Poseidon's Arrow dp-22 Page 25

  “More than we really cared to,” Dirk said. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Dahlgren nodded and inched the Zodiac alongside the ATV.

  “Summer’s lost feeling in her left leg,” Dirk said. “We think she’s bent.”

  Dahlgren plucked Summer, still clutching the Barbarigo’s logbook, off the ATV and set her in the inflatable boat.

  “Everyone aboard Alexandria will be anxious to hear what happened. Had us plenty worried when we found the sub downstairs without you in it. Guess you’ll have plenty of time in the chamber to fill us in.”

  He had to sit down and goose the motor to keep the Zodiac from swamping under a wave. As Dahlgren pivoted back to the ATV so Dirk could jump aboard, he noticed the shredded jumpsuit and multiple bruises. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you went square dancing with a rototiller.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I feel like it,” Dirk said.

  “You don’t want to park that ATV on dry land?”

  “No, the owner was rather troublesome about me borrowing it. I suggest we get to the Alexandria as soon as possible.”

  Dahlgren gunned the outboard motor and steered toward the research ship. Dirk gazed across the horizon, spotting the patrol boat speeding in their direction. A moment later, a deep rumble drowned out the whine of the outboard, and a shadow darted over the Zodiac. Dirk looked up to see a low-flying C-130 lumber over. It was painted gray, with the multicolored flag of South Africa displayed on its tail. Dahlgren waved at the plane, slowing the Zodiac to be heard over its motor.

  “Search-and-rescue plane we dialed up out of Pretoria. About time they showed up. I guess we better let them know you’re safe.” He retrieved a handheld radio and informed the Alexandria of Dirk and Summer’s appearance.

  While they waited for the message to be relayed to the airplane, Dirk tapped Dahlgren’s shoulder and pointed to the approaching patrol boat. “Call back and ask the plane if they would buzz those guys. Tell them we suspect they’re part of a local piracy ring.”

  “I reckon the FAA doesn’t extend to these waters,” Dahlgren said, and relayed the message.

  The C-130 had already receded to a speck on the horizon. Then it turned and grew larger. The pilot brought it down low, barely fifty feet above the waves. Approaching the patrol craft off its stern, it caught the crew by surprise. Several gunmen threw themselves to the deck as the roar of the four 4,200-horsepower turboprop motors engulfed the patrol boat.

  The plane flew past, made a lazy turn, and came back for a second run across the patrol boat’s beam. This time, a few of the braver crewmen waved their weapons, but nobody fired a round. Undaunted, the C-130’s pilot made three more passes, each one lower than the last. The patrol boat accepted the message, reluctantly veering off and motoring back to shore. Tracking it for good measure, the C-130 hung around at low altitude for almost an hour, before dipping its wings and heading home.

  Dirk looked to Dahlgren. “Remind me to send a case of beer to the South African Air Force.”

  “Those boys don’t mess around, do they?”

  A few minutes later, they pulled alongside the Alexandria. Dirk and Summer were surprised to see their mangled submersible on the stern deck as they were hoisted aboard.

  “We found her promptly with the sonar and were able to rig her for lifting with an ROV,” Dahlgren said. “We renewed our shore search when we didn’t find you inside.”

  The siblings were greeted warmly as they boarded, but Summer sensed a nervousness, even from Dahlgren, as she was helped onto a gurney. The ship’s doctor rushed them to the decompression chamber, which was already prepped with food and medical supplies.

  Dirk tried to duck out, but the doctor ordered him in as a precaution. Before the hatch closed, Dahlgren poked his head inside to ensure they were comfortable.

  “Might not be a good idea to linger around the area,” Dirk said. “We were able to plant all the seismic sensors before our run-in with the patrol boat. We can deal with the thugs another time.”

  “The captain’s already winding us up for a run to Durban at flank speed.” Dahlgren’s face was taught and serious.

  “Why Durban? I thought we were headed up to Mozambique from here?”

  The doctor yelled from behind the chamber to seal the hatch.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Dahlgren said. “Your dad and Al have gone missing in the Pacific.”

  Before the words could sink in, the heavy metal hatch closed, and the chamber’s occupants were pressurized back into the depths.

  50

  PITT FELT LIKE HE WAS IN A CHAMBER OF HIS OWN, only his was a chamber of horrors.

  By the hour, the dank prison he shared on the Adelaide felt more and more claustrophobic. A daily rise in the outside temperature had turned the bay into a stifling-hot oven. Making matters worse, the heat intensified the foul odors generated by the confined men and two dead bodies.

  Pitt felt constant hunger, but was thankful they were given plenty of drinking water. Periodically the hatch door would be thrown open, and two armed men would toss in boxes of bread and other dried stores from the galley. The prisoners valued the brief gusts of fresh air nearly as much as the food.

  Pitt and the SWAT team had tried formulating an escape plan, but their options were nonexistent. The storage bay had been stripped of any tools or equipment to force another exit. The locked hatch, they found, was guarded around the clock. Multiple attempts at testing the handle or hinges were instantly met by a rapping from a gun barrel on the opposite side. Whenever the hatch was opened to deliver food and water, at least two men stood ready with assault rifles.

  Noticing the stale rolls they had been given to eat had hardened to the consistency of granite, Giordino suggested using those to attack the guards.

  Pitt’s friend rebounded swiftly from his wound, which somehow showed no signs of infection. After sleeping nearly three straight days, Giordino had awoken with an irritable vigor, and he quickly regained his strength despite the sparse diet.

  While most of the men grew resigned to their captivity, a few began losing control. Fights broke out among the crew of the Adelaide, while another man gave in to fits of hysterical yelling. Pitt felt an uneasy gratitude when he noticed a reduction in the ship’s engine revolutions, signaling their arrival in protected waters.

  Pitt had counted the number of hours passed since he was thrown into confinement. Traveling at sixteen knots, he calculated the Adelaide could have covered almost four thousand miles, placing them anywhere between Alaska and Peru. But the warm temperatures suggested something equatorial. If the ship had held its southeasterly heading, Pitt figured they could be somewhere off southern Mexico or Central America.

  Confirmation came soon, after the ship had stopped and started several times, accompanied by the sound of dock activity. The ship got under way and sailed another three hours before stopping for good. A short time later, the prisoners were roused from their compartment.

  The men stepped from the hot and humid storage bay to an equally hot and humid deck. The ship was berthed at a dock, stern first, surrounded on three sides by dense jungle. Only a small patch of blue off the bow showed they had sailed from a larger body of water and backed into a narrow inlet barely large enough for the freighter to fit.

  The brightness of early morning stung their eyes, yet Pitt noted the sun was nowhere in sight.

  “Someone really likes their jungle around here,” Giordino said, pointing a finger skyward.

  Shading his eyes, Pitt saw a jungle canopy overhead. It took him several seconds to realize it was a huge swath of camouflage netting that was strung over the entire dock complex.

  “Maybe just privacy nuts,” Pitt said. He looked at the Adelaide, confirming his suspicions. The ship’s name had been repainted Labrador, while the funnel and deck railing had been painted new colors. The hijackers were well versed at theft and concealment on a grand scale.

  The prisoners were herded to a gangway and
marched off the ship, where they were greeted by a line of armed men in fatigues, several of them partnered with guard dogs. The captives were left standing along the dock for several minutes, which allowed time for Pitt and Giordino to study the facilities. The dock operation was modest, consisting of two small cranes and a conveyor system. Behind it were several large concrete pads, dusted with gray sediment—transfer stations for the raw ore and processed rare earth elements that were transferred in and out of the facility. Beyond the dock area, several low-slung buildings poked through the foliage. Pitt suspected they were separation-and-extraction plants, used to refine the stolen rare earth ores.

  The putt-putt of a small motor preceded the appearance of a golf cart bearing a muscular blond man wearing a fitted uniform with a holstered pistol on his hip. A coiled bullwhip dangled from a belt hook on the opposite side. Pitt noticed the guards tense at his arrival.

  “Looks like a lion tamer,” Giordino whispered.

  “For a circus I want no part of,” Pitt said.

  The overseer, Johansson, crossed the dock and spoke to Gomez, who had followed the prisoners off the ship. The Swede examined the freighter with a satisfied gleam.

  “She’s carrying a full load of crushed monazite,” Gomez said. “Testing confirmed high concentrates of neodymium, cerium, and dysprosium.”

  “Excellent. The extraction facilities have been waiting for new material. We will engage the new prisoners in off-loading the ore.”

  “What about the ship?”

  “She would make a nice addition to the fleet. Determine what reconfigurations are required to erase her identity, and we’ll discuss it with Bolcke after she’s unloaded.”

  Johansson turned his back on Gomez to examine the new captives. He reviewed the men with a caustic eye, paying particular attention to the SWAT team.

  “Welcome to Puertas del Infierno,” he said, “the Gates of Hell. You now belong to me.”

  He waved his arm across the dock toward the buildings beyond. “This is an ore-refining center. We take raw ore and process it into various minerals of high value. You will be workers in the process. If you work hard, you will live. If you do not complain, you will live. And if you do not attempt escape, you will live.” He stared down the line of weakened men. “Are there any questions?”

  A crewman from the Adelaide, one who’d had a difficult time in captivity, cleared his throat. “When will we be released?” he asked.

  Johansson approached the man and smiled at him. Then he casually pulled his sidearm and shot the man in the forehead. A swarm of nearby jungle birds screeched at the sound as the man tumbled backward, falling into the water dead.

  The other assembled captives gaped in stunned silence.

  Johansson grinned. “Are there any more questions?”

  Met by barely a heartbeat, he holstered his weapon. “Good. Again, I welcome you to Puerta del Infierno. Now, let’s get to work.”

  51

  THE DEEP THROB OF THE TOWBOAT’S ENGINE FELL silent, revealing the lesser sound of waves lapping against her hull. Awakened by the absent growl and vibration, Ann arose from her bunk and stretched her arms. She rubbed her wrists, where the handcuffs irritated her skin, and stepped to a tiny porthole on the starboard bulkhead.

  It was still dark. Scattered lights dotted the shore a mile or so across the river, indicating they had docked on its eastern bank. The river, she was certain, was the Mississippi. From their starting point in Paducah, there was only one way to go downriver, taking the Ohio to its confluence with the Mississippi near Cairo, Illinois. The night before, she had peered out to see the glowing lights of a large city, wondering if they shined from Memphis. As she watched the silhouette of a large freighter pass upriver, she guessed they were somewhere near New Orleans.

  She rinsed her face in a basin and again searched the cramped cabin for a potential weapon. It was a hopeless exercise she had performed at least twenty times before, but at least it kept her mind working. She got only as far as an empty bureau when she heard the lock jiggle and the cabin door open. Pablo stood in the doorway, a bemused look in his eyes and a baseball bat in his hands.

  “Come along,” he said, “we are changing vessels.”

  He led her onto the towboat’s deck, where he slipped the bat across her back, wedging it into the crooks of her elbows.

  “There will be no swimming exhibition this time.” Keeping one hand firmly grasping the bat, he led her off the towboat.

  The contortion made Ann’s shoulders ache as they stepped onto a dimly lit dock. Pablo guided her past the barge, where a mobile dock crane had hoisted the flatbed trailer from the deck. Stray wisps of hay fluttered through the air as Pablo and Ann followed the crane, which crept down an embedded rail track toward a small freighter. In the faint light, she could make out the ship’s name on the transom. Salzburg. Though the dock was deserted save for the crane operator, several armed men wearing fatigues lined the freighter’s rail.

  “Please let me go,” Ann said with exaggerated fear.

  Pablo laughed. “Not before we make our delivery. Then, perhaps, you can win your freedom,” he added with a leer.

  He marched her up the freighter’s forward gangway and across the deck. A large rectangular dish mounted to a wheeled platform blocked their path. Next to it, a crewman was checking cables at a control station mounted with power generators and computer displays. As they passed, the man looked up, briefly locking eyes with Ann.

  She gave him a submissive look, pleading with her eyes for help.

  He smiled as they passed. “Don’t get cooked,” he said.

  Pablo pushed Ann ahead, guiding her to the superstructure at the stern and up two flights to the crew’s quarters. Her new cabin was slightly larger than the last but featured a similarly minuscule porthole.

  “I hope you are pleased with the accommodations,” Pablo said, removing the baseball bat from her arms. “Perhaps later in the voyage we can spend some time together.” He stepped from the cabin and locked the door from the outside.

  Ann sat on the hard bunk and glared at the door. Despite her act with Pablo, most of her fears had been replaced by anger. Clearly the freighter was leaving the country, taking both the Sea Arrow’s motor and its plans. She would be trapped in the cabin for days, or even weeks. Rather than lament, she contemplated how it had all been pulled off.

  Her analytical mind went to work, stewing over the thefts. Acquiring the Sea Arrow’s plans and motor had been all too easy for Pablo. He must have had inside help. The involvement of the two men who had abducted her, and then were killed, indicated as much. And what about her? Why had she been abducted?

  She could draw only one conclusion, that she must have been getting close to identifying the source. She racked her brains, reviewing the contractors and persons of interest. She kept returning to Tom Cerny. Could the White House aide have been alerted to her inquiry?

  She paced the small cabin, noticing several cigarette burns on the corner desk. The marks made her think of the crewman and his odd greeting.

  “Don’t get cooked,” she repeated. The words nagged at her until suddenly their meaning struck like a bolt of lightning.

  “Of course!” she said, disgusted that it hadn’t come to her sooner. “Don’t get cooked indeed.”

  52

  A LATE-NIGHT COMMERCIAL FLIGHT FROM DURBAN via Johannesburg proved the quickest way back to Washington for Dirk and Summer. They were bleary-eyed when they staggered off the plane early the next morning at Reagan National Airport. Remarkably, Summer walked freely through the terminal, showing stiffness from the flight but no lingering paralysis from her decompression sickness.

  Timely immersion in the Alexandria’s deco chamber had proved her salvation. While the NUMA ship rushed from the tip of Madagascar to Durban, Summer and Dirk had been pressurized to an equivalent depth of four hundred feet. The paralysis in Summer’s leg promptly disappeared. The ship’s medical team slowly relieved the pressure in the chamber, a
llowing the nitrogen bubbles in their tissues to dissipate. When they were released from the chamber almost two days later, Summer found she could walk with only a faint lingering ache.

  Since flying could aggravate the symptoms, the ship’s doctor insisted they not board an airplane for twenty-four hours. Fortunately, their steaming time to Durban occupied the full duration. Free of the chamber, they had time to brief the others on their work in the submersible, inspect its damage, and book their flight home, before racing to Durban’s King Shaka International Airport the moment the Alexandria touched the dock.

  After collecting their bags at Reagan, they took a cab across the tarmac to their father’s hangar. Letting themselves in, they stored their bags and cleaned themselves up in the loft apartment.

  “You think Dad would mind if we borrowed one of his cars to run to the office?” Summer asked.

  “He’s always given us a standing offer to drive what we like,” Dirk said. He pointed to a silver-and-burgundy roadster parked near a workbench. “He said in an e-mail before he left for the Pacific that he just got that Packard running strong. Why don’t we take it?”

  He checked to see that it had plenty of gas while Summer opened a garage door. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he pulled the choke and adjusted the throttle lever mounted on the steering wheel and hit the starter button. The big straight-eight engine murmured to life. Letting it warm up for a moment, he pulled the car outside and waited for Summer to lock the hangar.

  She jumped into the passenger seat with a travel bag in tow, not noticing a white van parked across an adjacent field. “What’s with the funky seats?” she asked.

  The Packard roadster’s tight cockpit held two rigid seats. Summer’s passenger seat was permanently offset a few inches farther from the dash than Dirk’s driver’s seat.

  “More room for the driver to turn and shift at high speed,” Dirk explained, pointing to the floor-mounted gear lever.