Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

by Cussler, Clive

  off a rugged face that was more intriguing than classically handsome.

  But it was the eyes that radiated an aura about the man. They were a

  deep shade of iridescent green and revealed a sense of intelligence,

  adventure, and integrity all rolled into one. They were the eyes of a

  man who could be trusted. And they were the same green eyes, Sarah

  recalled, that she had seen before blacking out at the camp.

  "Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty." The words came from a warm, deep

  voice.

  "You ... you're the man at the camp," Sarah stammered.

  "Yes. My apologies for not properly introducing myself on the island,

  Sarah. My name is Dirk Pitt." He neglected to add "Junior," although

  he shared the same name as his father.

  "You know who I am?" she asked, still confused.

  "Well, not intimately," Dirk smiled non threateningly "but a brainy

  scientist named Irv told me a little about you and your project on

  Yu-naska. Irv seemed to think he poisoned everyone with his chili."

  "Irv and Sandy! Are they all right?"

  "Yes. They took a little nap, like you, but are fine now. They're

  resting just down the hall," Dirk said, motioning with his thumb toward

  the corridor. He could see the look of bewilderment in Sarah's eyes

  and touched her shoulder with his hand in a reassuring squeeze.

  "Don't worry, you're in good hands. You're aboard the National

  Underwater and Marine Agency research ship Deep Endeavor. We were

  returning from an underwater survey of the Aleutian Basin when we

  picked up a distress call from the Coast Guard weather station on

  Yu-naska. I flew to the station in a helicopter we have on board and

  happened to see your camp while flying back to the ship. I gave you

  and

  your friends an all-expense-paid aerial tour of Yunaska, but you slept

  through the whole thing," Dirk added with mock disappointment.

  "I'm sorry," Sarah murmured, feeling somewhat bashful. "I guess I owe

  you a big thanks, Mr. Pitt."

  "Please, call me "Dirk." "

  "Okay, Dirk," Sarah replied with a smile, feeling an odd flutter as she

  spoke his name. "How are the Coast Guard people?"

  Dirk's face went dark and a look of sorrow crossed his brow. "I'm

  afraid we didn't make it in time. We found two men and a dog at the

  station. They were all dead."

  A shiver went up Sarah's spine. Two men dead, and she and her

  companions nearly as well. None of it made any sense.

  "What on earth happened?" Sarah asked in shock.

  "We don't know for sure. Our ship's doctor is running some tests, but,

  as you can imagine, his resources are somewhat limited. It appears to

  have been some sort of airborne fume or toxin. All we know for sure is

  that the Coast Guard station thought there was something in the air. We

  flew in with gas masks and were not impacted. We even took some white

  mice from our shipboard lab with us. They all survived fine, without

  any apparent symptoms. Whatever it was, it must have dissipated by the

  time we landed at the Coast Guard station. You and your team were

  apparently far enough away from the source to be impacted less

  severely. You probably didn't receive a full dose of whatever it

  was."

  Sarah's eyes dropped and she fell quiet. The horror and pain of the

  whole ordeal came back to her with a showering of fatigue. She wanted

  to sleep it all off and hope it was just a bad dream.

  "Sarah, I'll have the doctor check on you, then let you sleep some

  more. Perhaps later I can buy you a plate of king crab legs for

  dinner?" Dirk asked with a smile.

  Sarah smiled briefly in return. "I'd like that," she murmured, then

  fell fast asleep.

  Kermit Burch stood at the helm reading a fax communique when Dirk

  stepped into the bridge from the starboard wing door. The seasoned

  captain of the Deep Endeavor shook his head slightly as he read the

  document, then turned to Dirk with a slightly annoyed look on his

  face.

  "We've notified the Coast Guard and the Department of Homeland

  Security, but nobody intends to do anything until the local authorities

  have filed their report. The village public safety officer from Atka

  is the area law enforcement official and he can't get to the island

  until morning," Burch snorted. "Two men dead and they treat it as an

  accident."

  "We don't have much to go on," Dirk replied. "I spoke with Carl Nash,

  our saltwater environmental analyst, who is well versed on terrestrial

  pollutants. According to Nash, there are naturally occurring

  environmental emissions, such as sulfuric volcanic releases, which

  could have killed the men. High concentrations of industrial

  pollutants are another potential culprit, although I'm not aware of any

  neighborhood chemical plants in the Aleutians."

  "The public safety officer told me it sounds to him like a classic case

  of carbon monoxide poisoning from the station house generator. Of

  course, that doesn't explain our friends from the CDC succumbing to

  similar effects four miles away."

  "Nor does it explain the dog I found dead outside of the station

  house," Dirk added.

  "Well, perhaps the CDC crew can shed some light on the matter. How are

  our three guests doing, by the way?"

  "A little groggy still. They don't remember much, other than that it

  struck pretty rapidly."

  "The sooner we get them to a proper medical facility, the sooner

  I'll rest easier. The nearest airfield is Unalaska, which we can make

  in under fourteen hours. I'll radio ahead for a medical flight to

  transfer them to Anchorage."

  "Captain, I'd like to take the helicopter back out and reconnoiter the

  island. We didn't have much of a chance to look around on the last

  flight. Maybe there's something we missed. Any objections?"

  "No ... just so long as you take that Texas joker with you," Burch

  replied with a pained grin.

  As Dirk ran through a preflight checklist from the pilot seat of the

  NUMA Sikorsky S-76C+ offshore helicopter, a sandy-haired man with a

  bushy mustache ambled across the flight platform. With scuffed cowboy

  boots, chiseled arms, and a ubiquitous scowl that hid a mordant sense

  of humor, Jack Dahlgren looked like a bull rider who got lost on the

  way to the rodeo. A notorious practical joker, Dahlgren had already

  worked his way under Burch's skin by spiking the galley's coffee urn

  with a cheap bottle of rum on their first night at sea. An engineering

  whiz who grew up in west Texas, Dahlgren knew his way around horses and

  guns, as well as every type of mechanical equipment that operated above

  or below the sea.

  "Is this the scenic island tour my travel agent recommended?" he asked

  Dirk, sticking his head through a sliding cockpit window.

  "Step right up, sonny boy, you won't be disappointed. All the water,

  rocks, and sea lions your eyes can absorb."

  "Sounds swell. I'll give you an extra quarter if you can find me a bar

  with a short-skirted waitress."

  "I'll see what I can do," Dirk grinned as Dahlgren climbed into the

  copilot's seat.
/>   The two men had become fast friends years before, while studying ocean

  engineering at Florida Atlantic University. Avid divers, they

  regularly cut classes together in order to spearfish the coral reefs

  lying off Boca Raton, using their fresh-caught fish to woo local

  sorority girls with barbecues on the beach. After graduating, Jack

  completed his college ROTC commitment in the Navy while Dirk obtained a

  master's degree from the New York Maritime College and trained at a

  commercial dive school. The two men were reunited when Dirk joined his

  father at NUMA as a special projects director and convinced his old

  friend to accompany him at the prestigious research agency.

  After years of diving together, there was almost an unspoken bond

  between the two men. They knew they could depend on each other and

  performed at their best when the chips were down. Dahlgren had seen

  the look of determination in Dirk's eyes before and knew the dogged

  persistence that came with it. The mysterious events on Yu-naska were

  weighing on his friend, Dahlgren noticed, and he wasn't likely to let

  it go.

  The main rotor blade of the Sikorsky wound to a high pitch as Dirk

  gently eased the helicopter up and off a small landing platform mounted

  amidships of the Deep Endeavor. Climbing to one hundred feet, Dirk

  held the helicopter stationary for a moment, admiring the bird's-eye

  view of the NUMA research ship. The wide-beamed, turquoise-colored

  survey ship had a stubby look to her 270-foot length. But the lack of

  a svelte streamline made for a stable work platform, ideal for

  operating the myriad of cranes and hoists strategically positioned

  about the large, open stern deck. In the middle of the deck, a bright

  yellow submersible sparkled like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight

  as it rested on a large wooden cradle, while several technicians

  tinkered with its thrusters and electronics. One of the technicians

  stood and waved his cap toward the suspended helicopter. Dirk threw

  the man a quick wave, then banked the chopper and headed northeast

  toward the island of Yunaska, less than ten miles away.

  "Back to Yunaska?" asked Dahlgren.

  "The Coast Guard station we scouted this morning."

  "Great," Dahlgren moaned. "We acting as a flying hearse?"

  "No, just checking out the source of whatever killed the men and

  dog."

  "And are we looking for animal, vegetable, or mineral?" Dahlgren asked

  through his headset, his teeth mashing a large wad of gum.

  "All three," Dirk replied. "Carl Nash told me that a toxic cloud could

  be created by anything from an active volcano to an algae bloom, not to

  mention your garden-variety industrial pollutant."

  "Just stop at the next walrus and I'll ask for directions to the

  closest pesticide factory."

  "That reminds me, where's Basil?" Dirk asked, his eyes glancing about

  the cockpit.

  "Right here, safe and sound," Dahlgren replied, grabbing a small cage

  from beneath his seat and holding it up in front of his face. Inside,

  a small white mouse peered back at Dahlgren, his tiny whiskers

  twitching back and forth.

  "Breathe deep, little friend, and don't go to sleep on us," Dahlgren

  requested of the furry rodent. He then strung the cage from an

  overhead lanyard, like a canary in a coal mine, so they could easily

  see if the mouse succumbed to any toxins in the air.

  The grassy island of Yunaska crested out of the slate green water ahead

  of them, a sprinkling of light cirrus clouds dancing about the larger

  of the island's two extinct volcanic peaks. Dirk gradually increased

  the helicopter's altitude as they approached the craggy shoreline, then

  banked left along the water's edge. Flying counterclockwise around the

  island's perimeter, it took only a few minutes before they spotted the

  yellow building of the Coast Guard station. Bringing the helicopter to

  a hover, Dirk and Dahlgren carefully examined the ground surrounding

  the station for any unusual signs. Dirk eyed the body of Max the husky

  still lying outside the hut's door and it brought back to mind the look

  of pain and horror on the dead men's faces inside when he and Dahlgren

  first landed at the station earlier in the day. He carefully shelved

  his emotions and shifted his mental motor to discovering the source of

  the deadly toxic breeze.

  Dirk nodded past the windscreen to the right. "The prevailing winds

  come from the west, so the source would likely have come from farther

  up the coast. Or possibly from offshore."

  "Makes sense. The CDC team was camped to the east of here and they

  obviously caught a less lethal dose of the mystery gas," Dahlgren

  replied while peering at the ground through low-power binoculars.

  Dirk applied a gentle force to the cyclic control lever and the

  helicopter edged forward and away from the yellow structure. For the

  next hour the two men strained eyeballs searching the grassy island for

  signs of a natural or man-made origin to the toxin. Dirk traced wide

  semicircular arcs north and south across the island, expanding their

  way west until they reached the western coast and returned to the

  vicinity of the Coast Guard station.

  "Nothing but grass and rocks," Dahlgren grumbled. "The seals can keep

  it, as far as I'm concerned."

  "Speaking of which, take a look down there," Dirk replied, pointing to

  a small gravel beach ahead of them.

  A half-dozen brown sea lions lay stretched out on the ground, seemingly

  enjoying the rays of the late afternoon sun. Dahlgren looked closer

  his forehead suddenly wrinkling in puzzlement.

  "Geez, they're not moving. They've all bought it, too."

  "This thing must not have come from Yunaska but from the sea, or the

  next island over."

  "Amukta is the next rock pile to the west," Dahlgren replied, running

  his finger across a chart of the region.

  Dirk could clearly see the dirty gray outline of the island on the

  horizon. "Looks to be about twenty miles from here."

  Eyeing the helicopter's fuel gauge, he continued, "I think we've got

  time for a quick gander before our fuel runs low. Okay if you miss

  your pedicure treatment in the ship's salon?"

  "Sure I'll just reschedule it with my body wrap tomorrow," Dahlgren

  replied.

  "I'll let Burch know where we're headed," Dirk said, dialing up the

  ship's radio frequency.

  "Tell him to hold supper in the galley," Dahlgren added while rubbing

  his stomach. "I'm working up an appetite taking in all this

  scenery."

  As Dirk radioed the survey ship, he guided the Sikorsky toward the

  island of Amukta, skimming low over the open water. The powerful

  helicopter, designed for offshore oil transport, flew straight as a

  rail under Dirk's firm hand. After cruising steadily for ten minutes,

  Dahlgren quietly lifted an arm and pointed out the cockpit window to an

  object on the horizon. It was a white speck, growing larger by the

  second, until it slowly revealed itself as a large boat complete with

  trailing wake. Without a word, Dirk applied gentle pressur
e to his

  left pedal control until the helicopter eased about on the same line as

  the boat. Approaching rapidly, they could see it was a steel-hulled

  fishing trawler, running to the southwest at full bore.

  "Now, there's a tub calling out for a little spit and polish," Pitt

  remarked as he eased off the throttle to match speeds with the boat.

  Though not appearing particularly old, the fishing vessel had obvious

  signs of hard use over the years. Scrapes, dents, and grease marks

  abounded both on the hull and throughout the open deck. Its original

  coating of white paint was worn thin in the spots where rust had not

  yet declared victory. By outward appearance, she looked as tired as

  the frayed bald tires hanging over her sides like a string of donuts.

  Yet like many disheveled-appearing work boats her twin diesel engines

  were newly rebuilt and pushed the hulk hard through the waves with a

  barely a wisp of black smoke from the funnel.

  Dirk studied the boat carefully, noting with interest that no flags

  flew from the mast, which might identify nationality. Both the bow

  sides and the stern were absent a ship name or home port. As he

  perused the stern deck, two Asian men in blue jumpsuits stepped into

  view and peered at the helicopter with looks of angst.

  "Don't look overly friendly now, do they?" Dahlgren remarked before

  waving and grinning toward the boat. The two jumpsuits simply scowled

  in return.