"Possible, but not likely," Finch replied. "The method of
assassination is certainly not their style, and there has been no real
radical Islamic presence visible in Japan. At this juncture, we have
absolutely no evidence to suggest a link."
"Where are we with the Japanese on this?" the president asked.
"We have an FBI counterterrorist team in-country working closely with
the Japanese National Police Agency. The Japanese authorities are
quite cognizant of the nefarious nature of these assassinations in
their country and have assigned a large task force to the
investigation. There is little more in the way of assistance we could
ask of them that they haven't already offered up."
"I have initiated a request through State to the Japanese Foreign
Ministry for an update to their profile of high-risk aliens," Jimenez
interjected. "We'll issue a border security alert watch, in
coordination with the FBI."
"And what are we doing elsewhere abroad to prevent any more target
shooting?" the president asked, addressing the secretary of state.
"We have issued heightened security alerts at all of our embassies,"
the secretary replied. "We have also assigned additional security
protection to our senior diplomats, and placed a temporary travel
restriction for all State Department personnel within their host
country. For the time being, our ambassadors abroad are under lock and
key."
"Any opinion that there is an imminent threat domestically, Dennis?"
"Not at this time, Mr. President," the homeland security director
replied. "We've tightened our travel and immigration inspections on
incoming traffic from Japan but don't feel it is necessary to raise the
domestic security alert."
"Do you concur, Marty?"
"Yes, sir. Like Dennis, all our indications suggest that the incidents
are isolated to Japan."
"Very well. Now what about the deaths of those two Coast Guard
meteorologists in Alaska?" the president asked, drawing another puff
on his pipe.
Finch rifled through some documents before responding. "That would be
the island of Yunaska in the Aleutians. We have an investigative team
presently on site working with local officials. They are also looking
at the destruction of a NUMA helicopter as a related incident.
Preliminary indications are that the acts were the result of rogue
poachers who used cyanide gas to subdue a herd of sea lions. We're
trying to track down a Russian fishing trawler that was known to be
fishing the local waters illegally. Officials on-site appear confident
that they will apprehend the vessel."
"Cyanide gas to hunt sea lions? There are lunatics all over this
planet. All right, gentlemen, let's give it our all to find these
murderers. Allowing our diplomatic representatives to be gunned down
without repercussion is not the message I want to be giving the world.
I knew Hamilton and Bridges. They were both good men."
"We'll find them," Finch promised.
"Make sure," the president said, tapping his downturned pipe bowl
against a stainless steel ashtray for effect. "I fear these characters
have more up their sleeve than we realize and I want none of what
they're selling." As he spoke, a glob of burned tobacco plopped
unceremoniously into the ashtray, and nobody said a word.
Although Keith Catana had been in South Korea only three months, he had
already identified his favorite off-base watering hole. Chang's Saloon
appeared little different from the dozen or so other bars of "A-Town,"
a seedy entertainment section on the fringe of Kunsan City that catered
to the American servicemen stationed at Kunsan Air Force Base. Chang's
skipped the loud blaring music that emanated from most of the other
bars and offered a decent price for an OB beer, one of the local Korean
brews. But perhaps more important, in Catana's eyes, Chang's attracted
the best-looking working girls of A-Town.
Abandoned by two buddies who decided to pursue a group of American
servicewomen headed to a dance club around the corner, Catana sat
silently nursing his fourth beer, welcoming the early periphery of a
warm buzz. The twenty-three-year-old master sergeant was an avionics
specialist at the air base, supporting F-16 attack jets of the Eighth
Fighter Wing. Located just a few minutes' flight time from
the DMZ, his squadron stood in constant preparedness for an aerial
counter strike should North Korea initiate an invasion of the South.
Sentimental memories of his family back in Arkansas were suddenly
jolted from his brain when the door to the bar flung open and in
strolled the most stunning Korean woman Catana had ever laid eyes on.
Four beers were not enough to deceive himself; she was a genuine
beauty. Her long, straight black hair accentuated a delicate, almost
porcelain-skinned face that featured a petite nose and mouth but
stunningly bold black eyes. A tight leather skirt and silk top
accentuated her small build but magnified a distorted symmetry created
by her large, surgically enhanced breasts.
Like a tigress searching for prey, the woman surveyed the crowded bar
from front to back before focusing on the lone airman sitting alone in
a corner. With her sights locked, she swiveled her way over to
Catana's table and smoothly slipped into the chair facing him.
"Hello, Joe. Be a friend and buy me a drink?" she purred.
"Glad to," Catana stammered in reply. She was definitely in a
different league from the normal A-Town hookers, he thought, and not
the type that caters to enlisted servicemen. But who was he to argue?
If the heavens intended to drop this creature in his lap on payday,
then good fortune was indeed smiling his way.
It took only one quick beer before the harlot invited him back to her
hotel room. Catana was pleasantly surprised that the woman didn't
wrangle about price, or, in fact, mention it at all, he thought
oddly.
She led him to a cheap motel nearby, where they walked arm in arm down
its seedy hallway that was complete with red lights. At the end of the
hall, the woman unlocked the door to a small, hot corner room. Sleep
wasn't the major draw of the room, Catana could see, as evidenced by a
condom machine mounted near the bed.
After closing the door, the woman quickly stripped off her top, then
embraced Catana in a deep, passionate kiss. He paid little attention
to a noise near the closet as he soaked in the warmth of the exotic
woman, intoxicated by a combination of her beauty, the alcohol,
and the expensive perfume she wore. His pleasurable delirium was
suddenly jolted by a sharp jab to his buttocks, followed by a hot,
searing pain. Whirling unsteadily around, he was shocked to find
himself facing another man in the room. The stocky bald man grinned a
crooked smile through his long mustache, his dark cold eyes seeming to
penetrate right through Catana's skull. In his hands, he held a fully
depressed hypodermic needle.
Pain and confusion overwhelmed Catana as his body suddenly went numb.
He tried to raise his hands but his limbs were useless. Even his lips
refused to cooperate with his brain in voicing a cry of protest. It
took just a few seconds before a wave of blackness rolled over him and
all feeling departed his senses.
It was hours later when the incessant pounding jarred him from a state
of unconsciousness. The pounding was not in his head, as he first
imagined, but came externally, from the motel room door. He noticed a
warm stickiness enveloping him as he fought to clear the fog from his
vision. Why the pounding? Why the wetness? The dimly lit room and
cobwebs in his mind refused to reveal the mystery..
The banging ceased for a moment, then a loud blow struck the door,
bashing it open with a flood of light. Squinting through the
brightness, he saw a company of policemen storm into the room, followed
by two men with cameras. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden infusion
of light, he was able to notice what the wetness was around him.
Blood. It was everywhere: on the sheets, on the pillows, and smeared
all over his body. But mostly it was pooled about the prone figure of
the nude woman lying dead beside him.
Catana instinctively lurched back from the body in shock at the sight
of the corpse. As two of the policemen pulled him off the bed and
handcuffed his wrists, he cried out in horror.
"What happened? Who did this?" he said in a daze.
He looked on in shock as a third policeman pulled back a sheet
partially covering the woman, fully exposing a body that had been
brutally mutilated. To Catana's further bewilderment, he saw that the
body was not that of the beautiful woman he had met the night before
but rather was of a young girl whom he did not know.
Catana sagged as he was dragged out of the room amid a flurry of
photographs. By noon that day, the story of the rape and savage murder
of a thirteen-year-old Korean girl by a U.S. serviceman was a
countrywide horror. By evening, it had become a national outrage. And
by the time of the girl's funeral two days later, it was a full-blown
international incident.
The high noonday sun shimmered brightly off the sapphire waters of the
Bohol Sea, forcing Raul Biazon to squint as he gazed toward the large
research vessel moored in the distance. For a moment, the Philippine
government biologist thought the sun's rays were playing a trick on his
eyes. No respectable scientific research ship could possibly be
emblazoned in such a lively hue. But as the small weather-beaten
launch in which he rode drew closer, he saw that there was nothing
wrong with his vision. The ship was in fact painted a glistening
turquoise blue from stem to stern, which made the vessel appear as if
it belonged under the sea rather than bobbing atop it. Leave it to the
Americans, Biazon thought, to escape the ordinary.
The launch pilot guided the worn wooden boat alongside a stepladder
suspended over the side of the ship and Biazon wasted no time in
leaping aboard. Speaking briefly to the pilot in Tagalog, he turned
and scampered up the ladder and sprang onto the deck, nearly colliding
with a tall brawny man who stood at the rail. With thinning blond
hair and sturdy build, there was a Viking-like air about the man who
was dressed in an immaculate white warm-weather captain's uniform.
"Dr. Biazon? Welcome aboard the Mariana Explorer. I'm Captain Bill
Stenseth," the man smiled warmly through gray eyes.
"Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Captain," Biazon
replied, regaining his stance and composure. "When a local fisherman
informed me that a NUMA research vessel was seen in the region, I
thought you might be able to offer some assistance."
"Let's head to the bridge and out of the heat," Stenseth directed, "and
you can fill us in on the environmental calamity you mentioned over the
radio."
"I hope that I am not interfering with your research work," Biazon said
as the two men climbed a flight of stairs.
"Not at all. We've just completed a seismic mapping project off
Mindanao and are taking a break to test some equipment before heading
up to Manila. Besides," Stenseth said with a grin, "when my boss says,
"Stop the boat," I stop the boat."
"Your boss?" Biazon inquired with a confused look.
"Yes," Stenseth replied as they reached the bridge wing and he pulled
open the side door. "He's traveling on board with us."
Biazon stepped through the door and into the bridge, shivering
involuntarily as a blast of refrigerated air struck his
perspiration-soaked body. At the rear of the bridge, he noticed a
tall, distinguished-looking man in shorts and a polo shirt bent over a
chart table studying a map.
"Dr. Biazon, may I present the director of NUMA, Dirk Pitt," Stenseth
introduced. "Dirk, this is Dr. Raul Biazon, hazardous wastes manager
with the Philippines Environmental Management Bureau."
Biazon was shocked to find the head of a large government agency
working at sea so far from Washington. But one look at Pitt and Biazon
knew he wasn't the typical government administrator. Standing nearly a
foot taller than his own five-foot-four frame, the NUMA chief carried a
tan, lean, muscular body that showed few indications of having spent
much time behind a desk. Though Biazon wouldn't know, the senior Pitt
was nearly the spitting image of his son who carried the same name. The
face was weathered and the ebony hair showed tinges of gray at the
temples, but the opaline green eyes sparkled with life. They were eyes
that had absorbed much in their day, Biazon gauged, reflecting an
assorted mix of intelligence, mirth, and tenacity.
"Welcome aboard," Pitt greeted warmly, shaking Biazon's hand with a
firm grip. "My underwater technology director, Al Giordino," he added,
jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the far corner of the
wheelhouse. Curled up asleep on a bench seat was a short, thick man
with dark curly hair. A light snore drifted from the man's lips with
each breath of air that exhaled from his barrel-shaped chest. His
powerful build reminded Biazon of a rhinoceros.
"Al, come join the party," Pitt yelled across the bridge.
Giordino pried his eyes open, then popped instantly awake. He quickly
stood and joined the other men at the table, showing no signs of
slumber.
"As I told the captain, I appreciate your offer of assistance," Biazon
said.
"The Philippine government has always been supportive of our research
work in your country's waters," Pitt replied. "When we received your
radio call to help identify a toxic marine affliction, we were glad to
help. Perhaps you can tell us a little more about the specifics of the
outbreak."
"A few weeks ago, our office was contacted by a resort hotel on anglao
Island. The hotel's management was upset because a large quantity of
dead fish were washing up on the guest beach."
"I could see where that would tend to dampen the holiday makers'
spirits," Giordino grinned.
"Indeed," Biazon
replied sternly. "We began monitoring the shoreline
and have witnessed the fish kill growing at an alarming rate. Dead
marine life is washing ashore along a ten-kilometer stretch of beach
now, and growing day by day. The resort owners are all up in arms, and
we, of course, are concerned about potential damage to the coral
reef."
"Have you been able to diagnose what is killing the fish?" Stenseth
asked.
"Not yet. Toxic poisoning is all we can infer. We have sent samples
to our departmental lab in Cebu for analysis but are still awaiting the
results." The look on Biazon's face revealed his dissatisfaction with
the snail-paced response from the agency lab.
"Any speculation as to the source?" Pitt asked.
Biazon shook his head. "We initially suspected industrial pollutants,
which, regrettably, are an all too common source of environmental
damage in my country. But my field team and I have scoured the
impacted coastal region and failed to locate any heavy industrial
businesses operating in the area. We also examined the coastline for
obvious spillways or illegal dump sites but came up empty. It is my
belief that the source of the kill originates at sea."
"Perhaps a red tide?" Giordino said.
"We do experience toxic phytoplankton outbreaks in the Philippines,"
Biazon said, "though they are typically seen during the warmer late
summer months."
"It might also be some covert offshore industrial dumping," Pitt
replied. "Where exactly is the impacted area, Dr. Biazon?"
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 12