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  Forty minutes of silent tension passed before Giordino entered the bridge to relieve Pitt. “Are we sailing happy seas tonight?”

  “Cruising on waves of hysteria.”

  Pitt, preparing to leave, quietly reported the earlier encounter with the ship. A new helmsman arrived to relieve the one on duty, but Gomez remained on watch. As Pitt turned to depart the bridge, he glanced once more at the radar screen. Something caught his eye, and he hesitated, studying the numbers. It was the course heading. The ship had suddenly changed from an east-northeast heading to east-southeast.

  “Why are we running southeast?” Pitt asked.

  “There is a strong head current at this latitude,” Gomez said. “We will drop below it for a day or two to maintain speed, then readjust our heading to Long Beach.”

  Pitt’s recollection was that the north equatorial current ran some distance south of their position, but he didn’t argue. He turned and gave Giordino a skeptical look. “Guess I’ll turn in. See you on the next shift.”

  Pitt finally exited the bridge and climbed down the companionway. Rather than exit on the second level to go to his stateroom, he continued down to the main deck to get some fresh air. Reaching it, he ran into Plugrad racing up the companionway. The Coast Guard lieutenant had an agitated look.

  “You’re up early,” Pitt said.

  “Trying to find two of my men who didn’t report for their watch. You didn’t see them up on the bridge?”

  “No. I’d suggest the mess. They probably went for some coffee to stay awake.”

  Plugrad grumbled an acknowledgment and trodded off toward the mess.

  Out on deck, Pitt found the night cool, with a fresh breeze rippling over the port beam. After several hours on the unfriendly bridge, the air felt refreshing. Pitt stretched his legs by hiking across the long, open deck, stopping at the prow and gazing over the rail. A faint light appeared briefly ahead on the horizon, vanishing and reappearing as the Adelaide rose and fell with the sea. The mystery ship was still there, directly ahead, at the edge of visibility for both eye and radar.

  Pitt watched for several minutes, confirming the other vessel was holding position, then ambled toward the deckhouse. He stopped as he passed the forward hold, noticing some debris on the deck. Part of the cargo of manganese had spilled near the hatch cover during loading. Pitt picked up a fist-sized chunk and held it under a nearby deck light. Silver in color, the ore appeared to be identical to the monazite he had found in Chile on board the Tasmanian Star.

  Gomez was lying about the manganese, but why? Why also was the crew acting so strange? And what of the ship steaming ahead of them? An uneasy feeling suddenly struck Pitt square in the gut.

  Plugrad. He had to alert Plugrad.

  Pitt started aft but froze when several figures emerged from the deckhouse. Pitt ducked alongside the nearest hatch cover and watched two men drag a third man between them. They crossed the deck laterally, passing under a bright light. For a second, Pitt could see the two men walking were armed crewmen. The limp body between them was Plugrad, with a splatter of blood glistening on his forehead.

  They dragged Plugrad to the port side of the deckhouse, where they unlocked a door and hauled him inside. Once they disappeared from view, Pitt crossed the deck and sprinted aft to the superstructure’s opposite side. Racing up the companionway, he exited onto the second level and rushed to the four cabins that housed the Coast Guard team.

  He knocked on the first door and flung it open but found no one inside. When he found the second cabin empty, he began to fear the worst. The third and fourth cabins were also empty. The entire Coast Guard team had quietly been neutralized. Pitt was exiting the fourth cabin when he heard whispers in the corridor. He stepped back into the cabin and slipped behind its open door.

  Through the crack, he watched as two armed crewmen crept down the hall and stopped in front of Pitt’s door. They readied their weapons, then one twisted the handle and both charged in. Finding the cabin empty, they returned to the corridor, speaking quietly to each other in Spanish. One stomped off toward the companionway while his partner lingered. Moving slowly, he stepped to the opposite end of the corridor and cautiously entered Giordino’s cabin. Finding no one there, he began working his way back, checking the other cabins.

  Pitt held his breath when the gunman approached where he was hiding. The barrel of an assault rifle poked past the door as he took a step into the cabin. Pitt waited a second, then burst from his spot. Shoving the door with all his strength, he crushed the gunman against the bulkhead. Still clutching the chunk of ore, he clubbed the man in the side of the head with it. The man lost consciousness and collapsed to the deck before he could find the trigger on his weapon.

  Pitt pulled the gunman all the way inside the cabin and listened for his partner. Hearing nothing, he took the man’s AK-47 and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. He reached the companionway and was about to move down the steps to release Plugrad when he heard a gunshot.

  The shot seemed to come from above. If it had been fired from the bridge, then it meant one thing. Giordino.

  Pitt reversed course and raced up the steps as silently as he could. At the bridge, he stopped and peered around the door. The lights had been dimmed for nighttime running, darkening the bridge except for the glow of a few monitors. A nearby console obstructed much of his view, but all seemed quiet. Perhaps the shot had originated elsewhere. Spotting only the helmsman, he quietly advanced into the bay.

  “Mr. Pitt,” hailed the voice of Gomez. “I thought you would come for your friend.” The captain rose from a crouched position, firmly holding an outstretched pistol. It wasn’t aimed at Pitt, however, but at the floor. Pitt took a step closer to see that Gomez was aiming the weapon at Giordino, who lay on the floor, clutching his leg.

  “Put down your weapon,” Gomez said, “or you both shall die.”

  Pitt caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The earlier gunman had materialized from behind another console, his AK-47 aimed at Pitt’s back.

  As Pitt looked from his wounded friend to Gomez, his eyes flared with anger. Without a word, he let the gun fall to the deck.

  39

  THE PRESIDENT ROLLED AN UNLIT CIGAR BETWEEN his thumb and forefinger. “Why?” he asked in an irritated tone. “Why would the Chinese suddenly halt all exports of rare earth elements?”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the Oval Office.

  “I can only suspect it’s for leverage,” the Secretary of State said. “Something they can use as a bargaining chip to counter our pressure on their support of trade with Iran or their refusal to float the yuan.”

  “Have they told you as much?”

  “No, the Foreign Ministry has only indicated it was done out of ‘strategic necessity.’”

  “Sure,” said Vice President Sandecker. “The necessity to torpedo our economy.” A cigar aficionado himself, he eyed the President’s stogie with envy.

  “It is quite a bold move,” the Secretary of State said. “I would have expected some hint of negotiation over the matter, but the Chinese are playing it close to the vest.”

  The President turned to his national security advisor, a raven-haired woman named Dietrich. “How bad is it going to hurt us?”

  “Over ninety percent of our rare earth imports come from China,” she said. “Commercially, it will devastate a number of industries, particularly electronics and the alternative energy fields. Almost every high-tech industry in the country will be affected.”

  “Are we just talking higher prices?” asked Tom Cerny.

  “Skyrocketing prices will be just the first impact. Until work-arounds can be developed, products will be in short supply—or simply unaffordable. Either way, demand will evaporate, and jobs along with it. It could easily drive the economy back into a serious recession.”

  “What about other sources of rare earth?” the President asked. “I know we’ve got that mine in California. Tell me the Chinese aren’t
the only game in town.”

  “The Mountain Pass Mine came on line a few years ago and was just ramping up their production,” Dietrich said, “but a recent fire at the facility destroyed the mine’s extraction operations. It’s effectively closed for an indeterminate period, probably two years. That was our only domestic source.”

  “Has anyone looked into the cause of the fire?” Sandecker asked.

  “It was believed to have been accidental, but now the owners have called in the FBI to find out if it might have been arson.”

  “How about other foreign sources of rare earth?” the President asked.

  “We do source a fraction of our imports beyond China,” Dietrich said. “Australia has been the primary backup, with additional smaller amounts from Russia, India, and Malaysia. But there’s also a problem down under, I’m afraid. The major Australian producer has announced a temporary shutdown due to an expansion program.”

  The President shoved his cigar into an ashtray. “So we’re left whistling past the graveyard while our economy sputters to a halt?”

  Dietrich nodded bleakly. “I’m afraid we have little, if any, control over the supply situation.”

  “That’s only the half of it,” Sandecker said. “The shortage strikes a pretty nasty blow to several of our key defense technologies.”

  “The Vice President is correct,” Dietrich affirmed.

  “Where’s the damage?” the President asked.

  “The Navy gets hit hard,” she said. “The propulsion system for the Zumwalt class destroyer and the new stealth cruiser relies heavily on rare earth elements, so those programs will come to a crashing halt. I’m waiting for a report from the Air Force, but I’ve been told there’s a significant impact to the new joint fighter and several satellite development programs.”

  “We’re talking programs that are budgeted in the billions of dollars,” Cerny said.

  “Sounds to me,” the President said, “as if the Chinese might be exploiting their monopoly as an opportunity to catch up militarily.”

  The heads in the room nodded.

  “What if we tell the Chinese their export ban is unacceptable?”

  The Secretary of State squirmed in his seat. “I don’t think that dog will hunt, sir. The Chinese leadership won’t take well to any threats. If we get into a trade war, we’ll be the bigger loser. And if they stop purchasing our debt securities, that would create even worse problems.”

  “So we’re facing an economic nosedive when we can least afford it,” the President said. “On top of that, we’re sacrificing our military readiness by delaying the next class of destroyers, fighters, and spy satellites.”

  “There’s one other casualty,” Sandecker said. He moved close to the President and spoke in a whisper. “The Sea Arrow.”

  The President nodded. “Of course.”

  The President walked to his desk and peered out the high windows behind it for several minutes. When he turned back to his audience, he spoke in a soft, defeated voice. “Find out what the Chinese want,” he said, “and give it to them.”

  40

  THE HIJACKING OF THE SEA ARROW’S MOTOR incited an immediate nationwide dragnet. Roadblocks were quickly set up along every major road and highway leading north or south out of Washington. FBI teams were dispatched to all nearby airports and to every East Coast port facility, from where analysts assumed the motor would be smuggled out of the country. Extra security was even called in to the northeast border crossings into Canada.

  Yet the stolen motor wouldn’t be found in any of those places. It had been driven west, away from the major ports and airports, and across rural Appalachia, hidden in the back of a hay truck. Entering Lexington, Kentucky, Pablo slowed the big rig, keeping a wary eye out for passing police cars.

  Ann was relegated to the back of the cab, one wrist cuffed to the frame of the bench seat. She could partially stretch out on the narrow seat but had to lean at an awkward angle to glance out the window. They traveled in silence. After Pablo ignored her initial barrage of probing questions, she’d decided to save her energy. It took a bit of conjecture, but she eventually linked Pablo’s theft of the Sea Arrow plans with the large device hidden on the flatbed. It had to be the submarine’s new propulsion motor.

  Pablo was pleased with the time he had made, covering four hundred miles in seven hours, before pulling onto a quiet side road and letting Ann stretch her legs. A short time later, they pulled into Lexington, where he found a truck stop and parked at a distant fuel pump. After filling the truck’s tank, he opened the cab door and peered at Ann.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “Yes, please,” Ann said. “I’m very hungry.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He slammed the door and locked it.

  Ann watched him stroll past several fuel islands and enter the truck stop’s building. She scanned the parking lot, searching for potential help. The hour was late, and she spotted only one person nearby, a bearded truck driver, washing the windshield on his idling rig a dozen yards away.

  She waved, and screamed at the top of her lungs. But the sealed cab’s tinted windows rendered her nearly invisible, and her muffled cries went unheard over the idling engine. She reached for the truck’s air horn but couldn’t quite stretch her fingers far enough. The bearded man climbed into his rig and pulled away, oblivious to Ann’s plight.

  She searched the truck’s interior for something to use as a weapon. But the cab’s interior, even down to its glove box, was stripped clean except for a map and laptop computer on the front seat. Ann lunged for the computer.

  She reached with her free hand and grasped the computer, flipping open its monitor and powering it on. As it booted up, she glanced out the window. Pablo stood at the register, purchasing some items. She’d have very little time to send a plea for help—if the truck stop had Wi-Fi.

  She held her breath as the computer screen slowly lit up. After an eternity, a bubble icon asked if she wanted to join the Lexington Diesel & Dine network.

  “Yes!” She clicked the icon. A few seconds later, an Internet search page opened.

  Her joy was short-lived when she glanced out the window to see Pablo exiting the building. Her pulse raced as she considered what to do. There would be no time to sign on to her e-mail account or relay a message through the NCIS website. A desperate idea popped into her head. She quickly typed in four letters and waited for a response. When a new screen popped up, she scrolled to the bottom and found a query link. Clicking on it, she hurriedly typed a message and looked up. Pablo was just ten feet away.

  Her fingers flew over the keypad, stopping to click “Send” as the door latch clicked. She slammed the monitor closed and tossed the computer onto the front seat as Pablo opened the door.

  Her heart beat wildly, and she felt her face turn flush, as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He turned and looked at her quizzically as he swung his hands around.

  “Ham and cheese or tuna?” He held up a pair of wrapped sandwiches.

  “Tuna, please.” She exhaled, and reached for one of the sandwiches.

  Pablo pulled back onto the highway, eating as he drove. The break had relaxed him, and he finally turned his head over his shoulder briefly and spoke to Ann. “You are in love with me,” he said, grinning.

  “What?”

  “Yes, you must be in love with me. Why else do you keep turning up?”

  “I didn’t ask to go on this trip,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

  Pablo let out a deep laugh. “You are too smart to let go . . . and too pretty to kill.”

  Ann felt instant revulsion but kept the conversation going. “Is that the Sea Arrow’s motor we’re hauling?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why did you kill the men who helped you steal it?”

  “They served their usefulness, and they knew more than they needed to. I believe that is enough inquiry for now.” He turned on the radio and turned up the volume after finding a local bluegrass
station.

  They crossed the hills of western Kentucky, listening to the upbeat strains of Flatt and Scruggs. Four hours later, they pulled into Paducah. Pablo parked at a gas station on the outskirts of town and made a phone call. Within minutes, a rusty pickup appeared, driven by a tattoo-covered man, who then escorted the hay truck to the riverfront. A towboat and a barge loaded with shipping containers were moored at the weathered wooden dock. Pablo eased the truck alongside the darkened barge and stopped.

  It was well after midnight, and the facility was eerily quiet. Pablo unhitched the flatbed trailer and drove the truck to an adjacent lot. By the time he returned, the tattooed man had strung lifting cables around the trailer and was hoisting it onto the barge with a dockside crane. Pablo jumped aboard the barge and helped secure the trailer to the deck, before returning to the cab for Ann.

  She feigned drowsiness as he freed her from the seat frame and recuffed her hands in front of her. She noticed for the first time that the cuffs had a sensor device built into them. Pablo pulled her from the truck and led her to the dock.

  The lights of Paducah twinkled to her right along the bank as the Ohio River slid past like a dark current of molasses. Pablo kept a tight grip on her arm as he led her toward the towboat. The weathered boat was secured to the center stern of the barge, ready to guide it down the river. Access to the towboat was by a thin gangplank that stretched over the water. Ann hesitated crossing until Pablo gave her a gentle nudge.

  She actually didn’t fear crossing the thin gangplank but what lay ahead. First chained to a truck, next chained to a towboat, then who knows what? Wherever she was taken, it was when the handcuffs were removed that she’d have the most to fear. It was this fear that drove her to act.

  She mentally braced herself and took a deep breath as Pablo prodded her a second time. Pretending to stagger, she took two steps onto the gangplank and compressed her knees. Springing forward, she took a leaping step up. The gangplank flexed, giving her extra lift, and she bounded easily over the side handrail.