Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

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Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 9

by Cussler, Clive


  Four Dead on De Laura Beach

  Local resident Leigh Hunt, his two sons Tad (age 13) and Tom (age 11),

  and a nephew known only as Skip, were found dead Saturday, June 20th,

  on De Laura Beach. The four went out clamming in the afternoon,

  according to Hunt's wife Marie, and failed to return home for dinner.

  County Sheriff Kit Edwards discovered the bodies, which showed no signs

  of a struggle or physical injury. "Not finding any physical marks, we

  immediately suspected smoke inhalation or poisoning. Leigh had a large

  supply of a cyanide treatment in his workshop that he used for tanning

  leather," Edwards remarked. "He and the boys must have been exposed to

  a strong dose before they went to the beach, and the poison caught up

  with them there," he stated. Funeral arrangements are pending

  examination of the bodies by the county coroner.

  "Is there a follow-up news report on the coroner's findings?" he

  asked.

  Margaret rifled through another dozen editions of the News before

  finding a small article related to the deaths. Reading out loud, she

  cited that the coroner's office confirmed accidental cyanide inhalation

  as the suspected cause of death.

  "My father never did believe it was an accident," Margaret added, to

  Dirk's surprise.

  "It doesn't make sense that they would have died later at the beach

  after inhaling the fumes in Hunt's work shed," Dirk mused.

  "Papa said the same thing," Margaret replied, letting down her guard

  slightly. "And he said the authorities never did consider the

  birds."

  "Birds?"

  "Yes. About a hundred seagulls were found dead on the beach around the

  area that Hunt and the boys were found. Fort Stevens, the Army base,

  was right near that beach. Papa always suspected it was some sort of

  Army experiment that accidentally killed them. Guess nobody will ever

  know for sure."

  "Wartime secrets can be difficult to unlock sometimes," Dirk replied.

  "Thank you for your help, Margaret."

  Dirk returned to the jeep and drove through the town to the coastal

  highway and turned south. A short stretch of pavement later, he

  approached a small side road marked de laura beach road. The road led

  through an open pair of gates marked fort stevens state park before

  narrowing through thick underbrush. Dirk jammed the jeep into low gear

  and surged over a jagged ridge before descending to a large abandoned

  gun emplacement overlooking the ocean. Battery Russell had been one of

  several coastal defense sites guarding the entrance to the Columbia

  River which sprang up during the Civil War, then were later updated

  with huge long-range guns during World War II. From the emplacement,

  Dirk had a clear view of the shimmering blue waters at the mouth of the

  Columbia River, as well as the De Laura Beach below, which was dotted

  with afternoon pic nickers. Dirk soaked in a few deep breaths of the

  fresh sea air, then drove back out the small road, pulling off nearly

  into the brush at one point to let an oncoming black Cadillac pass by.

  Driving a quarter mile farther, he stopped the car at a large

  historical marker along the roadside that caught his eye. Carved on a

  massive gray slab of granite was a highly detailed engraving of a

  submarine, beneath which was inscribed:

  On June 21, 1942, a 5.5" shell exploded here. One of 17 fired at

  Columbia River Harbor Defense Installations by the Japanese Submarine

  I-25. The only hostile shelling of a military base on the U.S. mainland

  during World War II and the first since the War of 1812.

  As he read the inscription, he instinctively moved away from the road

  as the Cadillac returned and passed by slowly, to avoid kicking up

  dust. Dirk studied the submarine carving for a long moment and started

  to walk away. But something caught his eye and he looked again. It

  was the date. June 21, just a day after Hunt and the boys were found

  dead on the beach.

  Dirk reached into the jeep's glove compartment and pulled out a

  cellular phone, leaning against the car's hood as he dialed the number.

  After four rings, a deep and jolly voice boomed through the handset.

  "Perlmutter here."

  "Julien, it's Dirk. How's my favorite nautical historian?"

  "Dirk, my boy, so good to hear from you! I was just enjoying some

  pickled green mangoes your father sent me from the Philippines. Pray

  tell, how are you enjoying the Great White North?"

  "We just finished our survey in the Aleutians, so I am back in the

  Pacific Northwest. The islands were quite beautiful, though, but it

  was a little cold for my blood."

  "Heavens, I can imagine," Perlmutter's voice bellowed. "So, what's on

  your mind, Dirk?"

  "World War Two-era Japanese submarines, to be exact. I'm curious

  about their record of attacks on the U.S. mainland and any unusual

  weaponry in their arsenals."

  "Imperial submarines, eh? I recall they made some fairly harmless

  attacks on the West Coast, but I have not delved into my Japanese

  wartime files in some time. I'll have to do some nosing about for

  you."

  "Thanks, Julien. And one more thing. Let me know if you run across

  any references to the use of cyanide as an armament."

  "Cyanide. Now, that would be nasty, wouldn't it?" Perlmutter asked

  rhetorically before hanging up.

  Contemplating the enormous collection of rare maritime history books

  and manuscripts jammed into his Georgetown carriage house, St. Julien

  Perlmutter needed only a few seconds of pondering to pinpoint the

  material he was looking for. Perlmutter resembled an overgrown Santa

  Claus, with sparkling blue eyes, a huge gray beard, and an enormous

  belly that helped him tip the scales at nearly four hundred pounds.

  Besides a penchant for gourmet foods, Perlmutter was known as one of

  the world's foremost maritime historians, in large part due to his

  peerless collection of sea-related ephemeris.

  Clad in silk pajamas and a paisley robe, Perlmutter padded across a

  thick Persian carpet to a mahogany bookcase, where he examined several

  titles before pulling down a book and two large binders with his meaty

  hands. Satisfied it was the material he was looking for, the immense

  man returned to an overstuffed red leather chair, where a plate of

  truffles and a hot pot of tea beckoned him.

  Dirk continued on his drive to Portland, where he found the antique

  auto auction he was looking for at a large, grassy fairgrounds at the

  city's edge. Scores of people milled about the gleaming autos, most

  from the forties, fifties, and sixties, which were neatly lined up on

  the wide grass field. Dirk sauntered by the cars, admiring the paint

  jobs and mechanical restorations, before heading to a large

  white-canopied tent where the auctioning was taking place.

  Inside, loudspeakers blared out the auctioneer's grating staccato voice

  as he spat out price bids like a rapid-fire machine gun. Grabbing a

  side seat away from the blare, Dirk watched in amusement as the team of

  auctioneers, wearing a ridiculous combination of seventies-styler />
  tuxedos and cheap cowboy hats, pranced around in a futile attempt to

  hype the excitement, and price, of each car. After several Corvettes

  and an early Thunderbird were passed through, Dirk sat up as a 1958

  Chrysler 300-D drove up onto the stage. The huge car was painted an

  original Aztec turquoise, enhanced by miles of gleaming chrome and a

  pair of rear tail fins that jutted into the air like the dorsal fin of

  a shark. In a reaction only a true car fanatic could understand, Dirk

  felt his heartbeat quicken simply at the sight of the artistic mass of

  steel and glass.

  "Perfectly restored to concourse condition by Pastime Restorations of

  Golden, Colorado," the auctioneer pitched. He resumed his vocal

  convulsions, but bidding on the car surprisingly stalled early. Dirk

  raised his hand in the air and was soon dueling for the car with an

  overweight man wearing yellow suspenders. Dirk quickly countered his

  opponent's bids in rapid succession, showing his intent was serious.

  The tactic worked. Yellow Suspenders shook his head after the third

  bid and headed toward the bar.

  "Sold to the man in the NUMA hat!" the auctioneer barked as the

  surrounding crowd applauded politely. Though it cost him several

  months' salary, Dirk recognized it was a good buy, knowing that less

  than two hundred Chrysler 300-D convertibles were manufactured in

  1958.

  As he arranged to have the car shipped up to Seattle, his cell phone

  started to ring.

  "Dirk, it's Julien. I have some information for you."

  "That was fast service."

  "Well, I wanted to get back to you before supper," Perlmutter replied,

  contemplating his next meal.

  "What can you tell me, Julien?"

  "After Pearl Harbor, the Japanese placed nine or ten submarines on

  station along the West Coast, but they were gradually pulled off as the

  battle action moved to the South Pacific. The Japanese submarines were

  primarily on reconnaissance missions, observing the major bays and

  harbors while trying to track major ship movements. They did manage to

  sink a handful of merchant ships early in the war and create a dose of

  psychological fear in the general public along the way. As for actual

  land attacks, the first occurred in early 1942, when the I-17 lobbed a

  few shells near Santa Barbara, damaging a pier and an oil derrick. In

  June of '42, the I-25 fired upon Fort Stevens, near Astoria, Oregon,

  while the I-26 bombarded a radio station on Vancouver Island in Canada.

  No fatalities were recorded in either of the attacks. In August of

  1942, the I-25 returned near Cape Blanco, Oregon, and launched a

  seaplane armed with incendiary bombs in an attempt to set fire to the

  nearby forests. The attack was a failure, as only one small fire was

  ignited in the region."

  "Sounds like they were primarily nuisance attacks," Dirk commented.

  "Yes, there was nothing overly strategic about their actions. Things

  slowed down after the incendiary attack, as the submarines were moved

  north to support the Aleutian campaign. Imperial submarines were

  heavily involved in supporting the capture and later evacuation of Attu

  and Kiska islands during fighting in 1943. The Japanese lost five subs

  during the Aleutian battles as our sonar technology really began to

  pick them out of the seas. After the fall of Kiska, just a few

  Imperial submarines continued to operate in the north and western

  Pacific. The I-180 was attacked and sunk near Kodiak, Alaska, in April

  of 1944, then things were pretty quiet on the home front until the

  I-403 was sunk off Cape Flattery, Washington, in January 1945."

  "Odd that one would get tagged off the West Coast at a point in the war

  when their navy was on its last legs."

  "It's even more queer when you consider that the I-403 was one of their

  big boats. Apparently, it was planning an air attack when it was

  surprised by an American destroyer."

  "Hard to believe they constructed submarines back then capable of

  carrying an airplane," Dirk marveled.

  "Their big boats could carry not just one but actually three airplanes.

  They were massive beasts."

  "Did you find any indication that the naval forces used cyanide

  weapons?"

  "None that was recorded in battle, but they did exist. It was the

  Imperial Army, I believe, and its biological warfare unit in China,

  that experimented with biological and chemical weapons. They did fool

  around with cyanide artillery shells, among other things, so it is

  possible the Navy tried experimenting with them, but there is no

  official record of their use."

  "I guess there is no way to prove it, but I suspect the I-25 launched a

  cyanide shell that killed four people the day before it attacked Fort

  Stevens."

  "Quite possible. May be hard to prove, as the I-25 was later lost in

  the South Pacific, presumably sunk near Espiritu Santo Island in 1943.

  But with one possible exception, all accounts I have seen indicate that

  the Japanese vessels were armed only with conventional weapons."

  "And the exception?"

  "The I-403 again. I found a reference in a postwar Army journal

  stating that a shipment of Maka^e ordnance was transferred to the Navy

  and delivered to the submarine in Kure prior to her last sailing. I've

  never seen a reference to Maka^e before, however, and could find no

  other references in my ordnance and munitions files."

  "Any idea what the term means?"

  "The best translation I can make of it is "Black Wind." "

  Dirk made a short phone call to Leo Delgado, then reached I Dahlgren,

  who was drinking a beer in a lounge overlooking Lake i Washington

  following his morning kayak with the bank teller.

  "Jack, you up for a dive tomorrow?" Dirk asked.

  "Sure. Spearfishing in the Sound?"

  "I've got something a little bigger in mind."

  "King salmon are game for me."

  "The fish I'm interested in," Dirk continued, "hasn't swum in over

  sixty years."

  Irv Fowler woke up with a raging headache. Too many beers the night

  before, the scientist mused as he dragged himself out of bed. Chugging

  down a cup of coffee and a donut, he convinced himself he felt better.

  But as the day wore on, the pain seemed to swell, with little relief

  offered despite his multiple hits on a bottle of aspirin. Eventually,

  his back joined in the game, sending out waves of pain with every

  movement he made. By midafternoon, he felt weak and tired, and left

  early from his temporary office at Alaska State Health and Social

  Services to drive back to his apartment and rest.

  After he downed a bowl of chicken soup, his abdomen started firing off

  streaks of shooting pain. So much for home remedies, he thought. After

  several fitful naps, he staggered into the bathroom for another dose of

  aspirin to help kill the pain. Looking into the glassy-eyed worn and

  weary face that stared back at him from the mirror, he noticed a bright

  red rash emerging on his cheeks.

  "Damndest flu I've ever had," he muttered aloud, then fell back into

  bed in a
heap.

  Security was tight at the Tokyo Hilton Hotel and guests for the private

  banquet were required to pass through three separate checkpoints before

  gaining entry to the lavish dining hall. The Japan Export

  Association's annual dinner was an extravagant affair featuring the

  best local chefs and entertainers performing for the country's top

  business leaders and dignitaries. Executives from Japan's major

  exporting companies helped sponsor the dinner on behalf of their major

  trading partners. In addition to key customers, in-country diplomats

  from all the Western and Asian countries that constituted Japan's

  primary trading partners were treated as special guests.

  The recent assassination of U.S. Ambassador Hamilton and the bedlam at

  the SemCon factory opening had created a buzz in the crowd and heads

  turned when the American embassy's deputy chief of mission Robert

  Bridges entered the room, accompanied by two undercover security men.

  Though a career diplomat, Bridges was more at home working policy

  strategies or conducting business security briefings rather than

  socializing in mass crowds. Hamilton had been by far the better

  glad-hander, Bridges thought as he made small talk with a Japanese

  trade representative. A dinner host soon arrived and escorted him to a

  small banquet table, where he was seated with a number of European

  diplomats.

  As traditional dishes of sashimi and soba noodles were brought to the

  tables, a troupe of geisha dancers glided elegantly about a raised

  stage, dressed in brightly colored kimonos and twirling bamboo fans as

 

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