
Several hundred feet off the side of the platform, a sudden surge of
bubbles erupted from beneath the surface. A few seconds later, a
mottled gray metallic object broke the surface.
"Launch debris?" Dahlgren asked.
"No, it's the Badger^" Giordino exclaimed.
Guiding the airship toward the object, the three men could see that it
was in fact the NUMA submersible bobbing low in the water. The
underwater vehicle's bright metallic paintwork had been cooked off in
the launch blast, leaving its skin a dappled mix of primer and bare
metal. The bow section was bent and mangled, as if it had been
involved in a head-on traffic accident. How the thing still managed to
float was anybody's guess, but there was no denying it was
the experimental submersible Dirk and Dahlgren had sailed to the
platform.
As Giordino brought the blimp down for a closer look, the three men were stunned to see the top hatch suddenly twist and pop open. A cloud
of steaming vapor streamed from the open hatch as they looked on
incredulously. For several agonizing seconds, their eyes hung glued to
the hatch, hoping against hope. Finally, they saw the odd apparition
of a pair of stockinged feet rise up and out of the hatch. A patch of
dark hair then appeared and they realized that the feet they observed
were actually hands covered in a pair of socks. The stocking-wrapped
hands, protected from the hot metal, quickly hoisted up the lean,
racked body of their owner from the enclosed oven.
"It's Dad! He's okay!" Dirk exclaimed with glaring relief.
Pitt climbed to his feet and swayed on the rocking sub, sucking in
lungfuls of the cool ocean air. He was a haggard mass of blood and
sweat, and his clothes stuck to him as if they were glued to his skin.
But his eyes shined as he looked skyward and threw a jaunty wave to the
men in the gondola.
"Going down," Giordino announced as he proceeded to guide the blimp
down toward the sea until the gondola was skimming just inches above
the waves. With a deft touch, Giordino gently eased the blimp
alongside the submersible. Pitt leaned down and secured the Badger's
top hatch, then took a few steps and staggered into the open door of
the gondola, where Dirk and Dahlgren grabbed his arms and yanked him
safely aboard. "I believe," he said to Giordino in a dry parched voice, "I'll take
that drink now."
Pitt slipped into the blimp's copilot seat and gulped down a bottled
water as Al, Dirk, and Jack described the fiery disintegration of the
Zenit rocket minutes before. While studying the vapor trails in the
sky and eyeing the Koguryo fleeing in the distance, Pitt countered with
a description of his drilling attack on the Odyssey's support columns
and the tumultuous assault from the wake of the blastoff.
"And here I had good money down that you were lolling about in the
Odyssey's lounge nursing a martini," Giordino grumbled.
"I was the one shaken and stirred," Pitt laughed. "Would have been
baked alive when the Badger got jammed against the side pontoon, but I
was able to manually force the rudder against the surge and broke free
into cooler water. Even with the ballast tanks purged, it took me a
while to surface until I got the bilge pump working. There's still a
lot of water sloshing around inside, but she should stay afloat a while
longer."
"I'll radio Deep Endeavor and have her fish the Badger out once they've
picked up the platform crew on Santa Barbara Island," Giordino
replied. "I will have a furious sister on my hands if you first don't let her
know you are safe," Dirk chided.
Summer nearly fell over when her father's voice crackled through the
Deep Endeavor's radio, jokingly ordering a beer and a peanut butter
sandwich.
"We feared the worst," she gushed. "What on earth happened to you?"
"It's a long story. Suffice it to say that the Scripps Institute isn't
going to be too happy with my submarine-driving skills," he said,
leaving all on the bridge of the Deep Endeavor scratching their
heads.
As Giordino lifted the airship up off the water, Pitt noticed the F-16s
circling the fleeing Koguryo.
"Cavalry finally arrive?" he asked.
"Just moments ago. The Navy has an armada headed this way as well.
She's not going to get away."
"Her tender is sure making haste," Pitt said, nodding toward a white
speck to the south. Lost in the spectacle and confusion was the Koguryo's tender, which had
slipped quietly away from her mother ship and was now motoring south
toward the horizon at high speed.
"How do you know that's her tender?" Giordino asked, squinting
downrange.
"Over here," Pitt replied, tapping the WE SCAM monitor. Pitt had been
fooling around with the zoom lens while talking and happened to catch
the speeding boat flashing by. The focused image clearly showed it was
the Koguryo's tender, which they had observed earlier.
"The jets definitely aren't tracking her," Dirk said from the rear,
noting the F-16s circling tightly around the Koguryo as she sailed
farther to the west.
"Let's stay on her," Pitt stated.
"She has nary a chance against our fleet wings aflutter," Giordino
snarled, pushing the throttles to full and watching as the airspeed
indicator crept slowly toward 50 knots.
Why haven't they fired on the aircraft, or that infernal airship?"
Tongju swore as he stared at the Koguryo through a pair of binoculars.
The bouncing movement of the tender as it ran at full speed through the waves made it impossible for him to steady his gaze and he finally
threw the glasses down harshly onto a cowling.
"The aircraft have intimidated Lee," Kim said over his shoulder as he
clutched the steering wheel tightly. "He will pay with his life in
about two more minutes."
The Koguryo was growing smaller on the horizon as the tender
accelerated south. But when the planted explosives detonated, they
could clearly see puffs of water spray into the air along the ship's
hull line.
Standing on the bridge, Captain Lee at first thought that the F-16s had
fired on him. But the warbirds still circled lazily above, and there
was no sign that they had fired any missiles. As the damage
assessments came in reporting that the lower hull was compromised in
several locations, Lee suddenly realized the culprit. Minutes before,
a
crewman had reported observing Kim and Tongju board the tender and the
small boat was now seen running south at high speed. With a sick
sensation of betrayal, Lee knew that he and his ship had been deemed
expendable.
But a miscalculation would save them. Kim's demolition team had
planted ample explosives to rip the bowels out of a normal ship Koguryo's size. But a critical piece of information about the cable
ship had not been considered: she had a double hull. The detonated
charges easily ruptured the vessel's inner hull but only buckled the
plates of the outer hull. Seawater gushed into the lower holds, but
not with the massive force that would submerge the running ship as
Tongju had envisioned. Lee immediately stopped the ship, deployed
portable pumps to the damaged holds, and then sealed off the high-risk
areas behind watertight doors. The ship would list and be unable to
run at speed but she would not founder.
Once the flooding was halted, the captain peered through a set of field
glasses at the speeding tender escaping in the distance. Lee knew that
he had little to live for now. As the captain of the vessel that
launched the aborted missile attack against the United States, he would
be the prime scapegoat if captured. If he somehow escaped, or was
released, there would be no telling what sort of reception he'd receive
from Kang. Satisfied that the ship was stabilized, Lee excused himself
from the bridge and retired to his cabin. Retrieving a Chinese-made
Makarov 9mm pistol from beneath a dresser drawer filled with pressed
shirts, Lee lay down neatly on his bed, held the barrel to his ear, and
pulled the trigger.
While pursuing the speeding tender, the men in the Icarus caught sight
of the series of explosions that ripped along the hull of the Koguryo.
"Are those lunatics trying to scuttle her with all hands?" Dahlgren wondered.
For several minutes, they watched the ship as she slowed but held
steady. Pitt noticed that there was no apparent rush for the
lifeboats, and he could see several members of the crew standing idly
at the rail watching the jets overhead. He studied the waterline for a
significant change but could only detect a slight list.
"She's not going to disappear on us anytime soon," he said. "Let's
keep after the tender."
Giordino glanced at the LASH system output on the laptop computer,
spotting several gray shapes to the southeast approximately thirty
miles away.
"Our Navy pals are on the way," he said, tapping the screen. "They
won't be alone for long."
With a nearly 20-knot advantage in speed, the airship began easily
gaining ground on the fleeing white boat. The Icarus had only ascended
to a five-hundred-foot altitude when Giordino gave chase and he didn't
waste power on any further climbing. The blimp glided smoothly toward
the boat's wake, driving fast and low over the water. As the airship
moved closer, Pitt focused the surveillance camera on the boat's open
rear deck and cabin. Through the covered portico, he could only make
out indiscriminate shapes at the helm. "I count four men above decks," he said.
"Apparently, they're not ones for a crowded escape," Giordino
replied.
Pitt scanned the camera about the deck, relieved to find no heavy
armament but noting the extra drums of fuel near the stern.
"Plenty of gas for a run to Mexico," he said.
"I think our Coast Guard friends in San Diego might have something to
say about that," Giordino replied, tightening his bearing on the
boat.
Tongju and his men had been focused on the Koguryo, but one of the
commandos finally noticed the approaching blimp. While Kim
manned the helm, the other three men instinctively stepped to the rear
open deck to better observe the airship. Pitt focused the zoom lens of
the camera on the men until their faces could clearly be
distinguished.
"Recognize any of these characters?" Pitt asked over his shoulder to
Dirk and Dahlgren. The younger Pitt studied the screen for just a moment before gritting
his teeth hard. The flash of anger subsided quickly, though, as a
contented smile returned to his face.
"The Fu Manchu character standing in the center. His name is Tongju.
He's Kang's master of ceremonies for torture and assassination.
Appeared to be calling the shots aboard the Odyssey earlier."
"For such a nice guy, it would be kind of a shame to ruin his Mexican
vacation," Giordino replied.
As he spoke, he dipped the prow of the blimp down and held steady as
the airship slowly dove toward the water. When it looked like he was
going to drive the nose into the sea, Giordino gently pulled up on the
controls, leveling the gondola just fifty feet above the water. The
Icarus had closed the gap between the two vessels during the dive, and
Giordino guided the airship along the port side of the tender until the
gondola was suspended side by side.
"You want to step off and have a beer with these guys?" Pitt asked as
he eyed the men on the boat just a few dozen feet away.
"No, just want to let them know that they ain't going to outrun Mad Al
and his Magic Bag of Gas," he grinned. Giordino eased back on the throttles until he matched speeds with the
bouncing tender, the large envelope of the blimp casting a shadow over
the topsides of the boat. Above the din of the tender's twin inboard
engines and the airship's Porsche motor-driven propellers, the men in
the Icarus suddenly detected an unwelcome staccato. Glancing back at
the tender, Pitt saw that Tongju and the two commandos had retrieved
automatic weapons and were standing on the stern deck blasting away at
the blimp.
"I hate to be the one to tell you but they're shooting holes in your
gasbag, Mad Al," Pitt said.
"The jealous lowlifes," Giordino replied, goosing the throttles.
Before departing Oxnard, they had been told that the airship could
withstand a profusion of holes and gashes to the air bags and still
retain its lift. Tongju and his men would have to exhaust a crate of
ammunition to threaten the airworthiness of the helium-filled blimp.
But the safety of the gondola was less assured. After a momentary
pause in the firing, the floor of the main cabin suddenly erupted in a
spray of splinters as the gunmen redirected their weapons at the
gondola.
"Everybody down!" Pitt yelled as a burst of fire smashed the side
cockpit window, the bullets grazing just over his head. The sound of shattering glass resonated through the cabin as a rain of bullets
poured into the gondola. Dirk and Dahlgren lay flat on the floor as
several bursts stitched past them and into the ceiling above. Giordino
jammed the throttles all the way forward, and, while waiting anxiously
for the blimp to speed ahead, turned the yoke full to port to turn away
from the tender.
"No," Pitt yelled at him, "turn and fly over him."
Giordino knew not to question Pitt's judgment and, without hesitation,
threw the rudder over in the opposite direction, pushing the Icarus
back toward the tender. Glancing at Pitt, he could see him studying
the tender below with an arched brow. The blistering fire continued to
tear into the gondola for a second, then abruptly stopped as Giordino
steered the gondola above and slightly ahead of the tender's cabin
roof, temporarily obscuring the field of fire.
"Everyone all right?" Pitt asked.
"We're okay back here," Dirk replied, "but one of the engines isn't
faring too well."
As the sound of gunfire fell away, the men could hear sputtering and
coughing emanating from the starboard gondola motor. Giordino glanced
at the console gauges and shook his head. "Oil pressure falling, temperature rising. Going to be tough to run
away from these guys on one leg."
Pitt peered down at the deck of the tender, spotting Tongju and the two
gunmen moving toward the stern of the boat reloading their weapons.
"Al, hold your position," he said. "And lend me your cigar."
"It's one of Sandecker's finest," he replied, hesitating before handing
Pitt the saliva-soaked green stub.
"I'll buy you a box of 'em. Hold steady for ten seconds, then turn
hard to port and get us the hell away from the boat."
"You're not going to do what I think you are?" Giordino asked.
Pitt just flashed a sly look, then reached up for an overhead ripcord
with one hand while he turned a dial marked fuel ballast to the open
position. Pulling on the cord, he silently counted to eight, then
released the line and closed the lever. At the stern of the gondola,
an emergency dump valve opened on the fuel tank, releasing a flood of
gasoline that surged out the bottom of the tank.
Pitt's quick discharge released more than seventy-five gallons of
gasoline out of the gondola tank, which sprayed down directly onto the stern deck of the tender. Pitt looked down and could see that the rear
deck was awash in fuel that sloshed along the rear gunwale as the boat
charged through the waves. Tongju and the two gunmen covered their
faces and sprinted under the portico as the rain of liquid splattered
down on them but quickly returned after the deluge ended and raised
their weapons again to finish off the blimp. Pitt watched curiously as
the pool of gasoline washed around their feet and splashed over some
deck chairs, a bench, and the four fifty-five-gallon drums tied to the
side. He stoked a few puffs on the cigar to brighten its ember, then
stuck his head out the shattered side cockpit window. Just a few yards
away, Pitt eyed Tongju and smiled as the assassin looked up and swung
his assault rifle toward him. Through his legs, Dirk could feel the
blimp begin pulling to one side as Giordino threw the
controls over. With a calm nonchalance, he took a last puff on the
cigar and casually tossed it toward the stern of the tender.
A wave jostled the tender, and Tongju braced himself against a side
railing as he jerked the stock of the AK-74 assault rifle to his
shoulder. He barely noticed the small green object that fluttered down
and struck the deck beside him as he took aim at Pitt's head poking out
the cockpit window. His finger was just tightening on the trigger when
a loud poof erupted at his feet.
The cigar's glowing ember ignited the gasoline vapors rising off the
deck before the stogie even struck the surface. The airship's rain of gasoline had sprayed everywhere and in seconds the whole stern of the
boat was a wall of flame. A commando standing beside Tongju had been
drenched in fuel and the flames shot up his legs and torso in a rush.
The panicked man dropped his weapon and danced frantically about the
deck, his arms flailing wildly to douse his burning clothes. Screaming
in pain, he finally ran to the railing and flung himself over the side,
the ocean waters quickly extinguishing the human torch in a whiff of
smoke. Kim watched from the helm as the man leaped off the boat but
made no move to turn the boat around and rescue the scorched
commando.
Tongju, too, was temporarily engulfed in flames, angrily lowering his
rifle without firing and leaping under the portico, where he was able
to stamp out the flames burning his shoes and pants. Kim gazed from
the blazing stern to Tongju with a look of alarm in his eyes.
"Keep going," Tongju shouted, "the flames will burn themselves out."
The wind and sea spray from the charging boat had, in fact,
extinguished some of the peripheral flames, but pools of burning
gasoline still sloshed across the deck and deep black plumes of smoke
revealed that more than just the fuel was on fire.
"But the fuel barrels!" Kim cried, watching as the flames licked at
the drums of gasoline. Tongju had forgotten about the full barrels of gasoline tied to the
rear deck amid the blazing fire. The flames were initially
concentrated to the rear of the barrels, but the sloshing gas on the
deck brought the fire up to the base of the drums. Scanning the helm
console, Tongju spotted a small fire extinguisher mounted to the
bulkhead. With a quick lunge, he scooped up the extinguisher, pulled
its lock-pin, and sprinted onto the rear deck to protect the fuel
drums. But he was too late.
A seal cap on one of the drums had not been tightened all the way,
allowing a thin wisp of vapor to escape. The constant jarring from the
pounding boat had generated more vapor pressure inside the drum, which
expanded further by the heat of the nearby fire. When the flames
finally drew near enough to ignite the vapor, the fuel drum exploded
like a powder keg. In quick succession, the other three fuel drums
ignited with devastating effect.
As the blimp peeled away from the boat, Pitt and the others watched in
awe as the first fuel drum exploded right into Tongju. A chunk of
flying shrapnel from the drum burst through his body, tearing an oblong
hole the size of a Softball through his chest. A stunned look crossed
the assassin's face as he sunk to his knees. In the last seconds of
life, he peered skyward toward the blimp and scowled defiantly before
he was swallowed up in an inferno of flames. The subsequent explosions leveled the entire superstructure of the boat
in a maelstrom of flying timbers and debris. A huge fireball rolled
into the sky as the stern of the boat rose into the air briefly, its
still-driving propellers churning at the sky. The explosion blasted a
gaping hole through the hull, which quickly sucked the boat under the
waves in a boil of froth and smoke, taking the bodies of Tongju, Kim,
and the third commando to the seafloor.
Giordino had sharply turned the Icarus away from the exploding boat,
but flying debris still splattered against the airship, shearing an
additional array of holes into the fabric skin. More than a hundred
rips, tears, and bullet holes peppered the surface, creating avenues
for helium to escape. The bruised and damaged airship refused to go
down, however, and clung to the sky like a battered fighter.
The men in the gondola surveyed the surreal scene around them. In the
sky above, a heavy white plume of smoke still hung in the air, marking
the Zenit rocket's explosive demise. Across the water, a Navy frigate
and destroyer could be seen bearing down on the Koguyro as a swarm of
fighter jets circled overhead. And beneath them, a scattering of
burning timbers smoldered in the water, denoting the grave of Tongju
and the sunken tender.
"Guess we showed your pal a hot time," Giordino said to Dirk as he
stuck his head into the cockpit. "I have a feeling he'll be burning in hell for quite some time to
come."
"We gave him a nice head start," Pitt said. "You and Jack okay back
there?"
"Just a few scratches. We both managed to dance around the flying
lead."
"But look what they did to my airship," Giordino-muttered with feigned
hurt, waving a hand about the shot-up gondola.
"At least all of our vital signs are good. Despite the gunshots to the
envelope, our helium pressure is holding up, and we've got fifty
gallons of fuel to get us back to shore," Pitt replied, eyeing the
console gauges before shutting down the damaged engine. "Take us home,
Mad Al."
"As you wish," Giordino replied, easing the nose of the Icarus toward
the east. Slowly steering the battered airship back to the mainland on
its one good engine, he turned to Pitt and said, "Now, about those
cigars ..."
IT took only the mere sight of the U.S. Navy frigate and destroyer for
the captainless crew of the Koguryo to throw in the towel. As more and more fighter planes appeared in the sky overhead, it became obvious
to all aboard that trying to flee would result in their destruction.
And with the damaged hull, they were not about to outrun anybody. As
the Navy ships approached, the Koguryds executive officer wisely
radioed their surrender. In minutes, a small boarding party arrived
from the destroyer USS Benfold and took custody of the ship. A repair
team was then sent aboard to assist in stabilizing the damaged hull,
and then the Japanese-flagged ship was sailed to San Diego at a slow
crawl.
Arriving at San Diego early the next morning, a media frenzy erupted.
As word broke of the attempted rocket attack on Los Angeles, scores of
small boats packed with reporters and cameramen buzzed around the
harbor trying to get a close-up glimpse of the terrorist ship and crew.
For their part, the crew and technicians aboard
the Koguryo looked down at the swarming media with befuddled amusement.
Their greeting at the San Diego Naval Station was less inviting as
teams of government security and intelligence officers whisked the crew
into heavily guarded buses, where they were hurriedly driven away to a
secure facility for detailed interrogation.
Back at the dock, investigators combed every inch of the ship, removing
the launch control data and securing the surface-to-surface and
surface-to-air missile systems. Marine engineers studied the hull damage, proving with certainty that it had been created by internally
detonated explosive charges. It would take several days before
intelligence analysts would discover that all the software data related
to the mission flight profile and rocket payload had been
systematically destroyed prior to the ship's capture.
Interrogation of the ship's crew proved equally frustrating. The
majority of the crew and launch team had believed they were actually
launching a commercial satellite and had no clue how close they were to
the continental United States. Those who knew otherwise refused to
talk. Investigators were quickly able to finger Ling and the two
Ukrainian engineers as kingpins for the mission, despite their vehement
denials.
Publicly, the launch created a furor, which magnified as word leaked
that the payload carried smallpox virus. The Japanese Red Army was
behind the attack, newspapers and television reports screamed, fueled
in part by the staged media leaks perpetrated by Kang operators. The
government silently made no denials while piecing together their own
evidence, further inciting the public rage against Japan. The
attempted attack, though unsuccessful, seemed to have achieved Kang's
desired outcome. The single-minded media applied their full reporting
resources to the incident. Constant news coverage focused strictly on
the investigation and speculation about possible retaliation measures
to take against the shadowy Japanese terrorist group. Lost in the news
was the issue of Korea and the pending vote in the National Assembly over the removal of U.S. troops from the South Korean Peninsula.
As the media ran dry of new facts about the failed rocket launch, they
turned their attention toward hero-making. The Sea Launch platform
crew was nearly mugged by reporters when they stepped off the Deep
Endeavor in Long Beach. Many of the tired crewmen were given just a
few hours' rest, then helicoptered back to the Odyssey to patch up the
holes Pitt had carved in the support structure and sail the listing
platform back to port. Those escaping work duty were badgered for
in-depth interviews about their capture and imprisonment aboard the
platform, as well as their later rescue by Pitt and Giordino in the
blimp. The men from NUMA were lionized as heroes and every news media
organization was on the hunt for them. But they were nowhere to be
found.
After setting the perforated blimp down on an unused runway at LAX, the
men beat it down to Long Beach, where they met the docking Deep
Endeavor. Slipping quietly aboard after the Sea Launch crew departed,
they were warmly greeted by a relieved Summer and the ship's crew.
Dahlgren was happy to see the mangled Badger sitting upright on the
fantail deck.
"Kermit, we've got another search ahead of us," Pitt said to Burch.
"How soon can we be under way?" "Just as soon as Dirk and Summer step ashore. Sorry, son," he said,
turning to the younger Pitt, "but I'm afraid Rudi called. He's been
trying to track all four of you guys down for the last two hours. Says
the top brass wants to talk to you and Summer. They need your insight
on the bad guys, and right away."
"Some guys get all the luck," Giordino said, grinning at Dirk's
misfortune.
"Seems like we never get much time with you," Summer frowned at her
father.
"We'll get the next dive in together," Pitt said, throwing an arm
around each of his kids' shoulders. "I promise."
"I'll be counting on it," Summer replied, giving her father a kiss to
the cheek.
"Me too," Dirk said. "And thanks for the blimp ride, Mad Al. Next
time, I'm going Greyhound."
"The highbrow type, eh?" Giordino replied, shaking his head.
Dirk and Summer said a quick good-bye to Dahlgren and the other men on
the bridge, then hopped off the Deep Endeavor as the vessel backed away
from the dock. A feeling of satisfaction should have beat through them, but, with Dirk, an underlying anger still brewed. The deadly
virus strike had been prevented, the Koguryo was captured, and even
Tongju was dead. More selfishly, Sarah was safe as well. But on the
other side of the world, Kang still breathed. As they moved down the
pier, Dirk felt Summer hesitating beside him and he turned and stopped
so she could wave a friendly farewell to the ship. He stared and waved
as well, but his mind was churning elsewhere. Together, they stood and
watched a long while as the turquoise NUMA ship chugged out the harbor
and eased slowly toward the western horizon.
Well before the Homeland Security investigation team thought to round
up all available search and salvage vessels and comb for the sunken
rocket debris, the Deep Endeavor had already slipped her towed sonar
array fish over the side and was scanning the depths for the remains of
the payload. Captain Burch had anticipated a salvage operation and
knew precisely where to start searching. While standing on the deck of
the Deep Endeavor watching the Zenit disintegrate across the sky, he
had carefully tracked the trajectory of the debris and marked on a
nautical chart an impact zone where he thought the nose cone struck the
water.
"If the payload remained intact, it should be somewhere within that
box," he told Pitt as they chugged back to sea, pointing to a
nine-square-mile grid penciled on the chart. "Though we're probably
dealing with a scattered debris field." "Whatever is left has only been sitting on the bottom a few hours,
so we'll have a fresh profile at least," Pitt replied, studying the
chart. Burch guided the Deep Endeavor to a corner of the grid, where
they began running north south survey lanes. Just two hours into the
search, Pitt identified the first scattering of debris visible against
the rolling bottom. Pointing to the sonar monitor, he fingered a
cluster of sharp-edged objects protruding in succession.
"We've got a string of man-made objects running in a rough line to the
east," he said.
"Either a local garbage scow spilled her goods or we've got a pile of
rusting rocket parts," Giordino agreed, eyeing the data.
"Kermit, why don't we break off the lane and run a tack to the east.
Let's see if we can follow the debris trail and see where it leads."
Burch ordered the ship about and they followed the trail of wreckage
for several minutes as it intensified in quantity before slowly
petering out. None of the debris appeared larger than a few feet long,
however.
"That's one heckuva jigsaw puzzle someone's gonna have to piece
together," Burch said as the last of the wreckage fell away from the screen. "Shall we resume the survey lane?" he asked Pitt.
Pitt thought for a moment. "No. Let's hold our course. There's got
to be more substantial remains."
Pitt's years of underwater exploration had refined his senses to almost
psychic ability. Like an underwater bloodhound, he could nearly sniff
out the lost and hidden. There was a lot more of the Zenit still out
there and he could feel it.
As the sonar monitor reeled off nothing but flat bottom, the men on the
bridge began to have their doubts. But a quarter mile later, a few
small pieces of ragged-edged debris crept onto the screen. Suddenly,
the silhouette of a large rectangular object filled the monitor lying
perpendicular to the other debris. As it rolled off the screen, a new
image crawled into view. It was the shadow of a large, high
cylinder.
"Boss, I think you've just found the whole enchilada," Giordino
grinned.
Studying the image with a nod, Pitt replied, "Let's go have a taste."
Minutes later, the Deep Endeavor fixed its position by engaging its
side thrusters and lowered a small remote-operated vehicle over the stern railing. A large winch unrolled the ROV's power cable as the
machine sunk to the seafloor nine hundred feet beneath the surface. In
a dimly lit electronics bay beneath the wheelhouse, Pitt sat in an
oversized captain's chair where he controlled the unmanned submersible
thrusters with a pair of joysticks. A rack of video monitors lined the
wall in front of him, displaying multiple images of the sandy bottom
fed from a half-dozen digital cameras mounted on the
ROV.
Adjusting the thrusters so that the ROV hovered a few feet above the
bottom, Pitt gently guided the submersible toward a pair of dark
objects nearby. Protruding from the sandy bottom, the cameras
revealed, were two jagged pieces of white metal several feet long,
which were clearly chunks of skin from the Zenit rocket. Pitt kept the
ROV moving past the debris until the initial sonar targets materialized
in the inky water, two unmistakable sections of the launch vehicle
rising high off the bottom. As the ROV moved closer, Pitt and Giordino
could see the first section was nearly fifteen feet long, and almost as
high, but flattened on one side. The rocket section had tumbled before
impact, smacking the water lengthwise in a jarring blow that had given
it the rectangle shape identified by the sonar. Guiding the ROV to one
end, the cameras showed a large thruster nozzle protruding from a mass
of pipes and chambers that constituted a rocket engine.
"An upper stage engine?" Giordino asked, eyeing the image. "Probably the Zenit's third stage motor, the uppermost propulsion unit
designed to drive the payload section into final orbit."
The unfueled section appeared to have broken cleanly from the lower
Stage 2 component during the explosion. But the payload section that
rode above it had separated also and was no longer attached.
A few yards away, a large white object stretched into the murky range
of the camera lens.
"Enough with the preliminaries. Let's go take a look at that big boy,"
Giordino said, pointing to the edge of one of the video monitors.
Pitt guided the ROV toward the object, which quickly filled the video
screens with white. It was clearly another section of the Zenit
rocket, even more intact than the Stage 3 section. Pitt estimated it
was about twenty feet long, and noticed that it appeared to have a
slightly larger diameter. The nearest end was a mangled mass of
carnage. Twisted and jagged edges of the white metal skin jutted
inward as if mashed by a giant sledgehammer. Pitt maneuvered the ROV
to peer inside but there was little to be seen besides mashed metal.
"This has to be the payload. It must have struck the water on its
end," Pitt remarked. "Maybe there's something exposed on the other side," Giordino said.
Pitt quickly guided the ROV along the length of the horizontal rocket
section until reaching the opposite end, then glided the submersible
around in a wide U-turn. Shining the ROV's illuminating lights into
the exposed end, Pitt and Giordino craned at the monitor to get a
closer look. The first thing that Pitt noticed was an inward-flared
ring around the interior edge. It was apparent that the
smaller-diameter Stage 3 rocket section had been mated to the section
at this end. Inching the ROV closer, they could see that a vertical
piece of fairing had been stripped off the rocket along the exposed top
side. Raising the ROV until it hovered just above the prone rocket,
Pitt guided the submersible along its upper side, following the open
seam with the cameras pointed inside. After viewing a maze of tubes
and wiring, Pitt stopped the ROV as the video image suddenly displayed
a flat board that glistened under the submersible's high-power lights.
A wide grin quickly spread across Pitt's face.
"I do believe that there's a solar panel shining back at us," he
said.
"Well done, Dr. von Braun," Giordino replied, nodding.
As the ROV inched forward, they could clearly see the folded wings of
the solar panels and the cylindrical body of the mock satellite through the open seam. Though the nose cone had been mashed at impact, the
satellite payload inside had survived intact, and, with it, the deadly
cargo of virus.
After carefully studying the integrity of the entire payload section
with the remote video, Pitt returned the ROV to the Deep Endeavor and
directed the vessel into salvage mode. Though Deep Endeavor was
primarily an exploration vessel, she was equipped to handle light
salvage with the help of her onboard submersibles. Despite the loss of
the Badger, Pitt and Giordino employed a backup submersible to affix a
sling support around the payload and slowly bring the rocket section to
the surface with the aid of large lift bags. Under cover of darkness
and away from the prying eyes of the occasional media boat, the
pay-load was hoisted out of the water and onto the deck of the Deep
Endeavor. Pitt and Giordino looked on as the rocket piece was secured
and covered under a shroud of canvas.
"That'll give the intelligence boys something to chew on for a while,"
Giordino said.
"It will certainly prove that the attack was not attempted by an
amateur group of terrorists. Once the lethality of the payload is
revealed to the public, the ignoble Mr. Kang will wish he was never
born." Giordino waved an arm toward a fuzzy glow of light on the eastern
horizon. "All things considered, I'd say the good people of Los
Angeles owe us a beer for protecting their fair city ... and maybe the
keys to the Playboy Mansion."
"They have Dirk and Summer to thank."
"Too bad they weren't here to see this baby come up."
"I still haven't heard from the kids since we dropped them at the
dock."
"They're probably doing the same thing their old man would have done,"
Giordino grinned. "Slipped the intelligence interview and headed down
to Manhattan Beach for some surfing."
Pitt laughed briefly then looked out at the dark sea as his thoughts
wandered. No, he knew, now wasn't the time for that.
Forty-two thousand feet above the Pacific, Dirk sat in the cramped seat
of a government jet trying to get some sleep. But the adrenaline still
surged through his body, keeping him awake as the plane nosed closer to
South Korea. It was just hours before that he and Summer had been
summoned off the Deep Endeavor to brief FBI and Defense Department
intelligence officials on their meeting with Kang and to provide
details about the industrialist's fortified residence. They learned that Sandecker had finally persuaded the president, and
the White House had issued orders to get Kang, swiftly and silently and
without informing the South Korean government. An assault plan had
been formulated, targeting several of Kang's facilities, including the
shipyard at Inchon. The mysterious leader had not been seen in public
for days so his private residence was moved to the top of the list of
incursion targets. Because few Westerners had ever been invited to the
residence, Dirk and Summer's insights were critical.
"We'll be happy to provide you with a full layout of the site, identify
entry points and passageways, even give you the security force
positions and monitoring technology," Dirk offered to the delight of
the intelligence agents. "But I expect one thing in return," he added,
"and that's a ticket to the show."
Dirk smiled to himself as he watched the color drain from their faces.
After some grumbling counter arguments and a few calls to Washington,
he won out. There would be value, they knew, in having him on the
ground with the assault force. For her part, Summer thought he was
crazy.
"You actually want to go back to that chamber of horrors?" she asked
incredulously when the agents had left the room. "You bet," he replied. "I want a front-row seat when they slip the
noose around Kang's neck."
"Once was enough for me. Please be careful, Dirk. Leave the assault
work to the professionals. I nearly lost both you and Dad today," she
said with sisterly concern.
"Not to worry. I'll keep quietly to the rear with my head down," he
promised.
Two hours of intense briefings later, he was whisked to LAX and bound
again for Korea. Shortly after the jet's wheels touched down at Osan
Air Base after the long flight across the Pacific, he was at it again,
this time briefing the Special Operations Forces that would be carrying
out the assault. Dirk was particularly thorough, providing every
detail and scrap of information about Kang's residence that he could
remember. He then sat back and listened intently as the tactical
assault plans were presented in precise detail. Two Army Special Ops
teams were tasked with infiltrating Kang's marine dock and nearby
telecommunications center in Inchon while a Navy SEAL team would broach
his residence. The operations would be conducted simultaneously, with
backup teams standing by to strike additional Kang properties, should
the enigmatic leader not be found at the initial targets.
After the briefing, a no-nonsense Navy captain responsible for
coordinating the SEAL assault approached Dirk. "You've got five hours to relax before we assemble. You'll go in as
part of Commander Gutierrez's team. I'll see that Paul has you
outfitted ahead of time. Sorry, but we can't issue you a firearm.
Orders."
"I understand. I'm just grateful to join the ride."
Grabbing a quick meal and nap at a temporary officers' quarters, Dirk
assembled with the SEAL team, where he was issued a set of black
camouflage fatigues, an armored vest, and a pair of night vision
goggles. After a final briefing, the men boarded a pair of enclosed
trucks and were driven to a small dock south of Inchon. Under cover of
darkness, the twenty-four-man SEAL team boarded a nondescript support
boat and quickly shoved off, proceeding north into the Yellow Sea
toward Kyodongdo Island. The team of highly trained commandos
anxiously rechecked their weapons under the enclosed main cabin's dim
lights as the boat sped across the open sea. Commander Paul Gutierrez,
a short but husky man who wore a thin mustache, approached Dirk when
they neared the mouth of the Hun River.
"You'll be going in with my squad in boat number two," he said. "Just
stick close by when we hit the ground and follow my lead. With any
luck, we'll be in and out without firing a shot. But, just in case,"
he paused and handed Dirk a small satchel. Dirk unzipped the bag and pulled out a SIG Sauer P226 9mm automatic
pistol with spare ammunition clips.
"Much obliged. I was hoping I wouldn't have to walk into a potential
firefight unarmed," Dirk replied.
"The Kevlar vest will keep you safe, but this will add some insurance.
Just don't tell anyone where you found it," he nodded with a wink, then
turned and ambled off to the wheelhouse to check their progress.
A half hour later, the support boat sped past the cove entrance that
led to Kang's residence and continued upriver another two miles
before suddenly cutting the engines. As the boat slowed to a stop
against the current and began drifting back downriver, three Zodiac
black rubber boats were quickly lowered over the side. With quiet
efficiency, eight SEALs quietly climbed into each boat and paddled away
from the support craft, Dirk joining the men in the second rubber boat.
Nearly invisible against the darkened night, the three boats moved
easily downriver with the current before silently turning into the
inlet to Kang's property.
A cloudy sky softly reflected the lights of Kang's compound as the
three rubber boats turned the last corner of the winding inlet and
entered the expansive cove beneath the residence. Dirk gripped a paddle tightly and rowed in silent unison with the heavily armed SEAL
team members beside him in the boat. The lingering effects of jet lag
and exhaustion from the aborted Sea Launch strike were quickly shaken
off at the sight of Kang's stone fortress.
Halfway across the cove, the boats split up, two heading left to land
on the sandy beach near the boat dock while the third moved toward the
right. The third boat's wet suit-clad occupants would swim ashore
first, creeping in along the rocky landing on the opposite side of the
dock. Dirk rowed in one of the boats that headed to the beach,
wondering if the advance SEAL team had missed neutralizing any of the
surveillance video cameras Kang had mounted around the inlet.
As they paddled closer to shore, Dirk noticed the same configuration of
boats tied up at the dock as when he escaped with Summer. Kang's big
Benetti yacht and the blue high-speed catamaran were tied up in a row,
while the small speedboat was centered in between. The yacht and
catamaran quickly became the focus of all the men in Dirk's rubber
boat. Their mission was to secure Kang's docked vessels while the
other SEAL teams rushed the compound. Surveying the dock and
surrounding area, Dirk smiled to himself at the sight of the missing
skiff.
The two rubber boats hung offshore for several minutes as the submerged
SEALs crept ashore on the far side. From his vantage point in the cove, Dirk watched as a handful of black shapes moved silently out of
the water and along the rocky shoreline. A pair of dark shapes crept
up to the security booth and quickly subdued the on-duty guard, whose
nose was buried in a newspaper.
At the bow of Dirk's boat, Commander Paul Gutierrez quietly raised his
hand and the ops team dipped their paddles in the water, rapidly
driving the rubber boat ashore after a few dozen hard strokes. The
boat's hull barely scraped the sand when its occupants burst out and
sprinted down the shoreline toward the dock. All remained quiet about
the compound as the following boat's team simultaneously raced up to
the cliff entrance under cover of the advance squad.
Dirk followed his team of eight men as they hustled onto the dock ramp,
then split in two. Four men peeled off and leaped aboard the catamaran
while Commander Gutierrez and three men continued down the dock toward
the Benetti. Dirk kept running past the catamaran, opting to join the
men headed for the larger yacht. But twenty yards from the yacht, he
suddenly froze in his tracks as a yellow flash of light burst from the
stern deck. The clatter from an AK-74 shattered the night air a
microsecond later, followed by a sickening series of dull thumps as the
bullets slammed into the bodies of the two men in front of him. Ducking
behind a barrel, Dirk yanked the SIG Sauer 9mm pistol from a side
holster and quickly squeezed ten shots toward the source of the
gunfire. A few yards ahead of him, Gutierrez had also returned fire,
sweeping the yacht's rear deck with a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun. Their combined bursts silenced the unseen gunman amid a spray of
flying splinters and shattered glass.
The sudden bursts of gunfire seemed to awaken the whole island as small
arms fire erupted throughout the compound. A pair of pistol-wielding
gunmen popped out of a cabin door on the catamaran with guns blazing
but were quickly mowed down by the SEAL team already positioned aboard.
A guard in the main security house noticed the
murdered beach guard over a video camera and quickly alerted the
residence security forces. The approaching SEALs found themselves
walking into the fire from a half-dozen armed guards.
Back on the dock, Dirk leaned over the two men sprawled on the ground
in front of him. To his shock, he found the first man was dead, a
series of bullet punctures noticeable across his neck and clavicle. The
second man was wriggling about, gasping in pain. He had been saved by
his Kevlar combat vest, the burst having caught him across the stomach,
his unprotected hips and thighs catching the worst of the fire.
"I'm okay," the tough SEAL grunted as Dirk tried to assess his wounds.
"Finish the mission."
As he spoke, the powerful motors of the Benetti yacht gurgled to life.
Dirk looked up to see more gunfire erupt from the boat's dock-side gunwale as a pair of crewmen worked down the length of the vessel, one
cutting the mooring lines while the other sprayed covering fire across
the deck.
"We'll get them," Dirk said to the prone man, patting his shoulder.
Reluctantly leaving the injured soldier, he stood up and sprinted
toward the yacht. The yacht's motors began to rumble loudly as the
throttles were shoved to full. A foaming torrent boiled off the
transom as the boat's propellers cut into the water.
A few feet ahead of Pitt, Gutierrez let off a quick burst of fire aimed
at the starboard passageway, then stood and barked, "Let's get
aboard!"
Dirk bolted past Gutierrez and the other SEAL at a dead run as the two
commandos scrambled to chase after the departing yacht. The crack of
an automatic pistol belched somewhere above Dirk three times and he
could hear the whine as the bullets flew just over his head. A loud
thud resonated from the dock behind him and a voice shouted out "I'm
hit" just as Dirk leaped off the dock.
The fleeing yacht was only a few feet removed from the dock when Dirk
jumped and he easily grasped the side railing midair and pulled
himself aboard in a single fluid move, dropping to the deck and lying
still on the darkened stern. A second later, a thump banged against the side as another body jumped onto the side of the moving boat. Dirk
saw the outline of a black-camouflaged man quickly slide over the
railing and onto the deck a few feet behind him.
"It's Pitt here," he whispered back to the shadow, not wishing to get
shot by mistake. "Who's there?"
"Gutierrez," came the gravelly voice of the SEAL commander. "We need
to get to the wheelhouse and stop this craft."
Gutierrez started to get up and creep forward when Dirk stuck out his
hand in a halting motion. Both men froze as Dirk trained his eyes and
ears on the port side of the deck. On the far side, he could see that
a stairwell led down from an open observation deck above their heads.
As the yacht headed into the cove, the lights from the dock flared over
the boat's stern and Dirk detected a slight movement in the shadows of
the stairwell. Slowly unholstering his 9mm, he took a bead on the
shadowy spot and waited. When the shadow suddenly appeared to descend
a step, Dirk squeezed the SIG Sauer's trigger twice.
A metallic clunk rang across the deck from a fallen handgun and the
long shadow slumped down the stairwell into the visible mass of a
crumpled man dressed in black fatigues.
"Nice shooting," Gutierrez grumbled. "Now, let's move." As the commando crept forward, Dirk followed close behind, nearly
losing his footing and slipping to the deck at one point. Glancing
down, he noticed the deck was covered in a pool of blood from the
gunman Gutierrez had shot from the dock. The dead man's body lay
facedown next to a teak bar, a bent cigarette still clenched between
his lips.
Roaring away from the brightly lit dock, the yacht was now enshrouded
in total darkness as it sped across the cove at top speed. Nearly all
of the boat's lights had been extinguished, save for a few dim interior
floor lights The two men felt their way along to the main
rear cabin that housed the dining salon and skirted around to the
starboard-deck passageway. Gutierrez suddenly raised a hand and
stopped, taking a step back toward the salon.
"There's next to no cover along the side passageways. It would be
better if we split up. Take the port passage and try to move forward.
I'll work up the starboard side here," Gutierrez directed, knowing
another gunman was likely waiting around the corner. "We better work
fast, before we end up sailing to the wrong side of the DMZ."
Dirk nodded. "See you on the bridge," he whispered, then darted across
the stern deck. With his senses tuned high, he edged around the
portside corner and stepped onto the teak passageway leading forward. Distant gunfire from the shore rattled over the yacht's pulsating
engines, but Dirk was focused on the sounds aboard the boat. Padding
silently, he crept forward until the passageway ended at a stairwell.
The bridge was almost in reach now, just up a level and another thirty
feet. As he peered up the stairs, the loud bark of automatic gunfire
suddenly cracked through the air. His heart skipped a beat, but then
he realized it was on the other side of the yacht.
Gutierrez had been waiting for the burst. Slinking forward on the
starboard side, he kept low to the ground in anticipation of an unseen
gunman. Reaching the opposite stairwell, he climbed it like a cat,
poised on the balls of his feet for a sudden barrage. He didn't have
to go far to find it. The SEAL had barely set foot on the landing when
a spray of gunfire whistled over his head. Hiding off the bridge wing,
a black-clad gunman fired with an AK-74.
Gutierrez barely escaped the initial fusillade. The gunman's burst was
thrown high when the yacht suddenly slowed and swerved into the narrow
cove inlet. Diving back for the stairwell, Gutierrez slid down the
first few steps before twisting around and aiming his MP5K. The SEAL
waited calmly for several seconds until the gunman's muzzle flashed
again. The incoming burst chewed up the deck just inches from his
head, peppering his face with teakwood splinters. Calmly adjusting his
aim, Gutierrez let off a solid burst from the Heckler & lack Wind
Koch into the darkness. A brief muffled cry rang out, then another
flash of fire spewed from the concealed shooter's gun. Only this time,
the spray of yellow fire arced skyward, then ceased altogether as the
mortally wounded gunman fell dead to the deck.
On the other side of the yacht, Dirk heard the gunfire fall silent and
wondered whether Gutierrez had survived the firefight. Moving up the
port stairwell, he climbed two steps then froze at the sound of a faint
click behind him. Tilting his head back, he detected that the sound
came from a side cabin door at the base of the stairs. Descending
silently, Dirk crept back down the stairs until he stood in front of
the doorway. Gripping the SIG Sauer firmly in his right hand, he
reached for the brass door handle with his left hand and gentry turned
it to its stops. Holding the latch open for a second, he took a deep
breath, then shoved the door open and lunged in.
He had expected the door to fly fully open, but, instead, it abruptly
stopped from the mass of a human being. Slightly thrown off balance by
the sudden jar, Dirk found himself bouncing off a muscular guard
standing with a surprised look inside the doorway. Facing just inches
away, Dirk noted a deep L-shaped scar on the man's chin and a bent
angular nose that had once been broken. In his hands he held an AK-74
rifle, which he was attempting to reload. The rifle's barrel was
pointed at the floor as the man fumbled with the clip, but he immediately swung the stock up toward Dirk's right side. Lurching back
a step in order to bring the SIG Sauer to bear, Dirk was struck by the
rifle before he could aim and his shot fired harmlessly into the wall.
But rather than stiffly absorbing the blow, Dirk rolled to his right as
the rifle struck, at the same time swinging his left arm around. As he
pivoted with the force, he balled his left fist and threw a sharp
uppercut which landed fimly on the jaw of the man's face. The blow
sent the gunman staggering backward, where he tripped and fell over a
basket of laundered clothes.
For the first time, Dirk noticed that the cabin was a small laundry
room. A tiny washing machine and dryer sat against the far wall
while
an open ironing board stood next to the doorway. Regaining his
balance, he quickly leveled the SIG Sauer at the guard's chest and
squeezed the trigger.
There was no loud bark from the muzzle nor a kick to his wrist.
Instead, just a metallic click as the gun's firing pin beat down on an
empty chamber. Dirk grimaced as he realized that he had emptied the
pistol's thirteen-round magazine. Smiling in the face of the empty
handgun, Kang's guard rolled to his knees. In his right hand, he still
held the full ammo clip, which he expertly jammed into the stock of the
assault rifle. Dirk knew there was no way he could reload the SIG Sauer in time, but his body was already reacting with an alternate
plan. Barely seen out of the corner of his eye, the shiny object that
his hand was already reaching for was a last-gamble defense.
The chrome iron sitting atop the ironing board was not hot, nor even
plugged in. But it made for a sharp and nasty projectile. With a toss
that would have made John Elway proud, Dirk grabbed the iron and fired
it at the gunman like a bullet. The gunman, intent on training his
loaded rifle at Dirk, didn't even bother to duck. The flat side of the
iron struck his head like an anvil, smacking his skull with an audible
crack. The assault rifle fell to the floor first, followed by the
gunman, his eyes rolled far back in his head.
Beneath his feet, Dirk felt the boat's motors suddenly rumble louder
again. The yacht had cleared the inlet and was accelerating into the
Han River. It would easily outrun the special forces support vessel
stationed off the inlet. If it was to be stopped, he and Gutierrez
would have to act quick. But how many more gunmen were aboard? And,
more important, where was Gutierrez?
utierrez kneeled at the top of the starboard stairwell peering down the
passage, searching for shadows. The black silhouette of the gunman he
had dropped lay motionless on the deck beside the bridge. He could
detect no movement around the area, and no one was firing at him, at
least for the moment. No sense in waiting for reinforcements to
appear, he decided. Vaulting from the stairwell, he dashed across the open passageway to the bridge wing and leaped over the dead gunman,
then burst through the open bridge door.
He half-expected a horde of armed guards waiting to greet him with a
cluster of hot muzzles pointing his way, but it was not the case. Just
three men stood on the expansive bridge, their eyes turned to him with
contempt. A burly, salt-faced man who was obviously the captain stood
at the helm, guiding the yacht toward the center of the Han River. Near
the port wing door stood a surly guard fingering an assault rifle, who
glared at the SEAL with anticipation. And at the rear of the
bridge, sitting in a raised leather captain's chair with a look of
disdain on his face, was none other than Kang himself. The mogul, whom
Gutierrez recognized from a briefing photo, was dressed in a burgundy
silk robe, having slept on his yacht in preparation for a last-minute
getaway.
As the four sets of eyes locked on one another, Gutierrez's reflexes
were already in motion. The trained SEAL quickly aimed his weapon at
the guard and squeezed the trigger, a full second before the other man
reacted. In a quick burst, three rounds spat from his gun, striking
the guard in a clean cluster across his chest. A stunned look spread
over the guard's face as he was thrown back against the bulkhead, but
his finger instinctively tightened in the trigger guard. A wild spray
of fire burst from his assault rifle, ripping across the deck and toward Gutierrez. The SEAL stood helpless as a seam of lead flew in
his direction before the gunman sagged to the floor dead.
It took a split second for Gutierrez to take stock. He had been hit by
one round, which nipped him in the thigh. He felt a warm rivulet of
blood from the wound run down his leg and collect in his boot. Another
round nearly struck him in the abdomen but was deflected by his own
machine gun. The bullet had smashed into the MP5K's breech, he
realized, and rendered the firearm useless.
The other men on the bridge noticed it as well. The burly captain,
standing just a few feet from Gutierrez, let go of the ship's wheel and
plunged at the wounded SEAL. Unsteady from the wound to his left leg,
Gutierrez stood inert as the captain barreled into him. The captain
used his bulk to throw a bear hug around the SEAL and then slam him
into the helm. Gutierrez could feel the breath forced from his lungs
and felt as if his ribs were going to snap as the captain tried to
squeeze the life out of him. But in Gutierrez's right hand, he still
held the compact MP5 machine gun, which he swung upward and smashed
against the back of the captain's skull. To his astonishment, nothing
happened. The captain seemed to squeeze even tighter, and Gutierrez
could see a kaleidoscope of stars starting to shimmer before his
eyes as the oxygen in his blood ebbed. Sharp pains flared from the
wound in his leg while hammering pangs throbbed against his temples.
Again, he thrust the gun's stock against the man's head and, again, the grip seemed only to tighten. Desperation started to seep into the
SEAL's mind as he approached the verge of passing out and he wildly
thrust the gun at the man's head again and again. Gutierrez sensed his
body falling and presumed he was blacking out. But he was suddenly
jarred conscious by a collision to his body.
The repeated blows had finally knocked the stubborn captain cold and
the two of them fell hard to the deck, Gutierrez still embraced in the
captain's bear hug. The SEAL gasped for breath as the man's iron grip
fell slack and he crawled to his knees inhaling deeply.
"An impressive display. But, regrettably, it shall be your last." The
voice of Kang spat with the flavor of venom. While grappling with the
yacht's captain, Kang had approached and leveled a Glock automatic
pistol at Gutierrez's head. The SEAL searched for a defense but there
was none. The guard's AK-74 was wedged in the dead man's hands across
the bridge and his own weapon lay empty and useless in his right hand.
On his knees, weakened from gunshots and the struggle with the captain,
there was nothing he could do. With a resolute look of defiance, he
stared up at Kang and the Glock pistol aimed inches from his face.
The single gunshot burst through the bridge like a crack of thunder.
Gutierrez felt nothing and was surprised by the sudden stunned look in
Kang's eyes. Then he realized that the Korean's hand, the one holding
the pistol, had disappeared along with the gun amid a shower of crimson blood. Two more cracks filled the air and a splattering of blood flew
out of Kang's left knee and right thigh. With a garbled cry of agony,
Kang fell to the deck, grasping the remains of his bleeding hand and
writhing in misery. As he fell, Gutierrez looked across the bridge to
where the gunshots had originated.
Standing across the deck in the port doorway, Dirk held an AK-74 at eye
level, the smoking barrel still leveled at the prone figure of
Kang. A relieved look spread across his face as he made eye contact
with Gutierrez and realized the SEAL was still alive.
Dirk walked across the bridge, noting the pilotless yacht was still
barreling across the width of the Han River at nearly 40 knots. Off
the starboard beam but falling rapidly behind was the SEAL support
ship, fighting to keep up with the faster yacht. Across the river, but
now directly ahead, was the brightly illuminated river dredge he had
seen before, slowly scooping a channel lane near the opposite bank.
Dirk stared at the dredge a moment, thinking of the dead SEAL on the
dock and the Coast Guardsmen killed in Alaska. Then he turned back to
the wriggling figure of Kang and stepped close to the mogul, who was
bleeding heavily onto the deck.
"Your ride is over, Kang. Enjoy your stay in hell."
Kang peered up at Dirk with an angry look and grunted an obscenity but Dirk turned and walked away before he could finish. Stepping to the
helm, he reached down and yanked Gutierrez to his feet.
"Nice going, partner, but what took you so long?" Gutierrez rasped.
"Just had to get a few things ironed out," Dirk replied as he
half-dragged the SEAL to the side railing.
"We better stop this cruise ship now," Gutierrez grunted. "I didn't
expect to find the big cheese aboard. Intel will be anxious to get him
under the hot spotlight."
"I'm afraid Kang has an appointment with the grim reaper," Dirk said,
grabbing a life preserver off the bulkhead and throwing it over
Gutierrez's head and shoulders.
"My orders are to take him alive," Gutierrez protested. But before he
could argue further, Dirk grabbed him firmly by the lapels and rolled
the both of them over the side railing and into the water below. Dirk
ensured he was positioned beneath Gutierrez and took the brunt of the
blow as they struck and bounced across the water, nearly knocking the
wind out of him from the high-speed impact. After a quick submersion,
they bobbed to the surface as the yacht roared past them, Dirk holding
the SEAL commander afloat. The crew of the following support ship saw them go over the side and
quickly broke off the chase to pull them out of the water. But Dirk's
and Gutierrez's eyes were on the yacht as they floated in the water,
watching Kang's vessel race across the river. The Benetti's course
held firm as it crossed midriver and streaked toward the dredge and
the opposite bank. As it drew closer to the opposite shore, it became
apparent to everyone who watched that the vessel was headed directly
for the dredge. The dredge's pilot, seeing the speeding yacht heading
toward him, let loose with a long blast from his whistle but the
rapidly approaching boat held steady.
With a thunderous shriek, the gleaming white yacht burst into the
dredge ship like a charging bull, her bow plowing into the rusty steel
vessel amidships. Striking at top speed, the yacht disintegrated into
a cloud of white smoke, followed by a small fireball that floated into
the air as the fuel tanks were crushed and ignited. Splinters of wood
and debris rained across the dredge and around the river as the mashed
remains of the vessel slid off the dredge and sank to the bottom. When
the smoke and flames cleared, there was little evidence to indicate a
165-foot yacht had existed moments before.
Dirk and Gutierrez drifted in the river, watching the carnage with grim
captivation as a rescue dinghy from the support ship puttered toward
them.
"Might be hell to pay for not bringing him in alive," Gutierrez said after the flames and smoke had dissipated.
Dirk shook his head bitterly. "So he could spend the rest of his days
in a country club prison? No thanks."
"You get no argument from me. I think we just bestowed a colossal
favor upon humanity. But his death might bring repercussions. My
superiors are not going to be happy if we create an international
incident with Korea."
"When the facts come out, there will be no tears shed for Kang and his
enterprise of murderers. Besides, he was still alive when we left the
yacht. It looked like a boating accident to me."
Gutierrez thought for a moment. " "A boating accident," " he repeated,
trying to convince himself. "Sure, that might just fly."
Dirk watched as the remaining smoke from the collision slowly
dissipated over the river, then smiled a tired grin at Gutierrez as the
rescue boat approached and fished them out of the river.
Referendum
July 1, 2007 As Kang was obliterated, so fell his empire. The SEAL forces that
swept through his residence captured his assistant Kwan alive, along
with a cache of incriminating documents that he was desperately trying
to destroy in his employer's private office. To the south at Inchon,
additional Special Forces teams sped through Kang's shipyard and
neighboring telecommunications facility. Heavy security resistance at
the facility raised suspicions and a large intelligence team quickly
descended on the building. The secret biological research lab in the
basement was soon discovered, as were the staff's ties to North Korea.
Faced with mounting evidence and the death of his master, Kwan quickly
folded under the duress and fully confessed Kang's sins in a
self-serving ploy to save his own neck.
Back in the United States, news of the "accidental death of Kang as he
was fleeing authorities" brought a similar reaction from ling and his
top engineers. Threatened by officials with attempted mass murder
charges, they cooperated as well, offering the ill excuse that they
were just following orders. Only the Ukrainian engineers refused to
cooperate, which eventually ensured their lengthy stay in a federal
penitentiary.
The government authorities, meanwhile, held their cards to the vest
publicly until the final piece of damning evidence had been uncovered.
The remains of the rocket payload that Pitt and Giordino had retrieved
were transferred under secrecy to Vandenberg Air Force Base north of Los Angeles. In a tightly guarded hangar, a team of space engineers
carefully disassembled the payload, uncovering the mock satellite that
disguised the virus canisters and vapor-dispensing system. Army and
CDC epidemiologists removed the canisters of the freeze-dried virus,
finding, to their shock, that they contained the lethal chimera of
smallpox and HIV organisms. Samples from the Inchon lab were quietly
matched up and the horror confirmed. Despite an interest by the Army
in maintaining samples, the recovered viruses were ordered destroyed in
their entirety by the president. Fears lingered that additional
samples escaped capture and destruction, but the chimera engineered by
Kang's scientists was in fact fully eradicated.
With the Koguryo and her crew traced to Kang Enterprises and the ties
from Kang to North Korea firmly established, officials from the
Homeland Security Department finally went public. A firestorm of media
attention broke worldwide as details of the deadliest attempted
terrorist attack on U.S. soil were fully released. The global press
transferred its focus from Japan to North Korea as the diplomatic
assassinations were additionally linked to Kang. The failed rocket
attack brought worldwide outrage against the North Korean totalitarian
regime despite the Korean Workers' Party blanket denial of involvement.
The few trading partners North Korea had cultivated before the incident
retaliated by placing even tighter restrictions on imports and exports.
Even China joined in the sanctions by halting its trade with the
outlaw regime. Once again, the starving peasantry in the North began to quietly question the dictatorial rule of their nepotistic leader.
In South Korea, the overwhelming evidence against Kang and the
actions of his accomplices hit Seoul like a nuclear strike. Any
displeasure the South Korean government initially manifested at the
American unilateral military intervention was quickly put aside by the
ensuing global uproar. South Korean sentiment turned from shock and
disbelief to anger and outrage at their country's duping by Kang and
his servitude to North Korea. The fallout was rapid. Political
cronies and deal makers who had supported Kang were publicly vilified.
A wave of resignations swept through the National Assembly, leading
right up to the office of the presidency. Revelations of close
personal ties with Kang forced even the South Korean leader to resign
from office.
The national embarrassment and anger led the government to quickly
nationalize the holdings of Kang Enterprises. The yachts and
helicopters were dispensed with first and his fortress residence turned
into a think tank devoted to the study of South Korean sovereignty. His
name was removed from any association with his former assets, which
were later broken up and sold to competing businesses over time. Soon
there was nothing left to remind any of his very existence. Almost by
silent decree, the name of Kang was entirely purged from the South
Korean lexicon. The expose of Kang's ties to the north impacted every level of society.
Youthful demonstrations for reunification fell away as a wariness of
the neighbor to the north reemerged in the national psyche. The
massive North Korean military force poised across the border was no
longer conveniently overlooked. Reunification remained a national
goal, but it would have to come on South Korea's terms. When
reunification finally did arrive on the Korean Peninsula some eighteen
years later, it was driven by a growing hunger for capitalism in the
Korean Workers' Party. Acceding to the personal freedoms that came
with it, the party at last purged itself of dictatorial family rule and
unilaterally converted the bulk of its military troops into a civilian
economic workforce.
But before all that could occur, the South Korean National Assembly had
to vote on Bill 188256, the legislative measure calling for the
expulsion of U.S. military forces from within the national borders. In
a rare show of bipartisan accord, the measure lost by a unanimous
vote.
At Kunsan City, Korea, Air Force Master Sergeant Keith Catana was
quietly walked out of a dingy municipal jail cell just before dawn and
released into the waiting custody of an Air Force colonel attached to
the American embassy. Far beyond his comprehension of events, Catana
was told nothing about the reason for his release. Catana would never
know that he had been set up for the murder of an underage prostitute as part of a concerted plot to influence public sentiment against the
U.S. military presence in Korea. Nor would he know that Kang's own
assistant, Kwan, had revealed the details of the staged murder.
Ensuring full blame fell to the dead assassin Tongju, Kwan readily
confessed to the plot, along with the political assassinations that
occurred in Japan. None of this mattered to the stunned serviceman as
he was whisked onto a U.S.-bound military jet. He knew only one thing.
He would happily oblige the order given by the Air Force colonel never
to set foot on Korean soil again for as long as he lived.
In Washington, D.C." NUMA was briefly exalted for the role played in
diverting the launch and preventing the release of the deadly virus
over Los Angeles. But with the death of Kang and the public release of
his culpability for the attack, Pitt's and Giordino's exploits quickly
fell to yesterday's news. Congressional hearings and investigations
into the attack were the order of the day, and a drumbeat for war with
North Korea beat loudly for a spell. But emotions eventually cooled as
the diplomats were held at bay and the focus gradually shifted to Homeland Security's border resources and ensuring that such
an act could never occur again.
Shrewdly seizing the moment, the new head of NUMA appealed to Congress
for a special appropriations supplement for his organization, to fund a
replacement helicopter, research ship, and two submersibles for those
damaged or destroyed by Kang's men. In a wave of patriotic gratitude,
Congress heartily approved the measure, the bill sweeping through both houses in just a matter of days.
Much to Giordino's chagrin, Pitt had sneaked an additional funding item
into the approved bill, requesting a mobile atmospheric marine
surveillance platform for the agency to use in coastal research. It
was otherwise known as "a blimp."
It was A clear, crisp afternoon in Seattle, the type of day that was
just a few degrees shy of invigorating. The declining sun was casting
long shadows from the tall pines dotting Fircrest Campus when Sarah
hobbled out the front door of the Washington State Public Health Lab. A
heavy plaster cast coated her right leg, which she was heartened to
know would finally be removed in just a few more days.
She winced slightly as she set her weight on a pair of aluminum
crutches, her wrists and forearms sore from carrying the load of her
broken leg for the past few weeks. Hobbling a few paces out the
doorway, she dropped her eyes to the pavement and navigated herself
down a short flight of steps. Carefully picking the next spot along
the ground to jab her crutches, she did not notice the car parked
illegally at the sidewalk entrance and nearly bumped into it. Looking
up, she dropped her jaw in amazement.
Parked in front of her was Dirk's 1958 Chrysler 300-D convertible. The
car looked to be in a semi state of restoration. The pockmarked leather seats had been temporarily taped over while the bullet holes in
the body had been sealed with bondo Assorted spots of gray primer paint across the turquoise body gave the car the look of a giant
camouflaged manta ray.
"I promise not to break the other leg."
Sarah turned to the deep voice behind her to find Dirk standing there
with a bouquet of white lilies and a mischievous grin on his face. Lost
in emotion, she dropped her crutches and threw her arms around him in a
warm hug.
"I was beginning to worry. I hadn't heard from you since the rocket
attack."
"I was away on an all-expense-paid trip to Korea for a farewell cruise
on Dae-jong Kang's yacht."
"The virus they concocted ... it's just mad," she said, shaking her
head.
"There is no need to worry anymore. Confidence is high that all the
samples were retrieved and destroyed. Hopefully, that bug will never
appear on earth again."
"There's always some crazy working on the next biological Pandora's box
for money or notoriety." "Speaking of crazies, how's Irv doing?"
Sarah laughed at the simile. "He's going to be the only modern-day
survivor of smallpox in the world. He's fast on his way to a full
recovery."
"Glad to hear it. He's a good man."
"Looks like your car is on the road to recovery as well," she said,
nodding toward the Chrysler.
"She's a tough old beast. I had the mechanicals refurbished while I
was away but haven't got to the body and interior yet."
Dirk turned and looked at Sarah tenderly. "I still owe you that crab
dinner."
Sarah looked deep into Dirk's green eyes and nodded. With a quick
scoop, Dirk bent over and picked Sarah up and placed her gently on
the front seat of the car with the lilies, then kissed her lightly on
the cheek. Tossing the crutches into the backseat, he jumped in behind
the wheel and fired up the car. The rebuilt motor kicked over easily
and idled with a deep purr. "No ferries?" Sarah asked, snuggling close to Dirk.
"No ferries," Dirk laughed, slipping an arm around Sarah. Tapping on
the accelerator, the old convertible rumbling deeply, he steered across
the lush grounds and into the pink-tinted dusk.