The Silent Sea

by Clive Cussler

  Their wood-paneled cabin was tiny, but at least they had a balcony overlooking the Louisiana side of the river. Max made a comment about the bathroom being smaller than a phone booth, to which Cabrillo replied that they weren’t here to enjoy the cruise. They didn’t unpack their bags and left the cabin quickly.

  Before boarding, they had checked the people at the cocktail reception on the quay. Dr. Wright wasn’t among the guests, so the next logical place would either be her cabin or up on the sundeck. They hoped they could find her, convince her that she was in danger, and get her away from the stern-wheeler before the Argentines showed up. If not, they would guard her until the next port of call and make their escape then.

  There was a bar at the aft section of the upper deck, overlooking the paddle wheel as it turned idly in the current. It was covered by a large white tarp to ward off the last rays of the setting sun. A few passengers were seated around it, and several others sat in nearby sofas, but none matched Tamara Wright’s description. Farther forward, in the shadow of the Natchez Belle’s ersatz smokestacks, was a sunken hot tub big enough to seat ten. Like the bar, it proved popular with passengers, but there was no sign of Dr. Wright.

  “What do you think?” Max asked.

  “I think we’re going to Natchez,” Juan replied.

  “We might as well get dressed for dinner.”

  The men hadn’t bothered packing suits, so they made due with fresh shirts and the sports jackets they’d been wearing. By the time they emerged from their cabin, the gangway was being levered into its position along the ship’s flank. An old-fashioned steam whistle—or at least an electronic version of one—signaled that the stern-wheeler was about to get under way.

  While many passengers lined the upper rails or stood on their balconies to wave good-bye to Vicksburg, Cabrillo and Hanley scoured the Natchez Belle for Tamara or the Argentine hit squad. They found neither.

  Both men felt a sense of relief. When the Argentines came, as they no doubt would, it wouldn’t be until they reached their next destination. By then, Tamara Wright would understand the danger she was in, and they’d be able to sneak her off the ship. Cabrillo had already worked out a plan for that.

  They sauntered up to the main-deck bar again, where most passengers were enjoying another predinner drink and listening to the house jazz band. A concert by legendary jazz pianist Lionel Couture was scheduled for after the meal.

  Max suddenly slapped Juan’s chest with the back of his hand and pointed. “I think I’m in love.”

  Most of the people they’d seen were older couples out blowing their children’s inheritances, so Cabrillo didn’t understand what his friend could be talking about. He didn’t think it was the mustached bartender wearing the white suit. At least, he hoped it wasn’t. The bartender shifted position, and Juan had a clear view of the woman sitting on the opposite side.

  He got it now.

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Notice the necklace. Just like Perlmutter said.”

  Tamara Wright had to have been a ravishing beauty in her day, and, in her mid-fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had unlined café au lait skin and shoulder-length hair that was as shiny black as a raven’s wing. She was smiling at something the bartender said, showing a mouthful of the whitest teeth Juan had ever seen. She wore a patterned spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her toned arms.

  He had pictured a cloistered academic when St. Julian first mentioned her and he was delighted to admit how wrong he was.

  Juan had to stretch his pace to keep up with Max’s bull-in-a-china-shop charge to get to her.

  “Dr. Wright,” Max said with as much gallantry as he could muster. “My name is Max Hanley.”

  A puzzled but pleased look set her smile at just the right angle. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”

  Before Max could start in on what could prove to be a lengthy assault on her virtue, Juan stepped in. “No, ma’am. You don’t know us, but we’re here because St. Julian Perlmutter said you’d be here.”

  “You know St. Julian?”

  “Yes, we do, and he said you’d have some insight into a Chinese Admiral that he, as much as it pains him to admit, doesn’t.”

  Now she was really intrigued. “Who are you?”

  “Cabrillo. My name is Juan Cabrillo, and a couple of days ago my associate here and I discovered writing at the bottom of something called the Pine Island Treasure Pit that had been put there by Admiral Tsai Song in 1498.”

  Her mouth hung agape for a moment before she realized she was staring. She took a steadying sip of her white wine. Hanley and Cabrillo didn’t look like the types to play a practical joke. They looked deadly serious.

  “It really is true?” Her voice was a wonder-filled whisper.

  “Yes.” Max said, grinning that he was able to provide her with information she obviously relished.

  “Wait,” she said suddenly. “Isn’t Pine Island where some privateer supposedly buried his treasure?”

  “The reality is even more amazing than that legend,” Juan told her. He had already decided to get as much out of her as he could before telling her about the Argentine threat. He didn’t want to risk her becoming uncooperative. “Please, what can you tell us about Admiral Tsai?”

  “The reason so little is known about him is that when he returned to China, a new Emperor was on the throne, one who didn’t believe his subjects should leave the Middle Kingdom, and he put Tsai and his crew to death so they couldn’t pollute the people with tales of the outside world. One of the men managed to escape, and it’s from him we know about the voyage.” She spoke with a real passion on the subject. And while Juan had asked the question, she was directing most of her attention to Max.

  “Tell us about the ship they were forced to leave behind. Tsai wrote that his men were set upon by an evil but didn’t say what really happened.”

  “Yes, that was the Silent Sea. Tsai was forced to sink her and kill all her crew because they had gone mad.”

  “Where did this happen?” Max asked.

  “The survivor was a lowly seaman, not a navigator. He only said that where it took place was a land of ice.”

  “Curious,” Juan said. “How does—”

  “A black woman become an expert on Chinese maritime history?”

  “No, I was going to ask how the story was preserved for so long, but since you brought it up . . .”

  “My father was an electronics engineer who spent most of his career in Taiwan. I was raised in Taipei. That’s where I got my undergraduate degree. It was only after I finished that we returned to the States. As for how the story persisted, the survivor, Zedong Cho, wrote it down when he was an old man. He lived in Taiwan when it was just anther province. The manuscript was handed down through the family, but by the time a few generations had passed it was seen as a piece of fiction, the fantasy of an old ancestor with a good imagination. I learned about it because my roommate all four years at university was Susan Zedong, Cho’s nine-times-removed granddaughter.

  “Of course, there was no way to prove Admiral Tsai ever existed because the Emperor erased all evidence of him and all his men, so the story has remained just that, a story.”

  “Until now,” Max reminded.

  “Until now,” she smiled at him.

  Cabrillo could definitely sense some sparks here, and as much as he’d like to give them time alone, time was a luxury they didn’t have.

  “Does he say what caused the madness?” He was thinking about Linda Ross’s report. Coincidence was a four-letter word in their line of work.

  “The Silent Sea got separated from the other two ships for a month on its way to South America. They stopped at a remote island—please don’t ask which—and they traded for fresh food from the natives. That’s the only deviation from what the other ships encountered, so I’ve always believed the food was tainted somehow.”

  “Would you excuse me for a moment,” Juan said, and stepped awa
y. Max couldn’t have been happier.

  Juan dialed the Oregon and asked to be put through to Dr. Huxley.

  “Jules, its Juan.”

  “Hey, where are you guys?”

  “Believe it or not, on a Mississippi riverboat.”

  “It’s warm and sunny, isn’t it?” There was envy in the ship’s medical officer’s voice.

  “The sun just set, but it’s still about eighty.”

  “And you’re calling to gloat. That’s cold, Chairman, even for you.”

  “Listen, have you had a chance to check those samples you asked Murph to bring back from Wilson/George?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Test them for prions.”

  “Prions . . . seriously? You think Andrew Gangle had mad cow disease?”

  “A form of it, yes, and I think he got it from the other body. Prions don’t die, right?”

  “They’re just proteins, so they aren’t really alive. But, yes, in a sense they don’t die.”

  “So someone could become infected if prions are introduced into the bloodstream by, say, accidentally jabbing yourself with the bone of a corpse riddled with them?”

  Julia didn’t hesitate. “Theoretically. Where’d this brainstorm come from?”

  “A Chinese ship that isn’t where it was supposed to be. Do me a favor and tell Mark and Stoney to quit studying the map. I found the bay.” He left it at that and rejoined Max and Tamara, who was laughing at some joke Hanley had just cracked.

  “What was that all about?” Max asked.

  “Playing a hunch about what tainted the food aboard the Silent Sea.” Cannibalism was a common occurrence on several Pacific islands, and, if he was right, he knew what kind of meat the Chinese had bartered for. “What cargo did the ship carry?”

  “She was loaded with everything from gold and spices to silks and jade, all the items that the Chinese held in esteem. They wanted the best in their dealings with natives they met on their voyage, so they brought only their best. What else did Admiral Tsai write?”

  “I have a translation down in my cabin. It would be my pleasure to get you a copy.”

  It was only because the band had stopped that Juan heard the low throb of powerful engines. He knew what it was even before he sprang to his feet. His sudden action alerted Max.

  Juan raced to the side of the stern-wheeler and peered down into the dark waters. There was enough glow left in the sky for him to see that a forty-foot cigarette-style boat had pulled alongside the Natchez Belle. In it were four men dressed in dark clothes with ski masks pulled over their faces. So many things gelled in his mind at that moment, so many implications of what their dogged pursuit meant. But he didn’t have time to dwell on them.

  Already one of the men had leapt the narrow gap from the cigarette boat to the lowest deck of the lumbering pleasure boat.

  They had four men. One would have to stay with their vessel, meaning three would board the Belle. Juan and Max had faced worse odds, but he had to consider the other passengers’ safety. From what he’d seen of the Argentines, they weren’t above targeting civilians.

  “Max, stay with her. Jump over the side if you have to.”

  Hanley hadn’t drawn his pistol but his hand was at the ready in his jacket.

  “What’s happening?” Tamara asked, her body sensing the tension in her new companions.

  “You’re in danger,” Max said. “You have to trust us.”

  “But I don’t—”

  Max cut her off. “There isn’t time. Please, trust me.”

  Juan had made his way to the main stairwell down to the lower decks when he heard screams coming from below. The Argentines were all aboard now, he guessed, and brandishing weapons. He could see a panicked mob, surging for the stairs. There was no way he’d be able to fight his way down through the mess of clamoring people.

  He turned instantly and rushed forward. Next to the hot tub was a peaked skylight made up of dozens of pieces of emerald-cut glass set in a wrought-iron frame. He kicked at a few of the panes, shards of glass cascading onto the dinner table below. More shrieks came from startled early diners who hadn’t heard the commotion.

  Cabrillo jumped through the opening he’d created and hit the table a little off center. It collapsed, tossing him to the floor in an avalanche of food, cutlery, and plates. His momentum knocked a matronly woman back in her chair so her thick legs were pointed at the ceiling. They bicycled comically as she tried to right herself.

  Juan got to his feet, stinking of wine and collard greens. His ankle gave a slight twinge. It wasn’t sprained, but he’d twisted it in the fall. While some passengers stared, the husband of the woman he’d knocked over started yelling at him. He made to push Cabrillo in the shoulder, but Juan sidestepped his attempt, rotating in place and pushing the man on the back in a maneuver that looked like a matador turning a charging bull.

  It happened so fast that the irate husband took two steps before he realized he was past his target. He spun to up the fight’s ante but stopped dead when he saw Juan had drawn his pistol. Cabrillo didn’t aim it at him, though he made sure the guy got a good look at it and rethought how best to defend his wife’s honor. She still hadn’t managed to get her legs down or her backside out of the overturned chair.

  The glass doors leading into the dining room were suddenly smashed open. Two of the gunmen burst through. Screams erupted when the passengers saw the assault rifles. Cabrillo recognized them as Ruger Mini-14s, among the best civilian rifles made. He didn’t have a clear shot because of the people scrambling to get away from the armed intruders. Some dove under tables while others seemed rooted where they stood, ashen and unsure.

  The men swept the room, looking for Tamara Wright. They would easily have gotten a picture off the Internet, something Cabrillo had forgotten to do. Juan turned slightly and crouched so they wouldn’t get a look at his face.

  “Everybody line up against the back wall.”

  Cabrillo recognized the voice of the Argentine Major.

  There was a waiter standing next to the kitchen doors. He slowly tried to sneak his way through and escape. The second gunman saw the movement and fired without hesitation. The bullet caught him square in the chest, its speed sending it straight through him and on into the kitchen, where it ricocheted off some piece of equipment.

  The passengers’ screaming built into a crescendo of noise that filled the dining room. In this fresh surge of panic, Cabrillo made his move. He knew that once the gunman got control of the room he was a dead man, so he launched himself toward the big picture window overlooking the inky river. He took four paces before the Argentines reacted. A string of rounds from the semiautomatic rifles buzzed around him. Glassware and dishes exploded off the tables when they were hit. One round caught a tuxedoed man in the arm. He was so close to Cabrillo that his blood splashed Juan’s sleeve.

  Several other bullets hit the window, starring the glass and weakening it enough so that when Cabrillo threw himself against it it failed spectacularly. He crashed into the Mississippi in a hail of shards, forcing himself as deep as he could.

  The water was pitch-black just inches below the surface. By feel, he swam along the hull as the Natchez Belle continued southward. He could sense the vibration of her props through the river and hear the relentless churning of her decorative stern wheel.

  Juan surfaced just under where the hull and deck met, in an area protected from above. The boat was moving at about four knots, and its passage pulled him through the water at nearly the same speed. He jammed his pistol into its holster to free up his hands.

  Like on a traditional stern-wheeler, there was a rocker arm protruding over the side of the ship, like the pistons that drive a locomotive’s big wheels. On the Belle, it wasn’t functional, only an additional element to make her look authentic.

  Juan reached out of the water and grabbed one of the support brackets. There was nothing for him to climb higher once his torso was free of the river, however. This part of the
ship was a sheer wall. He was partially aboard the ship but trapped along her waterline. The rocker arm lowered him back into the river like a tea bag before drawing him out again. The repetitive motion was nauseating. More shots pierced the night from inside the superstructure. Time was running out, and he knew what he had to do.

  Hand over hand, he inched his way slowly aft, until the thirty-foot-diameter wheel loomed over his shoulder and tore at the water next to his waist. Unlike the original vessels where the paddles were made out of wood on a steel framework, the Belle’s wheel was all metal.

  Juan watched it in the glow of lights shining over the fantail, judging its rotation and the rhythm of the rocker arm, until he was certain.

  He lunged for one of the paddles with both hands, managing to get his fingers in position the instant before it sucked him under. The drag against his body threatened to pull his arms out of their sockets, but nothing in the world would make him let go. Just as quickly as he’d been pulled below the surface, he emerged again, streaming water. He was facing away from the ship, so, in the seconds he had, he twisted around so that when he reached the apex of the wheel he was looking at the windows of the Presidential Suite, just below the topside lounge.

  Momentum threw him against the glass with more than enough force to shatter it. He landed on a king-sized bed and bounced to his feet. A woman wrapped in a towel was just coming from the bathroom. She screamed at Juan standing there, shaking off glass chips and water.

  In moments like these, Juan was usually good for a one-line quip, but he was too stunned by the impact and the wild ride around the stern wheel. He gave the woman a charming smile, and strode from the cabin.

  Only ten minutes had passed since he’d dived in the river. Ten minutes in which Max was alone, outgunned three to one. Juan pulled his pistol, racked back the slide to drain it, and blew into the receiver. It was the best he could do, but the Glock was a hardy weapon that had never failed him before.

  The hallway outside the woman’s cabin was deserted. Orange flicker bulbs meant to look like candles cast bizarre shadows from the wall sconces. It gave the dim hall the feel of a haunted house. Juan’s shoes squelched with each footfall, and he was leaving a trail of stinking river water in his wake. A door suddenly opened a crack, and an eye peered out.