Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  Engrossed in her work, Ann didn’t realize it was nearing six o’clock until her phone rang. She had covered a lot of ground but had little to show for it. She answered the call with a weary voice, becoming alert when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Hi, Ann, it’s Dirk. Still at the salt mine?”

  “Yes, chipping away. How are you?”

  “Just fine. Say, I was wondering if you could meet me for dinner tomorrow night? I have something we need to discuss.”

  “Tomorrow? Yes, that would be fine. Is it something important?”

  “Could be,” Pitt said, hesitating. “I’d like to know if you’d go on a cruise with me.”

  29

  ANN CAUGHT SEVERAL MEN STARING AT HER AS she swept through the dining room of the Bombay Club with only a slight limp. Dressed in a saffron linen dress that clung to her curves, she resembled a runway model more than a criminal investigator. She ignored the looks as she stepped through the restaurant onto an elegant patio that overlooked Lafayette Park. She quickly spotted Pitt at a corner table.

  He was seated next to a tall, attractive woman who looked vaguely familiar. With a touch of unease, Ann forced a smile as she approached the table.

  Pitt rose and greeted her warmly. “No more crutches?”

  “No, the ankle is much better, I’m happy to say.”

  “Ann, I’d like you to meet my wife, Loren.”

  Loren sprang to her feet and gave Ann a warm hug. “Dirk’s told me all about your ordeals in Mexico and Idaho. Though he apparently forgot to mention how pretty you are,” she added without spite.

  Whatever instinctive resentment Ann may have felt toward Loren melted at the unexpected compliment. “I’m afraid to say that all our troubles went for naught.” Ann gave Pitt a guilty look, and described how she and Fowler had been robbed of Heiland’s research.

  “That sounds like no coincidence,” Pitt said, concern etched on his face.

  “More like blatant espionage,” Loren said. “We need to get some high-powered resources involved.”

  “There’s already at least three FBI teams assigned to the case,” Ann said, “along with DARPA’s staff security and several NCIS investigators, besides me.” She looked at Loren, her eyes brightening in recognition. “You’re the congresswoman from Colorado.”

  “Careful, you’ll blow her cover,” Pitt said with a laugh.

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Ann said. “I remember your efforts to pass legislation to improve benefits and leave for enlisted parents in the military. You’re a hero to women in the armed forces.”

  Loren shook her head. “They were just some minor changes that should have been enacted long ago. Seriously, though, if there are any chains that I can rattle at Homeland Security to help your case, just say the word.”

  “Thank you. We’ve got the support of the Vice President as well as the White House, so I think the resources are in place. We just need a break or two so we can find out who these people are.”

  A waiter arrived and they each ordered a curry dish for dinner, with Pitt tacking on a bottle of Saint Clair Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand.

  “How long have you two been married?” Ann asked.

  “Just a few years,” Loren said. “With both our travel schedules, it often seems we’re two ships passing in the night, but we make it work.”

  “The trick,” Pitt said, “is making sure the ships collide on a regular basis.”

  Loren turned to Ann. “Is there a special person in your life?”

  “No, I’m happily unattached at the moment.”

  Their entrees arrived, all spicy enough to mandate a second bottle of wine.

  “This shrimp curry is withering my tongue, but I can’t stop eating it,” Ann said. “It’s really delicious.”

  Later Ann excused herself to visit the ladies’ room. Once she was out of earshot, Loren leaned over to Pitt. “That girl is attracted to you.”

  “Can I help it if she has good taste in men?” he said with a grin.

  “No, but if you get any ideas, I’ll cut out your spleen with a rusty butter knife.”

  Pitt laughed, then gave Loren a long kiss.

  “Not to worry. I’m quite attached to my spleen—and prefer to keep it that way.”

  When Ann returned, they nibbled on sorbet for dessert. Then Pitt pulled a silver rock from his pocket and set it on the table.

  “One lump and not two?” Loren said.

  “It’s a souvenir from Chile,” Pitt said. “I think it may have something to do with the Heiland case.”

  “What exactly is it?” Ann asked.

  “One of our NUMA geologists identified it as a mineral called monazite. I found it aboard an abandoned freighter that was barreling toward Valparaiso.”

  “I heard about that,” Ann said. “You diverted the freighter from crashing into a crowded cruise ship.”

  “More or less,” Pitt said. “The mystery is, what happened to the ship’s crew? And why did the ship end up thousands of miles off course?”

  “Was it hijacked?”

  “It was a bulk carrier, supposedly loaded with bauxite from a mine in Australia. By all appearances, the cargo was of limited value. We discovered that of the ship’s five holds, three contained bauxite, but the two aft were empty.” Pitt picked up the rock. “I found this chunk of monazite by one of the empty holds.”

  “You think the monazite was stolen from the ship?” Ann asked.

  “I do.”

  “Why would someone steal that and not the bauxite?” Loren asked.

  “I had the rock assayed, and the results were quite interesting. This particular monazite contains a high concentration of neodymium and lanthanum.”

  Loren smiled. “Sounds like a disease.”

  “They are actually two of the seventeen elements known as rare earth metals, several of which are in very high demand by industry.”

  “Of course,” Loren said. “We held a congressional hearing on the limited supply of rare earth elements. They’re used in a large number of high-tech products, including hybrid cars and wind turbines.”

  “And a few key defense technologies,” Pitt said.

  “As I recall,” Loren said, “China is the dominant producer of rare earth elements. In fact, there’s only a handful of other active mines around the world.”

  “Russia, India, Australia, and our own mine in California round out the bulk of global production,” Pitt said.

  Ann shook her head. “I don’t see what this rock has to do with the Heiland case.”

  “It may have absolutely nothing to do with it,” Pitt said, “but there are two interesting coincidences. The first is that clump of monazite in your hands. The neodymium it contains happens to be a key material in the Sea Arrow’s propulsion motors.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Ann asked.

  “My information systems manager at NUMA found that several rare earth elements were critical components in the propulsion system of the new Zumwalt class of Navy destroyer. Some additional digging and guesswork led us to conclude they would be even more important to the Sea Arrow’s electric motors.”

  “I’d have to verify that, but I don’t doubt that’s true,” Ann said. “Still, I don’t see a significant connection.”

  “Maybe not,” Pitt said, “yet there is a second curious link—the DARPA scientist killed on the Cuttlefish, Joe Eberson. I’ll wager that he didn’t die by drowning but was killed by an acute dose of electromagnetic radiation.”

  Ann dropped the rock, and her jaw followed suit. “How could you have known that? I just received a copy of his autopsy report this morning. It confirms exactly that.”

  “It was on account of Eberson’s condition. His extremities were bloated, and his skin was blistered and blackened. The bloating isn’t unusual in a drowning victim, but the blackened skin was odd. We found a dead sailor aboard the freighter in Chile who exhibited even more extreme characteristics. Chilean authorities say he died from
thermal damage believed to be caused by microwave irradiation.”

  “The same cause,” Ann said. “Eberson’s pathologist failed to identify a possible source of the irradiation. How could they have died in that manner?”

  “Aside from falling asleep on a microwave antenna dish, it’s hard to say. I asked a number of my scientists and we came up with a weak yet possible theory.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “There’s been a number of crowd-control devices fielded in the past few years that use microwave beams to lightly burn the skin of people in its path. Our Army has deployed one they call the Active Denial System, or ADS, often referred to as the ‘pain ray.’ The systems are not meant to be lethal, but we’ve learned that simple modifications could make them deadly.”

  “Could they be used at sea?” Loren asked.

  “They are currently truck-mounted, so they could easily be placed on the deck of a ship. The ADS system has a range of up to seven hundred meters. People inside a ship would be immune, but anyone on deck or accessible through a window, such as on the bridge, would be susceptible. A powerful enough design might even damage the communications systems. It’s also possible they might simply use it against a larger vessel as cover for an armed boarding party.”

  “You think something like that was used on both vessels?” Ann asked.

  “They could have used it to stun the crew of the Tasmanian Star to steal its monazite,” Pitt said, “and against the Cuttlefish to kill Heiland, Manny, and Eberson in order to steal the Sea Arrow test model.”

  “They would have obtained the model directly from the Cuttlefish if Heiland hadn’t blown up the boat,” Ann said. “Any clue to the attacking vessel?”

  “We’re searching, but haven’t found anything yet.”

  “Then we don’t seem to be any closer to identifying who these people are.”

  Pitt gave her a sly look. “On the contrary, I intend to find out within the week.”

  “But you have no idea where to find them,” Loren said.

  “Actually,” Pitt said, “I intend to let them find me. Just like baiting a trap with cheese to lure the mouse, only our cheese is a rock called monazite.”

  He pulled a world map out of his coat pocket and spread it on the table.

  “Hiram Yaeger and I were intrigued by the Tasmanian Star’s hijacking, so we conducted a search of known shipwrecks and vessel disappearances over the last three years. Insurance records show that more than a dozen commercial vessels sank either with all hands or without a trace. Of those, no less than ten were carrying either rare earth elements or related ore.”

  He pointed to the map. “Seven of the ships were lost in the vicinity of South Africa, while the remaining vessels disappeared in the eastern Pacific.”

  Ann could see small shipwreck symbols had been marked on the map, a few near a small atoll marked Clipperton Island. “Why haven’t the insurance companies investigated this?”

  “Many of the ships were aged freighters, independently owned and probably underinsured through multiple carriers. I can only guess, but it’s likely no single insurer has taken a large enough hit to detect the pattern.”

  “Why would someone go to the trouble of sinking or hijacking these ships,” Loren said, “if they can buy the minerals on the open market?”

  Pitt shrugged. “The global supply is very tight. Perhaps someone is trying to control the reserves and manipulate the market.”

  “So what is your plan to identify these people?” Ann asked.

  Pitt pointed to the clump of monazite. “That bit of ore came from a mine in western Australia called Mount Weld. The mine is being closed temporarily so they can expand production. We discovered that their last scheduled export shipment was loaded on an ore carrier last week bound for Long Beach.”

  “You think she’s going to be hijacked?” Loren asked.

  “She’s sailing on the same route where two other ships disappeared and the Tasmanian Star was attacked. It’s the last scheduled shipment of rare earth from Australia for at least six months. I’m willing to roll the dice and say she’s a pretty good target.”

  “So that’s the cruise you invited me on?” Ann said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Pitt nodded. “The freighter is owned by a shipping line whose CEO happens to be friends with Vice President Sandecker. He’s made arrangements for us and a Coast Guard SWAT team to rendezvous with the ship south of Hawaii.”

  “Is that enough protection?” Loren’s concern for her husband was evident in her violet eyes.

  “We’re not going up against a warship. Plus, I’ll be in constant communications with Rudi at headquarters if we need any extra muscle.” He turned to Ann. “We’ll have to leave for Hawaii in two days. Are you in?”

  Ann picked up the rock and turned it around. “I’d love to, but I’m in the heart of the investigation and I would hate to break things off now. Plus, I wouldn’t be much help aboard ship.” She looked in Pitt’s eyes. “But, I tell you what. If you’re right, then Loren and I will be waiting for you at the dock in Long Beach.”

  Pitt smiled at the two attractive women and raised his wineglass. “That would be a sight any lonely sailor would welcome.”

  30

  VIEWED FROM THE AIR, THE DENSE JUNGLE SPREAD across the horizon like a lumpy green carpet. Only the occasional wisp of smoke or a quick glimpse of a shack in a clearing gave any sign that human life existed beneath the foliage.

  Though the helicopter had departed Panama City’s Tocumen International Airport just a few minutes earlier, the roar of its turbine was already grating on Pablo’s nerves. He gazed ahead and spotted the sprawling green waters of Gatun Lake, a massive body of water formed during the construction of the Panama Canal. Their destination was close.

  The pilot banked the chopper and followed the eastern shore of the lake, passing several large islands known for their assortment of primates. A narrow peninsula rose up ahead, and he guided the helicopter back over the jungle, gradually reducing speed. As he reached the center of the landmass, the pilot put the craft into a hover.

  Pablo gazed at the treetops below—and noticed them move. The trees weren’t swaying from the chopper’s rotor wash, but instead began to spread apart. A seam appeared in the foliage, and it grew into a large square opening with a helicopter landing pad marked with lights and a reflective white circle.

  The pilot centered the helicopter and gently dropped onto the pad. The moment the pilot cut the power, Pablo tore off his headphones and climbed out.

  Once beyond reach of the twirling rotor, he glanced up as the artificially landscaped roof closed overhead. The hydraulically powered cover was a stand-alone structure built on pilings in a jungle clearing. Two armed men in fatigues operated the controls from a panel box at the side.

  As the sky disappeared, a golf cart emerged from the surrounding jungle and pulled to a stop in front of Pablo.

  “El Jefe awaits,” the driver said with the hint of a Swedish accent. Out of place in the Panamanian jungle, he was a husky blond man with pale skin and ice blue eyes. He wore a nondescript Army officer’s uniform and a holstered Beretta.

  The two men stared at each other with a mix of respect and disdain. Both employed as hired muscle, they observed a cold, formal truce. “Good day to you, too, Johansson,” Pablo said. “And, yes, I had a very enjoyable flight, thank you.”

  Johansson stomped on the accelerator as Pablo climbed into the golf cart, not waiting until he was fully seated.

  The two men rode in silence as Johansson followed a paved path through the jungle. They entered a shaded clearing dotted with more armed men in fatigues. To their right sat a pyramid-shaped pile of gray rocks. A group of ragged men, wearing dirty, sweat-stained clothes, were shoveling the rocks into small carts and pushing them down a carved path.

  The golf cart bounded through another stretch of dense jungle, then stopped in front of a large, windowless concrete structure. Its flat reinforced roof, landsc
aped with vegetation, disguised it from the air even more realistically than the landing pad. Only a row of palm trees on either side of the entrance offered the structure any semblance of warmth.

  Pablo jumped out of the cart. “Thanks for the lift. Don’t bother to keep the motor running.”

  “I wouldn’t plan for a long visit, if I were you,” Johansson said, then drove away.

  As Pablo climbed a short flight of steps to the doorway, a breeze from the lake helped stir the muggy air. A guard at the threshold opened the door and escorted him inside.

  In marked contrast to the plain walls outside, the building’s interior was an exercise in opulence. Built as a personal residence, it was decorated in bright tropical colors, illuminated by a surplus of overhead lighting. As Pablo was led down a white-marbled corridor, he passed a sunken living room decorated with modern art on one side and an indoor, glass-enclosed lap pool on the other. The rear of the house ran along the rim of a low hillside that jutted above the water. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased an expansive section of Gatun Lake.

  Pablo was led to a large open office that overlooked the rocky shoreline below. In the distance, a containership could be seen heading south through the canal on its way to the Pacific.

  He stood in the doorway a moment until he gained the attention of the man seated behind an antique mahogany desk. Edward Bolcke peered over a pair of reading glasses and nodded for Pablo to enter.

  Beginning with his conservative suit and tie, every detail of Bolcke’s appearance testified to his exacting nature. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his fingernails precisely trimmed, and his shoes highly polished. His office was almost spartan in décor, his desktop devoid of clutter. Bolcke took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at Pablo through hawk-like brown eyes.