Poseidon's Arrow dp-22

by Clive Cussler

  Ann gave a nervous cough into her napkin. “What do you mean?”

  “We were searching for much more than just a missing boat, weren’t we?”

  “It was important that we find the boat, and any equipment that was still aboard.”

  “We succeeded on both counts,” Pitt said, “so how about you tell us something about that equipment?”

  “I can’t disclose that.”

  Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “Aside from nearly getting yourself killed, you also placed this ship and crew in danger. I think we’re entitled to some answers.”

  Ann looked Pitt in the eye for the first time—and realized she couldn’t sidestep the issue. She gazed around the room to ensure no one was eavesdropping.

  “As you know, Dr. Heiland’s company was engaged in a high-level research-and-development project for DARPA. His work was in support of a secret Navy submarine program called Sea Arrow. Heiland was specifically involved in the development of an advanced propulsion system. I really can’t tell you more than that except that he was doing some final prototype testing on a breakthrough development when his boat was lost at sea.”

  “That was the item in the crate?”

  “A scale model,” Ann said. “While there was a suspicion of foul play in the loss of the Cuttlefish, no one anticipated any interference with our search-and-recovery project. I’m truly sorry your crew was placed in danger. It was thought that the fewer people aware of Heiland’s research, the better. I know the Vice President wasn’t happy about keeping you in the dark, but he was forced to go along at the request of Tom Cerny.”

  “So who were those guys who tried to steal it?” Gunn asked.

  Ann shrugged. “A mystery, at the moment. By their looks, I don’t believe the men were from Mexico, but possibly Central or South America. I’ve already spoken to Washington and been assured we’ll have the Mexican authorities’ assistance in examining the two bodies and tracing the pickup truck.”

  “We’ve provided a pretty good description of their boat to the Mexican Navy,” Gunn said.

  “They don’t seem like the usual suspects for a defense-related theft,” Pitt noted. “Did you think they had already absconded with Heiland’s magic box?”

  “Yes,” Ann said. “When the bodies of Heiland and his assistant were found, we presumed they had been hijacked at sea and the prototype stolen. That’s why I was so shocked to see the crate still secured aboard the Cuttlefish.”

  “I guess you have Heiland to thank for that,” Pitt said. He described his discovery of the orange wires and hidden toggle switch. “I’m guessing that Heiland realized he was under attack and blew up his own boat.”

  “The two bodies showed severe trauma consistent with a fire or explosion,” Ann said. “We never considered it was of their own doing, but that may need to be reevaluated now.”

  “I think Heiland beat them to the punch,” Pitt said. “And, to make matters worse for the bad guys, the Cuttlefish sank in water too deep for conventional diving. They were probably scrambling to locate their own salvage ship when we showed up. So they let us raise it for them.”

  Gunn turned to Ann. “Your high diving saved the day.”

  “No, it was Dirk and Al who recaptured the crate. Though its destruction saved it from falling into the wrong hands, the loss of the model has magnified some other problems.”

  “Namely?” Pitt asked.

  “I’ve been told that neither DARPA nor the Navy have any detailed plans or design specs for Heiland’s work. Carl Heiland was a highly respected engineer—a genius, really—and because of that he was given free rein. Over the years he’s made many brilliant modifications in submarine design and torpedo development. As a result, he wasn’t required to submit the usual mountain of documentation demanded by most defense contracts.”

  “So no one else knows how to complete the Sea Arrow?” Pitt asked.

  “Exactly,” Ann replied with a tight-lipped grimace.

  “With Heiland dead and his model destroyed,” Gunn said, “those plans would be extremely valuable.”

  “Fowler tells me that is now our top priority.” She looked at her watch and then at Pitt. “The Vice President’s office has arranged a return jet for us to Washington. It leaves San Diego at one o’clock. I’d like to visit Heiland’s headquarters in Del Mar before we go. Could you drive me there on the way to the airport?”

  Pitt rose from the table and offered Ann her crutches. “I never fail to heed the call of small children, little old ladies, or pretty girls with wrenched ankles.” He gave a slight bow. “Just show me the way.”

  An hour later, they pulled into the headquarters of Heiland Research and Associates. The office occupied a shared building on a rise overlooking the beach town of Del Mar, just north of San Diego. The site offered a clear view of the ocean to the west, as well as Del Mar’s famed racetrack in the valley below. Ann flashed her credentials at the front desk and signed them in.

  “Welcome, Miss Bennett,” the receptionist said. “Mrs. Marsdale is expecting you.”

  A minute later, a stylish woman with short dark hair entered the lobby and introduced herself as Carl Heiland’s operations manager. As she led them to a nearby conference room, Ann followed awkwardly on her crutches.

  “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Marsdale,” Ann said. “I’m on the team investigating the death of Mr. Heiland, and I am concerned about securing his working papers related to the Sea Arrow project.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” The shock of Heiland’s death still marked her face. “I assume his death was no accident?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Carl and Manfred were just too competent to die in a boating accident. Carl was a safe and prudent man. I know he always had concerns about maintaining the secrecy of his work.”

  “We don’t think it was an accident,” Ann said, “but the investigation is still ongoing. We do believe that someone was trying to acquire his test model.”

  Marsdale nodded. “The FBI was here a few days ago, and we gave them what we could. But as I told them, this is Dr. Heiland’s business headquarters. We handle the government contracts and related admin support, and that’s about it. The entire firm employs only twelve people.”

  “Where is your research facility?” Pitt asked.

  “We don’t really have one. There’s a small shop out back, where we employ a few interns for ongoing research topics, but Carl and Manfred seldom worked here. They traveled frequently but actually conducted most of their research in Idaho.”

  “Idaho?” Ann asked.

  “Yes, there’s a Navy research facility in Bayview. Dr. Heiland has a cabin nearby, where he and Manfred would escape to problem-solve.”

  “That would be Manfred Ortega, Dr. Heiland’s assistant?”

  “Yes. Carl called him Manny. A brilliant engineer in his own right. The two of them together created magical work. They were the brains of the whole company. I don’t know what we’ll do now.”

  There was a long silence as they all realized the deaths of Carl and Manny meant the likely demise of Heiland Research and Associates.

  “Did the FBI gather all of the materials here on site?” Ann asked.

  “They took all of our admin files—and even our computers, for a time. We had sent the technical files to DARPA headquarters, which was just as well. The FBI agents were like a bull in a china shop, so I didn’t let them in Carl’s office, but they had the run of the rest of the place.”

  “Would you mind if I had a look around his office?” Ann said. “I’m sure you can understand the national security ramifications of securing all of his work.”

  “Sure. He never left much here, but his office is just down the hall.” Marsdale grabbed some keys from her desk and led them to a corner office. Of modest size, Heiland’s office looked seldom used. Like the man, it was frugal in décor, sporting a few submarine models and a painting of a mahogany rumrunner under sail. The only incongru
ous item was a stuffed moose head, with an assortment of fishing caps dangling from its antlers, mounted just above the desk.

  Marsdale gave a puzzled look when she saw several desk drawers had been left open. “That’s odd.” She suddenly stiffened. “Someone’s been in here and searched his desk. I remember leaving a contract in his in-box for signature and now it’s gone.”

  She turned to Ann with a worried expression. “I’m the only one in the building with keys to his office.”

  “Were there any other important documents in here?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Like I said, he was seldom here for very long.”

  She looked at the desk and then glanced up at the moose. “There was a picture of his boat and cabin on his desk—it’s gone, too. And Carl used to hang the keys to his cabin on the moose antler when he was here and they’re also missing.”

  “Do you have security cameras in the building?” Pitt asked.

  “We do. I’ll contact our security firm immediately.” Her voice cracked in distress. “I’m very sorry.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Ann said, “I’d like to call the FBI back in to scour the office. Combined with your security video, that should allow us to develop some potential leads.”

  “Yes, of course. Whatever it takes to find out who is behind all this.”

  As Ann and Pitt returned to the car, she stopped and stared out at the ocean. “They were here, weren’t they?”

  “I’d bet on it,” Pitt said.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask.” She turned and locked eyes with him. “Would you mind delaying our return to Washington a day? I’d like to redirect our flight to Idaho. If Marsdale is right, all of Heiland’s plans may be safe in Bayview without us even knowing it.”

  “I’m game,” Pitt said. “Fact is, I’ve always been curious to see where all those famous potatoes come from.”

  22

  THE GOVERNMENT GULFSTREAM JET DESCENDED out of a sapphire sky and touched down on the main runway of Coeur d’Alene Airport’s Pappy Boyington Field. A native son of the scenic Idaho town, Gregory “Pappy” Boyington had grown up to fly F4U Corsairs in the Pacific, winning the Medal of Honor while commanding the legendary Black Sheep Squadron. The airport that bore his name was now home to tame Piper Cubs and private jets of wealthy tourists. Pitt grabbed Ann’s crutches and helped her off the plane at the private jet terminal, where they negotiated the use of a rental car. Pitt took the wheel as they headed north on Route 95.

  They were traveling up Idaho’s northern panhandle, a region of rich forested hills and pristine blue lakes, far from the potato fields in the state’s southern plains. Traffic was light, and Pitt nudged the rental car past the sixty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. Twenty minutes later they reached the town of Athol, where Pitt turned onto a side road and drove east. A large sign welcomed them onto the grounds of Farragut State Park.

  “An Idaho state park named after a Civil War admiral?” Pitt said.

  “As a matter of fact, it is.” Ann scanned a travel brochure she picked up at the airport. “In the early days of World War Two, the Navy established an inland base here after it was feared the Japanese would bomb the West Coast. The Farragut Naval Training Station was indeed named for David Farragut, hero of the Battle of Mobile Bay and the first full admiral in the U.S. Navy. Nearly fifty thousand men were stationed here at one point. After the war, the base closed down, and the land was conveyed to Idaho, which turned it into a state park.”

  “There’s some trivia to fling at your next Pentagon cocktail hour,” Pitt said.

  The road exited the park and corkscrewed down a hill into Bayview. The hamlet was at the tip of a narrow inlet on the large glacial lake of Pend Oreille. Pitt had to squeeze past some road construction equipment before dropping down to the main waterfront drive. Several marinas filled with bass boats, day cruisers, and a large number of houseboats occupied the northern half of the bay. The Navy Acoustic Research Detachment controlled the southern shore.

  “There’s the lab’s entrance,” Ann said, pointing to a gated entry.

  Pitt pulled into the visitors’ lot and parked next to the guard station. After they signed in with the guard, a uniformed escort arrived and chauffeured them into the facility in a gray sedan. As they drove along the waterfront, Pitt noticed an oddly shaped submarine with the designation Sea Jet tied up at dock.

  The driver stopped at a towering beige-and-teal metal building built over the water, then escorted Ann and Pitt to the door. An animated man with bright red hair and dancing blue eyes greeted them.

  “Chuck Nichols, assistant lab director,” he said in a rapid-fire voice. “Please, follow me.”

  He waved off the driver and led Ann and Pitt to a small office crowded with papers and technical journals. He cleared off a pair of chairs overflowing with binders so they could sit down.

  “We were all pretty shocked to hear about Carl and Manny’s accident,” Nichols said. “Have you figured out what happened?”

  “Not entirely,” Ann said, “but we don’t believe it was an accident. We have reason to believe they were killed during a failed attempt by a foreign party to obtain the model prototype they were testing.”

  Nichols’s lips tightened. “Yeah, Slippery Mumm. He was pretty secret about that one. I can’t believe anybody would have known about it.”

  “Slippery Mumm?”

  “He always had a pet name for his models. He called his last hull model Pig Ghost. He gave us lots of grief over naming our test boat Sea Jet.”

  “Any significance to the name?” Pitt asked.

  “Sure, but probably only to Carl and Manny. He said the Mumm was from a champagne he liked. He talked a lot about speed and bubbles in attacking the supercavitation issue, so that must be the connection.”

  “Tell us about your facility here,” Ann said.

  “Heiland practically built the place. His family had a cabin here on Lake Pend Oreille, so he fell in love with the area.”

  Pitt noticed he pronounced the lake’s name “Pond-o-ray.”

  “When he headed up acoustics at the Naval Surface Warfare Center,” Nichols continued, “he convinced the brass in Washington to open an offshoot research lab here, using some remnants from the old Farragut naval base. He pretty much built it all from scratch. About ten or twelve years ago, he grew tired of the day-to-day management and decided to retire. That’s when he started his consulting business. Carl was always an engineer first.”

  “You’re a long way from blue water,” Pitt said.

  “Yes, but the lake is an ideal testing ground. It’s large, lightly populated, and features depths of over a thousand feet. Our work here focuses on research in advanced hull and propulsion designs—ones that allow for submarines to operate with a minimum acoustic signature. The lake is a nearly perfect controlled environment in which to test new designs and technologies.”

  “The Sea Jet being a test platform?” Pitt asked.

  “Exactly,” Nichols said. “It’s what we call an Advanced Electric Ship Demonstrator. Though it looks a bit like a submarine, it is actually a quarter-scale model of the new DD(X) class of destroyer. We’ve used it to experiment with some radical new hull designs and propulsion systems. It was originally built with waterjet propulsion, but we’ve migrated to some other technologies I probably shouldn’t talk about. We were scheduled to test Carl’s latest tinkering related to the Sea Arrow project, but we’re at somewhat of a loss there now.”

  “The technology in the Slippery Mumm?” Ann asked.

  “Yes. He was here testing it in the lake just a few weeks ago. I remember him telling the boys that he was really going to be scaring the fish with it. A couple of the fellows were out on the lake at the time and they claimed he was registering some crazy speeds.”

  “Didn’t he work on it here at the facility?”

  “Not much. He’d come in and run things on our computers, but he was always three steps ahead of us. When he was
in town, he was usually holed up at his cabin with Manny, tinkering away.”

  “It’s important that we find and secure all of his research related to the Slippery Mumm,” Ann said.

  “I already received that request from the folks at DARPA and I’m pulling together what we have,” Nichols said. “The fact of the matter is, Carl maintained ninety percent of the data. What wasn’t in his head is probably still out at his cabin. Here, let me give you the address.”

  He checked his Rolodex and jotted down the address for Ann, giving directions as he wrote. “There’s a rusty bell sitting on the patio table in back. Underneath it should be his spare keys to the house and boat.”

  Ann gave him a How did you know that? look.

  “I’ve downed more than a few beers with Carl on his porch and his boat,” Nichols said with a wink.

  Ann thanked him for his time, and they were escorted back to the front gate. Ann felt a sense of optimism for the first time. “See, I think this little side trip is going to pay off. Let’s go check out Heiland’s cabin, and then I’ll call the FBI to come secure the place.”

  “No objection to having dinner first?” Pitt said. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”

  “Only if I can buy.”

  Their options in the small town were limited. Pitt selected a waterfront restaurant called the Captain’s Wheel just down the road. Ann sampled a Greek salad while Pitt polished off a cheeseburger and beer as they watched the marina lights begin flickering on.

  Ann noticed a tranquil look cross Pitt’s face as he gazed at the lake’s still waters. There was something enigmatic about the man, yet she felt entirely safe with him. She had met him just days before and knew almost nothing about him—other than the disappointing discovery that he was married.

  “I’m not sure I ever thanked you for saving my life in Tijuana,” she said.

  Pitt looked at her and smiled. “I’m not sure jumping aboard a boat filled with armed thugs was the smartest act of law enforcement I’ve ever seen, but I’m glad things worked out.”

  “I’m occasionally prone to rashness.” She thought of her uninvited visit to his cabin the night before. “I’m hoping that we can be friends in Washington after this case is resolved.”