Sahara dpa-11

by Clive Cussler

  Sahara

  ( Dirk Pitt Adventure - 11 )

  Clive Cussler

  It is 1865. A Confederate ironclad, Texas, fights her way through the Federal blockade and vanishes into the Atlantic as Richmond falls, bearing a secret cargo that could change history... It is 1931. A world-famous Australian aviatrix, Kitty Mannock, vanishes mysteriously in the middle of the Sahara while attempting a record-breaking flight from London to Capetown and is never see again...

  It is 1995. Dirk Pitt, on a mission to find the remains of a Pharaoh's funeral barge buried in the bottom of the Nile, rescues an attractive young woman, Dr. Eva Rojas, a biochemist with the UN World Health Organization, from being murdered by thugs on a beach near Alexandria... Who but Clive Cussler could tie these events together in a book that is Dirk Pitt's most gripping and action-packed adventure ever?

  Clive Cussler

  Sahara

  Dr. Eva Rojas: On a beach near Alexandria two men brutally attacked her. Saved by Dirk Pitt, she realized that she had stumbled upon a terrible secret. . .

  Yves Massarde: Known as the Scorpion, he made clandestine deals to get rid of other countries' toxic waste-- and turned the Western Sahara into a death factory. . .

  General Zateb Kazim: His pact with Massarde made him a multimillionaire in one of the world's poorest nations. He would do anything-- and kill anyone-- to protect Massarde's empire. . .

  Admiral James Sandecker: The Chief of the National Underwater and Marine Agency sent Pitt to find the source of a spreading tide of poison-- and gave him a remarkable weapon to do it. . .

  Hala Kamil: With her black eyes and ebony hair, the Egyptian Secretary General of the U.N. was a rare beauty. But a love affair had compromised her-- and placed Dirk Pitt in danger. . .

  THE GAUNTLET

  April 2, 1865

  Richmond, Virginia

  She seemed to float above the ghostly evening mist like a menacing beast rising from the primeval ooze. Her low silhouette stood black and ominous against the backdrop of the trees along the shoreline. Shadowy, phantom-like images of men moved across her decks under the eerie yellow glow of lanterns as moisture trickled down her gray, sloping sides and dripped into the sluggish current of the James River.

  The Texas tugged at her dockside mooring line as impatiently as a hound about to be unleashed for the hunt. Thick iron shutters covered her gun-ports and the 6-inch armor on her casemate showed no markings. Only a white and red battle ensign atop the mast behind her smokestack, hanging limp in the damp atmosphere, signified her as a warship of the Confederate States Navy.

  To landsmen she looked squat and ugly, but to sailors there was a character and grace about her that was unmistakable. She was tough, and she was deadly, the last of her peculiar design that set sail on a cruise to extinction after a brief but enduring burst of glory.

  Commander Mason Tombs stood on the forward deck, pulled a blue bandana from a pocket, and dabbed at the dampness that seeped inside the collar of his uniform. The loading was going slow, too slow. The Texas would need every minute of available darkness for her escape to the open sea. He watched anxiously as his crew swore and strained while they manhandled wooden crates across a gangplank and down an open hatch on the deck. The crates seemed unusually heavy for containing the written records of the four-year-old government. They came from mule drawn wagons deployed near the dock that were strongly guarded by the battle-weary survivors of a Georgia infantry company.

  Tombs turned an uneasy eye toward Richmond, only 2 miles to the north. Grant had broken Lee's stubborn defense of Petersburg, and now the battered army of the South was retreating toward Appomattox and abandoning the Confederate capital to the advancing Union forces. The evacuation was underway and the city was filled with confusion as riots and pillaging swept the streets. Explosions shook the ground and flames burst into the night as warehouses and arsenals filled with supplies of war were put to the torch.

  Tombs was ambitious and energetic, one of the finest naval officers in the Confederacy. He was a short, handsome-faced man with brown hair and eyebrows; a thick red beard, and a flinty look in his olive black eyes.

  Commander of small gunboats at the battles of New Orleans and Memphis, gunnery officer on board the fighting ironclad Arkansas, and first officer of the infamous sea raider Florida, Tombs had proven a dangerous man for the Union cause. He had assumed command of the Texas only a week after she was completed at the Rocketts naval yard in Richmond, having demanded and supervised a number of modifications in preparation for an almost impossible voyage downriver past a thousand Union guns.

  He turned his attention back to the cargo loading as the last wagon pulled away from the dock and disappeared into the night. He slipped his watch from a pocket, opened the lid, and held up the face toward a lantern that hung on a dock piling.

  It read eight-twenty. Little more than eight hours left before daylight. Not enough time to run the last 20 miles of the gauntlet under the cloak of darkness.

  An open carriage pulled by a team of dappled horses rolled up and stopped beside the dock. The driver sat stiffly without turning as the two passengers watched the final few crates being lowered through the hatch. The heavier man in civilian clothes slouched tiredly while the other, who was wearing an officer's naval uniform, spied Tombs and waved.

  Tombs stepped across the plank onto the dock, approached the carriage, and saluted smartly. "An honor, Admiral, Mr. Secretary. I didn't think either of you would have time for a farewell."

  Admiral Raphael Semmes, famed for his exploits as captain of the Confederate sea wolf, Alabama, and now commander of the James River squadron of ironclad gunboats, nodded and smiled through a heavily waxed moustache and a small goatee protruding beneath his lower lip. "A regiment of Yankees couldn't have kept me from seeing you off."

  Stephen Mallory, Secretary of the Confederate States Navy, stretched out a hand. "Too much is riding on you for us not to take the time to wish you luck."

  "I've a stout ship and a brave crew," said Tombs with confidence. "We'll break through."

  Semmes' smile faded and his eyes filled with foreboding. "If you find it impossible, you must burn and scuttle the ship in the deepest part of the river so that our archives can never be salvaged by the Union."

  "The charges are in place and primed," Tombs assured Semmes. "The bottom hull will be blown away, dropping the weighted crates in the river mud while the ship continues a safe distance away under full steam before sinking."

  Mallory nodded. "A sound plan."

  The two men in the carriage exchanged strange knowing looks. An awkward moment passed. Then Semmes said, "I'm sorry to lay another burden on your shoulders at the last moment, but you will also be responsible for a passenger."

  "Passenger?" Tombs repeated grimly. "No one who values his life I trust."

  "He has no choice in the matter," Mallory muttered.

  "Where is he?" Tombs demanded, gazing around the dock. "We're almost ready to cast off."

  "He will arrive shortly," replied Semmes.

  "May I ask who he is?"

  "You will recognize him easily enough," said Mallory. "And pray the enemy also identifies him should you need to put him on display."

  "I don't understand."

  Mallory smiled for the first time. "You will, my boy, you will."

  "A piece of information you may find useful," said Semmes, changing the subject. "My spies report that our former ironclad ram, the Atlanta, captured last year by `Yankee monitors, has been pressed into service by the Union navy and is patrolling the river above Newport News."

  Tombs brightened. "Yes, I see. Since the Texas has the same general shape and approximate dimensions she could be mistaken for the Atlanta in the dark."

  Semmes
nodded and handed him a folded flag. "The stars and stripes. You'll need it for the masquerade."

  Tombs took the Union banner and held it under one arm. "I'll have it run up the mast shortly before we reach the Union artillery emplacements at Trents Reach."

  "Then good luck to you," said Semmes. "Sorry we can't stay to see you cast off, but the Secretary has a train to catch and I have to return to the fleet and oversee its destruction before the Yankees are upon us."

  The Secretary of the Confederate navy shook Tombs' hand once more. "The blockade runner Fox is standing by off Bermuda to recoal your bunkers for the next leg of your voyage. Good fortune to you, Commander. The salvation of the Confederacy is in your hands."

  Before Tombs could reply, Mallory ordered the carriage driver to move on. Tombs raised his hand in a final salute and stood there, his mind failing to comprehend the Secretary's farewell. Salvation of the Confederacy? The words made no sense. The war was lost. With Sherman moving north from the Carolinas and Grant surging south through Virginia like a tidal wave, Lee would be caught between the Union pincers and forced to surrender in a matter of days. Jefferson Davis would soon be broken from President of the Confederate States to a common fugitive.

  And within a few short hours, the Texas had every expectation of being the last ship of the Confederate navy to die a watery death.

  Where was the salvation should the Texas make good her escape? Tombs failed to fathom a vague answer. His orders were to transport the government's archives to a neutral port of his choosing and remain out of sight until contacted by courier. How could the successful smuggling of bureaucratic records possibly prevent the certain defeat of the South?

  His thoughts were interrupted by his first officer, Lieutenant Ezra Craven.

  "The loading is completed and the cargo stored, sir," announced Craven. "Shall I give the order to cast off?"

  Tombs turned. "Not yet. We have to take on a passenger."

  Craven, a big brusque Scotsman, spoke with a peculiar combination of brogue and southern drawl. "He'd better make it damned quick."

  "Is Chief Engineer O'Hare ready to get underway?"

  "His engines have a full head of steam."

  "And the gun crews?"

  "Manning their stations."

  "We'll stay buttoned up until we meet the Federal fleet. We can't afford to lode a gun and crew from a lucky shot through a port beforehand."

  "The men won't take kindly to turning the other cheek."

  "Tell them they'll live longer-"

  Both men swung and stared toward the shore at the sound of approaching hooves. A few seconds later a Confederate officer rode out of the darkness and onto the dock.

  "One of you Commander Tombs?" he asked in a tired voice.

  "I'm Tombs," he said, stepping forward.

  The rider swung down from his horse and saluted. He was covered with road dust and looked exhausted. "My compliments, sir. Captain Neville Brown, in charge of the escort for your prisoner."

  "Prisoner," Tombs echoed. "I was told he was a passenger."

  "Treat him as you will," Brown shrugged indifferently.

  "Where is he?" Tombs asked for the second time that night.

  "Immediately behind. I rode out in advance of my party to warn you not to be alarmed."

  "Is the man daft?" muttered Craven. "Alarmed at what?"

  His question was answered as a closed coach rumbled onto the dock surrounded by a detachment of riders dressed in the blue uniform of Union cavalry.

  Tombs was on the verge of shouting for his crew to run out the guns and repel boarders when Captain Brown calmly reassured him. "Rest easy, Commander. They're good southern boys. Dressing up like Yankees was the only way we could pass safely through Union lines."

  Two of the men dismounted and opened the door of the coach and helped the passenger through the door. A very tall, gaunt man with a familiar beard stepped tiredly to the wooden planking of the dock. He wore manacles that were attached by chains to his wrists and ankles. He studied the ironclad for a moment through solemn eyes, and then turned and nodded at Tombs and Craven.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," he spoke in a voice pitched slightly high. "Am I to assume I'm to enjoy the hospitality of the Confederate navy?"

  Tombs did not reply, he could not reply. He stood there rooted with Craven in blank disbelief, their expressions matched in total mystification.

  "My God," Craven finally murmured. "If you're a fake, sir, you're a good one."

  "No," the prisoner replied. "I assure you, I am the genuine article."

  "How is this possible?" Tombs asked, completely unprepared.

  Brown remounted his horse. "There's no time for an explanation. I have to lead my men across the river over the Richmond Bridge before it is blown up. He's your responsibility now."

  "What am I supposed to do with him?" Tombs demanded.

  "Keep him confined on board your ship until you receive orders for his release. That's all I've been told to pass on."

  "This is crazy."

  "So is war, Commander," Brown said over his shoulder as he spurred his horse and rode off, followed by his small detachment disguised as Union cavalry.

  There was no more time, no more interruptions to delay the Texas' voyage to hell. Tombs turned to Craven.

  "Lieutenant, escort our passenger to my quarters and tell Chief Engineer O'Hare to send a mechanic to remove the manacles. I won't die as commander of a slave ship."

  The bearded man smiled at Tombs. "Thank you, Commander. I'm grateful for your kindness."

  "Do not thank me," said Tombs grimly. "By sun up we'll all be introducing ourselves to the devil."

  Ever so gradually at first, then faster and faster, the Texas began to steam downriver, helped along by the 2-knot current. No wind stirred, and except for the throb of the engines, the river ran silent. In the pale light of a quarter moon, she slid across the black water like a wraith, more sensed than seen, almost an illusion.

  She seemed to have no substance, no solidity. Only her movement gave her away, revealing a spectral outline gliding past a motionless shore. Designed specifically for one mission, one voyage, tier builders had constructed a marvelous machine, the finest fighting machine the Confederates had put afloat during the four years of war.

  She was a twin-screw, twin-engined vessel, 190 feet in length, 40 feet of beam, and drawing only 11 feet of water. The sloping 12-foot-high sides of her casemate were angled inward at 30 degrees and covered with 6 inches of iron plate backed by 12 inches of cotton compressed by 20 inches of oak and pine. Her armor continued under the waterline, forming a curled knuckle that extended out from the hull.

  The Texas carried only four guns, but they had a vicious bite. Two 100-pound Blakely rifled guns were mounted fore and aft on pivots that allowed them to be fired in broadside while two 9-inch, 64-pounders covered the port and starboard.

  Unlike other ironclads whose machinery had been stripped out of commercial steamers, her engines were big, powerful, and brand new. Her heavy boilers lay below the waterline, and the 9-foot screws could push her hull through calm water at 14 knots, the nautical equivalent of 16 mph-tremendous speed unmatched by any armored ship in both navies.

  Tombs was proud of his ship, yet saddened too, knowing that her life might well be short. But he was determined that the two of them would write a fitting epitaph to the closing glory of the Confederate states.

  He climbed a ladder from the gun deck and entered the pilothouse, a small structure on the forward section of the casemate that was shaped like a pyramid with the top leveled off. He stared through the eye slits at the darkness and then nodded toward the strangely silent Chief Pilot, Leigh Hunt.

  "We'll be under full steam the entire trip to the sea, Mr. Hunt. You'll have to bear a sharp eye to keep us from running aground."

  Hunt, a James River pilot who knew every bend and shoal like the creases in his face, kept his eyes focused ahead and tipped his head upward. "What little light comes fro
m the moon is enough for me to read the river."

  "Yankee gunners will use it too."

  "True, but our gray sides blend with the shadows along the bank. They won't pick us out easily."

  "Let us hope so," Tombs sighed.

  He climbed through a rear hatch and stood on the casemate roof as the Texas reached Drewrys Bluff and surged through the moored gunboats of Admiral Semmes' James River Fleet. The crews of her sister ironclads, Virginia II, Fredericksburg, and Richmond, sick at heart as they prepared to blow their ships into the air, suddenly broke into wild cheering as the Texas swept past. Black smoke spewed from her stack and obscured the stars. The Confederate battle flag stretched out taut in the breeze from the ship's forward thrust, presenting a stirring sight that would never be seen again.

  Tombs doffed his hat and held it high. It was the final dream that would soon become a nightmare of bitterness and defeat. And yet, it was a grand moment to be savored. The Texas was on her way to becoming a legend.

  And then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone around the river's bend, her wake the only sign of her passing.

  Just above the Trents Reach, where the Federal army had stretched an obstruction, across the river and dug several artillery emplacements, Tombs ordered the United States colors raised on the mast.

  Inside the casemate, the gun deck was cleared for action. Most of the men had stripped to the waist and stood at their guns with handkerchiefs tied around their foreheads. The officers had removed their coats and quietly strode the deck in their undershirts beneath suspenders. The ship's surgeon passed out tourniquets and instructed the men on how to apply them.

  Fire buckets were spaced about the deck. Sand was spread to soak up blood. Pistols and cutlasses were issued to repel boarders, rifles loaded with bayonets fixed on their muzzles. The hatches to the magazine rooms below the gun deck were opened and the winches and pulleys readied to hoist the shot and powder.