Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  He retraced his morning footsteps until he reached a shallow face in the ridge where he could slide down. At the crash scene, he found the inverted ATV battered but mostly intact. He dug his feet into the sand, positioned a shoulder against its side, and shoved, rolling the vehicle back onto its wheels. The mangled body of its rider lay embedded in the sand, his back and head unnaturally twisted.

  Dirk pocketed the man’s pistol and climbed onto the ATV. The seat and handlebars were bent and two fenders torn off, but the drivetrain looked undamaged. He hit the ignition button and heard the starter grind and grind. Gasoline had drained from the fuel line while the vehicle sat inverted, and it took several tries before the engine caught. Dirk gunned it, and the ATV took off, the exposed tires sending sand flying.

  At the far end of the beach, Dirk pulled up alongside the small berm. Summer appeared from a large hole in the center and waved. After pulling herself inside, she had excavated nearly a third of the rubber raft.

  He hopped off the idling ATV and ran to her. “You all right?”

  “Fine, except for my dead leg.” She noticed his bruised appearance, and the even more battered ATV.

  “I thought I heard a crash. What happened?”

  “I had a falling-out with an acquaintance.” He motioned his thumb over his shoulder. “The crowd at the port facility is the same bunch that rammed us. I borrowed one of their ATVs, and they aren’t too happy about it.”

  Summer saw the urgency in his eyes. “We need to go?”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  He scooped her off the ground and carried her to the ATV.

  “Wait,” she said. “The Barbarigo’s logbook.”

  Dirk gave her a quizzical look.

  “That’s a rubber raft buried in the sand. It’s from a vessel called the Barbarigo. I found a book wrapped in oilskin under the bench,” she said, pointing at the mound. “I can’t read it because it’s written in Italian, but it looks like a logbook.”

  Dirk stepped to the partially buried raft and reached in. He froze when he saw a fully exposed skeleton, which he had somehow missed seconds earlier. The torso lay near a bench seat, on which sat the oilskin-wrapped logbook. He snatched it, climbed onto the ATV behind Summer, and handed it to her. “You didn’t mention its scribe was still hanging around.”

  “There’s at least two other bodies. We need to have the ship’s archaeologist examine the site.”

  Dirk reached around his sister and twisted the throttle. “Perhaps another day.”

  Leaving the bones and beach behind, they rode up a rocky ridge that fingered into the sea. From its peak, they could view the opposite coastline curve before them in a broad expanse of sandy flats. The turquoise hull of the Alexandria bobbed in the swells several miles distant. Dirk focused his eyes on the ground, driving down the rocky hill as fast as he dared, aware of Summer’s impaired ability to stay seated.

  Summer was the first to notice the vessel, a small Zodiac, skimming parallel to the beach ahead. When the ATV’s tires reached the flat sands, Dirk accelerated to top speed. The Zodiac was traveling away from them, but he quickly closed the gap. Honking the ATV’s high-pitched horn, he caught the attention of Jack Dahlgren, who was piloting the Zodiac with a NUMA crewman. The parties converged, Dirk driving his ATV into the waves as Dahlgren drew the Zodiac near.

  “Enjoying the local tourist sights in comfort, Ah see,” Dahlgren said by way of greeting. The Texan’s relief at finding them alive was evident in his eyes.

  “More than we really cared to,” Dirk said. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Dahlgren nodded and inched the Zodiac alongside the ATV.

  “Summer’s lost feeling in her left leg,” Dirk said. “We think she’s bent.”

  Dahlgren plucked Summer, still clutching the Barbarigo’s logbook, off the ATV and set her in the inflatable boat.

  “Everyone aboard Alexandria will be anxious to hear what happened. Had us plenty worried when we found the sub downstairs without you in it. Guess you’ll have plenty of time in the chamber to fill us in.”

  He had to sit down and goose the motor to keep the Zodiac from swamping under a wave. As Dahlgren pivoted back to the ATV so Dirk could jump aboard, he noticed the shredded jumpsuit and multiple bruises. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you went square dancing with a rototiller.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I feel like it,” Dirk said.

  “You don’t want to park that ATV on dry land?”

  “No, the owner was rather troublesome about me borrowing it. I suggest we get to the Alexandria as soon as possible.”

  Dahlgren gunned the outboard motor and steered toward the research ship. Dirk gazed across the horizon, spotting the patrol boat speeding in their direction. A moment later, a deep rumble drowned out the whine of the outboard, and a shadow darted over the Zodiac. Dirk looked up to see a low-flying C-130 lumber over. It was painted gray, with the multicolored flag of South Africa displayed on its tail. Dahlgren waved at the plane, slowing the Zodiac to be heard over its motor.

  “Search-and-rescue plane we dialed up out of Pretoria. About time they showed up. I guess we better let them know you’re safe.” He retrieved a handheld radio and informed the Alexandria of Dirk and Summer’s appearance.

  While they waited for the message to be relayed to the airplane, Dirk tapped Dahlgren’s shoulder and pointed to the approaching patrol boat. “Call back and ask the plane if they would buzz those guys. Tell them we suspect they’re part of a local piracy ring.”

  “I reckon the FAA doesn’t extend to these waters,” Dahlgren said, and relayed the message.

  The C-130 had already receded to a speck on the horizon. Then it turned and grew larger. The pilot brought it down low, barely fifty feet above the waves. Approaching the patrol craft off its stern, it caught the crew by surprise. Several gunmen threw themselves to the deck as the roar of the four 4,200-horsepower turboprop motors engulfed the patrol boat.

  The plane flew past, made a lazy turn, and came back for a second run across the patrol boat’s beam. This time, a few of the braver crewmen waved their weapons, but nobody fired a round. Undaunted, the C-130’s pilot made three more passes, each one lower than the last. The patrol boat accepted the message, reluctantly veering off and motoring back to shore. Tracking it for good measure, the C-130 hung around at low altitude for almost an hour, before dipping its wings and heading home.

  Dirk looked to Dahlgren. “Remind me to send a case of beer to the South African Air Force.”

  “Those boys don’t mess around, do they?”

  A few minutes later, they pulled alongside the Alexandria. Dirk and Summer were surprised to see their mangled submersible on the stern deck as they were hoisted aboard.

  “We found her promptly with the sonar and were able to rig her for lifting with an ROV,” Dahlgren said. “We renewed our shore search when we didn’t find you inside.”

  The siblings were greeted warmly as they boarded, but Summer sensed a nervousness, even from Dahlgren, as she was helped onto a gurney. The ship’s doctor rushed them to the decompression chamber, which was already prepped with food and medical supplies.

  Dirk tried to duck out, but the doctor ordered him in as a precaution. Before the hatch closed, Dahlgren poked his head inside to ensure they were comfortable.

  “Might not be a good idea to linger around the area,” Dirk said. “We were able to plant all the seismic sensors before our run-in with the patrol boat. We can deal with the thugs another time.”

  “The captain’s already winding us up for a run to Durban at flank speed.” Dahlgren’s face was taught and serious.

  “Why Durban? I thought we were headed up to Mozambique from here?”

  The doctor yelled from behind the chamber to seal the hatch.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Dahlgren said. “Your dad and Al have gone missing in the Pacific.”

  Before the words could sink in, the heavy metal hatch closed, a
nd the chamber’s occupants were pressurized back into the depths.

  50

  PITT FELT LIKE HE WAS IN A CHAMBER OF HIS OWN, only his was a chamber of horrors.

  By the hour, the dank prison he shared on the Adelaide felt more and more claustrophobic. A daily rise in the outside temperature had turned the bay into a stifling-hot oven. Making matters worse, the heat intensified the foul odors generated by the confined men and two dead bodies.

  Pitt felt constant hunger, but was thankful they were given plenty of drinking water. Periodically the hatch door would be thrown open, and two armed men would toss in boxes of bread and other dried stores from the galley. The prisoners valued the brief gusts of fresh air nearly as much as the food.

  Pitt and the SWAT team had tried formulating an escape plan, but their options were nonexistent. The storage bay had been stripped of any tools or equipment to force another exit. The locked hatch, they found, was guarded around the clock. Multiple attempts at testing the handle or hinges were instantly met by a rapping from a gun barrel on the opposite side. Whenever the hatch was opened to deliver food and water, at least two men stood ready with assault rifles.

  Noticing the stale rolls they had been given to eat had hardened to the consistency of granite, Giordino suggested using those to attack the guards.

  Pitt’s friend rebounded swiftly from his wound, which somehow showed no signs of infection. After sleeping nearly three straight days, Giordino had awoken with an irritable vigor, and he quickly regained his strength despite the sparse diet.

  While most of the men grew resigned to their captivity, a few began losing control. Fights broke out among the crew of the Adelaide, while another man gave in to fits of hysterical yelling. Pitt felt an uneasy gratitude when he noticed a reduction in the ship’s engine revolutions, signaling their arrival in protected waters.

  Pitt had counted the number of hours passed since he was thrown into confinement. Traveling at sixteen knots, he calculated the Adelaide could have covered almost four thousand miles, placing them anywhere between Alaska and Peru. But the warm temperatures suggested something equatorial. If the ship had held its southeasterly heading, Pitt figured they could be somewhere off southern Mexico or Central America.

  Confirmation came soon, after the ship had stopped and started several times, accompanied by the sound of dock activity. The ship got under way and sailed another three hours before stopping for good. A short time later, the prisoners were roused from their compartment.

  The men stepped from the hot and humid storage bay to an equally hot and humid deck. The ship was berthed at a dock, stern first, surrounded on three sides by dense jungle. Only a small patch of blue off the bow showed they had sailed from a larger body of water and backed into a narrow inlet barely large enough for the freighter to fit.

  The brightness of early morning stung their eyes, yet Pitt noted the sun was nowhere in sight.

  “Someone really likes their jungle around here,” Giordino said, pointing a finger skyward.

  Shading his eyes, Pitt saw a jungle canopy overhead. It took him several seconds to realize it was a huge swath of camouflage netting that was strung over the entire dock complex.

  “Maybe just privacy nuts,” Pitt said. He looked at the Adelaide, confirming his suspicions. The ship’s name had been repainted Labrador, while the funnel and deck railing had been painted new colors. The hijackers were well versed at theft and concealment on a grand scale.

  The prisoners were herded to a gangway and marched off the ship, where they were greeted by a line of armed men in fatigues, several of them partnered with guard dogs. The captives were left standing along the dock for several minutes, which allowed time for Pitt and Giordino to study the facilities. The dock operation was modest, consisting of two small cranes and a conveyor system. Behind it were several large concrete pads, dusted with gray sediment—transfer stations for the raw ore and processed rare earth elements that were transferred in and out of the facility. Beyond the dock area, several low-slung buildings poked through the foliage. Pitt suspected they were separation-and-extraction plants, used to refine the stolen rare earth ores.

  The putt-putt of a small motor preceded the appearance of a golf cart bearing a muscular blond man wearing a fitted uniform with a holstered pistol on his hip. A coiled bullwhip dangled from a belt hook on the opposite side. Pitt noticed the guards tense at his arrival.

  “Looks like a lion tamer,” Giordino whispered.

  “For a circus I want no part of,” Pitt said.

  The overseer, Johansson, crossed the dock and spoke to Gomez, who had followed the prisoners off the ship. The Swede examined the freighter with a satisfied gleam.

  “She’s carrying a full load of crushed monazite,” Gomez said. “Testing confirmed high concentrates of neodymium, cerium, and dysprosium.”

  “Excellent. The extraction facilities have been waiting for new material. We will engage the new prisoners in off-loading the ore.”

  “What about the ship?”

  “She would make a nice addition to the fleet. Determine what reconfigurations are required to erase her identity, and we’ll discuss it with Bolcke after she’s unloaded.”

  Johansson turned his back on Gomez to examine the new captives. He reviewed the men with a caustic eye, paying particular attention to the SWAT team.

  “Welcome to Puertas del Infierno,” he said, “the Gates of Hell. You now belong to me.”

  He waved his arm across the dock toward the buildings beyond. “This is an ore-refining center. We take raw ore and process it into various minerals of high value. You will be workers in the process. If you work hard, you will live. If you do not complain, you will live. And if you do not attempt escape, you will live.” He stared down the line of weakened men. “Are there any questions?”

  A crewman from the Adelaide, one who’d had a difficult time in captivity, cleared his throat. “When will we be released?” he asked.

  Johansson approached the man and smiled at him. Then he casually pulled his sidearm and shot the man in the forehead. A swarm of nearby jungle birds screeched at the sound as the man tumbled backward, falling into the water dead.

  The other assembled captives gaped in stunned silence.

  Johansson grinned. “Are there any more questions?”

  Met by barely a heartbeat, he holstered his weapon. “Good. Again, I welcome you to Puerta del Infierno. Now, let’s get to work.”

  51

  THE DEEP THROB OF THE TOWBOAT’S ENGINE FELL silent, revealing the lesser sound of waves lapping against her hull. Awakened by the absent growl and vibration, Ann arose from her bunk and stretched her arms. She rubbed her wrists, where the handcuffs irritated her skin, and stepped to a tiny porthole on the starboard bulkhead.

  It was still dark. Scattered lights dotted the shore a mile or so across the river, indicating they had docked on its eastern bank. The river, she was certain, was the Mississippi. From their starting point in Paducah, there was only one way to go downriver, taking the Ohio to its confluence with the Mississippi near Cairo, Illinois. The night before, she had peered out to see the glowing lights of a large city, wondering if they shined from Memphis. As she watched the silhouette of a large freighter pass upriver, she guessed they were somewhere near New Orleans.

  She rinsed her face in a basin and again searched the cramped cabin for a potential weapon. It was a hopeless exercise she had performed at least twenty times before, but at least it kept her mind working. She got only as far as an empty bureau when she heard the lock jiggle and the cabin door open. Pablo stood in the doorway, a bemused look in his eyes and a baseball bat in his hands.

  “Come along,” he said, “we are changing vessels.”

  He led her onto the towboat’s deck, where he slipped the bat across her back, wedging it into the crooks of her elbows.

  “There will be no swimming exhibition this time.” Keeping one hand firmly grasping the bat, he led her off the towboat.

  The co
ntortion made Ann’s shoulders ache as they stepped onto a dimly lit dock. Pablo guided her past the barge, where a mobile dock crane had hoisted the flatbed trailer from the deck. Stray wisps of hay fluttered through the air as Pablo and Ann followed the crane, which crept down an embedded rail track toward a small freighter. In the faint light, she could make out the ship’s name on the transom. Salzburg. Though the dock was deserted save for the crane operator, several armed men wearing fatigues lined the freighter’s rail.

  “Please let me go,” Ann said with exaggerated fear.

  Pablo laughed. “Not before we make our delivery. Then, perhaps, you can win your freedom,” he added with a leer.

  He marched her up the freighter’s forward gangway and across the deck. A large rectangular dish mounted to a wheeled platform blocked their path. Next to it, a crewman was checking cables at a control station mounted with power generators and computer displays. As they passed, the man looked up, briefly locking eyes with Ann.

  She gave him a submissive look, pleading with her eyes for help.

  He smiled as they passed. “Don’t get cooked,” he said.

  Pablo pushed Ann ahead, guiding her to the superstructure at the stern and up two flights to the crew’s quarters. Her new cabin was slightly larger than the last but featured a similarly minuscule porthole.

  “I hope you are pleased with the accommodations,” Pablo said, removing the baseball bat from her arms. “Perhaps later in the voyage we can spend some time together.” He stepped from the cabin and locked the door from the outside.

  Ann sat on the hard bunk and glared at the door. Despite her act with Pablo, most of her fears had been replaced by anger. Clearly the freighter was leaving the country, taking both the Sea Arrow’s motor and its plans. She would be trapped in the cabin for days, or even weeks. Rather than lament, she contemplated how it had all been pulled off.

  Her analytical mind went to work, stewing over the thefts. Acquiring the Sea Arrow’s plans and motor had been all too easy for Pablo. He must have had inside help. The involvement of the two men who had abducted her, and then were killed, indicated as much. And what about her? Why had she been abducted?