"Though not one hundred percent certain, we are fairly confident the
sea lion was killed by hydrogen cyanide poisoning."
"Cyanide?" Dirk asked with an arched eyebrow.
"Yes," Sandy replied. "It makes sense. Cyanide is actually expelled
rapidly from the human body. In the case of Sarah, Irv, and me, our
bodies had naturally purged most, if not all, of the cyanide toxins
before we stepped in the door of the Anchorage hospital. Hence, no
trace remained when our blood samples were taken."
"I've contacted the Alaska State Coroner's Office and informed them of
our findings. They have not completed the autopsy report on the two
Coast Guardsmen yet, but they will know what to look for. I am
convinced that is what killed them," Sarah said with a tinge of
sadness.
"I always thought cyanide had to be ingested in order to be lethal,"
Dirk remarked.
"That's what's commonly known, but it's not the only deadly form of the
poison. Everyone knows of cyanide tablets carried by wartime spies, the deadly Jim Jones cyanide-laced Kool-Aid that killed hundreds
in Jonestown, Guyana, and the Tylenol poisonings, which used cyanide.
But cyanide gas has also been used as a killing agent. The French
tried variations of cyanide gas against the Germans in the trenches
during World War One. And though the Germans never used it on the
battlefield, they did use a form of cyanide in the concentration camp
gas chambers during the Second World War."
"The infamous Zyklon B," Dirk recalled.
"Yes, a beefed-up fumigant originally developed to kill rodents," Sarah
continued. "And, more recently, Saddam Hussein was suspected of using
a form of cyanide gas in attacks on Kurdish villages in his own
country, although it was never verified."
"Since we packed in our own food and water supplies," Sandy piped in,
"the airborne poisoning makes sense. It would also explain the deaths
of the sea lions."
"Is it possible for the cyanide to have originated from a natural
source?" Dirk inquired.
"Cyanide is found in a variety of plants and edibles, from lima beans
to choke cherries But it's as an industrial solvent where it is most
prevalent," Sarah explained. "Tons of the stuff are manufactured each
year for electroplating, gold and silver extraction, and fumigants.
Most people probably come in contact with some form of cyanide every
day. But to answer your question, it's unlikely to exist in a gaseous
state from a natural source sufficient to reach any sort of lethality.
Sandy, what did you find in the historical profile of cyanide deaths in
the U.S.?"
"There's been a slew of them, but most are individual accidents or
suspected homicides or suicides resulting from ingestion of solid
cyanides." Sandy reached down and picked up a manila folder she had
brought along and skimmed through one of the pages inside.
"The only significant mass death was related to the Tylenol poisonings,
which killed seven people, again by ingestion. I found only two
references for multiple deaths from suspected cyanide gas. A family of
four died in the Oregon town of Warrenton back in 1942, and in 1964
three men were killed in Butte, Montana. The Montana case was listed
as a mining accident due to extraction solvents. The Oregon case was
listed as undetermined. And I found next to nothing for prior
incidences in and around Alaska."
"Then a natural-occurring release doesn't sound very likely," Dirk
remarked.
"So if it was a man-made airborne release, who did it and why?" Sandy
asked while jabbing her fork into a bowl of angel-hair pasta.
"I think the 'who' was our friends on the fishing boat," he said
drily.
"They weren't picked up by the authorities?" Sarah asked.
Dirk shook his head in disgust. "No, the trawler disappeared. By the
time the local authorities arrived in the area, they were long gone.
The official assessment is that they were presumed to be foreign
poachers."
"I suppose it's possible. It sounds a little dangerous to me, but I
guess they could release the gas from their boat upwind of a sea lion
colony," Sarah replied, shaking her head.
"A fast way to do a lot of killing," Dirk added. "Though poachers
armed with AK-47s does seem a little extreme. And I'm still wondering
about the retail market for sea lions."
"It is perplexing. I haven't heard of anything like it before."
"I hope that you two don't suffer any ill effects from the exposure,"
Dirk said, looking at Sarah with concern.
"Thanks," Sarah replied. "It was a shock to our system, but we'll be
fine. The long-term effect for minimal exposure has not been proven to
be dangerous."
Dirk pushed away a cleaned plate of Pasta Alfredo and rubbed his taut
stomach with satisfaction.
"Excellent dining choice."
"We eat here all the time," Sarah said as she reached over and
out-grabbed Dirk for the bill.
"I insist on returning the favor," Dirk said, looking at Sarah with a
serious smile.
"Sandy and I have to travel to the CDC research lab in Spokane for a
few days, but I'd love to take you up when we return," she replied,
intentionally leaving Sandy out of the equation.
Dirk smiled in acknowledgment. "I can't wait."
The landing wheels of the Gulfstream V jet dropped slowly from the
fuselage as the sleek aircraft aligned its nose at the runway. Its
wings cut through the moist, hazy air like a scalpel, as the
nineteen-passenger luxury business jet dropped gracefully out of the
sky until its rubber tires touched the tarmac with a screech and a wisp
of blue smoke. The pilot guided the plane to the corporate jet
terminal of Tokyo's modern Narita International Airport before shutting
down the high-pitched turbines. As a ground crew chocked the wheels of
the jet, a gleaming black Lincoln limousine glided up, stopping
precisely at the base of the plane's passenger stairwell.
Chris Gavin squinted in the bright sun as he stepped down from the jet
and climbed into the waiting limo, followed by a legion of assistants
and assorted vice presidents. As chief executive officer of SemCon
Industries, Gavin commanded the largest semiconductor manufacturing
company in the world. The flamboyant and free-spending corporate
chief, who inherited the company from a visionary father, had alienated
many of his countrymen in the United States by closing profitable
factories and brusquely laying off thousands of workers at home in
order to move production to newer and cheaper facilities offshore.
Profits would be higher, he promised his shareholders, while taking
personal delight in broadening his elaborate lifestyle to a worldwide
setting.
Exiting the airport grounds located some sixty-six kilometers northeast
of Tokyo, the limo driver entered the Higashi Kanto Expressway and
headed toward Japan's capital city with his cargo of high-salaried
executives. Twenty minutes later, the driver turned south, exiting the
highway some twenty kilom
eters short of Tokyo. The limo soon entered
the industrial section of Chiba, a large port city on the eastern edge
of Tokyo Bay. The driver wound past a number of large drab
manufacturing buildings before pulling up in front of a sleek glass
building overlooking the bay. The modern structure looked more like an
executive office building than the industrial fabrication plant it
contained, with its shimmering face of gold reflective windows rising
four stories high. Mounted on the roof in huge block letters was
a blue semcon neon sign, which could be seen for miles away. A large
crowd of factory workers, all clad in pale blue lab coats, waited
anxiously on the grounds for the arrival of their CEO to officially
open the new facility.
The crowd cheered and cameras flashed as Gavin exited the limo and
waved to the assembled employees and media, baring a wide, capped-tooth
grin. After a pair of long-winded welcome speeches by the mayor of
Chiba and the new plant manager, Gavin offered a few polished words of
thanks and inspiration to the employees, then hoisted a comically
oversized pair of scissors and cut a thick ribbon stretched tight
across the entrance to the new building. As the crowd applauded
politely, a muffled boom echoed from somewhere in the depths of the
building, which some mistook for a firing of celebratory fireworks. But
then a succession of louder explosions rocked the building and the
assembly of employees suddenly gasped in confusion.
In the heart of the building's silicon chip fabrication center, a
small
timed charge had detonated on a tank of silane gas, a highly flammable
substance used in the growth of silicon crystals. Exploding like a
torpedo, the tank had flung metallic fragments at high velocity into a
half-dozen additional silane and oxygen tanks stored nearby, causing
them to burst in a series of concussions that culminated in a massive
fireball inside the building. Soaring temperatures soon caused the
exterior windows to blast out in a burst of hot air, showering the
stunned crowd with a hail of glass and debris.
As the building shook and flames roared from the roof, the panicked
employees began to scramble in all directions. Gavin stood holding the
pair of giant scissors, a look of stunned confusion on his face. A
sharp pain suddenly pierced his neck, jolting his senses. Instinctively
rubbing the ache with his fingers, he was shocked to feel a small
barbed steel ball the size of a BB lodged in his skin. As he extracted
the tiny pellet with a trickle of blood, a nearby woman screamed and
ran by him, a large sliver of fallen window glass protruding from her
shoulder. A couple of terrified assistants quickly grabbed Gavin and
led him toward the limo, shielding him from a nosy photographer eager
to snap an embarrassing shot of the corporate mogul in front of his
burning building.
As he was whisked to the limo, Gavin's legs suddenly turned to rubber.
He turned toward one of his assistants to speak but no words came from
his lips. As the car door was opened, he sprawled forward into the
car, falling chest first onto the carpeted floor. A confused aide
rolled him over and was horrified to find that the CEO was not
breathing. A panicked attempt at CPR was performed as the limo
screeched off to a nearby hospital, but it was to no avail. The
mercurial self-centered leader of the global company was dead.
Few people had paid any attention to the bald man with dark eyes and
droopy mustache who had crowded up close to the speaker's platform.
Wearing a blue lab coat and plastic identification badge, he looked
like any other SemCon employee. Fewer still noticed that he carried a
plastic drinking cup with an odd bamboo straw sticking out
the top. And in the confusion of the explosions, not a single person
had noticed as he pulled out the straw, placed it to his lips, and
fired a poisoned bead at the head of the giant corporation.
Casually losing himself in the crowd, the bald assassin made his way to
the edge of the property's grounds, where he tossed his cup and lab
coat into a streetside trash can. Hopping onto a bicycle, he paused
briefly as a clanging fire truck roared down the street toward the
engulfed building. Then, without looking back, he casually pedaled
away.
A dinging bell echoed in Dahlgren's mind like some distant train at a
railroad crossing. The feverish hope that the sound was part of a
dream fell away as his consciousness took hold and told him it was a
ringing telephone. Groping for the receiver on his nightstand, he
yawned a weary "Hullo."
"Jack, you still sawing logs?" Dirk's voice laughed over the line.
"Yeah, thanks for the wake-up call," he replied groggily.
"I thought bankers didn't like to stay up late."
"This one does. And likes to drink vodka, too. I think a dinosaur
crapped in my mouth during the night," Dahlgren said with a belch.
"Sorry to hear. Say, I'm thinking of taking a drive to Portland to
stretch out my sea legs and take in a car show. Care to ride
shotgun?"
"No thanks. I'm supposed to take the teller kayaking today. That is,
if I can still stand up."
"Okay. I'll send over a Bombay martini to get you started."
"Roger that," Dahlgren replied with a grimace.
Dirk headed south from Seattle on Interstate 5 in the NUMA jeep,
enjoying the sights of the lush forested region of western Washington.
He found cross-country drives relaxing, as they allowed his
mind to roam freely with the open countryside. Finding himself making
good time, he decided to detour west along the coast, taking a side
road to Willapa Bay before continuing south along the Pacific waters of
the large bay. Soon he reached the wide blue mouth of the Columbia
River, and cruised the same shores upon which Lewis and Clark had
triumphantly set foot back in 1805.
Crossing the mighty river over the four-mile-long Astoria-Megler
Bridge, Dirk exited at the historic fishing port of Astoria. As he
stopped at a red light on the bridge off ramp, a road sign caught his
eye. In white letters on a green field, warrenton 8 mi. was preceded
by an arrow pointing west. Prodded by curiosity, he followed the sign
right, away from Portland, and quickly traversed the few miles to
Warrenton.
The small town at Oregon's northwest tip, originally built on a tidal
marsh as a fishing and sport boat passage to the Pacific, supported
some four thousand residents. It took Dirk only a few minutes of
driving about the town before he found what he was looking for on Main
Street. Parking his jeep next to a white Clatsop County official
vehicle, he strolled up a concrete walkway to the front door of the
Warrenton Community Library.
It was a small library but looked like it had been in existence for six
or seven decades. A musty smell of old books and older dust wafted
lightly in the air. Dirk walked straight to a large metal desk, from
which a fiftyish woman with contemporary eyeglasses and short blond
>
hair looked up suspiciously. A plastic green badge pinned to her
blouse revealed her name: margaret.
"Good morning, Margaret. My name is Dirk," he said with a smile. "I
wonder if you might have copies of the local newspaper from the
nineteen forties?"
The librarian warmed slightly. "The Warrenton News, which went out of
print in 1964. We do have original copies from the nineteen thirties
through the sixties. Right this way," she said.
Margaret walked to a cramped corner of the library, where she
pulled out several drawers of a filing cabinet before discovering the
location of the 1940s editions.
"What exactly is it that you are looking for?" she asked, more out of
nosiness than of a desire to help.
"I'm interested in the story of a local family that died suddenly from
poisoning back in 1942."
"Oh, that would be Leigh Hunt," Margaret exclaimed with a knowing
smugness. "He was a friend of my father. Apparently, that was quite a
shock around here. Let's see, I think that happened during the
summer," she said while flipping through the cabinet. "Did you know
the family?" she asked Dirk without looking up.
"No, just a history buff interested in the mystery of their deaths."
"Here we go," the librarian said, pulling out an edition of the daily
newspaper dated Sunday, June 21, 1942. It was a small journal, mostly
containing weather, tide, and salmon-fishing statistics combined with a
few local stories and advertisements. Margaret flattened out the paper
on top of the filing cabinet so Dirk could read the headline story.
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 8
