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  “Sir, why don’t you get some shut-eye?” said his second officer, a cheerful young man named Gauge. “Traffic looks light on the radar.”

  Posey had stood on the bridge for the better part of the past two days, ever since the Mayweather departed Thunder Bay on Lake Superior’s west coast. The 12,000-ton tanker was laden with Alberta tar sands crude oil, bound for a refinery in Quebec.

  Posey hated to give up command, yet he knew he wasn’t superhuman. He’d been officially relieved by the second officer hours ago, but continued to pace the bridge. He stopped and gazed out the window. “I’ll turn in once we kiss the waters of Lake Erie.”

  The entrance to Lake Erie was just twenty-five miles away. The remaining path wound through the narrow confines of the Detroit River. The waterway often bustled with traffic, even at this hour. Posey knew there’d be no sleep for him until the tanker reached the safe expanse of the lake.

  The second officer ordered the helm to reduce speed as the ship approached Grosse Pointe. The tanker eased closer to the Michigan shore as it approached Peche Island and the onset of the Detroit River. Near the turn of the last century, this short stretch of water had been the world’s busiest commercial riverway. Times and industry had changed dramatically, but the river still held economic prominence for the upper Great Lakes.

  A flashing light dead ahead signaled the approach of Windmill Point. Beyond it, the river split in two around Belle Isle, a picturesque state park. With the main shipping channel along the island’s eastern border, the helmsman prepared to ease the tanker to port.

  “You’ve got a large vessel incoming,” Posey said.

  Gauge followed Posey’s gaze to the radarscope, which showed a white linear shape moving off the center of Belle Isle. A notation on the screen indicated the vessel as the MV Duluth, traveling north at ten knots. The second officer looked out the bridge window, saw only a dark shadow.

  Captain Posey had already reached for a pair of binoculars and was scanning the route ahead. “The fool has his running lights turned off and is steaming up the west side of Fleming.”

  Fleming Channel was the dredged passage east of Belle Isle designated for commercial traffic.

  Gauge reached for the radio and hailed the Duluth. There was no reply.

  “Looks to be a bulk freighter, nice-sized one at that.” Posey lowered the binoculars and shifted his gaze to an overhead monitor that displayed a digital chart of the river. A moving white rectangle represented the Mayweather as it approached the northern tip of Belle Isle. The Duluth appeared as a yellow triangle approaching at an angle from Fleming Channel.

  On the current course of both vessels, the Mayweather would be boxed out of entering the channel, unless it made a dangerous pass across the freighter’s bow to the east.

  Gauge read the captain’s thoughts. “Looks like we should either hold position until they pass or duck into the western channel.”

  Posey nodded, his anger at the other vessel receding into concern for his own ship’s safety. “Let’s steer clear of the idiot. All slow and easy toward the west channel until he passes.”

  Gauge relayed the order to the helmsman, and the tanker’s bow nudged right, toward the lights of Detroit.

  Posey shook his head as the black outline of the freighter drew closer, holding its aggressive course. Due to the nature of the waterway, the Duluth was heading directly for the Mayweather.

  A mountain of white water was breaking off the other ship’s bow, and Posey asked Gauge her speed.

  “She’s up to fourteen knots,” he said with tension in his voice.

  The two ships were now nearly perpendicular. The freighter, closing fast, cleared the tip of Belle Isle and should have begun a turn to starboard. But it didn’t.

  “Sir, she’s turning into us!”

  There was no hiding the fear in Gauge’s voice. Radar showed the freighter was veering sharply to port and meant to strike the tanker.

  “Hard right rudder!” Posey shouted. “Engine full astern.”

  The helmsman yanked the rudder control hard over. There was no time for the tanker to respond. The freighter bore down on the 300-foot ship, its bow aimed square for the tanker’s midsection.

  Seconds from impact, a sharp crack sounded from the Duluth, and the freighter’s pilothouse erupted in a fireball. Posey could only stare in wonder at the spectacle before bracing for collision.

  The freighter struck amidships a moment later, driving halfway across the tanker’s deck before losing momentum. On the Mayweather’s stern bridge, the crewmen felt only a slight jar, but they heard the wicked screech of steel slicing through steel. Only a few yards away, they saw and smelled the smoldering remains of the Duluth’s bridge.

  As alarm bells sounded, Posey ordered his second officer to assemble the crew. The Mayweather had been dealt a mortal blow, nearly cut in two. The captain already felt a severe list to port as he stepped onto the bridge wing to observe the damage.

  The Duluth had somehow broken free and was churning upriver toward Grosse Pointe. A speedboat appeared and pulled alongside the freighter. Posey barely made out a rope ladder dangling from the freighter’s railing, with a long-haired figure climbing down it to the water. The speedboat plucked the person from the ladder, then turned and roared away. Like the freighter, it motored into the darkness with no running lights.

  Posey turned to the remains of the Mayweather, which was losing its fight with the river. Miraculously, no one on his own ship was injured. The tanker’s small crew assembled behind the base of the bridge and climbed into an enclosed lifeboat. Posey was the last to enter, closing the hatch, then jettisoning the boat off an escape ramp.

  The lifeboat struck the water and motored a short distance away as the Mayweather rolled heavily to her side. Posey looked at the scene and held his head in his hands. Thousands of gallons of gooey crude oil were now leaking into the Detroit River from the ship’s ruptured tanks—potentially the ugliest environmental marine disaster in years.

  His concentration was broken by a muffled thud that echoed over the water. A few hundred yards upstream, the Duluth had carved through a small marina filled with pleasure boats, then run aground at Windmill Point Park.

  Posey stared at the rogue freighter with a mix of dread and fury. What could explain its actions? The only reply came not from the freighter, but from his own wounded ship. With a gurgling protest from its flooded holds, the Mayweather somehow regained its upright position, then promptly sank to the river’s bottom.

  9

  The jetliner touched down on the east runway of Washington Dulles International Airport, jarring Pitt awake. He and Giordino shook off the effects of the early-morning flight from San Salvador, collected their bags, and drove to the NUMA headquarters building on the banks of the Potomac River. In the foyer of Pitt’s ninth-floor office, they were welcomed by Rudi Gunn.

  Pitt’s Deputy Director, Gunn was a slight, wiry man who wore horn-rimmed glasses and tight-cropped hair. Bearing the erect posture of his days as a Navy commander, he brought a cerebral bearing and wit to the task at hand. He eyed the duffel bags the men had dropped in a corner of Pitt’s office and shook his head. “I’m not seeing our prototype multibeam sonar system that you departed with.”

  “We left it in El Salvador,” Giordino said, “in about a thousand pieces.”

  “It’s bad enough you desecrate the landscape of a friendly nation, but did you have to destroy our latest survey equipment in the process?”

  “None of it was our doing, Rudi.” Pitt plopped into his desk chair.

  “There is some good news for the accounting department, though,” Giordino said. “The guy who blew up our chartered boat did so after we returned the keys, or we’d be on the hook for that, too.”

  “The State Department has indicated the Salvadoran government is requesting assistance from the FBI to investigate the matter,” Gunn said. “They believe the Cerrón Grande Dam was blown up intentionally, in conjunction with the murder of the U.S. agricultural team.”

  “That much we figured,” Pitt said. “The question is why.”

  “The local authorities are operating under the assumption a drug gang is responsible. The aid team may have camped in a drug transit zone, or one of their local support personnel may have been connected to a rival gang. But I’m not sure how that plays into blowing up the dam.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Giordino said, “our mad bomber friend and wannabe glassblower didn’t look like a local.”

  “And,” Pitt said, “the phony doctor at the clinic was a sophisticated play.”

  “I’m told the Salvadorans have been unable to identify either one,” Gunn said. “The black Jeep was found semisubmerged in a river near San Salvador. It had been stolen a few days earlier from an airport car rental lot.”

  “Again, that sounds a bit more professional than a local drug gang,” Pitt said. “Have you heard how Elise Aguilar, the agriculture scientist, is doing?”

  “After you had her airlifted to San Salvador, I pulled some strings to get her on a military flight to Andrews Air Force Base. She’s an Army vet, so that made things easier. She arrived last night and was checked into Walter Reed. At last report, she’s doing fine. I had a message from the hospital staff saying that she asked about some water samples.”

  Giordino motioned toward one of his bags. “From the reservoir. Might be a clue as to why somebody wanted the team murdered.”

  Gunn pulled a slip from his pocket and handed it to Giordino. “If you have them, they are to be sent for analysis to a Dr. Stephen Nakamura at the University of Maryland’s epidemiology department.”

  “I’ll send them by courier after we’re done here. I presume we have bigger fish to fry.”

  Gunn nodded. “You got my message and have probably seen the news reports. The situation in Detroit is not pretty. We’ve got a major environmental disaster on our hands.”

  “Isn’t that the EPA’s problem?” Giordino asked.

  “The President wants NUMA to oversee the sequestration and salvage of the sunken tanker. It’s well beyond the capabilities of the local authorities or the EPA. I’ve got an advance team en route and have scheduled a flight for the three of us first thing in the morning.”

  “Al and I will be on that plane. You best stay and deal with the media and political blowback. I’d prefer you tame the lions here rather than have the entire circus descend on us in Detroit.”

  “Can do,” Gunn replied.

  “How bad is the spill?” Giordino asked.

  “Initial reports suggest the tanker may be leaking several thousand gallons of oil per hour.”

  “What’s the local impact?”

  “The Detroit metro area draws its drinking water from the river. The city’s had to shut down their water draws and are scrambling for alternate sources. The taps may soon run dry. The President naturally fears the political tempest if that happens.”

  “We can address the salvage, but what about the cleanup?”

  “The EPA is on-site. The problem is, tar sands crude oil is mixed with clay, sand, and various other hydrocarbons. It’s more difficult to deal with than medium or light crude, as it’s heavier than water. If it mixes with the river bottom, that sediment will have to be dredged. But at this point, they just seem focused on trying to siphon off the contaminated surface water.”

  Giordino slowly shook his head. “Good luck with that.”

  “I just fielded a call from the head of BioRem Global Limited, inquiring about cleanup efforts.” Gunn paused to see if Pitt or Giordino had heard of the company.

  “I know of BioRem Global,” Pitt said. “They’re a biotech firm that produces bacterial organisms for use in cleaning up industrial spills. The process is called bioremediation, hence the company name. They’re one of the sponsors of the Ocean Preservation Society,” he said, gazing at his desk calendar, “which happens to be hosting a fund-raiser in town tonight.”

  “They have a reputable track record dealing with oil cleanups in the North Sea,” Gunn said. “The company was called in late on the Deepwater spill in the Gulf a few years ago. I’m told their product was found to be quite effective at consuming the oil where it was applied. The owner said they had a product suitable for attacking the tar sands oil—and they could deploy it rapidly. But they don’t yet have federal approval to field-test the product in U.S. waters.”

  “Yes, as the Deepwater spill was located outside of territorial waters,” Pitt recalled.

  “I’ve got one of our scientists investigating a test sample that was sent over.”

  “The stuff could prove critical in limiting environmental damage in a confined location like the Detroit River,” Giordino noted.

  “Agreed,” Pitt replied. “Who’s the head of the company, Rudi? Maybe it’ll be worth a swing by the gala tonight to talk with him about getting their product on-site.”

  “Not him,” Gunn said, “her. Evanna McKee is her name. She mentioned that she was in Washington, so she must be here for the event.”

  “I’ll see what can be done. In the meantime, we have a major salvage operation on our hands.”

  “How big a tanker are we talking about?” Giordino asked.

  “The Mayweather is just under three hundred feet, a typical Great Lakes tanker.”

  “We’d better scour every available salvage resource in the area,” Pitt said, “and get them to Detroit as soon as possible.”

  “I’m already on it,” Gunn said.

  A pert woman with long fawn-colored hair entered the office, balancing a thick stack of mail. “Welcome back to the fray, boss,” Zerri Pochinski, Pitt’s longtime secretary, said with a warm smile.

  “Thanks. But I’m beginning to think I should have stayed in Central America.”

  “And leave all the fun to Rudi? By the way, I was reviewing your calendar and see that you have a staff meeting scheduled for three o’clock and an R and D strategy review at four. Shall I reschedule those, in light of the Detroit incident?”

  “Yes, they’ll have to wait. And can you leave a message with Loren’s office and ask if she can accompany me to the Ocean Preservation gala tonight?”

  “Certainly. You sure you’re up for adding a Washington fund-raiser to your plate?”

  Pitt shook his head in mock distress. “Not really. I don’t know which will be worse—attending a charity event filled with venomous politicians or cleaning up a toxic oil spill.”

  “They both entail hazardous duty, but I think you ultimately were correct.” She turned with a swivel of her hips to exit the office. “You’d have been better off staying in Central America.”

  10

  After coordinating initial plans for the Mayweather salvage operation, Pitt borrowed an agency Jeep and drove to Reagan National Airport. He parked next to an abandoned-looking hangar at the edge of the airfield, disabled an alarm, and entered the building.

  Its dilapidated exterior stood in sharp contrast to what met Pitt’s eye inside. He flicked on the interior lights and faced a bright, open floor crowded with a gleaming display of transportation from yesteryear. A beautifully restored Pullman railroad car stood on tracks at one side of the building, while a polished aluminum Ford Tri-Motor airplane poked its nose out of a corner. A rare jet-powered Messerschmitt Me 262 sat next to a bathtub rigged with an outboard motor, all mementos of past exploits. But most of the floor space was filled with Pitt’s collection of classic automobiles from the first half of the twentieth century.

  Pitt lugged his bags past the marvels of steel and chrome, then lingered a moment by a freshly painted chassis and a stack of primed body parts. Pitt had recently acquired the components of a 1925 Isotta-Fraschini in Bulgaria, and he silently lamented not having more time to restore the classic Italian auto.

  He climbed a spiral staircase to an upper apartment, showered and dressed, and returned to the ground floor. He eyed several vehicles near the door, then plucked a set of keys off a workbench and approached a rakish cream and lime green roadster.

  He slipped behind its broad steering wheel and cranked the starter a few times until the engine fired to life. A 1931 Stutz DV-32 Speedster, it had a custom-built body by the coachbuilder Weymann, featuring swoopy low-cut doors and a tapered boattail rear end.

  Pitt drove the car outside, locked the building, and raced off across the airport grounds. The Stutz was powered by a 156-horsepower straight-eight engine with dual overhead camshafts and four valves per cylinder, giving the light-bodied car plenty of juice down the road. Pitt easily melded into traffic on the George Washington Parkway and soon crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C. Passing some gawking tourists on the Washington Mall, he motored up to Capitol Hill and pulled to a stop in front of the Rayburn House Office Building.

  A security guard eyed the idling car and signaled Pitt to move but was waved aside by an attractive woman who had stepped from the building. “It’s quite all right, Oscar. That’s my ride tonight.”

  “Yes, Congresswoman.” The guard tipped his hat. “Nice car, whatever it is.”

  With her high cheekbones, violet eyes, and lean figure swathed in a form-fitting Prada dress, Loren Smith-Pitt could still pass for a Vogue model rather than the veteran representative from Colorado.

  She rushed to the car, where Pitt gave her a hug and a kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered in his ear.

  Though not married long, they had a lengthy romantic history. Juggling the demands of their careers was a challenge, but they always carved out time for each other, and their passion still burned brightly.

  She smiled at Pitt as he slipped behind the wheel. “I should have known you’d arrive in something that would devour my hair.”