Poseidon's Arrow Read online

  As he came off the path, Pitt held his breath, knowing he had only one means of escape. As he caught sight of the men, he saw what he was looking for. With renewed urgency, he stepped up his pace, pushing aside the thought that if his assumption was wrong, he would soon be dead.

  58

  PLUGRAD LOOKED UP FROM A SHOVELFUL OF ORE IN his hands when Pitt came charging down the path, pointing past him.

  “I need one of those,” Pitt yelled.

  Plugrad looked behind him and saw a trio of ore carts. The men around him stepped out of the way as Pitt approached. Without slowing, he ran to a lightly filled cart and shoved it toward the dock.

  “The white lines!” Plugrad said, but Pitt shook him off, driving the cart forward with all the force he could muster.

  On the dock, a lone guard assigned to Plugrad’s work detail had been on his radio and didn’t react until he saw Pitt thrusting the cart toward the electric lines. He swung his AK-47 toward Pitt and fired a burst.

  The poorly aimed shot chewed up the dust by Pitt’s feet, inciting him to push harder. The cart’s front tires crossed the first white line, and he began to feel a tingle in his neck. The cart was now rolling freely. As the pain began to amplify around his throat, he leaped and dove inside.

  He tumbled onto a small mound of ore as the cart’s rear tires crossed the line. Fifty thousand volts should have surged through his collar, killing him instantly. But the electrical charge had to find a path from the buried line to the collar. The fat rubber tires of the ore cart failed to conduct the charge, and the shocking sensation vanished from Pitt’s neck.

  Fortunately for Pitt, the ground was level and the cart continued rolling, crossing the second white line onto the dock. Another burst of gunfire sounded, and Pitt burrowed into the ore at the bottom of the cart. A spray of holes punctured the sides just above his head as the guard took better aim. Pitt caught some shrapnel from an exploding chunk of ore but otherwise escaped injury.

  The cart bounded across the dock, then smashed into the raised lip at the water’s edge. Pitt looked up to see the Adelaide moored above him. Ejecting himself like a jack-in-the-box, he dove out of the cart and over the side of the dock, splashing into the water below.

  Caught by surprise, the dock guard didn’t fire until after Pitt disappeared. He ran to the edge and aimed his rifle at the concentric circles created by Pitt’s splash—and waited for him to surface.

  Pitt struck the water near the aft end of the Adelaide, which had been backed into the inlet. He dove deep before turning and swimming hard toward the stern. The murky water offered a few feet of visibility, and he easily followed the hull’s dark contour until it tapered back and a large bronze propeller appeared.

  An expert diver, Pitt was comfortable in the water and could easily hold his breath for more than a minute. He took a few more strokes past the ship and angled away from the dock. Though he was good for some additional strokes, he stopped and eased toward the surface, giving a sudden kick just before he broke for air.

  His head burst from the water, and he took an easy stroke toward the far shore before grabbing another fresh breath of air, then pulled himself under. He spun and kicked down as fast as he could, swimming back toward the ship, as a spray of bullets struck the water above him.

  While Pitt was in fact backtracking, the guard had bought his feigned motion to shore and aimed his shots accordingly. The gunman stopped firing long enough to yell to two approaching guards. “Cover the far shore. He’s headed over there.”

  The two men ran to the head of the inlet, scanning the water for Pitt to surface.

  But Pitt had already returned to the Adelaide and was swimming along her outboard hull. It was a demanding swim down the length of the big ship, which Pitt conducted underwater, surfacing quickly a few times for air. When he reached the relative concealment of the bow, he scanned both sides of the ship.

  Teams of guards with dogs were beating through the jungle on the far side of the inlet. On the dock, the guard who had fired at him was speaking with another gunman while pointing at the water. Pitt saw few safe places to hide, and his position off the Adelaide was too exposed for him to remain there long.

  A short distance ahead of the freighter, a small crew boat had been docked. The boat was secured with a thick chain, however, which was locked to a dock cleat. Between the two vessels a rusty ladder led up to the dock. That gave Pitt an idea. Ducking underwater, he swam to the base of the ladder in one breath. Pulling himself up a few rungs at a time, he peered over the edge of the dock—and saw the two guards running toward him.

  He dropped down the ladder, surprised he’d been detected. As he was about to dive underwater, he hesitated at the sound of boots clanging on metal. He looked up and saw the men race up the Adelaide’s gangway and head to the stern. They’d not seen him after all.

  The dock was now empty, and Pitt made his move, jumping up and sprinting across its width. He eyed a storage shed near the crew boat and reconsidered escaping by water. There would be tools inside the shed, something he could use to free the boat. But to get there without being seen, he’d have to loop his way through the brush.

  He made it to the jungle fringe and cut across a small footpath. Following the path around a thick cedar tree, Pitt suddenly ran smack into another man rushing from the other direction. The men bounced off each other and fell hard to the ground. Pitt reacted first. He sprang to his feet, then paused when he recognized the other man.

  It was Bolcke, wearing pressed slacks and a polo shirt. The Austrian was slow to get up but wasted no time in ripping a handheld radio from his belt and pressing it to his lips. “Johansson, the escaped slave is near the northern dock.”

  Pitt shook his head. “I’m afraid Johnny the Whip won’t be making any more house calls.”

  Bolcke stared at Pitt as his radio call was met by a long silence. Another voice came on and spoke to Bolcke in hurried Spanish. The Austrian ignored it as he stared at Pitt.

  “Just stay where you are.”

  “Sorry,” Pitt replied, “but I’ve decided to check out of your sadistic hotel.” He could hear voices coming from the dock and movement farther up the path, which Pitt now realized ran from Bolcke’s residence.

  “You’ll be hunted down and shot.”

  “No, Edward Bolcke,” Pitt said, staring at the old miner with contempt. “I fully intend to come back for you.”

  He turned and dove into the jungle, scrambling from view seconds before a contingent of guards appeared. Seeing Bolcke, they sprinted up to him.

  “You reported seeing the escaped slave?” one of them asked.

  Bolcke nodded and pointed at Pitt’s trail, then tossed his radio at the man. “Have all available guards converge here right away,” he said. “I want that slave brought back to me within the hour. Dead.”

  59

  TWIGS SNAPPED AND BRANCHES SWAYED AS PITT bulled through the thick brush. He didn’t know how many men were on his trail, and since he couldn’t move both quickly and quietly, he abandoned caution and simply advanced as fast as he could.

  He kept to the strip of natural vegetation that was contained by the dock on one side and the road to Bolcke’s residence on the other. When the brush narrowed and a pair of white lines appeared to his left, he knew he had to change course. He wound his way to the edge of the road, ducking under a fern and holding his breath as a golf cart with several guards careened by. The instant it was out of view, he bolted across the road and into the opposite thicket, heading deep into its cover.

  After only a few dozen yards he came to a stop. Beneath a rocky ledge, the lake appeared in his path. Pitt now realized Bolcke’s compound had been built on a narrow peninsula. His only hope of escape was to travel the length of the peninsula without being detected and flee into the expanse of landscape that lay beyond.

  B
reathing heavily, he pressed forward, slowing when one of the extraction facilities blocked his way. As he crept to one end, he saw a guard circling the building. He threw himself to the ground and snaked his way around the end of the building, then rose and sprinted into the jungle. At the base of a small mahogany tree, he sank to the ground and rested.

  But his respite was ended by a sound that shocked him back onto the run. It was the shrill bark of attack dogs, making their way in his direction.

  Pitt had seen guards patrol with Dobermans, and once with a German shepherd, but he had put them out of his mind. Now clear of the compound, they would be his most dangerous challenge.

  The volume of their barking told Pitt they were no closer than the extraction facility, giving him hope that he had a safe head start. He could only trust that they didn’t have a specific scent to follow.

  But his wet footprints from the dock had given the dogs a faint starting point, and they had picked up just enough scent to track him. The handlers released two of the animals to pursue him on their own, but they kept three others leashed, carefully sweeping his trail to ensure it wasn’t lost.

  Dragging himself off the ground, Pitt ran. Prickly leaves and sharp branches tore at his face and clothes as he threaded his way ahead. The dogs’ constant barking pushed him forward, pushing the aches from his mind. The minimal diet he had endured the past few days quickly showed as his strength waned, producing a weariness he shouldn’t have felt so soon. But Pitt’s mental strength was a fortress, and he willed himself forward, ignoring the pain and fatigue.

  Willpower or not, there would be no outrunning the pursuit dogs, they were simply too fast. Their incessant barking grew louder, reminding Pitt of a locomotive approaching a train station. He stopped and picked up a pointed stick, then headed to an open bluff to his left where he would make his stand. He barely had time to turn when two large Dobermans, running head to tail, emerged from the brush and leaped at him.

  Pitt was too late in wielding his stick to spear the first dog. Instead, he had to use it defensively, ramming it across the dog’s throat as its jaws tried to snap off one of his ears. He tossed the animal aside, only to have the second dog leap onto his turned shoulder from behind. Pitt ducked his head as a cascade of sharp teeth lunged for his neck.

  Pitt waited for his flesh to be shredded, but felt only a weak bite against the top of his shoulder—and then the dog fell limp. Flinging it off his shoulder, he saw a lifeless look in its eye as it fell motionless. But the first dog quickly regained its footing and sprang again for Pitt’s jugular. As it leaped, Pitt heard two soft thumps and saw a pair of red dots appear on the dog’s chest. The beast’s open jaws went slack as Pitt fended it aside with his stick, and the dog joined its partner dead on the ground.

  Pitt knew the act was no divine intervention and he spun around to determine its source. Just over the rise, he saw some movement in the grass and stepped closer to investigate. A short, thin man stood up from the brush and moved to meet him.

  Zhou Xing was wearing jungle fatigues and combat boots, with a bush hat pulled low over his face. He carried an AK-47, a wisp of smoke still curling from its silencer. He gazed at Pitt with a stony expression, then stepped past him to one of the dogs. “Quickly, to the ravine,” he said in imperfect English.

  He grabbed the Doberman by its collar and dragged it over the rise. On the other side, the hill descended sharply, falling into a narrow ravine. A small creek trickled through the floor of the ravine, surrounded by dense ferns. Zhou dragged the dog to the edge of the precipice and flung it over. The carcass tumbled to the bottom, where it was quickly swallowed up by the ferns.

  After catching his breath, Pitt arrived with the second Doberman and duplicated Zhou’s disappearing act. He then followed the Chinese agent to a makeshift camp hidden in the side of the hill.

  “What are you doing here?” Pitt asked, still listening for the barks of the remaining dogs.

  “Call it business,” Zhou replied, picking a laptop computer off a stump, closing its screen, and shoving it into a backpack. But before the screen went dark, Pitt noticed the images displayed: a checkerboard of video feeds showing sections of Bolcke’s compound. The agent had planted tiny wireless surveillance cameras around the facility to track activity and guard movements.

  “You must keep running,” Zhou said. He scrambled to clean up his makeshift camp, rolling up his bed and stuffing its mosquito netting into his pack.

  A second large backpack, its flap open, sat near Pitt’s feet. Inside he could see several packets of electronic detonator caps next to clear-wrapped packages of reddish clay-like material. Pitt had been involved with enough underwater demolition projects to recognize it as a cache of Semtex plastic explosives.

  Zhou tossed Pitt a protein bar and a canteen from his pack before slipping it on. He then scattered leaves around the compressed grass where he had slept the night before. Finally, he hoisted the second pack, looking warily at Pitt when he noticed the flap was open.

  “Go,” he said to Pitt. “They are less than ten minutes behind.”

  “When are you going to blow up the compound?” Pitt asked.

  Zhou stared at Pitt, his face an empty slate. The Americans had always been considered an unspoken enemy. But he found admiration for this man, having observed the better part of his escape on his hidden video cameras. Though he had seen labor camps in China, he was repulsed by Bolcke’s hidden slave operation.

  “Twenty-two hours from now,” he said.

  “And the captives?”

  Zhou shrugged, then casually aimed his assault rifle at Pitt.

  “It is time to go. You travel west, as I am going east.” He pointed into the jungle. “Do not follow me.”

  Pitt looked past the expressionless face into Zhou’s black eyes, where a hidden intelligence and compassion were barely revealed.

  “Thank you,” Pitt said.

  Zhou nodded and turned, disappearing into the bush.

  60

  YAEGER WAS STILL PARKED IN FRONT OF HIS mammoth video display when Gunn popped by for an update. In contrast to Yaeger’s casual attire, the NUMA Deputy Director was wearing a sport coat and tie.

  “What’s up with the fine threads?” Yaeger asked.

  “I got called over to a meeting with the Vice President. He’ll want to know the latest on the search for Pitt and Giordino.”

  Yaeger shook his head. “Search-and-rescue ops continue to come up empty. The Navy has in fact informed us they will be calling off their search efforts at the end of the day.”

  “Anything more on the Adelaide?”

  “Nothing concrete. Our formal requests to INTERPOL and every Coast Guard organization between Alaska and Chile have produced nothing.”

  “If she’s afloat, someone has to have seen her,” Gunn said. “Have Dirk and Summer arrived in Panama?”

  “They were rushing to catch a red-eye to Panama City.” He glanced at the video board, whose numerous displays included a digital clock in the lower corner. “Presuming they made their flight, they should be landing about now.”

  Gunn had followed Yaeger’s gaze to the screen and noticed an e-mail notice with Pitt’s name on it. “Mind if I ask what that is?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I was just going to ask if it made any sense to you. It’s an e-mail that was sent to the NUMA website a few days ago. One of the girls in public relations forwarded it to me when she didn’t know how to respond. Probably somebody’s four-year-old playing on a keyboard.”

  He enlarged the e-mail until its brief message was clearly displayed:

  To Pitt. Abduc wsearr haytk lexkyann

  “Looks like gibberish,” Gunn said, “except for the last word. Must have been penned by someone named Ann from Lexington, Kentucky.”

  “That’s all I made out of it.”

&nbs
p; “I’d stick to your four-year-old theory.” He patted Yaeger on the shoulder. “Give me a shout if anything new on the ship comes in.”

  “Will do. Give my regards to the admiral.”

  Gunn took the Metro to downtown Washington, exiting at the Farragut West Station and walking the three blocks to Sandecker’s office in the Eisenhower Building. The Vice President welcomed him to a meeting table built from old ship timbers, where he introduced him to the DARPA security director, Dan Fowler, and a female FBI division director named Elizabeth Meyers.

  Sandecker could see by Gunn’s weary face that Pitt’s disappearance weighed heavily on him. “What’s the latest on Pitt and Giordino?”

  “Search-and-rescue teams still haven’t found a thing. The Navy’s calling off their efforts today.” He looked at Sandecker and waited for him to react.

  He wasn’t disappointed. The Vice President’s face turned red, and he marched to his desk and buzzed his secretary. “Martha. Get me the Chief of Naval Operations on the line.”

  A few seconds later, he was chewing out an admiral who had previously outranked him. He slammed down the receiver and returned to the table. “The Navy’s search has been extended three more days.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

  “What about that ship you told me about?” Sandecker asked.

  “The Salzburg?” Gunn said. “She was last reported in New Orleans. Homeland Security’s checking with the local port authority to see if she’s still there.”

  “What’s the connection?” Fowler asked.

  “Mostly circumstantial,” Gunn said. “The Salzburg appears to have been in the vicinity of the Adelaide when she disappeared with Pitt aboard. Just one of the straws we’re grasping at in a mystery with few clues.”