Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

by Cussler, Clive

  "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.