Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind
Page 9
Four Dead on De Laura Beach
Local resident Leigh Hunt, his two sons Tad (age 13) and Tom (age 11),
and a nephew known only as Skip, were found dead Saturday, June 20th,
on De Laura Beach. The four went out clamming in the afternoon,
according to Hunt's wife Marie, and failed to return home for dinner.
County Sheriff Kit Edwards discovered the bodies, which showed no signs
of a struggle or physical injury. "Not finding any physical marks, we
immediately suspected smoke inhalation or poisoning. Leigh had a large
supply of a cyanide treatment in his workshop that he used for tanning
leather," Edwards remarked. "He and the boys must have been exposed to
a strong dose before they went to the beach, and the poison caught up
with them there," he stated. Funeral arrangements are pending
examination of the bodies by the county coroner.
"Is there a follow-up news report on the coroner's findings?" he
asked.
Margaret rifled through another dozen editions of the News before
finding a small article related to the deaths. Reading out loud, she
cited that the coroner's office confirmed accidental cyanide inhalation
as the suspected cause of death.
"My father never did believe it was an accident," Margaret added, to
Dirk's surprise.
"It doesn't make sense that they would have died later at the beach
after inhaling the fumes in Hunt's work shed," Dirk mused.
"Papa said the same thing," Margaret replied, letting down her guard
slightly. "And he said the authorities never did consider the
birds."
"Birds?"
"Yes. About a hundred seagulls were found dead on the beach around the
area that Hunt and the boys were found. Fort Stevens, the Army base,
was right near that beach. Papa always suspected it was some sort of
Army experiment that accidentally killed them. Guess nobody will ever
know for sure."
"Wartime secrets can be difficult to unlock sometimes," Dirk replied.
"Thank you for your help, Margaret."
Dirk returned to the jeep and drove through the town to the coastal
highway and turned south. A short stretch of pavement later, he
approached a small side road marked de laura beach road. The road led
through an open pair of gates marked fort stevens state park before
narrowing through thick underbrush. Dirk jammed the jeep into low gear
and surged over a jagged ridge before descending to a large abandoned
gun emplacement overlooking the ocean. Battery Russell had been one of
several coastal defense sites guarding the entrance to the Columbia
River which sprang up during the Civil War, then were later updated
with huge long-range guns during World War II. From the emplacement,
Dirk had a clear view of the shimmering blue waters at the mouth of the
Columbia River, as well as the De Laura Beach below, which was dotted
with afternoon pic nickers. Dirk soaked in a few deep breaths of the
fresh sea air, then drove back out the small road, pulling off nearly
into the brush at one point to let an oncoming black Cadillac pass by.
Driving a quarter mile farther, he stopped the car at a large
historical marker along the roadside that caught his eye. Carved on a
massive gray slab of granite was a highly detailed engraving of a
submarine, beneath which was inscribed:
On June 21, 1942, a 5.5" shell exploded here. One of 17 fired at
Columbia River Harbor Defense Installations by the Japanese Submarine
I-25. The only hostile shelling of a military base on the U.S. mainland
during World War II and the first since the War of 1812.
As he read the inscription, he instinctively moved away from the road
as the Cadillac returned and passed by slowly, to avoid kicking up
dust. Dirk studied the submarine carving for a long moment and started
to walk away. But something caught his eye and he looked again. It
was the date. June 21, just a day after Hunt and the boys were found
dead on the beach.
Dirk reached into the jeep's glove compartment and pulled out a
cellular phone, leaning against the car's hood as he dialed the number.
After four rings, a deep and jolly voice boomed through the handset.
"Perlmutter here."
"Julien, it's Dirk. How's my favorite nautical historian?"
"Dirk, my boy, so good to hear from you! I was just enjoying some
pickled green mangoes your father sent me from the Philippines. Pray
tell, how are you enjoying the Great White North?"
"We just finished our survey in the Aleutians, so I am back in the
Pacific Northwest. The islands were quite beautiful, though, but it
was a little cold for my blood."
"Heavens, I can imagine," Perlmutter's voice bellowed. "So, what's on
your mind, Dirk?"
"World War Two-era Japanese submarines, to be exact. I'm curious
about their record of attacks on the U.S. mainland and any unusual
weaponry in their arsenals."
"Imperial submarines, eh? I recall they made some fairly harmless
attacks on the West Coast, but I have not delved into my Japanese
wartime files in some time. I'll have to do some nosing about for
you."
"Thanks, Julien. And one more thing. Let me know if you run across
any references to the use of cyanide as an armament."
"Cyanide. Now, that would be nasty, wouldn't it?" Perlmutter asked
rhetorically before hanging up.
Contemplating the enormous collection of rare maritime history books
and manuscripts jammed into his Georgetown carriage house, St. Julien
Perlmutter needed only a few seconds of pondering to pinpoint the
material he was looking for. Perlmutter resembled an overgrown Santa
Claus, with sparkling blue eyes, a huge gray beard, and an enormous
belly that helped him tip the scales at nearly four hundred pounds.
Besides a penchant for gourmet foods, Perlmutter was known as one of
the world's foremost maritime historians, in large part due to his
peerless collection of sea-related ephemeris.
Clad in silk pajamas and a paisley robe, Perlmutter padded across a
thick Persian carpet to a mahogany bookcase, where he examined several
titles before pulling down a book and two large binders with his meaty
hands. Satisfied it was the material he was looking for, the immense
man returned to an overstuffed red leather chair, where a plate of
truffles and a hot pot of tea beckoned him.
Dirk continued on his drive to Portland, where he found the antique
auto auction he was looking for at a large, grassy fairgrounds at the
city's edge. Scores of people milled about the gleaming autos, most
from the forties, fifties, and sixties, which were neatly lined up on
the wide grass field. Dirk sauntered by the cars, admiring the paint
jobs and mechanical restorations, before heading to a large
white-canopied tent where the auctioning was taking place.
Inside, loudspeakers blared out the auctioneer's grating staccato voice
as he spat out price bids like a rapid-fire machine gun. Grabbing a
side seat away from the blare, Dirk watched in amusement as the team of
auctioneers, wearing a ridiculous combination of seventies-style
tuxedos and cheap cowboy hats, pranced around in a futile attempt to
hype the excitement, and price, of each car. After several Corvettes
and an early Thunderbird were passed through, Dirk sat up as a 1958
Chrysler 300-D drove up onto the stage. The huge car was painted an
original Aztec turquoise, enhanced by miles of gleaming chrome and a
pair of rear tail fins that jutted into the air like the dorsal fin of
a shark. In a reaction only a true car fanatic could understand, Dirk
felt his heartbeat quicken simply at the sight of the artistic mass of
steel and glass.
"Perfectly restored to concourse condition by Pastime Restorations of
Golden, Colorado," the auctioneer pitched. He resumed his vocal
convulsions, but bidding on the car surprisingly stalled early. Dirk
raised his hand in the air and was soon dueling for the car with an
overweight man wearing yellow suspenders. Dirk quickly countered his
opponent's bids in rapid succession, showing his intent was serious.
The tactic worked. Yellow Suspenders shook his head after the third
bid and headed toward the bar.
"Sold to the man in the NUMA hat!" the auctioneer barked as the
surrounding crowd applauded politely. Though it cost him several
months' salary, Dirk recognized it was a good buy, knowing that less
than two hundred Chrysler 300-D convertibles were manufactured in
1958.
As he arranged to have the car shipped up to Seattle, his cell phone
started to ring.
"Dirk, it's Julien. I have some information for you."
"That was fast service."
"Well, I wanted to get back to you before supper," Perlmutter replied,
contemplating his next meal.
"What can you tell me, Julien?"
"After Pearl Harbor, the Japanese placed nine or ten submarines on
station along the West Coast, but they were gradually pulled off as the
battle action moved to the South Pacific. The Japanese submarines were
primarily on reconnaissance missions, observing the major bays and
harbors while trying to track major ship movements. They did manage to
sink a handful of merchant ships early in the war and create a dose of
psychological fear in the general public along the way. As for actual
land attacks, the first occurred in early 1942, when the I-17 lobbed a
few shells near Santa Barbara, damaging a pier and an oil derrick. In
June of '42, the I-25 fired upon Fort Stevens, near Astoria, Oregon,
while the I-26 bombarded a radio station on Vancouver Island in Canada.
No fatalities were recorded in either of the attacks. In August of
1942, the I-25 returned near Cape Blanco, Oregon, and launched a
seaplane armed with incendiary bombs in an attempt to set fire to the
nearby forests. The attack was a failure, as only one small fire was
ignited in the region."
"Sounds like they were primarily nuisance attacks," Dirk commented.
"Yes, there was nothing overly strategic about their actions. Things
slowed down after the incendiary attack, as the submarines were moved
north to support the Aleutian campaign. Imperial submarines were
heavily involved in supporting the capture and later evacuation of Attu
and Kiska islands during fighting in 1943. The Japanese lost five subs
during the Aleutian battles as our sonar technology really began to
pick them out of the seas. After the fall of Kiska, just a few
Imperial submarines continued to operate in the north and western
Pacific. The I-180 was attacked and sunk near Kodiak, Alaska, in April
of 1944, then things were pretty quiet on the home front until the
I-403 was sunk off Cape Flattery, Washington, in January 1945."
"Odd that one would get tagged off the West Coast at a point in the war
when their navy was on its last legs."
"It's even more queer when you consider that the I-403 was one of their
big boats. Apparently, it was planning an air attack when it was
surprised by an American destroyer."
"Hard to believe they constructed submarines back then capable of
carrying an airplane," Dirk marveled.
"Their big boats could carry not just one but actually three airplanes.
They were massive beasts."
"Did you find any indication that the naval forces used cyanide
weapons?"
"None that was recorded in battle, but they did exist. It was the
Imperial Army, I believe, and its biological warfare unit in China,
that experimented with biological and chemical weapons. They did fool
around with cyanide artillery shells, among other things, so it is
possible the Navy tried experimenting with them, but there is no
official record of their use."
"I guess there is no way to prove it, but I suspect the I-25 launched a
cyanide shell that killed four people the day before it attacked Fort
Stevens."
"Quite possible. May be hard to prove, as the I-25 was later lost in
the South Pacific, presumably sunk near Espiritu Santo Island in 1943.
But with one possible exception, all accounts I have seen indicate that
the Japanese vessels were armed only with conventional weapons."
"And the exception?"
"The I-403 again. I found a reference in a postwar Army journal
stating that a shipment of Maka^e ordnance was transferred to the Navy
and delivered to the submarine in Kure prior to her last sailing. I've
never seen a reference to Maka^e before, however, and could find no
other references in my ordnance and munitions files."
"Any idea what the term means?"
"The best translation I can make of it is "Black Wind." "
Dirk made a short phone call to Leo Delgado, then reached I Dahlgren,
who was drinking a beer in a lounge overlooking Lake i Washington
following his morning kayak with the bank teller.
"Jack, you up for a dive tomorrow?" Dirk asked.
"Sure. Spearfishing in the Sound?"
"I've got something a little bigger in mind."
"King salmon are game for me."
"The fish I'm interested in," Dirk continued, "hasn't swum in over
sixty years."
Irv Fowler woke up with a raging headache. Too many beers the night
before, the scientist mused as he dragged himself out of bed. Chugging
down a cup of coffee and a donut, he convinced himself he felt better.
But as the day wore on, the pain seemed to swell, with little relief
offered despite his multiple hits on a bottle of aspirin. Eventually,
his back joined in the game, sending out waves of pain with every
movement he made. By midafternoon, he felt weak and tired, and left
early from his temporary office at Alaska State Health and Social
Services to drive back to his apartment and rest.
After he downed a bowl of chicken soup, his abdomen started firing off
streaks of shooting pain. So much for home remedies, he thought. After
several fitful naps, he staggered into the bathroom for another dose of
aspirin to help kill the pain. Looking into the glassy-eyed worn and
weary face that stared back at him from the mirror, he noticed a bright
red rash emerging on his cheeks.
"Damndest flu I've ever had," he muttered aloud, then fell back into
bed in a
heap.
Security was tight at the Tokyo Hilton Hotel and guests for the private
banquet were required to pass through three separate checkpoints before
gaining entry to the lavish dining hall. The Japan Export
Association's annual dinner was an extravagant affair featuring the
best local chefs and entertainers performing for the country's top
business leaders and dignitaries. Executives from Japan's major
exporting companies helped sponsor the dinner on behalf of their major
trading partners. In addition to key customers, in-country diplomats
from all the Western and Asian countries that constituted Japan's
primary trading partners were treated as special guests.
The recent assassination of U.S. Ambassador Hamilton and the bedlam at
the SemCon factory opening had created a buzz in the crowd and heads
turned when the American embassy's deputy chief of mission Robert
Bridges entered the room, accompanied by two undercover security men.
Though a career diplomat, Bridges was more at home working policy
strategies or conducting business security briefings rather than
socializing in mass crowds. Hamilton had been by far the better
glad-hander, Bridges thought as he made small talk with a Japanese
trade representative. A dinner host soon arrived and escorted him to a
small banquet table, where he was seated with a number of European
diplomats.
As traditional dishes of sashimi and soba noodles were brought to the
tables, a troupe of geisha dancers glided elegantly about a raised
stage, dressed in brightly colored kimonos and twirling bamboo fans as