Devil's Gate nf-9

by Clive Cussler

  NUMA. Takagawa knew the Agency well, and not just because chance had allowed some of its agents to spot the piracy on one of his ships and attempt to intervene. He knew all about NUMA from an incident that had occurred more than a decade ago.

  Unlike others in the Japanese shipping world, he had a great fondness for the men and women of NUMA. It made his answer that much harder.

  “Tell them I cannot speak on this subject,” he said.

  Silence returned for a moment, and Takagawa reached over to one side. He flipped on a monitor and pressed a button that allowed him to see the front desk in the lobby.

  Two young men in suits stood there, appearing bright-eyed and eager. They looked more like Ivy League lawyers or accountants than the intrepid men he’d once dealt with. Then again, there could be only one reason they wanted to talk to him about the Kinjara Maru. So why not send lawyers?

  The secretary’s voice returned. “They say they’re willing to wait all day if they have to, but they must speak with you.”

  “They can wait until the end of time,” he said, “but I will not talk to them. Have security escort them out of the building.”

  He switched off the video monitor and went back to his work. NUMA could be a problem for him. Takagawa had found they could be a problem for anyone if they wanted to be.

  14

  Eastern Atlantic, June 20

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER THE DISCOVERY of the marine graveyard, Kurt Austin stood by the Argo’s port railing. The ship was holding station near the subsurface caldera that had nearly swallowed the XP-4, along with Kurt, Joe, and the Barracuda.

  As Kurt stared out across the water, the midafternoon sun was starting to fall. It gave the light a warm bronze hue as the shadows stretched out and the air grew more humid. Beneath this pleasant light, the sea appeared calm and glassy, almost oily in complexion, as if the warm sun had lulled it to sleep like a tiger on the African savanna.

  Standing there, Kurt reflected on the strange turn of events. Upon reporting the discovery, Kurt and Joe had been publicly thanked by the Portuguese authorities. And then, in private, they’d been scolded, and immediately ordered not to disturb or take anything from the site or even return to it, as if they were vandals or thieves of some kind.

  All kinds of orders came down. Officially, the Portuguese insisted these precautions were for safety reasons. In a way, Kurt could understand that. The fluctuating magnetic properties around the rock formations made subsurface navigation difficult. At times, when the magnetic field was peaking, steel-hulled submersibles, including the Barracuda, were literally drawn toward it as if being reeled in by a cable. Fighting that pull became harder the closer one got to the tower.

  On one run, Kurt had found himself in a position where the current and the magnetic pull were acting in the same direction. God help him if he bumped it, he’d thought.

  Shortly after Kurt’s experience, a second sub reported electrical problems. And even days after their exposure, the driver and navigator from the XP-4 continued to complain of headaches and strange issues with their vision. All of which added to the mystery of the place and the conspiracy theories already swirling.

  As for the Portuguese government, it had no reason to quash the stories. They might even lead to a bonanza in tourist dollars, something every small island could use.

  In some ways, that influx was already beginning. The morning after the discovery, only the Argo had been present. Today, three other tenders had joined it, and if the scuttlebutt was to be believed, there would be ten ships out here the next day, all of them filled with tourists waiting to get a look at the now infamous “Underwater Graveyard.”

  Tours of the site were being touted, with press releases going out, and a grainy YouTube video already capturing over a million hits.

  In a few days, Kurt guessed he’d be looking at a free-for-all, something like trying to snorkel with a thousand other tourists, with their bright bathing suits and Styrofoam noodles, and yet imagining you were getting a “real life” aquatic experience.

  As he pondered this, footsteps approached him from behind. Kurt turned to see Joe Zavala, carrying a frosty tall-necked bottle of beer in each hand.

  “Bohemia,” Joe said, handing him one. “Best beer in Mexico.”

  Kurt took the bottle and tipped it back, savoring the icy taste on such a hot, humid day.

  “Where’d you scrounge this up?” Kurt asked.

  “From the captain’s private stock,” Joe said. “Supposed to be for our victory celebration.”

  “And the captain let you get your paws on it early?” Kurt asked.

  Joe nodded.

  “That’s a bad sign,” Kurt replied. “Are we to be shot at sundown?”

  “Nah,” Joe said. “But we have now been officially kicked out of the competition.”

  Kurt had to laugh. Rules were rules, but stopping to rescue a competitor seemed like a good reason to make an exception.

  “So how’s it feel to lose ten million dollars?” Joe asked.

  Kurt thought about that. Their chances of winning had been excellent. He took another swig from the bottle and leaned back against the rail. “Suddenly,” he said, “I’m very happy that NUMA would have gotten the money anyway.”

  Joe laughed, and both men turned at the sound of a helicopter approaching. They watched a gray Mk 95 Super Lynx cruise in from the east, taking a straight line toward the Argo. As it drew closer, the red-and-green insignia of the Portuguese Navy could be clearly seen on its flank.

  It slowed to a hover above the fantail and then began to descend toward the helipad.

  A crewman popped out of a hatch near where Kurt and Joe stood just as the helicopter was touching down.

  “Cap’n wants you guys in his ready room,” the crewman said.

  The timing seemed suspicious.

  “Did he say why?” Kurt asked.

  The crewman hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “Something to do with our new arrivals, sir.”

  The crewman held the door for them, apparently unable or unwilling to say any more.

  Joe looked at Kurt. “Now you’ve done it.”

  Kurt’s eyebrows went up. “What makes you think this is my fault?”

  “Because it always is,” Joe said.

  The crewman shifted his weight nervously, then mumbled, “The cap’n said don’t be late.”

  Kurt nodded and began moving forward. “I told you the cold beer was a bad sign.”

  He stepped inside.

  Joe followed. “At least we’re on our own ship,” he said. “They can’t make us walk the plank on our own ship… right?”

  The door closed behind them, and Kurt guessed they were about to find out.

  MINUTES LATER, Kurt, Joe, and Captain Haynes satin chairs around a small conference table. Like everything else on a ship the size of the Argo, this ready room was compact and efficient. But with seven men piled inside, including two high-ranking representatives of the Portuguese Navy and the governor of the Azores Islands chain, it felt a little claustrophobic.

  Captain Haynes turned their way.

  “Gentlemen, this is Rear Admiral Alexandre Sienna of the Portuguese Navy. He’s been put in charge of this discovery.”

  Hands were shook, pleasantries exchanged, and then Admiral Sienna got down to it.

  “My government believes you men have found something of great scientific importance,” the admiral began. “For this, Portugal thanks you.”

  Reversal number three, Kurt thought. And probably all for nothing.

  “Without samples, we don’t know what’s been found,” Kurt began. “But it’s probably just a massive chunk of magnetized iron alloy. I’ll admit, it’s a lot of specialized rock in one place, but this is an old volcano. It might be unusual, but—”

  “I promise you, Señor Austin, this is more than unusual,” the admiral said. “Perhaps you have seen the aircraft flying overhead, several times a day?”

  Kurt recalled the flybys; Portu
guese P-3 Orions. He’d assumed they were keeping an eye on the Argo and the other vessels, as if a few naval personnel from the Forte de São Brás coming on board hadn’t been enough.

  The admiral continued. “We have been using sophisticated instruments to study the magnetism. What we have learned so far will astound you. The magnetic force in this area is in constant flux. At one point, it would be enough to lift several hundred tons; an hour later, it’s barely stronger than the standard background level of the earth’s magnetism. And yet several hours further on, the field is more powerful than ever.”

  That did astound Kurt, and perhaps it explained why maneuvering around the tower of volcanic rock was so tricky. And yet, from what he knew, ferrous, or iron-based, magnetism did not fluctuate much. That was why stones could be mined, put to use as magnets, and allowed to sit. Some magnets risked demagnetization, but certainly nothing like what the admiral was describing.

  “What are you suggesting?” Kurt asked.

  “We will have to study the properties to be sure,” the admiral said. “But my scientists tell me you may have discovered a naturally occurring ”—he paused as if looking for the right word—“conductive material. And that under specific geological conditions, perhaps related to underground magma movements or even fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field, this tower of rock and metal becomes vigorously charged. As such, it exerts incredible magnetic force on objects around it.”

  “Vigorous,” Joe added. “I like that. It all but pulled us in during one of those vigorous fluctuations.”

  “Yes,” the admiral said. “That seems to be what it does. The experts we have spoken with think this magnetic structure may have pulled in all the ships and other objects you see resting in that caldera.”

  Kurt’s eyes went wide. He felt as if they were rapidly entering UFO and Amelia Earhart territory.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said. “We made it out of there towing the XP-4 along with us. I saw cargo ships down there, and at least two aircraft. You’re telling me you think this thing drew them in like some kind of siren from Greek mythology?”

  The admiral looked shocked by Kurt’s boldness. Captain Haynes looked just as appalled.

  Joe leaned over. “Remember the plank,” he whispered. “Walking it. Swimming with los tiburones.”

  Kurt took a breath. “My apologies, Admiral. It’s just that this is something of great scientific interest, and, from the looks of things, it’s being turned into an amusement park. We should research it. At least, someone should, even if it’s not us. But it gets a lot harder to do any real science when the claims get so astronomical.”

  “Yes,” the admiral said, looking disappointed. “Perhaps you are right, but, I assure you, the electromagnetic forces we have already measured are, in fact… astronomical.”

  Kurt felt as if the admiral was waiting for him, maybe even baiting him, but he couldn’t help but bite. “What are you getting at?”

  “Do you know what a superconductor is?”

  “The basics,” Kurt said, not actually sure that he knew the basics. “They’re materials that conduct electricity without any resistance. I always hear that they’re going to end up being used in magnetically levitated trains and things like that someday.”

  Captain Haynes took over for the moment, and Kurt got the distinct feeling the two men had already discussed the subject, perhaps not alone.

  “Superconductors do all that and more,” Haynes began. “Their properties make them perfect for any electronic application. From operating a computer to powering a magnetically levitated train to electrical motors for cars that get the equivalent of five hundred miles per gallon. According to one study, replacing the U.S. electrical grid with superconducting wires would reduce the amount of power needed to light the country by forty percent. You could immediately shut down five hundred coal-burning power plants at least.”

  “Didn’t know you were such an expert, Captain.”

  “I wasn’t three hours ago,” the captain replied. “Been talking with the admiral here and the folks back at NUMA all day.”

  “I see,” Kurt said. “So these superconductors might do something for global warming. Especially if extrapolated to the rest of the world. What’s the holdup?”

  “Most superconductors only work at incredibly low temperatures,” the captain explained. “Usually one has to chill them with liquid nitrogen or something similar to create the superconducting effect.”

  “I’m guessing that isn’t going to work for the grid,” Kurt said.

  “It doesn’t work for any standard application,” Captain Haynes explained.

  “So why are we talking about it?”

  Admiral Sienna took over. “Because, Senhor Austin, what you and your friend may have discovered is a superconducting alloy that works at almost room temperature.”

  Now it made sense. No samples. No close approaches. The Portuguese sailors that had been placed on the Argo, the patrol boat that had shadowed the site since they returned.

  “If that’s what we have down there,” Captain Haynes explained, “it could be worth hundreds of billions once it is analyzed and synthesized and mass-produced.”

  That made sense to Kurt, but even a superconductor had to have a source of power. “So where does the juice come from?” he asked.

  “This is a former volcanic archipelago,” Admiral Sienna reminded everyone. “You must realize, there could be a trillion metric tons of magma oozing around underneath the caldera — some of which may be comprised of liquid metal — and such movement can create a magnetic field of its own. Our experts assure us that it’s possible for such forces to be quite large.”

  “And you’re thinking the magnetism pulled these ships and airplanes to the bottom of the sea?” Kurt asked.

  “In truth, we don’t know,” the admiral said. “These waters have quite a reputation, similar to your Bermuda Triangle. We don’t know what has occurred here, but the theory we’re going with is that the ships and containers and aircraft you see went down in the waters to the northwest of the caldera. There is a strong current that funnels along a diagonal route between two low chains of submerged mountains. As the funnel tightens, the strength of the current increases, right up until it drops over the edge of the caldera.”

  Everything they’d seen on the bottom — the sunken ships, the aircraft, the containers and other junk — all of it lay on the northwest side of the rock tower.

  “So you’re saying, add the current and the magnetism together and you have enough power to pull the junk in?”

  The admiral nodded, and Kurt found himself thinking that it might almost make sense. “So what do you want from us?”

  “Well,” Admiral Sienna said, “we are in a rather difficult situation. These waters are disputed between my country and Spain. They have been contested since the time of Columbus, over five hundred years. Since the caldera is more than twelve miles from the closest Azorean landmass, it falls into this disputed zone. For the most part, fishing and other things are regulated under a patchwork of different agreements. We even have one that covers the discovery of any oil.”

  Kurt did not like where this was heading.

  “But there is nothing to cover underwater mining or the discovery of new alloys,” the admiral added.

  “So you’re arguing over it already,” he said.

  “We are… discussing,” the admiral said. “But my nation is inclined to send one of its finest warships — the Corte Real, a Vasco da Gama — class frigate — to this very spot. The Spanish want to send a ship of their own. Perhaps not as nice or as impressive, but a presence nevertheless. You see where this will go.”

  “Okay, so we’ll clear out,” Kurt said. “Let me know when you’ve figured out the details. I’m sure you’ll be able to reach me at the retirement home by then.”

  The admiral looked upset.

  “Tiburones, ” Joe reminded him under his breath.

  “Yes,” the admiral said, “it
will probably devolve into some type of litigation. Unless…”

  Kurt took a deep breath. “Unless what?”

  “Unless a neutral organization of world renown would be willing to watch over the site and coordinate preliminary research while we discuss the details amongst ourselves.”

  Kurt looked at Captain Haynes, who nodded. “I already ran it by the Director. He’s in agreement.”

  “There are many parties who want to see this site,” the admiral said. “Already I have a stack of petitions from scientists who want to come and study it. But rules must be established and followed. If you would help us put them in place…”

  Kurt turned to Haynes. “Captain, that’s up to you and Dirk. Not us. We do what we’re told.”

  “You are the discoverers,” Admiral Sienna said. “And you are well known for other things you have found, including the statue the Navigator, and for your part in learning the truth about the blue medusa and stopping the plague that threatened the world last year. It would be good for you to be here. All sides would respect your presence.”

  “You want us to be administrators,” Kurt said, unable to hide his disdain for this plan.

  “The other officers and I will handle the paperwork and logistics,” Captain Haynes said. “You and Joe will be on point, keeping everyone in line out there.”

  “You want us to be the disciplinarians?” Kurt asked.

  The captain smiled. “Turnabout, if ever I’ve seen it.”

  Kurt glanced at the map on the wall. Five hundred miles to the east of their position, the Trouts were getting ready to dive on the Kinjara Maru. Her sinking continued to monopolize his thoughts during any downtime, and with his and Joe’s early exit from the contest, he’d hoped to return and take part in that dive. It seemed events would not allow it.

  They were stuck here, he knew that. And if that was the case, he figured it was better to be running the show and dishing out the red tape than trying to cut through it.

  He turned to Joe. “Mr. Zavala?”