Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow Page 7

  “They look like they’d eat you out of house and home.”

  “Despite their appearance, we believe they are non-predatory. They’re actually quite docile. They don’t seem interested in eating other fish, so we think they may be scavengers.”

  She shook her head. “I’m still not going to stick my hand in the tank.”

  “Don’t worry,” Pitt said, “your cabin door has a lock on it, in case they grow legs in the night.”

  “They’re no worse than a pet goldfish,” Gunn said. “Albeit, an ugly goldfish that can live a mile deep.”

  “We’ll leave them in your care,” Pitt said. “Rudi, how soon can we shove off?”

  Gunn tilted his head. “I think we can make like that pizza delivery outfit. Thirty minutes or less.”

  “Then let’s get under way,” Pitt said. “I’m curious to find out where Ann is going to take us.”

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Gunn had the Drake inching away from the dock a half hour later. Ann joined him on the bridge with Pitt and Giordino, watching the green hills of Point Loma drift past as they exited the harbor. Feeling more secure at sea, she opened up and explained their objective to Gunn and Giordino, then handed Pitt a small piece of paper.

  “Here’s the coordinates where the two bodies were picked up. Apparently they were within sight of each other.”

  “That may be a good indication the currents didn’t get too daffy with them,” Giordino said.

  Pitt typed the coordinates into the Drake’s navigation system, which plotted the position as a triangle on the digital map display. It lay just beyond a small rocky island grouping off the Mexican coast called the Coronados.

  “The currents run southerly along the coast,” Pitt said, “so that would likely define a lower boundary from which to conduct the search.”

  “The coroner’s report placed their time of death between eight and ten hours earlier,” Ann said.

  “That gives us something to work with.” Pitt drew a box on the map with a cursor. “We’ll start with a ten-mile-square grid, working north of the discovery point, and expand beyond that as necessary.”

  Ann contemplated the size of the Drake, then asked Pitt, “How are you going to handle the recovery?”

  Pitt tilted his head at Gunn. “Rudi?”

  “I found a local barge and crane that’s waiting on call. It’ll come to the site once we find her. I guess I should have asked, but how big a boat are we looking for?”

  Ann glanced at her notes. “The Cuttlefish was registered at forty feet.”

  “We’ll get her up.” Gunn took over the helm and set the Drake on a path to Pitt’s grid.

  Two hours later, they reached the site where a passing sailboat had found the bodies of Heiland and his assistant Manny. Pitt saw the depth was around four hundred feet. He decided to conduct the search using the vessel’s towed array sonar, choosing ease of deployment over the deeper-diving AUV. Crewmen at the stern deployed the bright yellow sonar fish, which was soon relaying electrical pulses to a processing station on the bridge via its tethered cable. Pitt took a seat at the controls and adjusted the cable winch until the fish was skimming a few meters above the bottom.

  Ann stood glued to Pitt’s shoulder, staring at the monitor that displayed a gold-tinted image of the sandy, undulating seafloor.

  “What will the boat look like?”

  “We’re running a wide swath, so it will appear small in scale but should be readily identifiable.” He pointed to the screen. “Here, you can see what a fifty-five-gallon drum looks like in comparison.”

  Ann peered at a dime-sized object as it scrolled down the screen, easily recognizing it as an old barrel someone had dumped in the ocean.

  “The clarity is quite remarkable.”

  “The technology’s improved to where you can almost see a carbuncle on a clamshell,” Giordino said.

  The seas were empty, save a large powerboat flying a Mexican flag a mile or two away, its occupants busy fishing. Gunn piloted the Drake in a slow, steady pattern, running wide survey lanes north and south. The sonar registered some tires, a pair of playful dolphins, and what looked to be a toilet—but no sunken boats.

  After four hours of surveying, they drew near the Mexican powerboat, which held its position with a pair of unmanned fishing rods protruding over its stern.

  “Looks like we’ll have to skip a lane to get around those guys,” Gunn said.

  Pitt looked out the bridge window at the craft a quarter mile ahead, then turned back to the monitor. He smiled as a triangular object appeared at the top of the screen.

  “Won’t be necessary, Rudi. I think we just found her.”

  Ann leaned over in puzzlement, then saw the shape expand into a boat’s bow and grow into the full image of a cabin cruiser, sitting upright on the seafloor. Pitt marked the wreck’s position and measured its length against a digital scale.

  “Looks to be right at forty feet. I’d say that’s our missing boat.”

  Gunn looked at the image, then slapped Pitt on the shoulder.

  “Nice work, Dirk. I’ll call the lift barge and get them headed our way.”

  Ann stared at the image until it scrolled off the bottom of the screen. “Are you sure you can raise it?”

  “It looks intact,” Gunn said, “so that should be no problem for the lift barge.”

  “So we’re just going to wait here until the barge arrives?”

  “Not exactly,” Pitt said, giving Ann a sly grin. “First, we’re going to drag a Washington spook to the bottom of the sea.”

  11

  THE SUBMERSIBLE DANGLED FROM A SUSPENSION crane, rotating lazily in the air before Gunn lowered it into the cool waters of the Pacific. He engaged a hydraulic release clamp, which allowed the submersible to drift free. Inside, Pitt tapped the electric motors, powering the sub away from the Drake, while Giordino flooded the ballast tanks from his perch in the copilot’s seat. Ann sat behind them in a cramped third seat, watching with all the excitement of a small child.

  Giordino glanced over his shoulder and noticed her fascination with the green murk beyond the view ports. “Ever been diving before?”

  “Lots,” Ann said, “but only in a swimming pool. I was a platform diver in college.”

  The submersible settled into a slow descent. Beyond the range of the exterior spotlights, the sea quickly turned black.

  “I was never one to voluntarily throw myself off high objects,” Giordino said. “How’d you go from jumping off diving boards to chasing bad guys?”

  “I was a Marine brat growing up, so I joined ROTC in college. Took my commission with the Navy at graduation and finagled them into paying for law school. I worked at a JAG unit in Bahrain, then spent a few months at Guantánamo, where I made a number of Washington contacts. My military marriage failed about that time, so I decided to try something different. A friend referred me to the NCIS two years ago and I landed in their counterintelligence directorate.”

  “You sound like a regular Perry Mason.”

  “Used to be. In the JAG’s office I enjoyed the investigations but not the prosecutions. That’s what I like about my current assignment. Most of my work is strictly investigative, which allows me to spend a lot of time in the field. I was assigned the Eberson case to determine if he or the boat had been a target of espionage.”

  “We’ll know more shortly,” Pitt said. “The bottom’s coming up.”

  Giordino neutralized their ballast as a sandy seabed appeared. Pitt eyed a lobster scurrying across the bottom, which reminded him of his lost meal in Chile. He engaged the thrusters and propelled the submersible forward. They traveled only a short distance before a large white object appeared to their left. Pitt swung the submersible to port and closed on the sunken boat.

  In its underwater world, the Cuttlefish appeared like a lost alien. Still pristine and gleaming under the submersible’s lights, it appeared in stark contrast to the dark, lifeless bottom. Pitt brought the submersible in tight, slowly cir
cling the boat’s perimeter. Sitting perfectly upright, she showed no signs of major damage.

  “I think she might be breached underneath,” Pitt said, noticing a hairline crack in the hull.

  “We’ll see when we raise her,” Giordino replied. “Looks like there’ll be no problem sliding under a pair of slings fore and aft. We should be able to get her up in a jiffy.”

  Pitt guided the submersible to the Cuttlefish’s stern, then ascended to peer over the side.

  Ann gasped. Wedged against the transom was the body of a man. His pale skin was bloated and shredded in spots where sea creatures had fed on the flesh. A small school of rockfish floated above his face, nibbling at his features.

  “Joe Eberson?” Pitt asked in a low tone.

  Ann nodded, then averted her eyes.

  Pitt took a closer look. Monofilament line was tangled around Eberson’s feet and ankles. The line had looped around a deck cleat, securing the body to the boat when it sank. No wounds or burn marks were readily apparent on the DARPA scientist, but then Pitt saw Eberson’s hands.

  They were bloated to nearly double their normal size, the skin discolored with charcoal blotches. It was just as Pitt had seen in Chile.

  Like the dead crewman on the Tasmanian Star, Joe Eberson had died a horrific and unexplained death.

  12

  IT TOOK TWO MORE DIVES FOR THE SUBMERSIBLE TO remove Eberson’s body. A large canvas tarp, hastily sewn into an oversized body bag, was carried to the sunken boat. Using a pair of articulated arms that protruded from the base of the submersible, Pitt slid the bag over Eberson’s head and torso. The monofilament line was cut and the bag brought gently to the surface. Ann insisted on remaining aboard the submersible during the gruesome business of removing and transporting Eberson to the Drake. Once back on deck, Pitt and Giordino set about laying out the slings they would use to raise the Cuttlefish. Soon a decrepit-looking barge with a massive crane arrived at the worksite. Gunn had found the barge in San Diego Harbor, where it was used to support municipal dredging operations. Pitt returned the wave of a friendly-faced man with a gray beard, who was steering the powered barge from a small pilothouse.

  Ann joined the two men on deck after she and Gunn briefly examined the body.

  “Is that your man?” Giordino asked.

  Ann nodded. “We found a waterlogged wallet in his pocket that confirmed as much. We’ll have to leave it to the coroner for a definitive ID and cause of death.”

  “A week underwater won’t make that an easy job,” Pitt said.

  “At least it appears that his death was accidental. Perhaps they had trouble with the boat and simply drowned.”

  Pitt kept silent about Eberson’s hands as he locked one of the slings into the submersible’s steel claws.

  Ann observed his work. “Is there much danger of damaging the boat when it’s lifted?”

  “We can’t really tell the extent of any structural damage, so the answer is yes. There’s a chance she could collapse on us—but I suspect she’ll pop up without a hitch.”

  “Just in case,” Ann said, “I’d like to examine the deck and interior before you make the attempt.”

  “We’re about set to make the next dive, so hop aboard.”

  The Cuttlefish came into view a short time later, somewhat less menacing without Joe Eberson’s body aboard. Pitt hovered the submersible just above the rear deck, then slowly rotated it to let the exterior floodlights expose the sunken craft.

  “Stop!” Ann cried, pointing out the view port. “That box, there.”

  Pitt froze the controls, allowing them to study an oblong box strapped to the starboard bulwark.

  “Something of importance?” Pitt asked.

  “Might be, judging by the padlock.” She was angry with herself for not spotting the box earlier. “Let’s take it up.”

  “It looks pretty secure where it is,” Giordino said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to risk damaging it while lifting the boat.”

  Pitt shrugged. “Suits me, but we’ve got to empty our hands first.”

  He rotated the submersible’s manipulator arms, showing Ann the sling they contained. He maneuvered away from the boat, dropped the sling in the sand, and stretched it around the vessel’s bow. He grabbed one end and pulled it under the hull as far as it would go, then raised the looped end and deposited it on the cabin roof. He then repeated the process with the sling’s opposite end. Piloting the submersible above the rear deck, he set about extricating the hardened plastic box. With some effort, he loosened the straps with one of the manipulator claws until the box fell free. Clutching a handle with one claw, he worked the second arm beneath the box as a cradle. Giordino purged seawater from the ballast tanks, and the submersible floated to the surface.

  Gunn was waiting for them at the Drake’s rail and pulled the submersible aboard. “How goes the initial lasso?” he asked as they climbed out.

  Giordino smiled. “As easy as roping a baby calf.”

  “The stern will be a bit harder,” Pitt said. “We’ll have to dig some to get the sling under her.”

  Gunn noticed the long box held by the manipulator arms. “So, you brought me a present?”

  “That would be Miss Bennett’s.” Giordino raised his brows to warn Gunn to keep his hands off.

  As Giordino removed the box from the steel arms and set it on a protected section of the deck, Ann followed his every move. Gunn helped Pitt secure the second sling, then mounted a thick section of PVC pipe with an attached hose to the forward ballast relief valve.

  “How’re your battery reserves holding up?” Gunn asked.

  “If we can get this second sling on without too much trouble, we should have enough juice for one more dive to attach the lift cable.”

  “I’ll tell the barge operator to stand by.”

  Pitt and Giordino were lowered into the ocean, this time without Ann. Once they reached the seafloor, Pitt proceeded to the boat’s stern and set the submersible down adjacent to the port quarter. Using the manipulator arms, he set down the sling and grabbed the PVC pipe, which he inserted into the sand along the boat’s seam.

  “Ready for suction.”

  “At your pleasure.” Giordino released a small stream of compressed air from the forward ballast tank, which fed through the flexible hose and into the lower third of the PVC pipe. Air bubbles sailed up the pipe and out the open end, expanding as they rose and generating suction at the bottom end of the pipe. The soft sand beneath the boat began swirling up the pipe, disgorging in a brown cloud behind the submersible that dissipated with the current. It took just a few minutes to clear a large enough gap beneath the boat’s stern quarter to insert the sling.

  Giordino killed the air release, and they moved to the opposite side of the boat and repeated the process. Then they pulled the sling under the exposed corners and gathered the free ends above the cabin. As Pitt held them in place, Giordino retrieved a heavy D ring and snapped the four ringed ends of both slings into it. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the manipulator claws to clasp the last ring in place. Now they just needed to attach a lift cable from the barge’s crane to the D ring and it could hoist away.

  “Performed with the delicate hands of a surgeon,” Giordino said, securing the manipulator arms.

  Pitt glanced at his partner’s meaty paws and shook his head. “A surgeon who moonlights as a butcher, perhaps. Nicely done, all the same.”

  Pitt purged the ballast tanks, and the submersible began a lazy ascent. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon when they broke the surface off the Drake’s beam. Gunn stood by the crane as the sub drew alongside. He expertly lowered the jaws and clamped onto the submersible’s hoist ring. Gunn lifted the sub out of the water to deck level, then left it dangling.

  “Come on, Rudi,” Giordino said, “bring us on in.”

  Pitt stared out the view port, then stiffened. A large man unknown to Pitt stood near Gunn, holding a pistol. The man smiled at Pitt,
but there was no warmth in the expression. Gunn eased his hands off the crane controls, then gave Pitt a grim shake of his head before stepping away.

  Giordino saw Gunn abandon the controls and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Pitt kept his eyes fixed on the gunman aboard the Drake.

  “I would say that we’ve been hung out to dry.”

  13

  THEY HAD ATTACKED THE DRAKE UNDER THE GUISE of helplessness.

  The crew on the Mexican powerboat floating nearby had surreptitiously monitored the NUMA vessel all day—until they spotted their objective. When the sun began to follow the submersible beneath the waves, a Spanish-accented voice hailed the Drake over the marine radio, feigning a shortage of fuel. Taking the call on the bridge, Gunn told the boat to come alongside if they were able and he would pass across some gasoline.

  The boat made a show of limping over at minimal speed, swinging around the back of the barge before inching toward the NUMA ship. While the boat was temporarily out of view, a lone gunman leaped aboard the barge’s stern and sneaked his way to the pilothouse.

  Soon a large man stood on the boat’s afterdeck, waving at Gunn with a cold smile. He wore black slacks and a loose knit black shirt, odd attire for a fishing trip. The approaching twilight obscured his coffee complexion and flat facial features, more typical of Central American heritage than Mexican. The man tossed a line to a waiting deckhand, then turned to Gunn, who leaned over the rail with a five-gallon container of gas.

  “Thank you, señor,” he said in a baritone voice. “We stayed too long fishing and feared we would not make it to shore.”

  He reached for the can and set it on the deck. Then, moving as quickly as a cat, he grabbed the rail and leaped aboard the Drake. A Glock semiautomatic materialized from his back paddle holster—and was leveled at Gunn’s chest the instant his feet touched the deck. “Tell your crewmen to put their hands on the rail and face the sea.”