"And you think the Texas sailed across the sea and entered the Niger River?" Pitt ventured.
"I do," the Kid replied firmly. "I've traced contemporary sightin's by French colonials and natives who passed down stories of the monster without sails that floated by their villages on the river. Descriptions of the warship and the dates it was observed satisfy me that it was the Texas. "
"How could a warship the size and tonnage of an ironclad steam this far into the Sahara without stranding?" asked Giordino.
"That was in the days before the century of drought. This part of the desert had rain then, and the Niger ran much deeper than it does now. One of its tributaries was the Oued Zarit. At that time the Oued Zarit flowed from the Ahaggar Mountains northeast of here 600 miles to the Niger. Journals of French explorers and military expeditions say it was deep enough to afford passage for large boats. My guess is the Texas turned up the Oued Zarit from the Niger then grounded and became trapped when the water level began to drop with the approach of the summer heat."
"Even with a fair depth of water it seems impossible for a heavy vessel like an ironclad to sail this far from the sea."
"The Texas was built for military operations on the James River. She had a flat bottom and shallow draft. Navigatin' the tricky turns and depths of a river was no problem for her and her crew. The miracle was that she crossed an open ocean without sinkin' in rough water and heavy weather like the Monitor. "
"A ship could have reached any number of unpopulated regions during the 1860s up and down the North and Central American shores," Pitt said. "Why risk losing the gold hoard by sailing over dangerous seas and crossing uncharted country?"
The Kid took a cigar stub from his shirt pocket and lit it with a wooden match. "You have to admit, the Union navy never would have thought to search for the Texas a thousand miles up a river in Africa."
"Probably not, but it certainly seems like an extreme."
"I'm with you," said Giordino. "Why the desperation? They couldn't rebuild another government in the middle of a desert wasteland."
Pitt looked at the Kid thoughtfully. "There had to be more to the hazardous voyage than smuggling gold."
"There was a rumor." The subtle change in tone could hardly be called evasive, but it was unmistakable. "Lincoln was on board the Texas when she left Richmond."
"Not Abraham Lincoln," Giordino scoffed.
The Kid silently nodded.
"Who dreamed up that piece of fiction?" Pitt waved off another offer of the rye.
"A Confederate cavalry captain by the name of Neville Brown made a deathbed statement to a doctor in Charleston, South Carolina, when he died in 1908. He claimed his troop captured Lincoln and delivered him on board the Texas. "
"The ravings of a dying man," murmured Giordino in absolute disbelief. "Lincoln must have caught the Concorde to arrive in time to be shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre."
"I don't know the whole story," admitted the Kid.
"A fantastic but intriguing tale," said Pitt. "But tough to take seriously."
"I can't guarantee the Lincoln legend," the Kid said adamantly, "but I'll bet Mr. Periwinkle and the remains of my grubstake, the Texas and the bones of her crew, along with the gold, lie here in the sand somewhere. I've been roamin' the desert for five years searchin' for her remains and by God I'm gonna find her or die tryin'."
Pitt gazed at the shadowed form of the old prospector in sympathy and respect. He rarely saw such dedication and determination. There was a burning confidence in the Kid that reminded Pitt of the old miner in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
"If she's buried under a dune, how do you intend on discovering her?" asked Giordino.
"I got a good metal detector, a Fisher 1265X."
Pitt could think of nothing more of consequence to say except, "I hope good luck leads you to the Texas, and she's all you imagined."
The Kid lay there on his blanket without speaking for several seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Finally, Giordino broke the silence.
"It's time we were on our way if we want to make any distance by dawn."
Twenty minutes later the engine of the Voisin was quietly idling as Pitt and Giordino said their goodbyes to the Kid and Mr. Periwinkle. The old prospector had insisted they take several packages of concentrated food from his stock. He had also drawn them a rough map of the ancient riverbed, marking in landmarks and the only well near the trail leading to the waste facility at Fort Foureau.
"How far?" asked Pitt.
The Kid shrugged. "About 110 miles."
"A hundred and seventy-seven kilometers on the odometer," translated Giordino.
"Hope you fellas find what you're lookin' for."
Pitt shook hands and smiled. "You too." He climbed in the Voisin and settled behind the wheel, almost sad to leave the old man.
Giordino lingered a moment as he bid a farewell. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Glad to be of help."
"I've been wanting to say this, but you look vaguely familiar."
"Can't imagine why. I don't recall meetin' up with you fellas before."
"Would I offend you if I asked you your real name?"
"Not at all, I don't take offense easily. It's an odd name. Never used it much."
Giordino waited patiently without interrupting.
"It's Clive Cussler."
Giordino smiled. "You're right, it is an odd name."
Then he turned and settled in the front seat beside Pitt. He turned to wave as Pitt eased out the clutch and the Voisin began rolling over the fiat bed of the gully. But the old man and his faithful burro were quickly lost in the dark of evening.
DESERT SECRETS
May 18, 1996
Washington, D. C.
The Air France Concorde touched down at Dulles Airport and taxied up to an unmarked U.S. government hangar near the cargo terminals. The sky was overcast, but the runway was dry and showed no sign of rain. Still clutching his backpack as if it was part of him, Gunn exited the sleek aircraft almost immediately and hurried down the mobile stairway to a waiting black Ford sedan driven by uniformed capital police. With flashing lights and screaming siren, he was whisked toward the NUMA headquarters building in the nation's capital.
Gunn felt like a captured felon, riding in the backseat of the speeding police car. He noticed that the Potomac River looked unusually green and leaden as they shot over the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge. The blur of pedestrians was too immune to revolving lights and sirens to bother looking up as the Ford shot past.
The driver did not pull up at the main entrance but swung around the west corner of the NUMA building, tires squealing, and flew down a ramp leading to a garage beneath the lobby floor. The Ford came to an abrupt stop in front of an elevator. Two security guards stepped forward, opened the door, and escorted Gunn into the elevator and up to the agency's fourth floor. A short distance down the hallway they stood back and opened the door to the NUMA's vast conference room with its sophisticated visual displays.
Several men and women were seated around a long mahogany table, their attention focused on Dr. Chapman, who was lecturing in front of a screen that depicted the middle Atlantic Ocean along the equator off West Africa.
The room abruptly hushed as Gunn walked in. Admiral Sandecker rose out of his chair, rushed forward, and greeted Gunn like a brother who had survived a liver transplant.
"Thank God, you got through," he said with unaccustomed emotion. "How was your flight from Paris?"
"Felt like an outcast sitting in a Concorde all by myself."
"No military planes were immediately available. Chartering a Concorde was the only expedient means of getting you here fast."
"Nice, so long as the taxpayers don't find out."
"If they knew their very existence was at stake, I doubt if they'd complain."
Sandecker introduced Gunn around the conference table. "With three exceptions I think you know most everyone here."
Dr. Chapman and Hiram Yaeger came over and shook hands, showing their obvious pleasure at seeing him. He was introduced to Dr. Muriel Hoag, NUMA's director of marine biology, and Dr. Evan Holland, the agency's environmental expert.
Muriel Hoag was quite tall and built like a starving fashion model. Her jet-black hair was brushed back in a neat bun and her brown eyes peered through round spectacles. She wore no makeup, which was just as well, Gunn thought. A complete makeover by Beverly Hills' top beauty salon would have been a wasted effort.
Evan Holland was an environmental chemist and looked like a basset hound contemplating a frog in his dish. His ears were two sizes too large for his head, and he had a long nose that rounded at the tip. His eyes stared at the world as if they were soaked in melancholy. Holland's appearance was deceiving. He was one of the most astute pollution investigators in the business.
The other two men, Chip Webster, satellite analyst for NUMA, and Keith Hodge, the agency's chief oceanographer, Gunn already knew.
He turned to Sandecker. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to evacuate me out of Mali."
"Hala Kamil personally gave her authorization to use a UN tactical team."
"The officer in charge of the operation, a Colonel Levant, acted none too happy to greet me."
"General Bock, his superior, and Colonel Levant both took a bit of persuading," Sandecker admitted. "But when they realized the urgency of your data they gave their full cooperation."
"They masterminded a very smooth operation," Gunn said "Incredible they could plan and carry it through overnight."
If Gunn thought Sandecker would fill him in on the details, he was to be disappointed. Impatience was etched in every crease in the Admiral's face. There was a tray with coffee and sweet rolls, but he didn't offer Gunn any. He grabbed him by one arm and hustled him to a chair at one end of the long conference table.
"Let's get to it," the Admiral said brusquely. "Everyone is anxious to hear about your discovery of the compound causing the red tide explosion."
Gunn sat down at the table, opened his knapsack, and began retrieving the contents. Very carefully, he unwrapped the glass vials of water samples and laid them on a cloth. Next he unpacked the data disks and set them to one side. Then he looked up.
"Here are the water samples and results as interpreted by my on-board instruments and computers. Through a bit of luck I was able to identify the stimulator of the red tide as a most unusual organometallic compound, a combination of a synthetic amino acid and cobalt. I also found traces of radiation in the water, but I do not believe it has any direct relation to the contaminant's impact on the red tide."
"Considering the hardships and obstacles thrown in your path by the West Africans," said Chapman, "it's a miracle you were able to get a grip on the cause."
"Fortunately, none of my instruments were damaged after our run-in with the Benin navy."
"I received an inquiry from the CIA," said Sandecker with a tight smile, "asking if we knew anything about a maverick operation in Mali after you destroyed half the Benin navy and a helicopter."
"What did you tell them?"
"I lied. Please go on."
"Fire from one Benin gunboat did, however, manage to destroy our data transmission system," Gunn continued, "making it impossible to telemeter my results to Hiram Yaeger's computer network."
"I'd like to retest your water samples while Hiram verifies your analysis data," said Chapman.
Yaeger stepped next to Gunn and tenderly picked up the computer disks. "Not much I can contribute to this meeting, so I'll get to work."
As soon as the computer wizard had left the room, Gunn stared at Chapman. "I double- and triple-checked my results. I'm confident your lab and Hiram will confirm my findings."
Chapman sensed the tension in Gunn's tone. "Believe me when I say I don't question your procedures or data for a minute. You, Pitt, and Giordino did one hell of a job. Thanks to your efforts we now know what we're dealing with. Now the President can use his clout to lean on Mali to shut off the contaminant at the source. This will buy us time to formulate ways to neutralize its effects and stop further expansion of the red tides."
"Don't break out the cake and ice cream just yet," Gunn warned seriously. "Though we tracked the compound to its entry point into the river and identified its properties, we were unable to discover the location of its source."
Sandecker drummed his fingers on the table. "Pitt gave me the bad news before he was cut off. I apologize for not passing along the information, but I was counting on a satellite survey to fill in the missing piece."
Muriel Hoag looked directly into Gunn's eyes. "I don't understand how you successfully pursued the compound through 1000 kilometers of water and then lost it on land."
"It was easy," Gunn shrugged wearily. "After we sailed beyond the point of highest concentration, our contaminant readings dropped off and the instruments began showing water with commonly known pollutants. We made several runs back and forth to confirm. We also took visual sightings in every direction. No hazardous waste dump site, no chemical storage or manufacturing facilities were visible along the river or inland. No buildings or construction, nothing. Only barren desert."
"Could a dump site have been buried over at some time in the past?" suggested Holland.
"We observed no evidence of excavation," replied Gunn.
"Any chance the toxin was brewed by mother nature?" asked Chip Webster.
Muriel Hoag smiled. "If tests bear out Mr. Gunn's analysis of a synthetic amino acid, it must have been produced by a biotech laboratory. Not mother nature. And somewhere, somehow, it was discarded along with chemicals containing cobalt. Not the first time accidental integration of chemicals produced a previously unknown compound."
"How in God's name could such an exotic compound suddenly appear in the middle of the Sahara?" wondered Chip Webster.
"And reach the ocean where it acts as steroids to dinoflagellates," added Holland.
Sandecker looked at Keith Hodge. "What's the latest report on the spread of the red tide?"
The oceanographer was in his sixties. Unblinking dark brown eyes gazed from a continually fixed expression on a lean, high-cheekboned face. With the correctly dated clothing he could have stepped from an eighteenth-century portrait.
"The spread has increased 30 percent in the past four days. I fear the growth rate is exceeding our most dire projections."
"But if Dr. Chapman can develop a compound to neutralize the contamination, and we find and cut it off at the source, can't we then control the tide's expansion?"
"Better make it soon," answered Hodge. "At the rate it's proliferating, another month and we should see the first evidence of it beginning to feed off itself without stimulation flowing from the Niger."
"That's three months early!" Muriel Hoag said sharply.
Hodge gave a helpless shrug. "When you're dealing with an unknown the only sure commodity is uncertainty."
Sandecker swung sideways in his chair and gazed at the blown-up satellite photo of Mali projected on one wall. "Where does the compound enter the river?" he asked Gunn.
Gunn stood and walked over to the enlarged photo. He picked up a grease pencil and circled a small area of the Niger River above Gao on the white backdrop reflecting the projection. "Right about here, off an old riverbed that once flowed into the Niger."
Chip Webster pressed the buttons of a small console sitting on the table, and enlarged the area around Gunn's marking. "No structures visible. No indication of population. Nor do I make out any sign of excavated dirt or a mound that would have to be in evidence if any type, of trench was dug to bury hazardous materials."
"This is an enigma, all right," muttered Chapman. "Where in the devil can the rotten stuff come from?"
"Pitt and Giordino are still out there searching for it," Gunn reminded them.
"Any late word of their condition or whereabouts?" asked Hodge.
"Nothing since Pitt's call aboard Yves Massarde's boat,"
replied Sandecker.
Hodge looked up from his notepad. "Yves Massarde? God, not that pond slime."
"You know him?"
Hodge nodded. "I crossed paths with him after a bad chemical spill in the Med off Spain four years ago. One of his ships that was carrying waste carcinogenic chemicals known as PCBs for disposal in Algeria broke up and sank in a storm. I personally think the ship was scuttled in a combination insurance scam and illegal dump. As it turned out, Algerian officials never had any intention of accepting the waste for disposal. Then Massarde lied and cheated and pulled every legal dodge on the books to evade responsibility for cleaning up the mess. You shake hands with that guy and you better count your fingers when you walk away."
Gunn turned to Webster. "Intelligence-gathering satellites can read newspapers from space. Why can't we orbit one over the desert north of Gao in search of Pitt and Giordino?"
Webster shook his head. "Negative. My contacts at the National Security Agency have their best eyes in the sky keeping tabs on the new Chinese rocket firings, the civil war going on in the Ukraine, and the border clashes with Syria and Iraq. They're not about to spare us time from their intelligence scans to find civilians in the Sahara Desert. I can go with the latest-model GeoSat. But it's questionable whether it can distinguish human forms against the uneven terrain of a desert like the Sahara."
"Wouldn't they show up against a sand dune?" asked Chapman.
Webster shook his head. "No one traveling the Sahara in their right mind would walk across the soft sand of dunes. Even the nomads skirt around them. Wandering in a sea of dunes means certain death. Pitt and Giordino are smart enough to avoid them like the plague."
"But you will do a search and survey," Sandecker insisted.
Webster nodded. He was quite bald with little indication of a neck. A round belly hung over his belt, and he might have posed as a "before" on a weight-loss commercial. "I've a good friend who's a top analyst over at the Pentagon and an expert on satellite desert reconnaissance. I think I can sweet-talk him into examining our GeoSat photos with his state-of-the-art enhancing computers."
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