Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  The convoy rolled onto the busy Jingzhang Expressway, which ran to Beijing. Outside of the capital city, they paused at a truck stop in the suburb of Changping as dusk was settling. A light wind had picked up, blowing swirls of sand from the Gobi Desert. Zhou wrapped his face with a scarf he found in Jiang’s coat pocket and stretched his legs away from the others while the trucks were refueled.

  The trucks moved off slowly, fighting their way through the thickening city traffic. They looped around the west side of Beijing to avoid the worst of the congestion and continued southeast. It took the better part of two hours before they reached the port city of Tianjin. Xao led the trucks through a maze of streets to the center of the large commercial docks.

  They reached an old dockside warehouse and pulled down a side alley. Two men appeared from the shadows and accepted a sack filled with yuan that Xao passed out the window. A gate opened at the end of the alley, and the trucks rumbled through, entering a cavernous warehouse that opened to a dock on the far side. The trucks drove through the building and stopped beside a moderate-sized freighter whose lights illuminated the pier.

  A large conveyor system stretched from the dock to an open hold on the ship, and Xao backed his truck to the end of it. A work crew appeared with shovels and began emptying the truck’s load of ore. As Zhou watched from the end of the line, he realized he’d seen all he needed. He slipped out the passenger door and crept toward the back of the truck.

  A deck officer from the freighter, who was standing on the dock checking the ship’s lines, glanced over at Zhou. Playing the part of a tired driver, Zhou stretched his arms and yawned as he stepped toward the officer.

  “Good evening,” he said with a slight bow. “A fine ship you have here.”

  “The Graz is old and tired, but she still plows through the sea like a hefty ox.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “We do a cargo swap in Shanghai, then we’re off to Singapore.”

  He looked at Zhou closely under the lights, noticing a damp streak of red on the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Are you okay?”

  Zhou glanced at the blood and grinned.

  “It’s transmission fluid. I spilled it, adding some to the truck.”

  Zhou saw Xao’s truck was finished unloading and the next truck in line was moving to take its place. He nodded at the officer and smiled. “Have a safe voyage,” he said, turning his back on the loading operations and walking away.

  The officer looked at him oddly. “What about your truck?”

  Zhou ignored the query, sauntering away from the dock until he vanished into the night.

  34

  THE SEA ARROW’S PROPULSION MOTOR LOOKED like a stretch limousine driven through an oversized tire. The limousine part, in fact, was a rectangular induction housing that drew in water and expelled it through a trio of gimbaled exhaust outlets in the back. Just forward of it, at the motor’s midpoint, a donut-shaped nacelle contained the sophisticated jet pump that could push the submarine to high speeds. The entire motor was coated in a slippery black substance, which deflected water and gave the entire device a cold, futuristic appearance.

  High overhead lights shined starkly on the prototype propulsion motor as a crane lifted it from its floor blocks and placed it on a large flatbed trailer. An army of workmen secured it with steel cables and covered it with canvas tarps. A semi-truck, operated by a company that specialized in hauling secure freight, was backed in and hitched to the trailer.

  It was half past six in the morning when the truck pulled out of the Naval Research Laboratory’s facility at Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. As it drove inland from the bay, the surrounding woods and fields were damp with morning dew, while a leaden sky obscured the sunrise.

  “What’s our ETA to Groton?” the codriver asked, suppressing a yawn.

  The truck’s driver glanced at his watch. “The GPS says seven hours. Probably longer if we don’t beat the worst of the Beltway traffic.”

  In the lightly populated region of southern Maryland, the early-morning traffic leading toward Washington was almost nonexistent. As they rounded a sweeping curve, the two men noticed a wisp of black smoke rising ahead. When it became apparent that the smoke originated from the road, the driver downshifted.

  “Is that a car on fire?” his codriver asked.

  “I think so. Looks like some old clunker.”

  It was in fact a twenty-year-old Toyota Camry that had been severely wrecked at some point in its life. Now it sat in the middle of the road on four bald tires, flames sprouting from beneath its crumpled hood.

  The truck driver eased the flatbed to a stop a few yards away and searched the road for victims. A white van was pulled off the road a short distance ahead, but there were no signs of life around it or the burning car.

  “We better call this in,” the driver said as his partner reached behind the seat for a fire extinguisher.

  A crash jarred them out of their seats as the head of a sledgehammer burst through the passenger-side window. A gloved hand thrust through the shattered glass and dropped a smoking canister of tear gas in the cab.

  In an instant, the truck’s interior was filled with an acrid white smoke that made the men gag. Their eyes burned as if hot lava had been poured under their lids, and they groped for the door handles to escape the agony.

  The driver made it out first, leaping from the cab onto the roadway. A man wearing a ski mask zapped him with a stun gun, sending him to the ground, convulsing. On the other side of the truck, the codriver had managed to pull out his gun as he exited the cab. But with his eyes clenched shut from the gas, he failed to see the second assailant strike him with another stun gun.

  A third man, wearing a gas mask, climbed into the cab and hurled the still-smoking canister out into an adjacent field. He slid behind the wheel and jabbed a knife into the cab’s headliner. He pulled away the fabric until spotting a wire, which he deftly sliced, disabling the roof-mounted GPS transmitter that allowed the shipping company to track the vehicle. Jamming the truck into gear, he eased it forward until its broad chrome bumper kissed the burning car. Then he floored the accelerator while nudging the steering wheel to the right. The torque-strong truck brushed the Toyota aside like an insect and flipped it into a ditch.

  Straightening back onto the small road, the new driver shifted gears and lowered his side window. Within seconds, the last remnants of gas had been flushed out. Pablo pulled off the uncomfortable gas mask and tossed it on the seat beside him.

  He glanced at his watch and smiled. In just two minutes he had taken one of America’s most secret technologies. He pulled out a cell phone, dialed a long string of numbers, and smiled, thinking about his payoff to come.

  35

  PABLO DROVE THE LONG FLATBED ANOTHER MILE before maneuvering it off the highway and onto a small dirt road. The narrow, rutted track crossed a large pasture dotted with sleepy-eyed cows. A half mile in, the road passed a large pond, then ended at an abandoned farm just beyond.

  The charred remnants of the farmhouse were still visible, scorched by a fire decades earlier. Nearby, a large weathered barn leaned to one side as if the next nor’easter would send it tumbling. Pablo drove to the barn and guided the truck into an opening at one end of it.

  Inside he found a high stack of freshly cut bales of hay guarded by a mini forklift. At the opposite end of the barn stood another semi-truck cab. He pulled the flatbed alongside the bales, parked the truck, and climbed out to examine the object under the tarps.

  A few minutes later, the white panel van pulled in, and two large black men jumped out.

  “You take care of the drivers?” Pablo asked.

  The first man nodded. “Clarence cuffed them together around a big oak off the highway. Some farmer will find them in a day or two.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get to work. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  The two hired thugs pulled away the tarps covering the Sea Arrow’s motor. Then they donned heavy glove
s and went to work on the bales of hay. Clarence started up the forklift, and using an attached device called a bale squeeze, he began hoisting blocks of multiple bales onto the flatbed. The second man stood on the bed, guiding the bales into place around the motor.

  Meanwhile, Pablo unhitched the truck from the flatbed. He parked the truck off to the side and returned with the other big rig, a blue Kenworth. In ten minutes he had the new truck hitched to the trailer. He scrutinized the flatbed for a second GPS tracking device. Finding none, he swapped the rear license plate.

  The other two men had nearly finished building a wall of hay around the Sea Arrow’s power plant. Pablo helped them pull a tarp across the top of the bales and tie it to the sides of the trailer, completing its disguise as a hay truck.

  Clarence, the larger of the two men, pulled off his gloves and approached Pablo. “That concludes our part of the job,” he said in his raspy voice. “You have our pay?”

  “Yes,” Pablo said. “And you have the plans?”

  “In the back of the van. Along with an added present for you,” he said, grinning.

  “Bring the documents to the truck. I’ll get your money.”

  Clarence opened the back of the van and pulled out the plastic bin containing Heiland’s supercavitation plans. He followed Pablo to the Kenworth and placed it on the passenger seat. Pablo reached behind the seat and handed the hired thug a thick envelope. The big man ripped off one end, revealing several bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  “My, that does look pretty.” He folded the envelope closed. “Now, if you’d be kind enough to retrieve your gift, we’ll be on our way.”

  Pablo gave him a puzzled look. Clarence jerked his thumb toward the van and led Pablo to the open back doors, where the other man stood, smiling.

  As Pablo peered past him into the van’s interior, his eyes flared in anger. Coiled on the van’s floor was the bound-and-gagged Ann Bennett.

  A look of rage seared her face until her eyes met Pablo’s, then the shock of recognition hit home. The Colombian terrorist was the last person she expected to see here. Her brazenness evaporated, and she wriggled farther into the confines of the van.

  Pablo turned to Clarence. “What is she doing here?”

  “We got a call to pick her up,” Clarence said. “We were told not to waste her, so here she is.”

  Pablo reached under his jacket, pulled out a Glock pistol, and aimed it into the back of the van.

  “Yo, man, don’t do her in the back of the van,” Clarence said. “It’s a rental.”

  “Okay.”

  Pablo wheeled around and fired the Glock point-blank in Clarence’s face. As he fell back dead, his partner lunged at Pablo. But the Colombian was quicker. He turned and pumped three shots into the man’s chest. The dying thug could only grip Pablo’s collar and pull him to his knees before collapsing.

  Ann screamed, but her cry was muffled by a band of duct tape. Pablo gazed at her a moment, then calmly holstered the Glock. He reached into the van, yanked Ann out, and tossed her onto a leftover bale of hay. “I’m afraid it won’t do to kill you here.”

  As she watched in terror, he hoisted the two dead bodies into the back of the van and closed the doors. Tossing the now bloodied cash envelope toward Ann, he looked at her and said, “Don’t move.”

  An instant later, Pablo peeled the van out of the barn, spraying dust and loose hay. He drove just a short distance, then stopped and carefully positioned the van. He lowered the windows, removed all the keys from the fob except for the ignition key, then walked around searching for a large flat rock. Finding one, he placed it on the accelerator pedal and mashed it down flat. Climbing out of the truck, he reached in through the open window and started the engine. Before the revolutions could skyrocket, he pulled the column shift into drive and jumped away.

  The rear tires spun in the loose dirt, and the van shot down the road. It traveled less than fifty feet before it angled off the road and careened through a small ditch. Its momentum carried it up the opposite side and over a small embankment, where it lunged into the pond.

  A lone goose scattered with an angry honk as the van hurled up a wall of green water. After a few seconds, the van filled with water and disappeared into the deep pond, leaving only a diminishing froth of bubbles.

  Pablo didn’t wait for it to sink but instead jogged back to the barn. He picked up the envelope and threw it into the truck’s cab before coming back for Ann. Without a word, he carried her to the cab and dropped her in a flat compartment behind the front seats.

  “You might as well get comfortable,” he said, starting the truck and shifting into gear. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

  36

  THE HELICOPTER FLEW IN FAST AT TREETOP LEVEL, zooming low over the hangars to surprise the waiting dignitaries seated along the runway. It was a military chopper, its fuselage designed with sharp angles and coated with an absorbent material that rendered it nearly invisible to radar. A special composite five-blade main rotor and matching tail assembly added to its stealth qualities by dramatically reducing its noise signature. An aviation expert from Jane’s Defence Weekly would take one look at the chopper and identify it as a Stealth Hawk, one of the U.S. Army’s heavily modified UH-80 Black Hawks, like the one used in the raid to capture Osama bin Laden. But this helicopter was entirely Chinese built.

  The craft swooped about the Yangcun Air Base south of Beijing, buzzing the field several times before alighting. The crowd of generals and defense officials stood and applauded the exhibition of the country’s latest technological triumph. The cheers became muted when a Party official took to an elevated podium and launched into a tired diatribe touting China’s greatness.

  Edward Bolcke leaned over to a bullet-eyed man wearing a uniform draped with medals. “Splendid aircraft, General Jintai.”

  “Yes, it is,” Jintai said. “And we didn’t even need your help to build it.”

  Bolcke shook off the jab with a grin. Having just received Pablo’s call from Maryland, he was brimming with confidence.

  The crowd suffered through several more long-winded speeches before being herded into an open hangar with a buffet line. Bolcke trailed the general, a vice-chairman of China’s Central Military Commission, as he mingled with other top People’s Liberation Army officials. After inquiring about a fellow general’s new condominium in Hong Kong, Jintai backtracked to Bolcke.

  “My hospitality duties are now complete,” he said to the Austrian. “We have some business to discuss?”

  “If you please,” Bolcke replied.

  “Very well. Let me find our chief spymaster, and we’ll speak in private.”

  Jintai scanned the crowd until locating a slight, bespectacled man drinking a Heineken beer. Tao Liang was a directorate head in the Ministry of State Security, the agency that handled China’s intelligence and counterintelligence activities. Tao stood talking with Zhou Xing, the field operative from Bayan Obo, who calmly studied the assembled dignitaries. The peasant-faced man subtly alerted Tao that Jintai was stalking him while the general was still halfway across the room.

  “Tao, there you are,” the general said. “Come, we have a business proposal to evaluate with our old friend Edward Bolcke.”

  “Our old friend Bolcke,” Tao said with an acid tone. “Yes, I am curious to hear his latest offerings.”

  With Zhou following, the men crossed the hangar to a small private office. It had been prepared for them with a portable liquor cabinet and a platter of dim sum. Jintai poured himself a whiskey and sat down with the others at a teak conference table.

  “May I offer my congratulations, gentlemen, on your latest deployment,” Bolcke said. “It is an admirable day for China’s guardians. In a small way.”

  He paused, letting his insult register. “I would propose that tomorrow, however, may bring a revolutionary day to your country’s defense.”

  “Are you going to emasculate the Russian and American military for us?” Jintai said, chu
ckling to himself as he downed the last of his whiskey.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “You are a miner and a petty thief, Bolcke. What are you saying?”

  Bolcke peered at the general with narrowed eyes. “Yes, I am a miner. I know the value of important minerals, such as gold and silver . . . and rare earths.”

  “We understand the value of rare earth elements,” Tao said. “That is why we manipulate the price by using you as a broker to make acquisitions on the open market.”

  “It’s no secret that China holds a near monopoly on the production of rare earth elements,” Bolcke said. “But that monopoly has been put at risk by activity at two large mines outside your country. The Americans recently reopened their Mountain Pass Mine, while Australia’s Mount Weld operations are undergoing expansion.”

  Jintai puffed out his chest. “We will always be dominant.”

  “Perhaps. But you will no longer control the market.”

  Bolcke removed a large photo from his attaché case. It showed an aerial view of some smoldering buildings in a desert setting next to an open-pit mine.

  “This is the remains of the American facility at Mountain Pass,” Bolcke said. “Their processing operations were destroyed by a fire last week. They will be unable to produce an ounce of rare earth elements for the next two years.”

  “You know something about the fire?” Tao asked.

  Bolcke stared at him in silence, his lips upturned in a smug grin. He placed a second photo on the table. It showed another open-pit mine in a desert setting.

  “This is the Mount Weld Mine in western Australia. It’s owned by the Hobart Mining Company, in which I have recently become a minority shareholder.”