Sahara dpa-11

by Clive Cussler

  Captain Brunone stood back and gestured for Pitt and Giordino to follow Massarde.

  He led them across a hall into a room whose center was filled by a three-dimensional scale, cutaway model of the Fort Foureau hazardous waste disposal project. The layout was elaborate, the detail so meticulous it was like looking at the real thing from a helicopter.

  "Is this mock-up true to life or a fantasyland?" asked Pitt.

  "What you see is an exact representation," Massarde assured him.

  "And you're about to give us a no-frills, fact-filled lecture on its operation."

  "A lecture you can take with you to the grave," Massarde said reproachfully. He picked up a long ivory pointer and aimed its tip at a large field on the south side of the project covered with huge flat modules slanted toward the sun. "We are completely energy sufficient," Massarde began. "We produce our own electricity with this photovoltaic grid system of flat-plate solar cell modules made from polycrystalline silicon that covers 4 square kilometers. Are yon: familiar with photovoltaics?"

  "I know that it's rapidly becoming the world's most economical energy source," answered Pitt. "As I understand it, photovoltaics is a solar technology that converts the sun's power into direct current electrical energy."

  "Quite right," said Massarde. "When sunlight, or what scientists refer to as solar photon energy, strikes the surface of these cells after its 115-million-kilometer journey from the sun, a flow of electricity is produced, enough to operate a project three times this size should we wish to expand." He paused and aimed the pointer at a structure near the array of modules. "This building houses the generators powered by the energy converted from the modular field and the battery subsystem where the energy is stored for nighttime use or for days when the sun does not shine, which is a rarity in this part of the Sahara."

  "Efficient," said Pitt. "An efficient power system. But your array of solar concentrators, they do not operate with the same degree of effectiveness?"

  Massarde looked thoughtfully at Pitt. He wondered why this man always seemed a step ahead of him. He swung the pointer toward a field next to the solar cells that held the array of parabolic trough collectors Pitt had observed the day before.

  "They do," he replied icily. "My solar thermal technology for the destruction of hazardous wastes is the most advanced program of any industrial nation. This field of superconcentrators delivers solar concentrations higher than the normal light of eighty thousand suns. This high intensity sunlight, or photon energy, is then focused into the first of two quartz reactors." Massarde paused to touch the pointer against a miniature building. "The first breaks the toxic waste down into harmless chemicals at a temperature of 950 degrees Celsius. The second reactor, at temperatures around 1200 degrees Celsius, incinerates any remaining infinitesimal residue. The destruction of every known manmade toxic chemical is total and complete."

  Pitt looked at Massarde with respect mixed with doubt. "This all sounds very thorough and final. But if your detoxification operation is a state-of-the-art wonder of utility, why are you hiding millions of tons of waste underground?"

  "Very few people are aware of the staggering number of chemicals that are spread around the globe. There are over seven million known man-made chemical compounds. And each week chemists create ten thousand new ones. At current rates, over two billion tons of waste are accumulating around the world every year. Three hundred million alone in the United States. Twice that in Europe and Russia More than double that amount when you throw in South America, Africa, Japan, and China. Some is burned by incinerators; most is illegally dumped in landfills or discharged in water supplies. There is no place for it to go. Here in the Sahara, far from the crowded cities and farmlands, I have provided a safe place for international industries to send their toxic waste. At the moment Fort Foureau can destroy over four hundred million tons of hazardous waste a year. But I cannot destroy it all, not until my solar thermal detoxification projects in the Gobi Desert and Australia are completed to handle waste from China and nations of the Far East. For your interest, I also have a facility only two weeks away from start-up in the United States."

  "Very commendable, but that doesn't excuse you from burying what you can't destroy and charging for it."

  Massarde nodded. "Cost efficiency, Mr. Pitt. It's cheaper to hide toxic waste than destroy it."

  "And you follow the same line of logic for nuclear waste," said Pitt accusingly.

  "Waste is waste. As far as humans are concerned, the only basic difference between nuclear and toxic is that one kills with radioactivity and the other with poison."

  "Dump and forget it, and to hell with the consequences."

  Massarde gave an indifferent shrug. "It has to go somewhere. My country has the largest nuclear energy program in the world second only to the United States in number of reactors in operation to generate electricity. Two radioactive waste repositories are already in operation. One at Soulaines, the other at La Manche. Unfortunately, neither, was designed to dispose of long-life or high-level nuclear waste. Plutonium 239, for example, has a half-life of twenty-four thousand years. There are other radioactive nuclides that have half-lives a hundred times longer. No containment system will last more than ten or twenty years. As you have discovered on your uninvited expedition into our storage cavern, we receive and dispose of the high-level waste here."

  "Then despite your holier-than-thou speech on hazardous waste management, your solar detoxification project is a front."

  Massarde smiled thinly. "In a sense, yes. But as I've explained, we actually destroy a high amount of waste."

  "Mostly for appearance's sake," Pitt said, his voice cold and compelling. "I give you credit, Massarde, building this phony project without international intelligence agencies getting wind of it. How did you fool spy satellites while you excavated your storage caverns?"

  "Nothing really," Massarde said arrogantly. "After I built the railroad to bring in construction workers and materials, the excavation began under the first building erected. The soil was secretly removed and loaded in the empty railroad containers returning to Mauritania and used for a landfill in the nation's port city, a profitable ongoing project I might add."

  "Very shrewd. You get paid for the waste coming in and for the sand and rock going out."

  "I never stop at seeking merely one advantage," Massarde said philosophically.

  "No one is the wiser, and no one complains," said Pitt. "No environmental protection agencies threatening to close you down, no international uproar over polluting underground water systems. No one questions your methods of operation, particularly the corporations that produce the waste, and who are only too glad to get rid of it for a price."

  Verenne's expressionless gaze rested on Pitt. "There are few saints who practice what they preach when it comes to saving the environment," he said coldly. "Everyone is guilty, Mr. Pitt. Everyone who enjoys the benefits of chemical compounds from gasoline to plastics to water purification and food preservatives. It is a case of the jury secretly agreeing with the guilty. No one man or organization can control and destroy the monster. It is a self-propagating Frankenstein that is too late to kill."

  "So you make it worse by feeding on it in the name of profit. Instead of a solution, you've created a hoax."

  "Hoax?"

  "Yes, by reneging on the expense of building long-lasting waste canisters and excavating deep deposit chambers several kilometers underground, in geologically stable rock formations far beneath existing water tables." Pitt turned from Verenne to Massarde. "You're nothing more than a shyster contractor who charges exorbitant prices for inferior construction that endangers lives."

  Massarde's face went red, but he was a master at controlling anger. "The threat of waste leakage fifty or a hundred years from now killing off a few sand beggars matters little."

  "That's easy for you to say," said Pitt, his face hardened in scorn. "But the leakage is occurring today, and desert nomads are dying as we talk. And lest w
e forget that, what you've caused here could affect every living life form on earth."

  The threat of guilt for killing off the world made no impression. But the reference to dying nomads triggered something in Massarde's mind. "Are you working in concert with Dr. Frank Hopper and his World Health inspection team?"

  "No, Giordino and I are strictly on our own."

  "But you are aware of them."

  Pitt nodded. "I'm acquainted with his biochemist if that makes you happy."

  "Dr. Eva Rojas," said Massarde slowly, watching for the effect.

  Pitt saw the trap, but with nothing to lose he decided to string along. "Good guess."

  Massarde didn't become brilliantly successful by winning a lottery. He was a master of deception and intrigue, but his greatest asset was insight. "I'll make another guess. You were the man who saved her from General Kazim's assassins outside of Cairo."

  "I happened to be in the neighborhood, yes. You're in the wrong business, Massarde. You missed your calling by not becoming a palm reader."

  To Massarde the novelty of the confrontation was wearing off. He was not used to being talked down to. For a man who controlled a vast financial empire on a day-to-day basis, wasting time with a pair of unwelcome interlopers was merely an annoyance to be pushed aside and handled by employees.

  He nodded at Verenne. "Our little talk has ended. Please arrange for General Kazim to take these men into custody."

  Verenne's statue face finally broke into a python grin. "With pleasure."

  Captain Brunone did not come from the same mold as Massarde or Verenne. A product of the French military establishment, he may have resigned for triple wages but he still retained a level of honor. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Massarde, I wouldn't turn a rabid dog over to General Kazim. These men may be guilty of trespassing, but they certainly don't deserve to be tortured to death by ignorant barbarians."

  Massarde considered Brunone's comment for a moment. "Quite right, quite right," he said, strangely agreeable. "We can't lower ourselves to the level of the General and his butchers." A gleam came to his eyes as he stared at Pitt and Giordino. "'Transport them to the gold mines at Tebezza. He and Dr. Rojas can enjoy each other's company while they dig in the pits."

  "What about Kazim?" asked Verenne. "Won't he feel cheated out of making them pay for destroying his car?"

  "No matter," Massarde said with utter unconcern. "By the time he discovers their whereabouts they'll be dead."

  The President looked across his desk in the oval office at Sandecker. "Why wasn't I briefed on this earlier?"

  "I was informed that it was a low-priority item that did not warrant interrupting your busy schedule of appointments."

  The President shifted his gaze toward the White House Chief of Staff, Earl Willover. "Is this true?"

  A balding, bespectacled man about fifty with a large red moustache shifted in his chair, leaned forward, and glared at Sandecker. "I ran the red tide theory by our national science board. They didn't agree that it was a worldwide threat"

  "Then how do they explain the incredible growth that's sweeping the middle Atlantic Ocean?"

  Willover returned the President's gaze impassively. "Respected ocean scientists believe the growth is temporary and the tide will soon begin to dissipate as it has in the past."

  Willover ran the Executive Branch like Horatius standing against the entire Etruscan army defending the bridge to Rome. Few got across to the oval office, and few escaped Willover's wrath if they overstayed their visit or had the audacity to disagree with the President and argue over policy. It went without saying, almost every member of Congress hated his intestines.

  The President looked down at the satellite photos of the Atlantic spread on his desk. "It seems pretty obvious to me this is not a phenomenon to ignore."

  "Left to its own resources the red tide would normally fade away," explained Sandecker. "But off the west coast of Africa it is being nursed by a synthetic amino acid and cobalt that stimulate the tide's growth to incredible proportions."

  The President, a former senator from Montana, looked more at home in the saddle than behind a desk. He was long and lean, spoke in a soft drawl, and stared through bright blue eyes. He addressed every man as sir and every woman as ma'am. Whenever he escaped from Washington, he headed for his ranch located not far from the Custer battlefield on the Yellowstone River. "If this threat is as serious as you say, the whole world is at risk."

  "If anything, we've probably underestimated the potential danger," said Sandecker. "Our computer experts have updated the rate of expansion. Unless we stop the spread, all life as we know it on earth will die from lack of oxygen in the atmosphere by late next year, probably sooner. The oceans will be dead before spring."

  "That's ridiculous," Willover scoffed. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but this is a classic case of Chicken Little claiming the sky is falling."

  Sandecker gave Willover a look equal to a jab with a spear.

  "I am not Chicken Little, and the coming annihilation is very real. We're not talking about the potential risks of ozone depletion and its effects on skin cancer two centuries from now. No geological upheavals or unknown plague, no nuclear Armageddon with ensuing darkness, no meteor striking the planet in a raging cataclysm. Unless the scourge of the red tide is stopped, and stopped quickly, it will suck up the oxygen from the atmosphere, causing the total destruction of every living thing on the face of the earth."

  "You paint a grim picture, sir," said the President. "This is all but impossible for me to visualize."

  "Let me put it this way, Mr. President. If you are reelected, the odds are you won't be around at the end of your term. Nor will you have a successor because there will be no one left to vote for him."

  Willover wasn't buying any of it. "Come now, Admiral, why don't you put on a sheet and walk around holding a sign saying the world ends at midnight? To think we'll see complete extinction of mankind by this time next year because of oversexed behavior by some microscopic organisms is too farfetched."

  "The facts speak for themselves," said Sandecker patiently.

  "Your deadline sounds like nothing more than a scare tactic," replied Willover. "Even if you're correct, our scientists still have ample time to invent a solution."

  "Time we don't have. Let me give you a little illustration in simplified terms. Imagine that the red tide could double itself in size every week. If allowed to spread unhindered, it would cover every square kilometer of the earth's oceans in one hundred weeks. If history repeats itself, world governments will decide to shove aside the problem until the oceans are half covered. Only then do they institute a crash program to eliminate the red tide. My question to you, Mr. President, and you too, Mr. Willover, is what week will the oceans be covered by the tide, and how much time until the world can prevent disaster?"

  The President exchanged confused looks with Willover. "I have no idea."

  "Nor I," said Willover.

  "The answer is the oceans will be half covered in ninety-nine weeks, and you would have only one week to act."

  The President recognized the horrendous possibility with renewed respect. "I think we both get your point, Admiral."

  "The red tide shows no sign of dying," Sandecker continued. "We now know the cause. That's a step in the right direction. The next problem is to cut off the contamination at the source, and then seek out another compound that will either stop or at least hinder the growth."

  "Excuse me, Mr. President, but we must cut this short. You're supposed to have lunch with the Senate majority and minority leaders."

  "Let them wait," the President said irritably. "Do you have a handle on where this stuff is coming from, Admiral?"

  Sandecker shook his head. "Not yet, but we suspect it flows through an underground stream to the Niger River from the French solar detoxification project in the Sahara."

  "How can we be certain?"

  "My Special Projects Director and his right arm are inside Fort Foureau now."


  "You are in contact with them."

  Sandecker hesitated. "No, not exactly."

  "Then how do you know this?" Willover pushed him.

  "Intelligence satellite photos identified them penetrating the facility on board an incoming trail of hazardous material."

  "Your Special Projects Director," mused the President. "Would that be Dirk Pitt?"

  "Yes, and Al Giordino."

  The President stared across the room, unseeing for a moment as he remembered. Then he smiled. "Pitt was the man who saved us from the Kaiten nuclear car bomb menace."

  "One and the same."

  "Is he by chance responsible for that debacle with the Benin navy on the Niger River?" asked Willover.

  "Yes, but the blame is mine," said Sandecker. "Since my warnings went unheard, and I could get no cooperation from your staff or the Pentagon, I sent Pitt and two of NUMA's best men up the Niger to track the source of the compound."

  "You ordered an unauthorized operation without permission into a foreign nation," Willover exploded furiously.

  "I also persuaded Hala Kamil to lend me a UN tactical team to go into Mali and get my chief scientist and his data safely out of the country."

  "You could have jeopardized our entire African policy."

  "I didn't know you had one," Sandecker tossed back, completely unafraid of Willover, his eyes blazing with animosity.

  "You're stepping over your bounds, Admiral. This could have serious repercussions on your career."

  Sandecker was not one to shrink from a fight. "My duty is to my God, my country, and my President, Willover. You and my career come about eighty-sixth on my list."

  "Gentlemen," interrupted the President, "gentlemen." The frown on his face was more for theatrics than a show of anger. Secretly, he enjoyed seeing his aides and cabinet members slug it out with words. "I don't want to see any further friction between you. I'm convinced we're faced with a grim reality, and we'd better damn well work together for a solution."