Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’d love to hear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You suspect foul play?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  10

  THE MAN STROLLED ACROSS THE DECK WITH A PAIR of scuba tanks under each arm, showing all the strain of carrying a feather comforter. His arms were almost as thick as his legs, while his chest bulged like an overinflated tractor tire. Al Giordino’s brown eyes and dark curly hair reflected his Italian heritage, while his sharp brows and upturned mouth hinted at his devilish wit.

  He broke stride when he spotted Pitt and Bennett approach and met them at the gangway, still clutching the dive tanks.

  “Greetings, Kemosabe,” he said to Pitt, “welcome back to the salt air. You have a good flight?”

  “Quite. The Vice President fixed it so we could hop a Navy Gulfstream that was flying a couple of admirals to Coronado.”

  “And I always end up on a Greyhound bus.” Giordino gazed at Bennett and smiled. “Another attempt to add beauty and sophistication to the crew?”

  “Ann Bennett, this is Albert Giordino, NUMA’s Director of Technology—and occasional leering deckhand. Miss Bennett is with the NCIS and is joining us on the search.”

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

  “Please, call me Al.” He rattled the tanks. “We can shake hands later.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need those on this hunt,” Pitt said. “The water will likely be too deep.”

  “Rudi only said that we had an underwater recovery job. He didn’t say what it was.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t know. Is he aboard?”

  “Yes. We all just returned from the funeral this morning.”

  “Buddy Martin?”

  Giordino nodded. Martin, the Drake’s captain, had died unexpectedly from a sudden illness.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in time,” Pitt said. “Buddy was a man of true loyalty and a dear pal. He’ll be sorely missed.”

  “He bled turquoise,” Giordino said, referring to the color all NUMA craft were painted. “But now Rudi has taken temporary command of the ship. A regular Captain Bligh, if you ask me.”

  Pitt turned to Ann. “I usually try to keep Rudi as close to Washington as possible, in order to safeguard the NUMA budget.”

  “You’ll find him in the lab,” Al said, “tending to his flock of deepwater fish.”

  Pitt and Ann found a pair of empty cabins and tossed their travel gear in them, then went hunting for Rudi Gunn. The search didn’t take long for the Drake was compact, both the newest and smallest in the NUMA fleet. Barely over a hundred feet, the research ship was designed for inshore survey work but was also more than capable in blue water. Her cramped deck carried a three-man submersible and an autonomous underwater vehicle. Any enclosed space not devoted to her small crew was configured as research labs.

  They entered one of the labs and found it nearly pitch-black. With the lights off and the windows sealed, the only illumination
was cast by a few tiny blue bulbs overhead. Pitt figured the lab’s air-conditioning unit must have been working nonstop as the temperature felt like the low fifties.

  “Keep the door closed, please.”

  As their eyes adjusted, they spotted the voice’s owner, a thin man in a jacket hunched over a large tank that almost filled the room. He wore a set of night vision goggles and was staring intently into the tank.

  “Spying on the mating habits of the grunion again, Rudi?” Pitt asked.

  Recognizing the voice, the man bolted upright and spun to greet the intruders.

  “Dirk, I didn’t know it was you.” Gunn tore off the goggles and replaced them with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A brainy ex–Navy commander, Gunn served as NUMA’s Deputy Director. Like his boss, he escaped the confines of the Washington headquarters at every opportunity.

  Pitt introduced Gunn to Ann.

  “Why the cold, dark room?” she asked.

  “Come take a look.” Gunn handed her the night vision goggles.

  He guided her to the edge of the tank, where she slipped on the goggles and peered inside. A half dozen small fish swam in a lazy circle, glowing blue under the augmented light. But they were unlike any fish Ann had ever seen—flat translucent bodies, giant protruding eyes, and multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth jutting from their open mouths. She took a quick step back from the tank.

  “What are those things? They’re hideous.”

  “Rudi’s pet creatures of the deep,” Pitt said.

  “Evermannella normalops is their scientific name,” Gunn said, “but we call them sabertooths. They’re an unusual species found only in very deep water. We discovered a large school of them thriving around a deepwater thermal vent near Monterey and decided to try and capture a few to study. Took quite a few dives with the submersible, but we brought up twenty of them. These are the last few we haven’t moved to shore yet.”