Treasure / Dragon / Sahara: Clive Cussler Gift Set Read online

  Soon realizing he could not obtain foreign aid or loans as a military dictator, Kazim stepped down and installed the current President Tahir as a figurehead. A cunning manipulator, Kazim stacked the legislature with his cronies and kept his distance from the Soviet Union and the United States while maintaining close relations with France.

  He soon set himself up as overseer of all trade, domestic and foreign, enriching a number of his secret bank accounts throughout the world. He dipped into development projects and despite installing strict customs controls, profited handsomely on the side from smuggling activities. French business payoffs for his cooperation, such as his association with Yves Massarde, made him a multimillionaire. Thanks to Kazim's absolute corruption and the greed of his officials, it was little wonder that Mali was one of the world's poorest nations.

  The UN Boeing 737 banked so close to the ground Eva thought its wing tip would cut a groove through the mud and timber houses. Then the pilot leveled out on his approach to the primitive airport at the fabled city of Timbuktu and touched down with a firm thump. Gazing out her window, Eva found it difficult to imagine that the grubby town was once the great caravan market of the empires of Ghana, Malinke, and Songhai, and was inhabited by a hundred thousand people. Founded by Tuareg nomads as a seasonal camp in 1100 A.D., it became one of the largest trading centers in West Africa.

  She found it difficult to envision a glorious past. But for three of the ancient mosques still standing, there were few sights of past grandeur. The town looked dead and abandoned, its narrow and crooked streets twisting around and seemingly going nowhere in particular. Its grip on life appeared tenuous and fruitless.

  Hopper wasted no time. He was out the cabin door and on the ground before the whine of the jet engines died away. An officer, wearing the brief indigo headdress of Kazim's personal guard, walked up to him and saluted. He greeted the UN field researcher in English with a marked French accent.

  "Dr. Hopper, I presume."

  "And you must be Mr. Stanley," Hopper replied with his usual cutting humor.

  There was no answering smile. The Malian officer gave Hopper an unfriendly look that was obviously coated with harbored suspicions. "I am Captain Mohammed Batutta. You will please accompany me to the airport terminal."

  Hopper stared at the terminal. It was little more than a metal shed with windows. "Oh very well, if that's the best you can do," he said dryly, refusing to kowtow.

  They walked straight to the terminal and into a small, oven-hot office that was bare except for a shabby, wooden table and two chairs. Behind the table an officer, who was senior to Batutta and looked like he was going through a very unhappy phase, sat and studied Hopper for a moment with undisguised contempt.

  "I am Colonel Nouhoum Mansa. May I see your passport please?"

  Hopper had come prepared and handed over the six passports he'd collected from his team. Mansa flipped through the pages without interest, noting only the nationalities. Finally he asked, "Why did you come to Mali?"

  Hopper had traveled the world and had little use for ridiculous formality. "I believe you know the purpose of our visit."

  "You will answer the question."

  "We're members of the United Nations World Health Organization on a mission to study reports of toxic illness among your people."

  "Where is no such illness among my people," the Colonel said firmly.

  "Then you won't mind if we analyze water supplies and take air samples in a random selection of the towns and cities along the Niger."

  "We do not take kindly to foreigners seeking out deficiencies in our country."

  Hopper was not about to back down in the face of stupid authority. "We're here to save lives. I thought General Kazim understood that."

  Mansa tensed. The fact that Hopper threw out Kazim's name instead of President Tahir caught him off guard. "General Kazim . . . he's given orders authorizing your visit?"

  "Why don't you ring him up and find out?" It was a bluff, but Hopper had nothing to lose.

  Colonel Mansa rose and walked to the door. "Wait here," he ordered brusquely.

  "Please tell the General," said Hopper, "that his neighboring countries have invited United Nations scientists to help them locate the source of contamination, and if he refuses my team's entry into Mali, he will be scorned and lose face among the nations of the world."

  Mansa made no reply and left the stifling room.

  While he waited, Hopper gave Captain Batutta his best intimidating stare. Batutta locked eyes for a few moments, but then turned away and began pacing the room.

  After about five minutes, Mansa returned and sat down at the desk. Without a word, he precisely stamped each passport and then passed them to Hopper. "You have been allowed to enter Mali to conduct your research. But please remember, Doctor, you and your people are guests here. No more. If you make unkind statements or take part in any action detrimental to security, you will be deported."

  "Thank you, Colonel. And please thank General Kazim for his kind permission."

  "You will be accompanied by Captain Batutta and ten of his men for your protection."

  "I'm honored to have a bodyguard."

  "You will also report your findings directly to me. I expect your full cooperation in this matter-"

  "How will I report from the hinterland?"

  "The Captain's unit will carry the necessary communications equipment."

  "We should get along handsomely," Hopper said loftily to Batutta. He turned back to Mansa. "My team and I will need a car, preferably a four-wheel-drive, for personnel and two lorries to transport our laboratory gear."

  Colonel Mansa's face reddened. "I will arrange for military vehicles."

  Hopper was well aware that it was important for the Colonel to save face and have the last word. "Thank you, Colonel Mansa. You are a generous and honorable man. General Kazim must be very proud to have a true warrior of the desert at his side."

  Mansa leaned back, a growing look of triumph and satisfaction in his eyes. "Yes, the General has often expressed gratitude for my loyalty and service."

  The interview was over, and Hopper returned to the aircraft and directed the unloading of the cargo. Mansa watched from the window of the terminal office, a faint smile on his lips.

  "Shall I restrict their investigation to unclassified areas?" asked Batutta.

  Mansa slowly shook his head without turning. "No, allow them to go wherever they wish."

  "And if Dr. Hopper finds signs of toxic sickness?"

  "No matter. As long as I control communications with the outside world his reports will be altered to show our country lo be clean of illness, and hazardous wastes."

  "But when they return to the UN headquarters-"

  "Won't the true findings be exposed?" Mansa finished. "Yes, most certainly." He swung around suddenly, his expression menacing. "But not if their aircraft tragically meets with an accident during the return flight."

  <<10>>

  Pitt dozed off and on during the plane ride from Egypt to Nigeria. He woke only when Rudi Gunn came down the aisle of the NUMA executive jet, three coffee mugs firmly gripped in both hands. Taking a cup, Pitt looked up at Gunn in weary resignation, his expression devoid of enthusiasm and any expectations for fun times.

  "Where in Port Harcourt are we meeting the Admiral?" he asked without really caring.

  "Not exactly in Port Harcourt," Gunn hedged, handing Pitt a coffee.

  "If not there, then where?"

  "He's waiting on board one of our research ships 200 kilometers off the coast."

  Pitt fixed Gunn with the gaze of a hound staring at a cornered fox. "You're holding out, Rudi."

  "Would Al like some coffee?"

  Pitt glanced at Giordino who was snoring in sweet bliss. "Save it. You couldn't wake him with a lighted firecracker in his ear."

  Gunn eased into a seat across the aisle from Pitt. "I can't tell you what Admiral Sandecker has on his mind, because I honestly don't know. I do, howe
ver, suspect it has to do with a study NUMA marine biologists have conducted on coral reefs around the world."

  "I'm aware of the study," said Pitt, "but the results came in after Giordino and I left for Egypt." Pitt was comfortable with the fact that Gunn would eventually level with him. He and Gunn had an easygoing relationship despite the obvious differences in their lifestyle. Gunn was an intellectual with degrees in chemistry, finance, and oceanography. He would be totally at home living in the basement of a library inundated by books, compiling reports and planning research projects.

  Pitt, on the other hand, enjoyed working with his hands on things mechanical, especially on the old classic automobiles in his collection in Washington. Adventure was his narcotic. He was in paradise when flying antique aircraft or diving on historic shipwrecks. Pitt had a master's degree in engineering and took great pleasure in tackling the jobs others thought impossible. Unlike Gunn, he was seldom found at his desk in the NUMA headquarters building, preferring the excitement of probing the unknown depths of the sea.

  "The bottom line is the reefs are in peril and dying off at an unheard-of rate," Gunn answered. "Right now, it's a hot topic among marine scientists."

  "What parts of the oceans show this trend?"

  Gunn stared at his coffee. "You name it. The Caribbean from the Florida Keys to Trinidad, the Pacific from Hawaii to Indonesia, the Red Sea, the coasts of Africa."

  "All with the same attrition rate?" asked Pitt.

  Gunn shook his head. "No, it varies by locale. The worst-case scenario appears to be along the West African coast."

  "I didn't think it uncommon for coral reefs to go through cycles where they stop reproducing and die before becoming healthy again."

  "That's correct," Gunn nodded. "When conditions return to normal the reef will recover. But we've never seen such widespread damage at such an alarming rate"

  "Any idea of the cause?"

  "Two factors. One, the usual culprit, warm water. Periodic rises in water temperature, generally from changes in sea currents, cause the tiny coral polyps to eject, or vomit if you will, the algae they feed on."

  "The polyps being the little tubular devils that build the reefs with their skeletal remains."

  "Very good."

  "What about sums up my knowledge on coral," Pitt admitted. "The life-and-death struggle of coral polyps rarely makes the evening news."

  "A shame," Gunn said briefly. "Especially when you consider that changes in coral can be an accurate barometer of future trends in sea and weather conditions."

  "All right, so the polyps spit out the algae," Pitt prodded. "Then what?"

  "Because algae is the nutrient that feeds the polyps and gives them vibrant colors," Gunn went on, "its loss starves the coral, leaving it white and lifeless, a phenomenon known as bleaching."

  "Which seldom occurs when the waters are cool."

  Gunn looked at Pitt. "Why am I telling you this if you already know it all?"

  "I'm waiting for you to get to the good part."

  "Let me drink my coffee before it gets cold."

  There was a silence. Gunn wasn't really in the mood for coffee, but he sipped away until Pitt became impatient.

  "Okay," Pitt said. "Coral reefs are dying around the world. So what's the second factor in their extinction?"

  Gunn idly stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon. "A new threat, and a critical one, is the sudden abundance of thick, green algae and seaweed that is blanketing the reefs like an out-of-control plague."

  "Hold on. You say the coral is starving because it's spitting out the algae even though it's smothered in the stuff?"

  "The warmer water gives and takes. It acts to destroy the reefs while it aids in the growth of algae that can prevent nutrients and sunlight from reaching the coral. Somewhat like smothering it to death."

  Pitt ran a hand through his black hair. "Hopefully the situation will be corrected when the water turns cooler."

  "Hasn't happened," said Gunn. "Not in the Southern Hemisphere. Nor is a temperature drop in the water predicted in the next decade."

  "You think it's a natural phenomenon or fallout from the greenhouse effect?"

  "A possibility, along with the usual indications of pollution."

  "But you have no solid evidence?" Pitt put to him.

  "Neither I nor our NUMA ocean scientists have all the answers."

  "I never heard of a test tube junkie who didn't have a theory," Pitt grinned.

  Gunn smiled back. "I've never looked at myself in that light."

  "Or those terms."

  "You love to stick it to people, don't you."

  "Only opinionated academics."

  "Well," Gunn began, "King Solomon, I ain't. But since you asked for it. My theory on the proliferation of the algae, as any school child can tell you, is that after generations of dumping untreated sewage, garbage, and toxic chemicals in the oceans, the saturation point has finally been reached. The delicate chemical balance of the seas is irretrievably lost. They're heating up, and we're all, particularly our grandchildren, going to pay a heavy price."

  Pitt had never seen Gunn so solemn. "That bad."

  "I believe we've crossed the point of no return."

  "You're not optimistic for a turnaround?"

  "No," Gunn said sadly. "The disastrous effects of bad water quality have been ignored too long."

  Pitt stared at Gunn, mildly surprised that the second-in-command of NUMA was prey to his own thoughts of doom and gloom. Gunn had painted a dire picture. Pitt did not share Gunn's total pessimism. The oceans might be sick, but they were far from terminal.

  "Loosen up, Rudi," Pitt said cheerfully. "Whatever assignment the Admiral has up his sleeve, he's not about to expect the three of us to sally forth and save the seas of the world."

  Gunn looked at him and made a wan smile. "I never second guess the Admiral."

  If either of them had known or even guessed how wrong they were, they'd have threatened the pilot with great bodily harm if he didn't turn the plane around and fly them directly back to Cairo.

  Their ground time at an oil company airstrip outside of Port Harcourt was short and sweet. Within minutes they were airborne in a helicopter beating out over the Gulf of Guinea. Forty minutes later, the craft was hovering over the Sounder, a NUMA-owned research vessel Pitt and Giordino knew quite well, having directed survey projects aboard her on three different occasions. Built at a cost of eighty million dollars, the 120-meter ship was loaded with the most sophisticated seismic, sonar, and bathymetric systems afloat.

  The pilot swung around the huge crane on the Sounder's stern and settled onto the landing pad aft of the superstructure. Pitt was the first to step down to the deck, followed by Gunn. Giordino, moving like a zombie, brought up the rear, yawning every step of the way. Several crewmen and scientists, who were old friends, met and exchanged greetings with them as the rotor blades spun to a stop and the helicopter was tied down.

  Pitt knew his way about and headed up a ladder to the hatch that led to one of the Sounder's marine laboratories. He passed through the counters piled with chemical apparatus and into a conference and lecture room. For a working research ship, the room was pleasantly furnished like an executive boardroom with a long, mahogany table and comfortably padded leather chairs.

  A black man stood in front of a large, rear projection screen with his back to Pitt. He seemed engrossed in a graphic diagram that imaged on the screen. He was at least twenty years older than Pitt and much taller. Pitt guessed him at slightly over 2 meters tall with the loose-limbed movements of an ex-basketball player written all over him.

  But what caught and locked the eye of Pitt and his two friends was neither the colored graphics on the screen nor the incredibly tall presence of the stranger It was the other figure in the conference room, a short, trim and .yet commanding figure who leaned indifferently with one hand on the table while the other held a huge unlit cigar. The narrow face, the cold, authoritative blue eyes, the flaming but
now graying red hair and precisely trimmed beard gave him the image of a retired naval admiral, which, as the blue blazer with the embroidered gold anchors on the breast pocket suggested, was exactly what he was.

  Admiral James Sandecker, the driving force behind NUMA, straightened, smiled his barracuda smile, and stepped forward, his hand extended.

  "Dirk! AI!" The greeting came as if he was surprised by their unexpected visit. "Congratulations on discovering the pharaoh's funeral barge. A beautiful job. Well done." He noticed Gunn and merely nodded. "Rudi, I see you rounded them up without incident."