Shock Wave dp-13

by Clive Cussler

  “He admits to taking a few liberties. The yacht was pulling away from him, and his view was mostly of the stern quarter. But he managed to give us a good enough likeness to trace the hull design to her builders.”

  Sandecker lit one of his cigars and nodded toward Giordino. “Al, why don’t you act as lead investigator on this one?”

  Giordino slowly pulled out a cigar, the exact mate of Sandecker’s, and slowly rolled it between his thumb and fingers while warming one end with a wooden match. “I’ll get on the trail after a shower and a change of clothes.”

  Giordino’s slinky method of pilfering the admiral’s private stock of cigars was a mystery that bewildered Sandecker. The cat-and-mouse game had gone on for years, with Sandecker unable to ferret out the secret and too proud to demand an answer from Giordino. What was particularly maddening to the admiral was that his inventory invariably failed to turn up a count of missing cigars.

  Pitt was doodling on a notepad and spoke to Yaeger without looking up. “Suppose you tell me, Hiram. Did my idea of killer sound waves have any merit?”

  “A great deal, as it turns out,” replied Yaeger. “The acoustics experts are still working out a detailed theory, but it looks as if we’re looking at a killer that travels through water and consists of several elements. There are multiple aspects to be examined. The first is a source for generating intense energy. The second, propagation, or how the energy travels from the source through the seas. Third, the target or structure that receives the acoustic energy. And fourth, the physiological effect on human and animal tissue.”

  “Can you make a case for high-intensity sound waves that kill?” Pitt asked.

  Yaeger shrugged. “We’re on shaky ground, but this is the best lead we have at the moment. The only joker in the deck is that sound waves intense enough to kill could not come from an ordinary sound source. And even an intense source could not kill at any great distance unless the sound was somehow focused.”

  “Hard to believe that after traveling great distances through water a combination of high-intensity sound and excessive resonance energy can surface and kill every living thing within thirty or more kilometers.”

  “Any idea where these sound rays originate?” asked Sandecker.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we do.”

  “Can one sound source actually cause such a staggering loss of life?” asked Gunn.

  “No, and that’s the catch,” replied Yaeger. “To produce wholesale murder above and under the sea of the magnitude we’ve experienced, we have to be looking at several different sources on opposite sides of the ocean.” He paused, and shuffled through a stack of papers until he found the one he was looking for. Then he picked up a remote control and pressed a series of codes. Four green lights glowed on opposite corners of the holographic chart.

  “By borrowing the global monitoring system of hydrophones placed by the Navy around the oceans to track the Soviet submarine fleet during the Cold War, we’ve managed to trace the source of the destructive sound waves to four different points in the Pacific Ocean.” Yaeger paused to pass printed copies of the chart to everyone seated at the table. “Number one, by far the strongest, appears to emanate from Gladiator Island, the exposed tip of a deep ocean range of volcanic mountains that surfaces midway between Tasmania and New Zealand’s South Island. Number two is almost on a direct line toward the Komandorskie Islands, off the Kamchatka Peninsula in the Bering Sea.”

  “That’s a fair ways north,” observed Sandecker.

  “Can’t imagine what the Russians have to gain,” said Gunn.

  “Then we head east across the sea to Kunghit Island, off British Columbia, Canada, for number three,” Yaeger continued. “The final source as traced by a data pattern from the hydrophones is on the Isla de Pascua, or Easter Island as it is better known.”

  “Making the shape of a trapezium,” commented Gunn.

  Giordino straightened. “A what?”

  “Trapezium, a quadrilateral with no two sides that are parallel.”

  Pitt rose from the table and moved until he was almost standing inside the three-dimensional chart of the ocean. “A bit unusual for the acoustic sources to all stem from islands.” He turned and stared at Yaeger. “Are you sure of your data? There is no mistake, your electronic gear processed the tracking information from the hydrophone system correctly?”

  Yaeger looked as though Pitt had stabbed him in the chest. “Our statistical analysis takes into account the acoustic network receptions and the alternative ray paths due to ocean variations.”

  “I stand humbled.” Pitt bowed, making a gesture of apology. Then he asked, “Are the islands inhabited?”

  Yaeger handed Pitt a small folder. “We’ve gleaned the usual encyclopedia of data on the islands. Geology, fauna, inhabitants. Gladiator Island is privately owned. The other three are leased from foreign governments for mineral exploration. These have to be considered forbidden zones.”

  “How can sound be propagated such great distances underwater?” inquired Giordino.

  “High-frequency sound is rapidly absorbed by salts in seawater, but low-frequency acoustic waves ignore the molecular structure of the salts, and their signals have been detected at ranges reaching thousands of kilometers. The next part of the scenario gets hazy. Somehow, in a manner we’ve yet to understand, the high-intensity, low-frequency rays, radiating from the various sources, surface and focus in what is known as a ‘convergence zone.’ It’s a phenomenon the scientists call ‘caustics.’”

  “Like in caustic soda?” asked Giordino.

  “No, like an envelope formed when the sound rays meet and converge.”

  Sandecker held up a pair of reading spectacles to the light, checking for smudges. “And if we were all sitting on the deck of a ship that was in the middle of a convergence zone?”

  “If struck by only one sound source,” explained Yaeger, “we’d hear a soft hum and maybe suffer from nothing more than a mild headache. But if four waves converged in the same region at the same time, multiplying the intensity, the structure of the ship would ring or vibrate and the sonic energy would cause enough internal organ damage to kill all of us within a matter of minutes.”

  “Judging from the scattered sites of the disasters,” said Giordino grimly, “this thing can run amok and strike anywhere in the sea.”

  “Or along shorelines,” Pitt added.

  “We’re working on predicting where the ray channels converge,” Yaeger said, “but it’s difficult to come up with a set formula. For the moment, the best we can do is chart tides, currents, sea depths and water temperatures. They all can significantly alter the path of the sound rays.”

  “Since we have a vague notion of what we’re dealing with,” said Sandecker, “we can lay out a plan to pull the plug.”

  “The question is,” Pitt commented, “except for the mineral exploration companies, what do the islands have in common?”

  Giordino stared at his cigar. “Clandestine nuclear or conventional weapons testing?”

  “None of the above,” Yaeger replied.

  “Then what?” demanded Sandecker.

  “Diamonds.”

  Sandecker stared at Yaeger queerly. “Diamonds, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.” Yaeger checked his file. “The operations on all tour islands are either owned or run by Dorsett Consolidated Mining Limited of Sydney, Australia. Second only to De Beers as the world’s largest diamond producer.”

  Pitt felt as if someone had walked up and suddenly punched him in the stomach. “Arthur Dorsett,” he said quietly, “the chairman of Dorsett Consolidated Mining, happens to be the father of the two women A1 and I rescued in the Antarctic.”

  “Of course,” said Gunn, suddenly seeing the light. “Deirdre Dorsett.” Then a quizzical look came into his eyes. “But the other lady, Maeve Fletcher?”

  “Deirdre’s sister, who took an ancestral grandmother’s name,” explained Pitt.

  Only Giordino saw the humor. “T
hey went to an awful lot of trouble to meet us.”

  Sandecker shot him a withering look and turned to Pitt. “This strikes me as more than a mere coincidence.”

  Giordino came right back. “I can’t help wondering what one of the world’s richest diamond merchants will have to say when he learns his diggings came within a hair of killing off his darling daughters.”

  “We may have a blessing in disguise,” said Gunn. “If Dorsett’s mining operations are somehow responsible for an acoustic death plague, Dirk and A1 have the credentials to walk up to his front door and ask questions. The man has every reason to act the role of a grateful father.”

  “From what I know of Arthur Dorsett,” said Sandecker, “he’s so reclusive, he won the hermit trophy from Howard Hughes. As with De Beers diamond mining operations, Dorsett’s properties are heavily guarded against thievery and smuggling. He is never seen in public and he has never granted an interview to the news media. We’re talking about a very private man. I doubt seriously that saving his daughters’ lives will make a dent in this guy. He’s as hard-nosed as they come.”

  Yaeger motioned toward the blue globes on the holographic chart. “People are dying out there. Surely he’ll listen to reason should his operations be somehow responsible.”

  “Arthur Dorsett is a foreign national with an immense power base.” Sandecker spoke slowly. “We have to consider him innocent of any wrongdoing until we have proof. For all we know at the moment, the scourge is a product of nature. As for us, we’re committed to working through official channels. That’s my territory. I’ll start the ball rolling with the State Department and the Australian ambassador. They can set up a dialogue with Arthur Dorsett and request his cooperation in an investigation.”

  “That could take weeks,” argued Yaeger.

  “Why not save time,” said Giordino, “cut through the red tape, and see if his mining technology is somehow behind the mass murders?”

  “You could knock on the door of his nearest diamond mine and ask to see the excavating operation,” Pitt suggested with the barest hint of sarcasm.

  “If Dorsett is as paranoid as you make him out to be,” Giordino said to Sandecker, “he’s not the type of guy to play games with.”

  “Al is right,” agreed Yaeger. “To stop the killing and stop it soon, we can’t wait for diplomatic niceties. We’ll have to go clandestine.”

  “Not a simple exercise, snooping around diamond mines,” said Pitt. “They’re notoriously well guarded against poachers and any intruders out for a quick buck scavenging for stones. Security around diamond-producing mines is notoriously heavy. Penetrating high-tech electronic systems will require highly trained professionals.”

  “A Special Forces team?” Yaeger put on the table.

  Sandecker shook his head. “Not without presidential authority.”

  “What about the President?” asked Giordino.

  “Too soon to go to him,” answered the admiral. “Not until we can produce hard evidence of a genuine threat to national security.”

  Pitt spoke slowly as he contemplated the chart. “The Kunghit Island mine seems the most convenient of the four. Since it’s in British Columbia and practically on our doorstep, I see no reason why we can’t do a little exploring on our own.”

  Sandecker eyed Pitt shrewdly. “I hope you’re not laboring under the impression our neighbors to the north might be willing to turn a blind eye to an intrusion?”

  “Why not? Considering that NUMA found a very profitable oil site off Baffin Island for them several years ago, I figure they won’t mind if we take a canoe trip around Kunghit and photograph the scenery.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Pitt looked at the admiral like a kid expecting a free ticket to the circus. “I may have overstated my case slightly, but yes, that’s the way I see it.”

  Sandecker puffed meditatively on his cigar. “All right,” he finally sighed. “Do your trespassing. But just remember, if you get caught by Dorsett’s security people, don’t bother to call home. Because nobody will answer the phone.”

  A Rolls-Royce sedan rolled soundlessly to a stop beside an ancient aircraft hangar that stood in a weed-grown field on the far perimeter of Washington’s International Airport. Like an elegant dowager slumming on the wrong side of the tracks, the stately old car seemed out of place on a deserted dirt road during the night. The only illumination came from the dim yellow glow of a weathered streetlight that failed dismally at reflecting the silver and green metallic paint of the car.

  The Rolls was a model known as the Silver Dawn. The chassis came out of the factory in 1955 and was fitted with a custom body by the coach-builders Hoopers & Company. The front fenders tapered gracefully into the body at the rear until the skirted wheels and sides were perfectly smooth. The engine was a straight six with overhead valves, which carried the car over the roads as quietly as the ticking of an electric clock. Speed with a Rolls-Royce was never a factor. When questioned about horsepower, the factory merely stated that it was adequate.

  St. Julien Perlmutter’s chauffeur, a taciturn character by the name of Hugo Mulholand, pulled on the emergency brake, switched off the ignition and turned to his employer, who filled most of the rear seat.

  “I have never been comfortable driving you here,” he said in a hollow bass voice that went with his bloodhound eyes. He stared at the rusting corrugated roof and walls that hadn’t seen paint in forty years. “I can’t see why anyone would want to live in such a disreputable shack.”

  Perlmutter weighed a solid 181 kilograms. Strangely, none of his body possessed more than a hint of flab. He was remarkably solid for a huge man. He held up the gold knob of a hollow cane that doubled as a brandy flask and rapped it on the walnut table that lowered from the rear of the front seat. “That disreputable shack, as you call it, happens to house a collection of antique automobiles and aircraft worth millions of dollars. The chances of being set upon by bandits are unlikely. They don’t usually roam around airfields in the dead of night, and there are enough security systems to guard a Manhattan bank.” Perlmutter paused to point his cane out the window at a tiny red light that was barely visible. “Even as we speak, we’re being monitored by a video camera.”

  Mulholand sighed, stepped around the car and opened the door for Perlmutter. “Shall I wait?”

  “No, I’m having dinner here. Enjoy yourself for a few hours. Then return and pick me up at eleven-thirty.”

  Mulholand helped Perlmutter from the car and escorted him to the entry door of the hangar. The door was stained and layered with dust. The camouflage was well conceived. Anyone who happened to pass the run-down appearing hangar would assume it was simply a deserted building scheduled for demolition. Perlmutter rapped on the door with his cane. After a few seconds there was an audible click, and the door opened as if pulled by a ghostly hand.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” said Mulholand as he slid a cylindrical package under Perlmutter’s arm and held up the handle of a briefcase for him to grasp. Then he turned and walked back to the Rolls.

  Perlmutter stepped into another world. Instead of dust, grime and cobwebs, he was in a brilliantly lit, brightly decorated and spotless atmosphere of gleaming paint and chrome. Nearly four dozen classic automobiles, two aircraft and a turn-of-the-century railroad car sat in restored splendor on a highly polished concrete floor. The door closed silently behind him as he walked through the incredible display of exotic machinery.

  Pitt stood on a balcony that extended from an apartment and which ran across one end of the hangar a good ten meters above the concrete floor. He gestured at the cylindrical package under Perlmutter’s arm. “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” he said, smiling.

  Perlmutter looked up and gave him a scowl. “I am not Greek and this happens to be a bottle of French Dom Perignon champagne,” he said, holding up the package, “vintage 1983, to celebrate your return to civilization. I would imagine it’s superior to anything in your cellar.”

&nbs
p; Pitt laughed. “All right, we’ll test it against my Albuquerque, New Mexico, Gruet brut nonvintage sparkling wine.”

  “You can’t be serious. Albuquerque? Gruet?”

  “They beat out the best of the California sparkling wines in competition.”

  “All this talk about wine is making my stomach growl. Send down your lift.”

  Pitt sent down an antique freight elevator with ornate wrought-iron screens around it. As soon as it jangled to a stop, Perlmutter stepped in. “Will this thing take my weigh?”

  “I installed it myself to bring up the furniture. But this will be a true load-capacity test.”

  “That’s a comforting thought,” muttered Perlmutter as the elevator easily carried him up to Pitt’s apartment.

  At the landing they greeted each other like the old friends they were. “Good to see you, Julien.”

  “Always happy to dine with my tenth son.” It was one of Perlmutter’s running jokes. He was an old confirmed bachelor, and Pitt was the only son of Senator George Pitt of California.

  “There are nine others just like me?” Pitt asked, feigning surprise.

  Perlmutter patted his massive stomach. “Before this got in the way, you’d be amazed how many damsels succumbed to my suave manners and honeyed tongue.” He paused to sniff the air. “Is that herring I smell?”

  Pitt nodded. “You’re eating basic German farmhand fare tonight. Corned beef hash with salt herring and steamed spiced sauerkraut preceded by lentil soup with pork liver sausage.”

  “I should have brought Munich beer instead of champagne.”

  “Be adventuresome,” said Pitt. “Why follow the rules?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Perlmutter. “Sounds wonderful. You’ll make some woman a happy wife with your masterful cooking.”

  “I’m afraid a love of cooking won’t make up for all my failings.”

  “Speaking of lovely ladies, what do you hear from Congresswoman Smith?”

  “Loren is back in Colorado, campaigning to keep her seat in Congress,” explained Pitt. “I haven’t seen her in nearly two months.”