Shock Wave dp-13

by Clive Cussler

  “Besides their beauty after being cut and polished, diamonds have unique qualities. They happen to be the hardest known substance in the world. Rub one against silk and it produces a positive electrostatic charge. Expose it to the setting sun and it will later glow in the dark with an unearthly phosphorescence. No, my young friend. Diamonds are more than a myth. They are the ultimate creator of illusions.” Perlmutter paused and lifted the champagne bottle from the ice bucket. He poured the final few drops in his glass almost sadly. Then he held it up. “Damn, it appears I’ve run dry.”

  After he left the NUMA building, Giordino signed out one of the agency’s turquoise cars and drove to his recently purchased condominium in Alexandria, along the Potomac River. His rooms were an interior decorator’s nightmare. None of the furniture or decor matched. Nothing conformed to the basic rules of taste and style. His succession of girlfriends who moved in and moved out all left their mark, and none of their redecorating blended with the judgment of his next companion. Happily, he stayed close friends with every one of them. They enjoyed his company, but none would have married him on a bet.

  He wasn’t a sloppy housekeeper, and he was a fair cook, but he was seldom at home. If he wasn’t chasing around the world on undersea projects with Pitt, he was mounting expeditions to search for anything that was lost, be it ships, aircraft or people. He loved to hunt for the missing. He could never sit around his living room watching TV in the evenings or read a book. Giordino’s mind was constantly traveling, and his thoughts were rarely trained on the lady by his side, a condition that frustrated the gentler sex no end.

  He threw his dirty clothes in the washer and took a quick shower. Then he packed an overnight bag and drove to Dulles International, where he caught an early evening flight to Miami. Upon arrival, he rented a car, drove to the city’s port area and checked into a dockside motel. Next he checked the Yellow Pages for marine architects, copying the names, addresses and phone numbers of those who specialized in private motor yachts. Then he began to call.

  The first four, who had already left for home, responded with answering machines, but the fifth picked up the call. Giordino was not surprised. He had expected that one of them would be conscientiously working late, creating the construction plans for some rich man’s floating home away from home.

  “Mr. Wes Wilbanks?” inquired Giordino.

  “Yes, this is Wes. What can I do for you this time of night?” The voice had a soft Southern drawl.

  “My name is Albert Giordino. I’m with the National Underwater & Marine Agency. I need your help in identifying the manufacturer of a boat.”

  “Is it docked here in Miami?”

  “No, sir. It could be anywhere in the world.”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “More than you know.”

  “I’ll be in the office tomorrow at around ten.”

  “This is a matter of some urgency,” Giordino said with quiet authority.

  “Okay, I’ll be wrapping up in about an hour. Why don’t you drop by then? Do you have the address?”

  “Yes, but I’m a stranger to Miami.”

  Wilbanks gave Giordino directions. The architect’s office was only a few blocks away, so Giordino grabbed a fast dinner at a small Cuban cafe and set off on foot, following the directions he’d received over the phone.

  The man who opened the door was in his early thirties, quite tall and dressed in shorts and a flowered shirt. Giordino’s head barely came to Wilbanks’ shoulder, and he had to look up. The handsome face was framed by an abundance of fashionably slicked-back hair that was graying at the temples. He definitely had the look of someone who belonged to the yachting set, Giordino decided.

  “Mr. Giordino, Wes Wilbanks. I’m real pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Come on in. Would you like some coffee? Made this morning, but the chicory keeps it flavorful.”

  “Love some.”

  Wilbanks led him into an office with a hardwood floor, shelves covering one wall stacked with books on yacht and small-boat design. The other wall was filled with half hull models that Giordino assumed were built from Wilbanks’ plans. The middle of the room contained a large antique drafting table. A desk with a computer sat nestled on a bench in front of a picture window overlooking the port.

  Giordino accepted a cup of coffee and laid the sketches from the second officer of the container ship Rio Grande on the drafting table. “I know this isn’t much to go on, but I’m hoping you might point me toward the manufacturer.”

  Wilbanks studied the drawings, tilting his head from side to side. After a solid minute, he rubbed his chin and peered over the sketch paper. “At first glance it looks like a basic design from any one of a hundred boatbuilders. But I do believe whoever observed the boat and sketched it was fooled by the angle from which he viewed it. Actually, I believe there are two hulls, not one, mounting a futuristic pod that gives it a space-age look. I’ve always wanted to create something like this but have yet to find a customer willing to stray very far from conventional designs—”

  “You sound like you’re talking about a craft for flying to the moon”

  “Not far from it.” Wilbanks sat down at his computer and turned it on. “Let me show you with computer graphics what I mean.” He rummaged through a drawer, retrieved a disk and inserted it into his machine. “Here’s a concept I created purely for fun and out of frustration at knowing I’ll never get paid to build it.”

  The image of a sleek sport cruiser without any sharp lines or edges filled the monitor. Gone was the traditional angular bow. The entire hull and pod that covered the cockpit were smooth and rounded. Nothing conservative about this craft. It looked like something from fifty years in the future. Giordino was impressed. Through the use of computer graphics, Wilbanks gave him a tour through the interior of the boat, focusing on the bold and unusual design of the appliances and furniture. This was truly imagination and innovation at work.

  “You visualize all this from a couple of rough drawings?” Giordino asked in awe.

  “Hold on and you’ll see,” said Wilbanks. He ran the sketches through an electronic scanner that transferred the images to his computer monitor. Then he overlaid the images with his own plans and compared them. Except for minor differences in design and dimensions, they were a very close match.

  “All in the eyes of the beholder,” Giordino murmured.

  “I’m insanely envious that one of my peers got there first,” Wilbanks said. “I’d have sold my kids for a contract to do this baby.”

  “Can you give me an idea as to the size and power source?”

  “Of mine or yours?”

  “The boat in the sketches,” replied Giordino.

  “I should say the overall length is somewhere around thirty meters. The beam, just under ten meters. As to power plants, if it were me I would have specified a pair of Blitzen Seastorm turbodiesels. Most likely BAD 98s, which combined could produce more than twenty-five hundred horsepower. Estimated cruising speed with these engines could easily push a boat this size through calm seas at seventy knots or more, much more depending upon the efficiency of the twin hulls.”

  “Who has the facilities to build such a boat?”

  Wilbanks leaned back and thought a moment. “A boat of this size and configuration calls for pretty radical fiberglass forming. Glastec Boats in San Diego could do the job, as could Heinklemann Specialty Boat Builders in Kiel, Germany.”

  “What about the Japanese?”

  “They’re not players in the yacht industry. Hong Kong has a number of small boatyards, but they primarily build in wood. Most fiberglass-boat builders stick to tried and proven concepts.”

  “Then in your judgment it’s either Glastec or Heinklemann,” said Giordino.

  “Those are the two I’d call in to bid on my design,” Wilbanks assured him.

  “What about the architect?”

  “I can think of at least twenty off the t
op of my head who specialize in radical design.”

  Giordino smiled. “I was lucky in stumbling onto number twenty-one.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Seaside Motel.”

  “NUMA doesn’t exactly splurge with their expense accounts, do they?”

  “You should meet my boss, Admiral James Sandecker. He and Shylock were bosom buddies.”

  Wilbanks laughed. “Tell you what, drop back by my office about ten in the morning. I should have something for you.”

  “I’m grateful for your help.”

  Giordino shook Wilbanks’ hand, then took a long walk along the waterfront before returning to his motel room, where he read a mystery novel before finally falling asleep.

  At ten o’clock on the nose, Giordino entered Wilbanks’ studio. The boat architect was studying a set of plans. He held them up and grinned.

  “After you left last night,” he said, “I refined the sketches you gave me and ran off scaled plans. Then I reduced the size and faxed them to San Diego and Germany. Because of the difference in time, Heinklemann had responded before I came in this morning. Glastec replied to my inquiry only twenty minutes before you walked in.”

  “Were they familiar with the boat in question?” asked Giordino impatiently.

  “Bad news on that end, I’m afraid,” Wilbanks said deadpan. “Neither designed or built your boat.”

  “Then it’s back to square one.”

  “Not really. The good news is that one of Heinklemann’s engineers saw and studied your boat when it was moored in Monaco about nine months ago. He reports the manufacturer was a French firm, a new one in the industry I wasn’t aware of. Jusserand Marine out of Cherbourg.”

  “Then we can fax them a set of your plans,” said Giordino, his hopes on the rise again.

  “No need.” Wilbanks waved him off “Though the subject never came up, I assumed your real reason for tracing the boat manufacturer was to learn the identity of the owner.”

  “I have no reason to deny it.”

  “The Heinklemann engineer who spotted the boat in Monaco was also kind enough to include the owner’s name in the fax. He mentioned that he inquired only after he noticed that the crew looked more like a band of Mafia toughs than polished seamen maintaining and sailing a luxury yacht.”

  “Mafia toughs`.”

  “He claimed they all packed guns.”

  “The name of the owner?”

  “A woman, a wealthy Australian. Her family made ii fortune in diamond mining. Her name is Boudicca Dorsett.”

  While Pitt was on a flight to Ottawa, Canada, Giordino called his plane and briefed him on the mystery yacht.

  “There is no doubt?” asked Pitt.

  “Not in my book,” replied Giordino. “It’s almost a dead certainty the boat that fled the death scene belongs to the Dorsett family.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “You might also be interested in learning that the admiral asked the Navy to conduct a satellite search of the central and eastern belt of the Pacific Ocean. The yacht was discovered and tracked. It made a brief layover in Hawaii and then continued on toward your goal.”

  “Kunghit Island? Then I can kill two stones with one bird.”

  “You’re just full of pathetic clichés this morning.”

  “What does the yacht look like?”

  “Unlike any boat you’ve ever seen before. Strictly a space-age design.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for it,” Pitt promised.

  “I know it’s a waste of breath saying this,” Giordino said cynically, “but stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll wire if I need money.” Pitt laughed as he hung up, thankful that he had a caring friend like Albert Cassius Giordino.

  After landing and renting a car, Pitt took the bridge across the Rideau River into Ottawa, the Canadian capital city. The weather was colder than the inside of a refrigerator, and the landscape appeared ugly and barren without leaves on the trees. The only havens of color that sprang from a thick sheet of snow covering the ground were scattered stands of green pines. He glanced over the railing at the river below. The river, which ran into the Ottawa River and thence to the mighty St. Lawrence, was flowing under a coating of ice. Canada was an incredibly beautiful country, thought Pitt, but its harsh winters should be sent far to the north, never to return.

  As he drove across the bridge over the Ottawa River and into the small city of Hull, he glanced at his map and memorized the streets leading to a group of three upscale buildings that housed several government offices. The one he was looking for was Environment Canada, a department of the government that corresponded to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency in Washington.

  A security guard at a gatehouse gave him directions and waved him through. Pitt slipped the car into a slot in the visitors’ parking lot and entered the building. A quick glance at the building directory, and he was into the elevator and on his way up to Environment Canada’s offices.

  A receptionist nearing retirement looked up and forced a thin smile. “May I help you?”

  “My name is Pitt. I have an appointment with Mr. Edward Posey.”

  “One moment.” She dialed a number, announced his arrival and then nodded. “Please take the hallway down to the doorway at the end.”

  Pitt thanked her and did as he was told. A pretty redhaired secretary met him at the door and ushered him into Posey’s office.

  A short man with glasses and a beard rose from his chair, leaned over the desk and pressed Pitt’s extended hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Dirk. How long has it been?”

  “Eleven years ago, during the spring of 1989.”

  “Yes, the Doodlebug Project. We met at the conference when you gave a report on your discovery of the oil field near Baffin Island.”

  “I need a favor, Ed.”

  Posey nodded to a chair. “Sit down, sit down. What exactly can I do for you?”

  “I’d like your permission to investigate the mining activities being conducted at Kunghit Island.”

  “You talking about Dorsett Consolidated’s operations?”

  Pitt nodded. “The same. NUMA has reason to believe their excavating technology is having a devastating effect on sea life as far away as the Antarctic.”

  Posey gave him a thoughtful look. “This have anything to do with that Australian cruise ship and its dead passengers?”

  “Any connection is purely circumstantial at this date.”

  “But you have your suspicions?” Posey inquired.

  “We do.”

  “Natural Resources Canada is who you should talk to.”

  “I don’t think so. If your government operates anything like mine, it would take an act of Parliament to allow an investigation onto land that is legally leased by a mining company. Even then, Arthur Dorsett is too powerful to allow that to happen.”

  “It would seem you’ve crawled into a pipe with no outlet,” said Posey.

  “There is a way out,” Pitt said, smiling, “providing you cooperate.”

  Posey looked uneasy. “I can’t authorize you to snoop around Dorsett’s diamond mine, certainly not without hard evidence of unlawful damage to the environment.”

  “Maybe, but you can hire my services to check out the spawning habits of cauliflower-nosed salmon.”

  “Spawning season is almost over. Besides, I’ve never heard of a cauliflower-nosed salmon.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “You’ll never fool security at the mine. Dorsett hires the best in the business, British ex-commandos and American Special Forces veterans.”

  “I don’t have to climb the fence onto mining property,” explained Pitt. “I can find all I require with instruments while sailing around the inlets of Kunghit Island.”

  “In a survey boat?”

  “I was thinking of a canoe, local color and all.”

  “Forget the canoe. The waters around Kunghit are treacherous. The waves roll in out of the Pacific
and pound the rocky shores like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You make it sound unsafe.”

  “If the sea doesn’t get you,” Posey said seriously, “Dorsett’s goon squad will.”

  “So I’ll use a bigger boat and carry a harpoon,” Pitt said cynically.

  “Why don’t you simply go on the property with a bona fide team of Canadian environmental engineers and blow the whistle on any shady operations?”

  Pitt shook his head. “A waste of time. Dorsett’s foreman would only close down the mine until they left. Better to investigate when their guard isn’t up.”

  Posey stared past Pitt out the window for several seconds. Then he shrugged. “Okay, I’ll arrange for you to work under contract with Environment Canada to investigate the kelp forest around Kunghit Island. You’re to study any possible damage to the kelp from chemicals running into the sea from the mining operations. How does that sound?”

  “Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. “How much do I get paid?”

  Posey picked up on the joke. “Sorry, you’re not in the budget. But I might be persuaded to buy you a hamburger at the nearest fast-food joint.”

  “Done.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Are you going it alone?”

  “One does not look as suspicious as two.”

  “Not in this case,” said Posey grimly. “I strongly advise you take along one of the local Indians as a guide.

  That will give you more of an official look. Environment Canada works closely with the tribes to prevent pollution and save forested land. A researcher and a local fisherman working on a project for the government should dilute any doubts by Dorsett security.”

  “Do you have a name in mind?” asked Pitt.

  “Mason Broadmoor. A very resourceful guy. I’ve hired him before on a number of environmental projects.”

  “An Indian with the name of Mason Broadmoor?”

  “He’s a member of the Haida who live on the Queen Charlotte Islands of British Columbia. Most of them took British names generations ago. They’re excellent fishermen and are familiar with the waters around Kunghit Island.”