Climbing down the remaining falls, Dirk and Summer found a Montego Bay resort hotel bus idling in the parking lot and casually boarded it. They hunkered down in the back row, trying to avoid the gaze of the tourists following them, who chatted excitedly about the vehicles they saw plunge down the falls.
When the bus got under way, Summer noticed her brother’s wide grin. “What’s so amusing? We almost got killed back there.”
“I was just thinking about the look that will be on that guy’s face.”
“What guy?”
“The guy at the car rental counter when we tell him where to collect the Volkswagen.”
31
The bungalow was dark as the intruder crept onto the porch at two in the morning. He stopped and listened for sounds from within. All was silent, aside from the lapping of the nearby surf. He gently placed his palm on the knob and twisted. It turned freely. He eased the door open an inch and peered inside.
The room was almost pitch-black. An open rear window allowed in just a hint of ambient light, revealing that both back bedroom doors were closed. It was better than he had hoped.
The intruder slipped into the house and closed the door behind him. He took a tentative step forward—and a bright floor lamp snapped on. Wheeling around, he squinted toward it. Through the spots dancing in front of his retinas, he saw Dirk sitting in a chair facing him, holding a speargun in his lap. A row of empty beer bottles on an adjacent coffee table testified to the patience of his ambush.
“It’s quite a nice weapon,” Dirk stated. He pointed the loaded speargun at the man. “A KOAH. They cost about six hundred dollars in the States. Not the tool I would expect a simple fisherman from Trelawny Parish to carry, let alone leave behind in his boat.”
“They pay me well, Mr. Dirk.” Samuel’s bright teeth gritted in anguish.
“How about you drop your gun,” Dirk said. It was a command, not a request.
Samuel nodded, pulling a Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband and setting it on the floor.
“I like you and your sister,” the Jamaican said, rising slowly. “I not come to hurt you.”
“But you would for a price.”
“No.” Samuel shook his head.
“I don’t think your friends had the same conviction. Are they both dead?”
Samuel gave a solemn nod.
Dirk swung the speargun toward the coffee table. Partially hidden by the beer bottles lay the red journal of Ellsworth Boyd. Dirk placed the tip of the speargun on the book and nudged it toward Samuel. “Here’s what you’re after. Go ahead and take it.”
Samuel hesitated.
Dirk glared at him. “If you would have asked a few more questions while we were drinking at the Green Stone Bar, you could have saved us both a lot of trouble.” The fatigue of the day’s events, along with the beer, showed in his bloodshot eyes.
Samuel extended an unsteady hand toward the journal.
As his fingers grazed the cover, Dirk slapped down the speargun’s tip. “One thing I need to know first. Who’s paying you?”
“A man in Mo Bay I work for sometimes.”
“What’s his name?”
Samuel shook his head. “He’s my cousin. Just middleman, not important to you.”
“Then who’s paying him?”
Samuel shrugged. “The top boss man? He’s from Cuba. And he likes antiquities and shipwreck artifacts, like you. That’s all I know.”
“A Cuban, you say?”
“Yes. He flew here in Army plane, not stay long.”
Dirk nodded and released the journal.
Samuel gently picked it up and tucked it under his arm. “I got to know,” he said. “Where’s the stone that everybody wants?”
“Most likely, in an American museum. Where your Cuban friend won’t be able to touch it.”
Samuel shrugged. “I hope you find it first, not him. My cousin says he’s crazy.”
The Jamaican backtracked to the door and turned the handle. “Good-bye,” he said, his eyes staring down in shame.
“Good-bye, Samuel.” Dirk clicked on the speargun’s safety and set it down.
Samuel closed the door behind him.
A minute later, Summer emerged from her bedroom wearing an oversized Scripps Institute of Oceanography T-shirt. She covered a yawn. “I thought I heard voices.”
“I just gave Samuel the journal.”
“You what?”
“It’s what Díaz was after. Now he doesn’t need to kill us in our sleep.”
“Juan Díaz, the Cuban we met in Mexico?”
“One and the same. He hired Samuel to monitor us and paid for the thugs in the pickup. No doubt he’s behind the theft of the stone at Zimapán.”
“Díaz . . .” A look of bitter disappointment crossed her face. “He was the leader of the thieves who took the stone? How could I have been so blind?”
“We met him only briefly. You told me they all wore disguises and that the top guy hardly spoke.”
“Still, I should have recognized him.” She sat on the couch in shock. “He’s responsible for the death of Dr. Torres. But why would a Cuban archeologist kill over an Aztec artifact?”
“He may not even be an archeologist. It could be he’s operating an artifact smuggling operation. There’s big money in black market antiquities. Both sections of the stone together could be worth a lot of money to a collector . . . Or it could be something else.”
“What’s that?”
Dirk stared at the speargun with a faraway gaze. “Perhaps, just perhaps, Díaz knows exactly what the Aztecs were carrying when they sailed to Aztlán.”
32
Dirk and Summer had barely stepped aboard the Sargasso Sea when the engines rumbled to life and the research vessel sailed out of Montego Bay’s sparkling waters.
“No R and R for the crew in sunny Jamaica?” Summer asked her father after greeting him with a warm hug.
Pitt shook his head. “We’re headed for the north side of Cuba and I want to get there as soon as possible.”
“He’s a regular Captain Bligh,” Giordino said.
Pitt shifted his eyes toward Giordino. “There might be certain crew members who can’t be trusted on a rum-producing island like Jamaica.”
Giordino shook his head. “Ye of little faith.”
“We got your email describing the dead zones,” Dirk said. “Have you learned anything more?”
Pitt led them to the wardroom, where poster-sized photos were taped to a corner bulkhead. “These are seafloor images of the three dead zones we surveyed. Photomosaics, actually, stitched from individual images recorded by the AUV. As you can see, there is a symmetrical depression at the center of each zone. We didn’t identify the source of the toxicity until Al and I took the Starfish down for a closer look at one of them and found a hydrothermal vent at its center.”
“The thermal vents we’ve explored in the Pacific are rich in minerals and highly acidic,” Dirk added, “but not broadly toxic.”
“These are. They are in relatively shallow water for a thermal vent, less than a thousand feet, which may contribute to the problem. We’re finding methyl mercury plumes over ten miles long.”
“Mercury?” Summer asked.
Pitt nodded. “Surprising, but it shouldn’t be. The largest source of mercury in the environment comes from the volcanic eruptions. Two hundred and fifty million years ago, give or take a few weeks, the seas were completely poisoned by mercury from volcanic activity, to the extent that virtually all marine life was killed off. Hydrothermal vents, we know, are nothing more than a vestige of underwater volcanic activity. For whatever reason, the mounts and ridges in this part of the ocean are rife with mercury.”
“Now that you mention it,” Dirk said, “I recall reading about an underwater volcano off the southern tip of Jap
an that’s spewing a high concentration of the stuff.”
“Same principle in effect here,” Pitt said.
Summer pointed at one of the photos. “It’s odd that there’s a similar depression around each of the thermal vents.”
“That’s no coincidence,” Pitt said. “We’re quite sure the craters were formed by man-made explosions.”
“Why would someone blow up a thermal vent?” she asked.
“Someone,” Giordino said, “was plowing up the bottom in the name of subsea mining.”
“Of course.” Summer nodded. “Hydrothermal vents are often surrounded by rich sulfide ore deposits.”
“Looks like somebody tried panning for gold in a serious way,” said Dirk.
“That’s our guess,” Pitt said. “They blasted open the vent, then sent down mining equipment to vacuum it all up.”
“Walking away with the gold,” Summer said, “and leaving an environmental mess in their wake.”
“So who’s responsible?” Dirk asked.
“We don’t yet know,” Pitt said, shaking his head. “Hiram ran a check on all known subsea mining ventures, and associated ocean lease agreements, and found nobody operating in this area. Legally, at least.”
“Could it be the Cubans?” Summer asked.
“Possibly,” Pitt said, “but we don’t think they possess the technology. They’d have to contract for the equipment and that would find its way into the public record. But we do have one clue.”
“What’s that?” Summer asked.
“These tracks.” Pitt pointed to a mass of parallel lines that crisscrossed the depression. “Al and I saw similar tracks near the wellhead where the Alta sank.”
“And those tracks looked fresh,” Giordino said.
“Was it the company that’s drilling for oil?” Dirk asked.
“I contacted the captain of the drill ship and he said they had no equipment that could have created those tracks.”
“So you think whoever blew these three vents is working on the other side of Cuba?” Summer asked.
“It’s the best we have to go on,” Pitt said, “so we’re heading back to the Florida Straits. About twenty miles off of Havana.”
“That’s a precarious spot for a toxic mercury problem,” Dirk said, “right at the head of the Gulf Stream.”
“That’s what has us worried. A major mercury plume there might carry up Florida’s east coast, and beyond.”
A crewman entered the wardroom and approached Summer. “Miss Pitt, your teleconference is ready. There’s a Mr. Perlmutter waiting on-screen.”
Summer smiled at her brother as she jumped from her chair. “Maybe he found the stone,” she said, before following the crewman to a nearby video conference room.
“The stone?” Giordino asked. “What were you two up to in Jamaica?”
Dirk described their encounter-laden quest for the two Aztec stones since deciphering the codex, eliciting a grave look of concern from Pitt.
“There must be something valuable waiting for the person who puts the two pieces together,” Giordino said. He rubbed his chin a moment. “You said Aztec stone? You should meet our friend Herbert.”
Giordino stepped to a corner table, where the statue they plucked off the bottom was serving time as a paperweight for some sonar records. He grabbed the statue along with a handful of photos.
“Say hello to Herbert.” He set the statue on the table in front of Dirk. “We found him in a large canoe near one of the vents. Our shipboard archeologist thinks it could be Aztec.”
Dirk studied the figurine with a hint of recognition. The warrior’s strong profile and costume had a distinct familiarity.
“Dr. Madero showed us a similar statue in his university’s museum. It looks a lot like one of the Aztec deities.” He looked at Giordino with curiosity. “You said you found this on a canoe?”
Giordino nodded and slid over the photos. “Images we took from the Starfish, at a depth of twelve hundred feet.”
“The stone depicts the voyage of several large boats on a pilgrimage to the Aztec’s homeland,” Dirk said. “Dr. Madero told us that while the Mayans were known to trade at sea, there’s no record of the Aztecs traveling offshore.”
“Then either the canoe is Mayan or somebody needs to change the history books.”
“Did you find any other artifacts with the canoe?” Dirk asked.
“No,” Pitt said. “But those mining vehicle tracks ran right up to it, so someone else may have picked it over.”
Summer returned to the room, showing a defeated look on her face.
“No luck with the stone?” Dirk said.
“None of it good. It’s not at Yale, or anywhere else in the U.S., as far as St. Julien can determine. It seems that Ellsworth Boyd, the archeologist who found half the stone, never made it back home. Shortly after departing Jamaica, he was killed in Cuba. Believe it or not, he died in the explosion that sank the USS Maine.”
“What was he doing aboard the Maine?” Giordino asked.
Summer shook her head. “Nobody knows. St. Julien’s going to do some more digging. He seems to think there’s a chance the stone was with him aboard the Maine.”
The group fell silent as they contemplated the sunken warship that instigated the Spanish–American War.
Dirk finally looked at his father with a devilish smile. “You said we’re heading to a spot about twenty miles off of Havana?”
“That’s correct.”
“That should put us right in the ballpark.”
“The ballpark for what?”
“If my history serves,” Dirk said, “the place where the Maine now lies at a rest.”
33
When the armored cruiser Maine blew up unexpectedly in February 1898, killing two hundred and sixty-one sailors, there was an immediate siren call for war. Though the cause of the spark that triggered her powder magazines to detonate still remains a mystery, contemporary fingers all pointed at Spain. Jingoistic fever, fanned by a strong dose of yellow journalism, quickly incited a declaration of war.
The resulting Spanish–American War was itself a short-lived affair. Within months, the American Navy had crushed the Spanish fleet in battles at Santiago and Manila Bay. In July, Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders won the day at San Juan Hill, and by August a peace agreement had been brokered between the antagonists.
After the war’s end, the genesis for the conflict was oddly forgotten. The mangled remains of the Maine sat mired in the silt of Havana Harbor for more than a decade, her rusting main mast standing forlornly above the waves. Commemorative interest, and a desire to clear a harbor obstruction, finally prompted Congress to approve funds to raise the vessel.
In an engineering feat that many predicted would fail, the Army Corps of Engineers constructed a cofferdam around the wreck and pumped away the water. The mud-covered ship that emerged was a devastated mass of twisted metal. The engineers cut away the damage and sealed the breach. In March of 1912, the ship was refloated and towed offshore, where she was sunk with her colors flying.
Sitting on the bridge of the Sargasso Sea, Pitt studied the hundred-year-old coordinates of the wreck site, marked on a digital map of the Cuban coastline.
“They sank her about four miles from shore. That may have been considered the high seas in 1912, but today the territorial limit is twelve miles. We dally around the site and we’re liable to become permanent guests of the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces.”
Giordino exhaled a cloud of blue smoke from a lit cigar. “I wonder if they allow smoking in their prisons.”
Summer stood near the helm with her brother, staring at a calm expanse of blue water. “We could survey the wreck remotely,” she said.
Giordino nodded. “Shouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings if we sent an AUV to find the wreck and take a few passes. Depe
nding on how the ship struck the bottom, we might get some good looks at her.”
“Okay,” Pitt said. “But we’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment. I’ll give you twelve hours, then we’re off to the Alta’s wreck site. And just don’t let the Cubans end up with my AUV.”
Dirk paused. “What about your Creepy Crawler, Al? If we get a fix on the wreck with the AUV, couldn’t we send in one of your crawlers to investigate?”
“With a transponder in the water, we can operate it in real time from the ship. It would be a good test of its abilities.” Giordino sat upright, setting aside his cigar. “I might even be able to rig a deployment device so the AUV could drop it over the site and save time.”
Pitt knew an American-flagged ship lingering near Cuban waters, especially near Havana, was liable to attract unwanted attention. As soon as Giordino had his AUV launched an hour later, he repositioned the Sargasso Sea several miles outside Cuba’s territorial limit.
Under Giordino’s programming, the yellow AUV sped to the Maine’s last-known coordinates and dove to the bottom, initiating a survey grid with its sensors on alert for a large magnetic object.
After six hours, the AUV completed its survey and made a beeline for the NUMA research ship. The vehicle was hoisted aboard and its data pack removed. With the Pitt family crowded around him, Giordino reviewed the results. A square diagram filled with vertical lines appeared on the monitor, sprinkled with amoeba-shaped bubbles.
“We’ve got a handful of small magnetic anomalies. And a large one in lane 14.” Giordino pointed to a large red splotch.
“Let’s take a look at the sonar images,” Pitt said.
Giordino brought up the sonar record and scrolled rapidly until a data table in the corner indicated lane 14. “The magnetic target was near the top of the lane,” he said, slowing the video to its recorded speed.
A gold-tinted rendition of the seafloor appeared. The sonar system created shadowy images of rocks, mounds, and other features that rose from the seabed. The record scrolled a short distance when a dark trapezoidal shape appeared on one side of the screen. Giordino froze the image. “There she is.”
Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt Adventure) Page 15