Poseidon's Arrow dp-22

by Clive Cussler

  “Seems a bit tenuous,” Pitt said.

  “Less so when it was discovered that Bolcke’s ship, the Salzburg, was in New Orleans at the same time—and departed a day later.”

  “The Salzburg,” Pitt said. “So Bolcke has been behind the Sea Arrow thefts from the beginning.”

  “But what does he plan to do with it?” Summer asked.

  Pitt thought back to his encounter with Zhou and the response he gave when asked why he was there.

  “Business,” Pitt said. “He plans to sell it to the Chinese, perhaps as part of a deal related to their combined rare earth holdings.” He looked at Summer. “How long ago did you say the Salzburg left New Orleans?”

  “About four days.”

  “Recon showed it heading south at the Mississippi Delta,” Dirk said.

  “Why hasn’t the Coast Guard or Navy tracked her down and boarded her?” Pitt asked.

  “They would have but for one thing,” Dirk said. “The ship has vanished.”

  65

  WITHIN CLEAR SIGHT OF THE CANAL AUTHORITY Administration Building, a rust-covered grain ship sat at anchor, absorbing the gentle waves of the Pacific. Named the Santa Rita, she was flagged in Guam, though the government of Guam would have been surprised to learn as much. Aside from never filing papers there, the Santa Rita had never once carried an ounce of grain.

  She was in fact an aging resource of China’s Ministry of State Security. Originally configured as a spy ship to monitor the Taiwan Strait, she later carried missiles to Iran in her grain-hauling configuration. Retired to less clandestine duty, she had been under contract to haul a shipment of Mexican pharmaceuticals to Shanghai when Zhou took her over off Costa Rica.

  The tired agent was resting on the bridge, just a short time after returning from his nighttime foray into Bolcke’s camp, when his cell phone rang. As he checked the number, his stoic face registered a hint of surprise.

  “Zhou,” he answered bluntly.

  “Zhou, this is Edward Bolcke. I have to inform you we will be making a slight change in the rendezvous plans.”

  “I was expecting the transfer to occur within the hour.”

  “There’s been a minor security delay, but there’s no cause for alarm. The shipment is safe. We will, however, need to postpone the rendezvous for another six hours.”

  Zhou grew silent. His explosives would detonate at Bolcke’s compound in approximately four hours. He had timed them to go off after he received the Sea Arrow’s motor and plans. The entire transfer was now in jeopardy.

  “That is unacceptable,” Zhou said calmly. “I have a strict timetable to adhere to.”

  “My apologies, but you can understand the sensitivities at play. My vessel is nearing the Gatun Locks and will still require the complete canal passage. If you wish, you might consider entering the canal at your end. If you head north through the Miraflores Locks, we could make the transfer in Miraflores Lake. That would reduce the time of our delivery by an hour or two. I can make a call and move you up for immediate passage through the lock.”

  The last place Zhou wanted to be was trapped in the middle of the Panama Canal. But if that was the only opportunity to acquire the Sea Arrow’s secrets, so be it. With luck, Bolcke might not know his facility was a smoldering ruin when he passed over the technology.

  “Very well,” Zhou said. “Make the transit arrangements, and I will proceed to Miraflores Lake. Please expedite your vessel, as we will be waiting.”

  Hanging up, he stared out the bridge window, feeling like he was about to dance on the edge of a razor.

  66

  NEARLY FORTY SHIPS WERE MOORED IN LIMON BAY, congesting like a swarm of bees around a hive. Each awaited its turn to be funneled from the Atlantic Ocean into the Panama Canal. A small containership arrived and cut past the long line of freighters, tankers, and other carriers to take its place at the front of the line.

  The century-old Big Ditch was handling more ships than ever, but its capacity was soon to swell. A major expansion was under way, adding two new sets of locks capable of handling the world’s largest containerships. While expensive to cross, the Panama Canal shaved thousands of miles off the alternative of traveling around Cape Horn.

  Watching the containership sail past, the captains waiting their turn in Limon Bay knew that jumping to the head of the line required paying a steep premium.

  The containership slowed as a pilot boat drew alongside, delivering a Panama Canal Authority boarding officer and a canal pilot. The ship’s captain escorted them to the bridge, where he relinquished command to the pilot, a requirement of all ships transiting the canal. The boarding officer confirmed the ship’s tonnage and dimensions to determine the vessel’s fare.

  “Manifest, please,” he asked the captain.

  The officer thumbed through the document, noting a short list of equipment parts.

  “Most of those containers empty?” he asked.

  “Yes, taking them to Balboa,” the captain said.

  “I noticed you were riding high in the water.” He computed the fee, with a steep kicker for moving up in line. “Your account will be charged accordingly.” Then he turned to the pilot. “The Portobelo is cleared to proceed.” He left the bridge and reboarded the pilot boat, which whisked him to the next ship waiting in line.

  The pilot sailed the Portobelo down a long channel to the Gatun Locks, the canal’s Atlantic entry point. The locks consisted of a parallel set of three huge sequential chambers, which enabled southbound vessels to be lifted eighty-five feet above sea level to begin crossing the isthmus.

  The Panama Canal itself was built like a liquid wedding cake. Its highest point was at its center, the large, man-made reservoir of Gatun Lake. The lake cascaded down three levels at either end. Due to a geographic quirk, the canal’s fresh water flowed to the Atlantic Ocean in the north and to the Pacific in the south. The elevated lake allowed for gravity to fill and drain the locks, raising or lowering ships, depending on their direction of travel.

  But the Panama Canal was an uneven wedding cake, due to a separation between locks on the Pacific side. While the three chambers of the Atlantic’s Gatun were sequential, the Pacific’s were far apart, with a single-chamber lock called Pedro Miguel at the lake and a dual-chamber lock called Miraflores a mile beyond. It took a typical ship about eight hours to complete the fifty-mile journey from ocean to ocean.

  The pilot inched the Portobelo close to the first chamber at Gatun, stopping just short of its huge open doors, which were called gates. Messenger lines attached to steel tow cables were hoisted aboard and secured, their opposite ends attached to tiny locomotives, called mules, which ran along the lock’s edge. Under the pilot’s guidance, the mules gently towed the freighter into the chamber and held it in place as the gates astern were closed. Once sealed, additional water was released into the mammoth chamber until the ship had been raised nearly thirty feet.

  Armed guards, not usually seen around the locks, patrolled the area, giving the ship a careful once-over. When the water level matched the next chamber’s, the front gates were opened and the ship was pulled forward by the mules. The process was repeated twice more, until the Portobelo motored out of the last chamber and into Gatun Lake—eighty-five feet higher than when she started. Clearing the locks, the pilot ordered the helm to increase speed.

  “Helm, belay that order,” the captain said. “All stop.”

  The pilot’s face turned red. “I command the vessel through the canal!” His demeanor softened when he detected another presence on the bridge. He turned to find Pablo approaching him. “Pablo! I thought this tub was eerily familiar to the old Salzburg. When did you boys get into the container business?”

  “About thirty-six hours ago,” Pablo said. “We’ll be taking her from here.”

  “Sure, sure.” The pilot spotted the bag in Pablo’s hand that contained the usual cash bribe and a bottle of Chivas Regal.

  “There’s an extra thousand for you,” Pablo said, hand
ing him the bag. “No more mention of the Salzburg.”

  “Whatever you say. The monkeys on the dock were looking for you, but I guess you fooled them. See you on the next run.”

  The ship’s crew lowered a rubber boat and ran the pilot to shore, where he could hop in a taxi to the nearest bar. When the inflatable returned, the disguised Salzburg got under way.

  “You sure he can be trusted?” the captain asked.

  Pablo nodded. “We’ll have completed the transfer before he’s halfway through that bottle of scotch.”

  Pablo allowed himself his own notion of relief. Since receiving the warning call from Bolcke two days earlier, he had feared every call on the radio and every passing ship. But the rush transformation of the Salzburg into the Portobelo, aided by a paint respray of the bridge and funnel, and a large load of empty containers, had fooled the canal authorities at the Gatun Locks. That meant one thing.

  They were home free.

  67

  THE COLETTA SCREAMED THROUGH THE PANAMA Canal, passing the speed-restricted commercial ships like they were standing still. An Italian-built patrol boat of some forty meters, she sported a 20mm turreted cannon on her bow for muscle.

  Below deck, thirty armed commandos were crammed into the wardroom, receiving a final briefing from Alvarez. They were well trained, having conducted numerous joint exercises with international forces in mock defense of the canal. Pitt tried to quell their obvious enthusiasm for the mission by detailing the strength of Bolcke’s forces.

  Yet Pitt felt his own impatience. Showered, bandaged, and wearing a fresh set of borrowed fatigues, he was anxious to get into the facility and free Giordino. But a daylight raid was risky, and everything hinged on his brief encounter with Zhou. Pitt just hoped that his instincts were right.

  Alvarez handed him a holstered SIG Sauer P228 automatic. “You know how to use it?”

  Pitt nodded.

  “We should arrive at the deployment zone in ten minutes. I’ll be leading boat 1 into the cove. We’ll secure the dock, knock out the generator, and release the prisoners. Boat 2 will land on the peninsula and secure the residence, hopefully with Bolcke inside. Boat 3 will follow as a reserve. You can join boat 3, but I must request that you act as an observer only.”

  “I’ll help where I can. Good luck, Alvarez.”

  Pitt looked for Dirk and Summer but didn’t see them in the emptying wardroom. He could hear the patrol boat’s motor slow, and he followed the others onto the deck.

  The Coletta had followed the canal’s transit route around the eastern shore of Barro Colorado Island, a large nature preserve in the middle of Gatun Lake. The canal’s narrow channel was marked with lights and signs to prevent ships from running aground in the nearby shallows. The lightly drafted Coletta had no such concerns as she raced across the path of an approaching containership. She traveled east for a mile until she approached a narrow landmass covered with dense vegetation.

  The Coletta drifted under the hot sun as three inflatable assault craft were lowered over the side, each loaded with ten commandos. Pitt sensed his boat had some extra passengers as he squeezed between two unarmed commandos with bush hats pulled low over their faces.

  “A little room for the old man?” he said.

  Dirk looked up from beneath his hat. “We wanted to be here to help.”

  “I’d rather you both stayed on the boat.” Pitt unhooked his holster and passed the SIG Sauer to Dirk. “Keep an eye on your sister.”

  “No worries,” Summer whispered beside him.

  A commando had already engaged the outboard motor, propelling the inflatable toward shore behind the first two assault craft. The first boat veered left for the cove, while the other two eased right toward a small protected bluff. The boats had been in the water less than five minutes when their entire plan of attack fell apart.

  A ring of moored buoys containing sensors and video cameras had detected their approach. Alarms sounded around the compound, alerting Bolcke’s security forces. Most deployed to the dock after securing the prisoners, while another force took to the roof of Bolcke’s residence.

  Boat 1, with Alvarez leading his team, took the first hit. Maneuvering past a fake mangrove swamp, they approached the dock—only to be met with a fusillade from shore. Alvarez and his men gamely fired back, suppressing some of the gunfire, until a battery of rocket-propelled grenades came blasting at them. One landed in the boat, skidding to the rear transom before detonating. Two men were killed instantly as the stern blew apart, sending the rest of the men into the water.

  Boats 2 and 3 had a moment’s warning before gunfire erupted from the rooftop of Bolcke’s concealed residence. Closest to the shore, boat 2 took the brunt of the fire, incurring several casualties, as they maneuvered and returned fire. The pilot managed to run the boat ashore, the commandos finding marginal protection behind a low rock berm. But the team was effectively pinned down by the shooters on the roof.

  “Run to the right!” Pitt yelled to boat 3’s pilot as the battle ignited in front of them.

  He had foreseen boat 2’s predicament and motioned for the pilot to sweep hard right and put ashore out of view of the residence. The panicked pilot turned up the outboard’s throttle and jammed the rudder to the side. They nearly made it unscathed as the team leader, a burly man named Jorge, organized return fire. But as the rooftop shooters focused on the third boat, Jorge was shot twice in the stomach.

  Pitt saw the scared look in the eyes of the other commandos, none of whom had ever witnessed actual combat. He immediately stepped forward.

  “We need to suppress the rooftop fire to get the men from boat 2 off the beach. Follow me to the house.”

  When their hull touched bottom, Pitt leaped over the side and sprinted into the jungle. Inspired by his show of fearlessness, the commandos tore after him.

  “I’ll stay here and look after Jorge,” Summer said to Dirk as she rummaged for a medical kit. “Go help Dad.”

  Dirk nodded, thumbing off the safety of his pistol, and leaping from the boat. He quickly caught up with the others as they snaked their way through the jungle. Pitt stopped them at the fringe of a clearing that surrounded the house. Several gunmen were visible on the roof, waiting for them to emerge from the brush.

  Pitt studied the residence, noticing an exterior side stairwell that led to the roof. He turned to a young man crouched next to him. “Do you have any grenades?”

  “Only smoke grenades.”

  “Give me what you have.”

  After collecting four smoke grenades, Pitt lined the men in a picket.

  “On my signal, spray the rooftop to give me cover. When I get to the stairs, I’ll lob the grenades onto the roof. Move in quickly and secure it.”

  Pitt slithered to a position closer to the house and then yelled, “Now!” The jungle exploded with gunfire, targeting the rooftop guards. Pitt took off running as the guards ducked for cover. But they regrouped quickly and returned fire. Sprinting to the house, Pitt saw the rooftop gunners were obscured by the residence’s front porch, and he angled toward the entry. He was nearing the porch steps when the front door burst open and two guards charged out. In their wake followed Bolcke, like a running back behind his blockers. The trio dashed down the first steps, then froze at the sight of Pitt a few feet away.

  Bolcke’s eyes flared in shock. But there was no hesitation in his voice as he spoke over the background gunfire.

  “Kill him!”

  68

  BOLCKE’S GUARDS SWUNG THEIR RIFLES TOWARD Pitt and readied to fire. But Pitt was a step ahead. He popped the pin on one of the smoke grenades and tossed it on the steps. The grenade skidded across the carved stone and stopped at Bolcke’s feet.

  The guards dropped their weapons, grabbed Bolcke, and heaved him over the far balustrade. One guard dove after him, but the other hesitated. He’d heard the grenade hissing and noticed a first wisp of smoke spurting from it. Realizing it was not an explosive, he kicked it off the steps, and a gra
y cloud erupted over the lawn. He turned back to Pitt, who stood, exposed, at the corner wall a few feet away.

  The guard raised his rifle and took a bead on Pitt. But before he found the trigger, two red splotches appeared on his chest, and he staggered back on his heels. The guard teetered, then collapsed on the steps and rolled to the ground.

  Pitt saw his son kneeling on the lawn, the SIG Sauer held outstretched in his hands. Dirk jumped up and ran to the side of the house as a salvo of bullets stitched the ground beside him.

  “Thanks for the backup,” Pitt said.

  Dirk smiled. “Smoke is no match for lead.”

  Pitt motioned toward the porch steps. “Bolcke.”

  Dirk took the lead as they crept across the porch, but Bolcke and the other guard had already vanished down a jungle path. Reversing course, Pitt led his son up the side stairwell, halting a few feet from the top. He heaved the remaining grenades onto the rooftop, engulfing it in a thick cloud of smoke. Ground fire ceased as the boat 3 commandos streamed out of the jungle and raced up the stairs. A few seconds later, the remaining boat 2 commandos broke from the shore and joined the assault. The combined forces quickly overran the guards, sweeping the roof as the smoke cleared.

  As the residence fell silent, they could still hear sporadic gunfire from the dock area.

  “Has anyone heard from Alvarez?” Pitt asked, as the commandos reassembled on the roof.

  “I’ve had no response,” said the leader of boat 2. “We better move to the dock.”

  “I’ll show you the way,” Pitt said.

  The commandos rushed back down the stairs. A small contingent peeled off to secure the interior of the house while the rest followed Pitt down the same path Bolcke had taken. When the commandos arrived at the dock, a half dozen security guards were scattered about it, firing into the water. They had been joined by two armed crewmen on the bow of the Adelaide, firing from above.