Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

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Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 4

by Cussler, Clive


  After curiously examining the odd assortment of antenna, beacons, and

  satellite dishes adorning the rooftop, the small bird seized a gust of

  wind and flew away in search of more edible offerings.

  The Coast Guard weather station on Yunaska Island was as tranquil as it

  was remote. Situated midway along the Aleutian chain of islands,

  Yunaska was one of dozens of volcanic uprisings that curved off the

  Alaskan mainland like an arched tentacle. Barely seventeen miles

  across, the island was distinguished by two dormant volcano

 
  peaks at either end, which were separated by rolling grass hills.

  Absent a single tree or high shrub, the green island rose like an

  emerald from the surrounding frigid ocean waters in the late spring.

  Lying central to the North Pacific currents, Yunaska was an ideal

  location for tracking sea and atmospheric conditions that would brew

  into full-fledged weather fronts as they moved eastward toward North

  America. In addition to collecting weather data, the Coast Guard

  station also served as a warning and rescue relay station for troubled

  fishermen working the surrounding marine-rich waters.

  The site could hardly be considered a paradise for the two men assigned

  to man the station. The nearest village was ninety miles away across

  open water, while their home base in Anchorage was more than a thousand

  miles distant. The isolated inhabitants were on their own for a

  three-week stint until the next pair of volunteers was airlifted in.

  Five months out of the year, brutal winter weather conditions forced

  closure of the station except for minimal remote operations. But from

  May to November, the two-man crew was on call around the clock.

  Despite the seclusion, meteorologist Ed Stimson and technician Mike

  Barnes considered it a plum assignment. Stimson enjoyed being in the

  field to practice his science while Barnes relished the time off he

  would accrue after working a station shift, which he would spend

  prospecting in the Alaskan backcountry.

  "I'm telling you, Ed, you're going to have to find a new partner after

  our next R&R. I found a fissure of quartz in the Chugach Mountains

  that would knock your socks off. I know there's got to be a thick,

  juicy gold vein lying right beneath it."

  "Sure, just like that strike you made wild claims about on the McKinley

  River," Stimson chided. Barnes had a naive sense of optimism that

  always amused the elder meteorologist.

  "Just wait till you see me driving around Anchorage in my new Hummer,

  then you'll believe," replied Barnes somewhat indignantly.

  "Fair enough," Stimson replied. "In the meantime, can you check

  the anemometer mounting? The wind readings have stopped recording

  again."

  "Just don't file a claim on my gold field while I'm up on the roof,"

  Barnes grinned while pulling on a heavy coat.

  "Not to worry, my friend. Not to worry."

  Two miles to the east, Sarah Matson cursed leaving her gloves back in

  the tent. Although the temperature was almost fifty, an offshore

  breeze made it feel much cooler. Her hands were wet from crawling over

  some sea-washed boulders and the sensitivity was evaporating from her

  fingertips. Climbing across a gully, she tried to forget about her icy

  hands and concentrate on moving closer to her quarry. Stepping quietly

  along a boulder-strewn path, she eased herself slowly to a prime

  vantage point beside a shallow rock outcropping.

  Barely thirty feet away lay a noisy colony of Steller's sea lions

  basking at the water's edge. A dozen or so of the fat-whiskered

  mammals sat huddled together like tourists jammed on the beach at Rio

  while another four or five could be seen swimming in the surf. Two

  young males barked loudly back and forth at each other, vying for the

  attention of a nearby female, who showed not the slightest sign of

  interest in either mammal. Several pups slept blissfully oblivious to

  the rancor, cuddled up close to their mother's belly.

  Pulling a small notepad from her jacket pocket, Sarah began jotting

  down particulars about each animal, estimating their age, sex, and

  apparent health condition. As accurately as she could, she carefully

  observed each sea lion for signs of muscle spasms, eye or nasal

  secretions, or excessive sneezing. After nearly an hour of

  observation, she replaced the notepad in her pocket, hoping that she

  would later be able to read the scribbled handwriting created by her

  frozen fingers.

  Slowly retracing her steps, Sarah edged away from the colony and

  made her way back across the gully. She found that her original

  footsteps had left indentations in the short grass and she easily

  followed her imprints leading inland and over a gradual rise. The cool

  sea breeze felt refreshing to her lungs as she hiked while the sparse

  beauty of the island made her feel energized and full of life. Belying

  her slender frame and delicate features, the flaxen-haired woman of

  thirty actually relished working outdoors. Growing up in rural

  Wyoming, Sarah had spent all her summer days hiking and horseback

  riding in the Teton Mountains with a pair of rambunctious brothers. A

  love of outdoor wildlife led her to study veterinary medicine at

  neighboring Colorado State University. After a number of research

  positions on the East Coast, she followed a favorite professor to the

  federal Centers for Disease Control with the promise that she wouldn't

  be stuck in a lab every day. In the role of field epidemiologist for

  the CDC, she was able to combine her passion for wildlife and the

  outdoors by helping track the spread of communicable diseases among

  animals that posed a health threat to humans.

  Finding herself in the Aleutian Islands was just the sort of outdoor

  adventure she craved, although the reason behind it tugged at her

  animal-loving heart. A mysterious number of sea lion deaths had been

  reported along the western Alaska Peninsula, although no known

  environmental catastrophe or human-induced culprit was suspected. Sarah

  and two associates had been sent from Seattle to diagnose the extent of

  the die-off and determine its range of dispersement. Starting with the

  outward Aleutian island of Attu, the team had begun island-hopping

  eastward, searching for signs of the outbreak while working their way

  toward the Alaskan mainland. Every three days, a small seaplane would

  pick the team up, then ferry them to the next designated island with a

  fresh drop of supplies. The second day on Yu-naska had failed to

  reveal indications of the ailment in the local sea lion population,

  which added a small sense of relief to Sarah.

  Blessed with high cheekbones and soft hazel eyes, the pretty scientist

  quickly ambled the two miles back to camp, easily spotting the trio

  of bright red tents some distance away. A squat, bearded man wearing a

  flannel shirt and a worn Seattle Mariners baseball cap was rummaging

  through a large cooler when Sarah approached the campsite.

  "Sarah, there you are. Sandy and I were just making plans for lunch,"

  Irv Fowler said
with a smile. An easygoing man on the thin side of

  fifty, Fowler looked and acted like a man ten years his junior.

  A petite redheaded woman crawled out of one of the nearby tents

  clutching a pot and ladle. "Irv's always making plans for lunch,"

  Sandy Johnson responded with a grin while rolling her eyes.

  "How did you two make out this morning?" Sarah inquired as she grabbed

  an empty campstool and sat down.

  "Sandy's got the stats. We checked a large colony of Steller's on the

  eastern beach and they all looked fat and healthy. I found one

  cadaver, but by all appearances the fellow looked like he expired from

  old age. I took a tissue sample for lab analysis just to be sure."

  While he spoke, Fowler pumped the primer on a propane gas camp stove,

  then lit the hissing gas escaping beneath the burner, the blue flame

  igniting with a poof.

  "That's consistent with what I observed as well. It appears that the

  affliction has not spread to the sea lions of charming Yunaska," Sarah

  replied, her eyes sweeping the green landscape around them.

  "We can check the colony on the west coast of the island this

  afternoon, since our pilot won't be back to pick us up until

  morning."

  "That will be a bit of a hike. But we can stop for a chat at the Coast

  Guard station, which I recall our pilot saying was manned this time of

  year."

  "In the meantime," Fowler announced, placing the large pot on the

  portable stove, "it's time for the specialty of the house."

  "Not that fire-belching-" Sandy tried to declare before being cut

  off.

  "Yes, indeed. Cajun chili du jour," Fowler grinned, while scraping the

  lumpy brown contents of a large tin can into the heated pot.

  "As they say in N'Awlins," Sarah said with a laugh, "Laisse^ k bon

  temps rouler."

  Ed Stimson peered intently at a weather radar monitor watching a slight

  buildup of white electronic clouds fuzz up the upper portion of the

  green screen. It was a moderate storm front, some two hundred miles to

  the southwest, that Stimson accurately predicted would douse their

  island with several days of soggy weather. His concentration was

  interrupted by a rapping sound overhead. Barnes was still up on the

  tin roof fooling with the anemometer.

  Static-filled chatter suddenly blared through the hut from a radio set

  mounted on a corner wall. Nearby fishing boats, their captains yakking

  about the weather, constituted most of the garbled radio traffic

  received on the island. Stimson did his best to tune out the

  meaningless chatter and, at first, failed to detect the odd whooshing

  sound. It was a low resonance emanating from outside. Then the radio

  fell silent for a moment and he could clearly hear a rushing sound in

  the distance, something similar to a jet aircraft. For several long

  seconds, the odd noise continued, seeming to diminish slightly in

  intensity before ending altogether in a loud crack.

  Thinking it might be thunder, Stimson adjusted the scale view on his

  weather radar to a twenty-mile range. The monitor showed only a light

  scattering of clouds in the immediate vicinity, with nothing resembling

  thunderheads. Must be the Air Force up to some tricks, he figured,

  recalling the heavy air traffic in the Alaskan skies during the days of

  the Cold War.

  His thoughts were broken by a crying wail outside the door from the pet

  husky named Max.

  "What is it, Max?" Stimson called out while opening the door to the

  hut.

  The Siberian husky let out a death-shrieking howl as it turned,

  shaking, toward his master in the doorway. Stimson was shocked to see

  the dog's eyes glazed in a vacant stare while thick white foam oozed

  from

  his mouth. The dog stood teetering back and forth for a moment, then

  keeled over on its side, hitting the ground with a thud.

  "Jesus! Mike, get down here quick," Stimson yelled to his partner.

  Barnes was already climbing down the ladder from the roof but was

  having a hard time catching the rungs with his feet. Nearing the

  ground, he missed the last rung with his left foot altogether and

  lurched to the ground, staying semierect only by a hearty hand grasp on

  the ladder's rung.

  "Mike, the dog just ... are you okay?" Stimson asked, realizing

  something was not right. Running to his partner's side, he found

  Barnes in a state of labored breathing, and his eyes were nearly as

  glassy as Max's. Throwing his arm around the younger man's shoulder,

  Stimson half carried, half dragged Barnes into the shack and set him

  down in a chair.

  Barnes bent over and retched violently, then sat upright, clinging to

  Stimson's arm for support. Gasping in a hoarse voice, he whispered,

  "There's something in the air."

  No sooner had the words left his mouth when his eyes rolled up into the

  back of his head and he fell over stone dead.

  Stimson stood up in a state of shock, then found that the room was

  spinning like a top before his eyes. A throbbing pain racked his head

  while the grip of an iron vise suddenly began squeezing the air out of

  his lungs. Staggering to the radio, he tried to let out a brief cry

  for help but was unsure whether his lips could move because of numbness

  to his face. A burst of heat flared internally, like an invisible fire

  was consuming his organs. Choking for air and losing all sense of

  vision, he staggered and fell hard to the floor, dead before he hit the

  ground.

  Four miles east of the Coast Guard station, the three CDC scientists

  were just finishing their lunch when the invisible wave of death

  struck. Sarah was the first to detect something wrong when a pair of

  birds flying overhead suddenly stopped in mid flight as if they had

  struck an invisible wall and then fell to the ground wriggling. Sandy

  fell victim first, clutching her stomach and doubling over in agony.

  "Come now, my chili wasn't that bad," Fowler joked before he, too,

  became light-headed and nauseous.

  Sarah stood and took a few steps toward the cooler to retrieve some

  bottled water when fire shot through her legs and her thigh muscles

  began to spasm.

  "What's happening?" Fowler gasped as he tried to comfort Sandy before

  staggering to the ground in distress.

  For Sarah, time seemed to slow as her senses became dulled. Sluggishly,

  she dropped to the ground as her muscles weakened and refused to obey

  the commands sent by her brain. Her lungs seemed to constrict upon

  themselves, making each breath a painful stab of agony. A thumping

  noise began to ring through her ears as she fell prone on her back and

  stared blurry-eyed at the gray sky above. She felt the blades of grass

  dance and rustle against her body, but she was frozen, unable to

  move.

  Gradually, a fog enveloped her mind and a field of blackness began to

  encroach the edges of her vision. But a sudden intrusion jarred her

  senses momentarily. Into the sea of gray popped an apparition, a

  strange ghost with a tuft of black hair over a rubbery face that seemed

  to melt away
like plastic. She felt the alien gaze upon her with

  frightening giant, three-inch-wide crystal eyes. But there appeared to

  be another set of eyes beyond the crystal lenses, gazing intently at

  her with a sense of grace and warmth. A pair of deep, opaline green

  eyes. Then everything turned to black.

  Sarah opened her eyes to a gray canopy above her, only this one was

  flat and without clouds. Shaking off the blurriness, her eyes slowly

  regained focus and she could see that it was not the sky above her but

  a ceiling. A softness beneath her revealed that she was lying in a bed

  with a thick pillow under her head. An oxygen mask was covering her

  face, which she removed, but she left alone the intravenous needle that

  was stuck in her arm. Carefully taking in the surroundings, her eyes

  gazed upon a small, simply decorated room featuring a small writing

  desk in one corner with an impressive painting of an old ocean liner

  above it, while off to the side was a small bath. The bed she lay in

  was mounted to the wall and the open door to a hallway had a step over

  threshold. The whole room seemed to be rolling, and she was uncertain

  if it was her head creating the motion as a result of the deep

  throbbing sensation that pounded at her temples.

  A movement caught her eye and she turned back to the doorway

  to find a figure standing there, looking at her with a slight grin. He

  was a tall man, broad-shouldered, but on a fit and somewhat wiry frame.

  He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, she guessed, but moved with

  the confidence of a more mature man. His skin showed the deep tan of

  someone who spent a good deal of time outdoors. Wavy black hair set

 

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