Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  Dirk handed her the photograph and she lined it up against another on the table. “Take a look at the jungle in these two pictures.”

  The four men craned their necks, seeing a uniform blanket of green jungle flowing across both photos.

  Nobody said anything until Pitt slid over a third photograph. “It’s the color,” he said. “It changes.”

  “Exactly.” Summer pointed to one of the photos. “There’s a linear seam here where the jungle color seems to turn a bit gray.”

  “I see it,” Madrid said.

  “It’s the artificial canopies over the facility,” Pitt said. “They’ve faded with age and no longer match the surrounding jungle.”

  Alvarez pieced the images together with several contiguous photos until the composite showed a distinct peninsula that fingered into Gatun Lake. He took a marker and highlighted the discolored areas, revealing a large rectangle adjacent to a patchwork of smaller squares.

  “The large rectangle would cover the dock and inlet,” Pitt said. “Some artificial mangroves block the entrance and are pulled aside when a ship enters or leaves.”

  “What are the other squares?” Summer said.

  “The other buildings in the compound.” He took Alvarez’s marker and noted Bolcke’s residence, the millhouse, the slave housing, and the multiple extraction buildings. He described the facility’s security forces to the extent he knew them, leaving out no detail.

  “How many prisoners?” Madrid asked.

  “Eighty.”

  “Amazing,” Madrid said. “A slave camp hiding right under our noses.” He turned to Alvarez. “You’ve got it pinpointed?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s right here.” He located the peninsula on the large wall map and marked it with a pushpin.

  “Clearly within our jurisdiction. Suggested entry?”

  “Short notice will dictate an approach from Gatun Lake. We can bring up the Coletta from Miraflores as our command ship and run three of our patrol boats off her as assault craft.”

  He studied Pitt’s markings on the photos. “If we can enter past the barricade, we’ll send one boat into the inlet and land the other two outside, with those forces sweeping in. Once the facility is secure, we can bring the Coletta to the dock to evacuate the prisoners.”

  “You best assemble the men and equipment at once,” Madrid said. “We’ll reconvene aboard the Coletta in two hours, and brief the assault team in transit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alvarez stood and scurried out of the office.

  “You are welcome to join me on the Coletta during the operation,” Madrid said to Pitt and his children.

  “We’ll be there,” Pitt replied. “I have an injured friend I was forced to leave behind.”

  “I understand. As to the matter of the Salzburg, I have heeded your Vice President’s plea and ordered extra security at the Gatun Locks. If the ship should appear for a canal transit, we will be prepared to seize her.”

  Pitt shrugged. “I suppose seizing Bolcke’s ship might answer a few more questions.”

  Summer could see her father didn’t know the full picture. “Dad, didn’t Rudi tell you about your friend Ann Bennett?”

  Pitt shook his head.

  “She went missing about a week ago—about the same time some sort of propulsion motor was stolen from a Navy research lab truck. Rudi said there was a connection between the two.”

  “The Sea Arrow,” Pitt muttered.

  “Rudi thinks Ann was abducted with the motor. He and Hiram found a cryptic e-mail she sent you over the NUMA website indicating she was in Kentucky.”

  “Then she’s still alive.”

  “Rudi thinks so. They believe she was telling them the motor was hidden on a hay truck. Rudi speculated they were trying to avoid the eastern seaboard in their attempt to get it out of the country. He believes they shipped it down the Mississippi, and Hiram actually found video from the Horace Wilkinson Bridge in Baton Rouge that shows a barge passing by with a hay truck aboard.”

  “Seems a bit tenuous,” Pitt said.

  “Less so when it was discovered that Bolcke’s ship, the Salzburg, was in New Orleans at the same time—and departed a day later.”

  “The Salzburg,” Pitt said. “So Bolcke has been behind the Sea Arrow thefts from the beginning.”

  “But what does he plan to do with it?” Summer asked.

  Pitt thought back to his encounter with Zhou and the response he gave when asked why he was there.

  “Business,” Pitt said. “He plans to sell it to the Chinese, perhaps as part of a deal related to their combined rare earth holdings.” He looked at Summer. “How long ago did you say the Salzburg left New Orleans?”

  “About four days.”

  “Recon showed it heading south at the Mississippi Delta,” Dirk said.

  “Why hasn’t the Coast Guard or Navy tracked her down and boarded her?” Pitt asked.

  “They would have but for one thing,” Dirk said. “The ship has vanished.”

  65

  WITHIN CLEAR SIGHT OF THE CANAL AUTHORITY Administration Building, a rust-covered grain ship sat at anchor, absorbing the gentle waves of the Pacific. Named the Santa Rita, she was flagged in Guam, though the government of Guam would have been surprised to learn as much. Aside from never filing papers there, the Santa Rita had never once carried an ounce of grain.

  She was in fact an aging resource of China’s Ministry of State Security. Originally configured as a spy ship to monitor the Taiwan Strait, she later carried missiles to Iran in her grain-hauling configuration. Retired to less clandestine duty, she had been under contract to haul a shipment of Mexican pharmaceuticals to Shanghai when Zhou took her over off Costa Rica.

  The tired agent was resting on the bridge, just a short time after returning from his nighttime foray into Bolcke’s camp, when his cell phone rang. As he checked the number, his stoic face registered a hint of surprise.

  “Zhou,” he answered bluntly.

  “Zhou, this is Edward Bolcke. I have to inform you we will be making a slight change in the rendezvous plans.”

  “I was expecting the transfer to occur within the hour.”

  “There’s been a minor security delay, but there’s no cause for alarm. The shipment is safe. We will, however, need to postpone the rendezvous for another six hours.”

  Zhou grew silent. His explosives would detonate at Bolcke’s compound in approximately four hours. He had timed them to go off after he received the Sea Arrow’s motor and plans. The entire transfer was now in jeopardy.

  “That is unacceptable,” Zhou said calmly. “I have a strict timetable to adhere to.”

  “My apologies, but you can understand the sensitivities at play. My vessel is nearing the Gatun Locks and will still require the complete canal passage. If you wish, you might consider entering the canal at your end. If you head north through the Miraflores Locks, we could make the transfer in Miraflores Lake. That would reduce the time of our delivery by an hour or two. I can make a call and move you up for immediate passage through the lock.”

  The last place Zhou wanted to be was trapped in the middle of the Panama Canal. But if that was the only opportunity to acquire the Sea Arrow’s secrets, so be it. With luck, Bolcke might not know his facility was a smoldering ruin when he passed over the technology.

  “Very well,” Zhou said. “Make the transit arrangements, and I will proceed to Miraflores Lake. Please expedite your vessel, as we will be waiting.”

  Hanging up, he stared out the bridge window, feeling like he was about to dance on the edge of a razor.

  66

  NEARLY FORTY SHIPS WERE MOORED IN LIMON BAY, congesting like a swarm of bees around a hive. Each awaited its turn to be funneled from the Atlantic Ocean into the Panama Canal. A small containership arrived and cut past the long line of freighters, tankers, and other carriers to take its place at the front of the line.

  The century-old Big Ditch was handling more ships than ever, but its capacity was soon to swell.
A major expansion was under way, adding two new sets of locks capable of handling the world’s largest containerships. While expensive to cross, the Panama Canal shaved thousands of miles off the alternative of traveling around Cape Horn.

  Watching the containership sail past, the captains waiting their turn in Limon Bay knew that jumping to the head of the line required paying a steep premium.

  The containership slowed as a pilot boat drew alongside, delivering a Panama Canal Authority boarding officer and a canal pilot. The ship’s captain escorted them to the bridge, where he relinquished command to the pilot, a requirement of all ships transiting the canal. The boarding officer confirmed the ship’s tonnage and dimensions to determine the vessel’s fare.

  “Manifest, please,” he asked the captain.

  The officer thumbed through the document, noting a short list of equipment parts.

  “Most of those containers empty?” he asked.

  “Yes, taking them to Balboa,” the captain said.

  “I noticed you were riding high in the water.” He computed the fee, with a steep kicker for moving up in line. “Your account will be charged accordingly.” Then he turned to the pilot. “The Portobelo is cleared to proceed.” He left the bridge and reboarded the pilot boat, which whisked him to the next ship waiting in line.

  The pilot sailed the Portobelo down a long channel to the Gatun Locks, the canal’s Atlantic entry point. The locks consisted of a parallel set of three huge sequential chambers, which enabled southbound vessels to be lifted eighty-five feet above sea level to begin crossing the isthmus.

  The Panama Canal itself was built like a liquid wedding cake. Its highest point was at its center, the large, man-made reservoir of Gatun Lake. The lake cascaded down three levels at either end. Due to a geographic quirk, the canal’s fresh water flowed to the Atlantic Ocean in the north and to the Pacific in the south. The elevated lake allowed for gravity to fill and drain the locks, raising or lowering ships, depending on their direction of travel.

  But the Panama Canal was an uneven wedding cake, due to a separation between locks on the Pacific side. While the three chambers of the Atlantic’s Gatun were sequential, the Pacific’s were far apart, with a single-chamber lock called Pedro Miguel at the lake and a dual-chamber lock called Miraflores a mile beyond. It took a typical ship about eight hours to complete the fifty-mile journey from ocean to ocean.

  The pilot inched the Portobelo close to the first chamber at Gatun, stopping just short of its huge open doors, which were called gates. Messenger lines attached to steel tow cables were hoisted aboard and secured, their opposite ends attached to tiny locomotives, called mules, which ran along the lock’s edge. Under the pilot’s guidance, the mules gently towed the freighter into the chamber and held it in place as the gates astern were closed. Once sealed, additional water was released into the mammoth chamber until the ship had been raised nearly thirty feet.

  Armed guards, not usually seen around the locks, patrolled the area, giving the ship a careful once-over. When the water level matched the next chamber’s, the front gates were opened and the ship was pulled forward by the mules. The process was repeated twice more, until the Portobelo motored out of the last chamber and into Gatun Lake—eighty-five feet higher than when she started. Clearing the locks, the pilot ordered the helm to increase speed.

  “Helm, belay that order,” the captain said. “All stop.”

  The pilot’s face turned red. “I command the vessel through the canal!” His demeanor softened when he detected another presence on the bridge. He turned to find Pablo approaching him. “Pablo! I thought this tub was eerily familiar to the old Salzburg. When did you boys get into the container business?”

  “About thirty-six hours ago,” Pablo said. “We’ll be taking her from here.”

  “Sure, sure.” The pilot spotted the bag in Pablo’s hand that contained the usual cash bribe and a bottle of Chivas Regal.

  “There’s an extra thousand for you,” Pablo said, handing him the bag. “No more mention of the Salzburg.”

  “Whatever you say. The monkeys on the dock were looking for you, but I guess you fooled them. See you on the next run.”

  The ship’s crew lowered a rubber boat and ran the pilot to shore, where he could hop in a taxi to the nearest bar. When the inflatable returned, the disguised Salzburg got under way.

  “You sure he can be trusted?” the captain asked.

  Pablo nodded. “We’ll have completed the transfer before he’s halfway through that bottle of scotch.”

  Pablo allowed himself his own notion of relief. Since receiving the warning call from Bolcke two days earlier, he had feared every call on the radio and every passing ship. But the rush transformation of the Salzburg into the Portobelo, aided by a paint respray of the bridge and funnel, and a large load of empty containers, had fooled the canal authorities at the Gatun Locks. That meant one thing.

  They were home free.

  67

  THE COLETTA SCREAMED THROUGH THE PANAMA Canal, passing the speed-restricted commercial ships like they were standing still. An Italian-built patrol boat of some forty meters, she sported a 20mm turreted cannon on her bow for muscle.

  Below deck, thirty armed commandos were crammed into the wardroom, receiving a final briefing from Alvarez. They were well trained, having conducted numerous joint exercises with international forces in mock defense of the canal. Pitt tried to quell their obvious enthusiasm for the mission by detailing the strength of Bolcke’s forces.

  Yet Pitt felt his own impatience. Showered, bandaged, and wearing a fresh set of borrowed fatigues, he was anxious to get into the facility and free Giordino. But a daylight raid was risky, and everything hinged on his brief encounter with Zhou. Pitt just hoped that his instincts were right.

  Alvarez handed him a holstered SIG Sauer P228 automatic. “You know how to use it?”

  Pitt nodded.

  “We should arrive at the deployment zone in ten minutes. I’ll be leading boat 1 into the cove. We’ll secure the dock, knock out the generator, and release the prisoners. Boat 2 will land on the peninsula and secure the residence, hopefully with Bolcke inside. Boat 3 will follow as a reserve. You can join boat 3, but I must request that you act as an observer only.”

  “I’ll help where I can. Good luck, Alvarez.”

  Pitt looked for Dirk and Summer but didn’t see them in the emptying wardroom. He could hear the patrol boat’s motor slow, and he followed the others onto the deck.

  The Coletta had followed the canal’s transit route around the eastern shore of Barro Colorado Island, a large nature preserve in the middle of Gatun Lake. The canal’s narrow channel was marked with lights and signs to prevent ships from running aground in the nearby shallows. The lightly drafted Coletta had no such concerns as she raced across the path of an approaching containership. She traveled east for a mile until she approached a narrow landmass covered with dense vegetation.

  The Coletta drifted under the hot sun as three inflatable assault craft were lowered over the side, each loaded with ten commandos. Pitt sensed his boat had some extra passengers as he squeezed between two unarmed commandos with bush hats pulled low over their faces.

  “A little room for the old man?” he said.

  Dirk looked up from beneath his hat. “We wanted to be here to help.”

  “I’d rather you both stayed on the boat.” Pitt unhooked his holster and passed the SIG Sauer to Dirk. “Keep an eye on your sister.”

  “No worries,” Summer whispered beside him.

  A commando had already engaged the outboard motor, propelling the inflatable toward shore behind the first two assault craft. The first boat veered left for the cove, while the other two eased right toward a small protected bluff. The boats had been in the water less than five minutes when their entire plan of attack fell apart.

  A ring of moored buoys containing sensors and video cameras had detected their approach. Alarms sounded around the compound, alerting Bolcke’s security fo
rces. Most deployed to the dock after securing the prisoners, while another force took to the roof of Bolcke’s residence.

  Boat 1, with Alvarez leading his team, took the first hit. Maneuvering past a fake mangrove swamp, they approached the dock—only to be met with a fusillade from shore. Alvarez and his men gamely fired back, suppressing some of the gunfire, until a battery of rocket-propelled grenades came blasting at them. One landed in the boat, skidding to the rear transom before detonating. Two men were killed instantly as the stern blew apart, sending the rest of the men into the water.

  Boats 2 and 3 had a moment’s warning before gunfire erupted from the rooftop of Bolcke’s concealed residence. Closest to the shore, boat 2 took the brunt of the fire, incurring several casualties, as they maneuvered and returned fire. The pilot managed to run the boat ashore, the commandos finding marginal protection behind a low rock berm. But the team was effectively pinned down by the shooters on the roof.

  “Run to the right!” Pitt yelled to boat 3’s pilot as the battle ignited in front of them.

  He had foreseen boat 2’s predicament and motioned for the pilot to sweep hard right and put ashore out of view of the residence. The panicked pilot turned up the outboard’s throttle and jammed the rudder to the side. They nearly made it unscathed as the team leader, a burly man named Jorge, organized return fire. But as the rooftop shooters focused on the third boat, Jorge was shot twice in the stomach.

  Pitt saw the scared look in the eyes of the other commandos, none of whom had ever witnessed actual combat. He immediately stepped forward.

  “We need to suppress the rooftop fire to get the men from boat 2 off the beach. Follow me to the house.”

  When their hull touched bottom, Pitt leaped over the side and sprinted into the jungle. Inspired by his show of fearlessness, the commandos tore after him.

  “I’ll stay here and look after Jorge,” Summer said to Dirk as she rummaged for a medical kit. “Go help Dad.”

  Dirk nodded, thumbing off the safety of his pistol, and leaping from the boat. He quickly caught up with the others as they snaked their way through the jungle. Pitt stopped them at the fringe of a clearing that surrounded the house. Several gunmen were visible on the roof, waiting for them to emerge from the brush.