Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  He saw the gates begin to close and he bulled into the chamber once more. The lock operator no longer heeded the tug’s safety and ordered the gates closed despite him. Pitt considered blocking the gates but realized the small tug would be crushed by the six-hundred-ton gates. Glancing again at the Santa Rita, he realized it no longer mattered.

  The ship showed a slight list to starboard, where it leaned against the side of the chamber. The water level in the chamber had dropped enough to set the Santa Rita on her keel.

  Pitt gunned the tugboat past the closing gates and motored alongside the Santa Rita, bumping to a stop off its forward port deck. Gunmen appeared at once, aiming their weapons at Pitt as he lashed the tug to the ship. With his hands raised, he stepped to the rail and boarded the freighter. One of the gunmen jabbed an AK-47 against his throat and threatened him in Mandarin.

  Pitt looked at him with a hard smile. “Where’s your boss?”

  He didn’t have to wait for a translator. Bolcke and Zhou appeared a moment later, having watched Pitt pull alongside. Zhou looked at him with curiosity, surprised to see him again after their jungle encounter. Bolcke, on the other hand, glared at Pitt with unadulterated rage.

  “You have something, I believe, that belongs to my country,” Pitt said.

  “Are you insane?” Bolcke shouted.

  “Not at all. The game is over, Bolcke. You’ve lost. Give me the plans.”

  “You are a fool. We will be leaving the lock shortly—and sailing over your dead body.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Pitt said. “Your ship is grounded, and there’s no water in the culvert to refill this chamber.”

  In the control house, the lock operator had come to the same conclusion. The water level where the Santa Rita sat was now considerably lower than in the next chamber. There was no way the exit gates would be opened with an uneven level on the opposite side.

  “They will simply release additional water from Gatun Lake, and we shall be on our way,” Bolcke said.

  “Not with the plans.”

  “Kill him, Zhou.” Bolcke turned to the agent. “Kill him now.”

  Zhou stood, weighing his options.

  “I didn’t expect you to be lending him a free ride,” Pitt said to Zhou. “I take it you haven’t told him who blew up his facility? I guess you two have a few things to talk about.”

  A cloud of suspicion crossed Bolcke’s face. “Lies,” he said. “Pure lies.” But his eyes revealed the desperate realization that his world was crashing down around him. There was nothing left for him to do but silence the messenger.

  He spun to a gunman beside him and ripped the AK-47 from his hands. Aiming the weapon at Pitt, he was fumbling for the trigger when a shot rang out. A crisp red circle appeared on Bolcke’s temple, and his rage-filled eyes rolled back in his head. The Austrian miner collapsed to the deck, the automatic rifle clattering out of his hands.

  Pitt saw Zhou with a Chinese 9mm pistol held at arm’s length, smoke rising from the barrel. The man slowly wheeled until he held the gun pointed at Pitt’s chest. “What if I do as Bolcke asked and kill you here?”

  Pitt caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye and gave the Chinese agent a sly grin. “Then you will join me in death a second later.”

  Zhou sensed, more than saw, the movement overhead. Then he looked up and saw the chamber dock lined with a dozen armed men, aiming M4 carbines at him and his crew. They were Navy sailors, deployed from the destroyer Spruance in the adjacent lock.

  Zhou’s face expressed no alarm. “This is liable to create an awkward incident between our two countries,” he said.

  “Would it?” Pitt asked. “Armed Chinese insurgents aboard a Guam-flagged ship apprehended while smuggling a murderous slave trader to safety? Yes, I suppose you are right. It would prove awkward to at least one of our countries.”

  Zhou replied in a halting voice. “And if we return the plans?”

  “Then I should think we shake hands and all go on our merry way.”

  Zhou looked into Pitt’s green eyes, studying the friendly foe who had somehow gained the upper hand. He turned and spoke to one of his gunmen. The man slowly lowered his weapon and walked to the bridge. He returned a moment later with the sealed bin containing the Sea Arrow’s plans, which he reluctantly handed to Pitt.

  Taking the bin, Pitt walked to the side rail and stopped. He returned to Zhou and stuck out his hand. Zhou stared at Pitt a moment before grasping his hand and shaking it vigorously.

  “Thanks for saving my life,” Pitt said. “Twice.”

  Zhou nodded. “I may come to regret the first instance,” he said with the faint hint of a smile.

  Pitt returned to the rail and climbed up a ladder on the side of the chamber, carefully holding the bin. When he reached the top, he waved his thanks to the Navy sailors across the dock—and then was promptly arrested by the Canal Authority security force.

  EPILOGUE

  RED DEATH

  82

  LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT COMPANY, BOSS.”

  Seated in a lounge chair under an umbrella, Al Giordino kicked open a cooler and tossed an empty beer bottle inside. He closed the lid, placed his bandaged leg atop the cooler for support, and eyed the approaching speedboat. He was dressed for a day at the beach in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, although he was sitting on a barge in the middle of the Panama Canal.

  “I hope it’s not another representative from the Canal Authority.” Pitt was kneeling on the deck nearby, checking an assortment of dive equipment.

  “Actually, it looks to be our man from Washington.”

  The speedboat pulled alongside, and Rudi Gunn hopped aboard the barge. With a travel bag hanging over his shoulder, he wore khaki pants and an oxford shirt and was drenched in sweat. “Greetings, canal wreckers,” he said. He embraced his old friends. “Nobody told me this place would be more miserable than Washington in August.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Giordino said, fishing a cold beer out of the cooler for him. “The alligators are smaller here.”

  “You didn’t really have to fly down and check on us,” Pitt said.

  “Believe me, I’m only too happy to get out of that town. You created a public relations nightmare with the demolished dam and sunken ships all over the place.”

  Gunn peered down the waterway at a large green ship that was aground on the canal bank. A crew of workers milled about her mangled bow, making repairs so she could be floated down the waterway. “Is that the Adelaide?”

  “Yes,” Pitt said. “And we’re parked over the Salzburg.”

  Gunn shook his head. “The Panamanians are crying bloody murder. Between fixing the dam, raising the Salzburg, and compensating for lost traffic through the canal, Uncle Sam is going to be writing the country a pretty large check.”

  “It’s still a bargain, considering what we almost lost.”

  “I can’t disagree. Sandecker’s pleased as Punch, and the President is extremely grateful. However, for security reasons, he can’t divulge what was at stake. He’s taking lots of heat for what Panama is calling reckless American adventurism.”

  Giordino yanked another beer from the cooler and popped its cap. “Reckless American adventurism? I’ll drink to that.”

  “Of course,” Gunn said, “the President will be much happier if we return the Sea Arrow’s motor.”

  “I have my best team working on it as we speak,” Pitt said.

  Gunn looked up the canal in the other direction, eyeing a gray Navy destroyer moored a short distance away.

  “The Spruance,” Pitt said. “Our security escort and lift vessel, if we’re fortunate.” Pitt looked Gunn in the eye. “It was a lucky thing you sent her into the locks when you did. I probably wouldn’t be here but for the armed detail they deployed.”

  “Hiram and I saw the events unfolding on the canal’s video system. The Spruance happened to be heading in for a canal transit, so we accelerated her passage. Or Vice President Sandecker did, I should
say.”

  He looked over the side rail and saw air bubbles popping on the surface from the divers below. “How did the cruise ship make out?”

  “The Sea Splendour? Her captain figured he was history, but a funny thing happened. The Italian media made him out as a hero for his role in stopping Bolcke and exposing the slave camp. Once the cruise line realized our government was footing the bill for all the damage, they gave him a medal and a promotion. The canal pilot aboard at the time didn’t fare so well, losing his job. But I understand Captain Franco got him an assignment with the cruise line.”

  Gunn smiled. “Maybe he can get me a new job, too.”

  The bubbles beneath him grew larger until the two divers appeared. Gunn recognized Dirk and Summer as they swam to a dive ladder and climbed aboard.

  “Hi, Rudi,” Dirk said. “Come to dive with us? The water’s warm.”

  “No, thanks.” Gunn looked askance at the turbid water. “Any sign of the motor?”

  “We found it sitting intact, still strapped to the flatbed truck,” Summer said. “It was somehow tossed clear of the other containers, and the Salzburg as well.”

  “The flatbed’s pretty mangled, but I didn’t see any damage to the motor itself,” Dirk said. “The Spruance should easily be able to hoist it up.”

  Gunn let out a sigh. “That’s great news. NUMA won’t have to pay for a new dam now,” he said, giving Pitt a sideways look.

  “Not our area of expertise,” Pitt replied with a laugh. “The Canal Authority did agree to let us supervise the removal of the Salzburg from the ditch, so it looks like we’ll be enjoying the balmy local weather for some time.”

  Gunn wiped his brow with a sleeve. “Count me out. But I would like to drag Dirk and Summer back with me to help report on the events that took place.” Gunn reached for his travel bag. “That reminds me, I have a package for you two that I was asked to deliver.”

  He rummaged in his bag and retrieved a thin box, which he handed to Summer. She opened it and removed a lengthy handwritten letter clipped to a leather-bound journal.

  As she skimmed the letter, Dirk eyed the box and noted the return address. “It’s from Perlmutter. What does St. Julien have to say?”

  “He says we’re not going back to Washington with Rudi,” Summer said, looking at her father with persuasive eyes. “Instead, we’re to take a trip to Tierra del Fuego.”

  83

  THE MOUNT VERNON TRAIL WAS A PICTURE OF tranquillity south of Alexandria, with only the muted whir of light highway traffic nearby intruding its peacefulness. Just a few early-morning joggers and bikers were scattered along its riverfront route, pushing to complete their daily workouts before the business day began.

  Dan Fowler pushed himself to sprint the last few steps of his three-mile run, crossing an imaginary finish line before slowing to a walk. He ambled to a nearby drinking fountain, where he lapped up a stream of cool water.

  “Good morning, Dan. How was your run?”

  Fowler choked, whirling around as water dribbled down his chin. His shock at hearing the familiar voice was evident as he turned to find Ann Bennett standing before him, dressed in her usual business attire.

  “Ann . . . how are you?” he stammered.

  “Just fine.”

  “Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick.”

  “I had to take a little trip.”

  “But you didn’t tell anyone. We’ve had the police searching for you. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. A personal matter came up rather unexpectedly.”

  Fowler glanced around nervously, spotting only a few joggers and a man repairing a flat tire on his bicycle. “Are you alone? I feared you were in danger.”

  “I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you in private.”

  “Sure.” Fowler eyed a grove of trees near the Potomac River that offered some seclusion. “Why don’t we walk?” He gently guided her off the trail.

  “I had a lot of time to think about the case while I was away,” she said.

  “You probably aren’t aware of the latest developments,” Fowler said, testing her. “Somebody hijacked one of the Sea Arrow’s propulsion motors on its way to Groton.”

  “Yes, I was aware of that. Are there any suspects?”

  “No, the FBI hit a wall on the case.”

  “I’m not surprised. Tell me, Dan, what do you know about the ADS system?”

  “ADS? Isn’t that some sort of crowd-control device that the Army cooked up? I really don’t know much about it.”

  “Cooked up is right.” Ann thought back to her first encounter with the device in New Orleans. “Didn’t you tell me you were with the Army Research Lab?”

  “Yes, I did a short stint there. Why do you ask?”

  “According to their personnel director, you managed the security for the Active Denial System program. In that capacity, you would have had access to all its plans. Perhaps you’d find it interesting to know that the Army is not alone in possessing the technology. As a matter of fact, Edward Bolcke has a unit on one of his ships.”

  “What are you driving at, Ann?”

  “Dan, how long have you been on Bolcke’s payroll?”

  They were almost to the trees. Fowler smiled at Ann. “That’s preposterous. We both know that Tom Cerny at the White House is your likely turncoat. Ann, you really shouldn’t jump into the water if you don’t know how to swim.”

  Ann ignored the insult. “Cerny was a good red herring. I bought into him for a while, until I reviewed his detailed security clearance. Despite your allusions, he has had no involvement with any military technologies that have been compromised. He also hasn’t set foot in Central America in over twenty years. He’s clean.”

  Fowler said nothing as they reached the edge of the grove.

  “On the other hand,” Ann said, “I just discovered that you were a founding partner of SecureTek, the security subcontractor that was later sold to Edward Bolcke.”

  “You’re reaching now.”

  “Am I? We’ve tracked financial payments that were wired from Bolcke’s company to a bank account in your name here in Washington.” This time she was bluffing, but she was confident that further investigation would prove as much.

  Fowler kept walking, guiding her deeper into the trees. After a long pause, he said, “Suppose you’re right. Now what?”

  “You’ll be tried for espionage and spend the rest of your life in jail.”

  Safely obscured from view, Fowler lunged at Ann, cuffing her around the neck and slamming her against a large red oak.

  “No,” Fowler said. “I think it ends here.”

  Ann stood frozen against the tree as Fowler yanked a bandanna from his pocket and rolled it thin. Wrapping it around her throat, he pulled on the ends to strangle her.

  She pushed against him, but he was too strong, pinning her against the tree with his legs. Her head spun, and she began to choke—then she heard a gruff voice from behind Fowler.

  “Let her go!”

  Fowler turned to see two men dressed as joggers aiming Glock pistols at his head.

  The man he had seen fixing a bike came running up wielding an H&K submachine gun. “FBI,” he shouted. “You’re under arrest.”

  Fowler slowly released his grip on Ann, letting the bandanna fall to the ground. One of the FBI agents yanked him away as another cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Before he was dragged to a waiting car, Ann stepped close and looked him in the eye. “Dan, trust me on this one. I do know how to swim.”

  84

  THE SEAS OFF TIERRA DEL FUEGO WERE LIVING UP to their latitudinal nickname of the Furious Fifties. A strong westerly blew thick, heaving waves that broke with a boisterous flourish. Rifling currents added to the fury, shoving about the occasional stray iceberg that had drifted in from Antarctica. Over the centuries, these combined forces had carried many a ship to her grave in the frigid waters surrounding Cape Horn. All that was missing was a good williwaw—the su
dden violent gusts that pounded the cape without warning.

  A small trawler plowed gamely through the maelstrom, giving its occupants a roller-coaster ride. Inside the wheelhouse, Summer grabbed hold of the chart table as the boat slid down a fifteen-foot wave. “You couldn’t have found a bigger boat?” she asked with lament.

  Dirk smiled and shook his head. The nautical offerings were slim on short notice in the nearby Argentinean town of Ushuaia. He felt lucky to have chartered the trawler. From Ushuaia, their trek down the Beagle Channel had been relatively calm, but on reaching the open ocean the ride had changed dramatically.

  “That’s Isla Nueva straight ahead,” said the captain, a stocky man with white hair.

  Summer peered out the wheelhouse window at a hilly green island a mile ahead. “Kind of scenic, in a remote sort of way. How big is it?”

  “About eight miles across,” Dirk said. “We should be able to scan the full perimeter in four or five hours.”

  “She sure ended up a long way from home.”

  “She” was the Barbarigo. Their impromptu search was guided by the package Perlmutter had sent to them in Panama. Inside they had found a logbook from the sailor Leigh Hunt, recording his round-the-world voyage. Intrigued by what Summer had discovered on Madagascar, Perlmutter had tracked down Hunt’s family. One of Hunt’s children had located the logbook after an extended search in the attic of the family’s home. The log provided a detailed accounting of the sailor’s position when he sighted the South Atlantic Wraith.

  Summer picked up the log and reexamined Hunt’s entries, as they rolled through the waves. “He says he was sailing north of Nueva and Lennox islands when he saw the Wraith drifting toward Nueva. That means it was likely drifting toward the island’s west coast.”