Deep Six

by Clive Cussler

  "I thought I'd try the zuppa di pesce."

  "My scale said I was up a pound this morning. I think I'll just have a salad."

  The waiter approached.

  "A drink?" Pitt asked.

  "You order."

  "Two Sazerac cocktails on the rocks, and please ask the bartender to pour rye instead of bourbon."

  "Very good, sir," the waiter acknowledged.

  Loren lain her napkin in her lap. "I've phoned for two days.

  Where've you been?"

  "The admiral sent me on an emergency salvage job."

  "Was she pretty?" she asked, playing the age-old game.

  "A coroner might think so. But drowned bodies never turned me on."

  "Sorry," she said and went sober and quiet until the drinks were brought. They stirred the ice around the glasses and then sipped the reddish contents.

  "One of my aides ran across something that might help you," she said finally.

  "What is it?"

  She pulled several stapled sheets of typewritten paper from her attache' case and passed them to Pitt. Then she began explaining in a soft undertone.

  "Not much meat, I'm afraid, but there's an interesting report on the CIA's phantom navy."

  "Didn't know they had one," Pitt said, scanning the pages.

  "Since 1963 they have accumulated a small fleet of ships that few people inside the government know about. And the few who are aware of the fleet won't admit it exists. Besides surveillance, its primary function is to carry out clandestine operations involving the transporting of men and supplies for the infiltration of agents or guerrillas into unfriendly countries. Originally it was put together to harass Castro after his takeover of Cuba. Several years later, when it became apparent that Castro was too strong to topple, their activities were curtailed, partly because the Cubans threatened to retaliate against American fishing vessels. From that time on the CIA navy expadded its sphere of operations from Central America to the fighting in Vietnam to Africa and the middle East. Do you follow?"

  "I'm with you, but I have no idea where it's leading."

  "Just be patient," she said. "Several years ago an attack cargo transport called the Hobson was a part of the Navy's reserve mothball fleet at Philadelphia. She was decommissioned and sold to a commercial shipping company, a cover for the CIA. They spared no expense in rebuilding her to outwardly resemble a common cargo carrier, while her interior was filled with concealed armament, including a new missile system, highly sophisticated communications and listening gear, and a facility for launching fast patrol and landing boats through swinging bow doors.

  "She was manned and ready on station during Iran's disastrous invasion of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in 1985. Flying the maritime flag of Panama, she secretly sank two Soviet spy ships in the Persian Gulf.

  The Russians could never prove who did it, because none of our Navy ships were within range. They still think the missiles that destroyed their ships came from the Saudi shore."

  "And you found out about all this?"

  "I have my sources," she informed him.

  "Does the Hobson have anything to do with the Pilottown?"

  "Indirectly," Loren answered.

  "Go on."

  "Three years ago, the Hobson vanished with all hands off the Pacific Coast of Mexico."

  " so? "

  "So three months later the CIA found her again.

  "Sounds familiar," Pitt mused.

  "My thought too." Loren nodded. "A replay of the San Marino and the Belle Chasse."

  "Where was the Hobson discovered?"

  Before Loren could answer, the waiter set their plates on the table. The zuppa di pesce, an Italian bouillabaisse, looked sensational.

  As soon as the waiter walked out of earshot he nodded to her.

  "Go on."

  "I don't know how the CIA tracked the ship down, but they came on her sitting in a dry dock in Sydney, Australia, where she was undergoing a major face-lift."

  "They find who she was registered to?"

  "She flew the Philippine flag under the registry of Samar Exporters. A bogus firm that was incorporated only a few weeks earlier in Manila. Her new name was Buras."

  "Burin," Pitt echoed. "Must be the name of a person. How's your salad?"

  "The dressing is very tasty. And yours?"

  "Excellent," he answered. "An act of sheer stupidity on the part of the pirates to steal a ship belonging to the CIA."

  "A case of a mugger rolling a drunk and finding out the drunk was an undercover detective."

  "What happened next in Sydney?"

  "Nothing. The CIA, working with the Australian branch of the British Secret Service, tried to apprehend the owners of the Buras but were never able to find them."

  "No leads, no witnesses?"

  "The small Korean crew living onboard had been recruited in Singapore. They knew little and could only give a description of the captain, who had vanished."

  Pitt took a swallow of water and examined a page of the report.

  "Not much of an id. Korean, medium height, one hundred sixty-five pounds, black hair, gap in front teeth. That narrows it down to about five or ten million men," he said sarcastically. "Well, at least now I don't feel so bad. If the CIA can't pin a make on whoever is sailing around the world hijacking ships, I sure as hell can't."

  "Has St. Julien Perhnutter called you?"

  Pitt shook his head. "Haven't heard a word. Probably lost heart and deserted the cause."

  "I have to desert the cause too," Loren said gently. "But only for a little while."

  Pitt looked at her sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed.

  "How did a nice girl ever become a politician?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "Chauvinist."

  "Seriously, where will you be?"

  "A shortifact-finding junket on a Russian cruise ship sailing the Caribbean."

  "Of course," Pitt said. "I'd forgotten you chair the committee for merchant marine transport."

  Loren nodded and patted her mouth with her napkin. "The last cruise ship to fly the Stars and Stripes was taken out of service in 1984. To many people this is a national disgrace. The President feels strongly that we should be represented in ocean commerce as well as naval defense. He's asking Congress for a budget outlay of ninety million dollars to restore the S.S. United States, which has been lain up at Norfolk for twenty years, and put her back in service to compete with the foreign cruise lines."

  "And you're going to study the Russian method of lavishing their, passengers with vodka and caviar?"

  "That," she said, looking suddenly official, "and the economics of their government-operated cruise ship."

  "When do you sail?"

  "Day after tomorrow. I fly to Miami and board the Leonin Andreyev. I'll be back in five days. What will you do?"

  "The admiral has given me time off to pursue the Pilottown investigation."

  "Does any of this information help you?"

  "Every bit helps," he said, straining to focus on a thought that was a distant shadow on the horizon. Then he looked at her. "Have you heard anything through the congressional grapevine?"

  "You mean gossip? Like who's screwing who?"

  "Something heavier. Rumors of a missing party high in government or a foreign diplomat."

  Loren shook her head. "No, nothing quite so sinister. The Capitol scene is pretty dull while Congress is in recess. Why? You know of a scandal brewing I don't?"

  "Just asking," Pitt said noncommittally.

  Her hand crept across the table and clasped his. "I have no idea where all this is taking you, but please be careful. Fu Manchu might get wise you're on his scent and lay in ambush."

  Pitt turned and laughed. "I haven't read Sax Rohmer since I was a kid. Fu Manchu, the yellow peril. What made you think of him?"

  She gave a little shrug. "I don't really know. A mental association with an old Peter Sellers movie, the Sosan Trading Company and the Korean crew of the Buras, I guess."
>
  A faraway look came over Pitts eyes and then they widened.

  The thought on the horizon crystallized. He hailed the waiter and paid the bill with a credit card.

  "I've got to make a couple of phone calls," he explained briefly.

  He kissed her lightly on the lips and hurried onto the crowded sidewalk.

  Pitt QUICKLY DROVE to the NUMA building and closed himself in his office. He assembled his priorities for several moments and dialed Los Angeles on his private phone line. On the fifth ring a girl answered who couldn't pronounce her r's.

  "Casio and Associates Investigations."

  "I'd like to speak to Mr. Casio, please."

  "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "My name is Pitt."

  "He's with a client. Can you call back?"

  "No!" Pitt growled menacingly. "I'm calling from Washington and it's urgent."

  Suitably intiminated, the receptionist replied, "One moment."

  Casio came on the line almost immediately. "Mr. Pitt. Good to hear from you."

  "Sorry to interrupt your meeting," said Pitt, "but I need a few answers."

  "I'll do my best."

  "What do you know about the crew of the San Marino?"

  "Not much. I ran a make on the officers, but nothing unusual turned up. They were all professional merchant mariners. The captain, as I recall, had a very respectable record."

  "No ties to any kind of organized crime?"

  "Nothing that came to light in the computers of the National Crime Information Center."

  "How about the rest of the crew?"

  "Not much there. Only a few had maritime union records."

  "Nationality?" Pitt asked.

  "Nationality?" Casio repeated, thought a moment, then said, "A mixture. A few Greek, a few Americans, several Koreans."

  "Koreans?" Pitt came back, suddenly alert. "There were Koreans onboard?"

  "Yeah, that's right. Now that you mention it, as I remember, a group of about ten signed on just before the San Marino sailed."

  "Would it be possible to trace the ships and companies they served prior to the San Marino?"

  "You're going back a long time, but the files should be available."

  "Could you throw in the history of the Pilottown's crew as well?"

  "Don't see why not."

  "I'd appreciate it."

  "What are you after exactly?" Casio asked.

  "Should be obvious to you."

  "A link between the crew and our unknown parent company, is that it?"

  "Close enough."

  "You're going back before the ship disappeared," said Casio thoughtfully.

  "The most practical way to take over a ship is by the crew."

  "I thought mutiny went out with the Bounty."

  "The modern term is hijacking."

  "You've got a good hunch going," said Casio. "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thank you, Mr. Casio."

  "We've danced enough to know each other. Call me Sal."

  "Okay, Sal, and make it Dirk."

  "I'll do that," Casio said seriously. "Goodbye."

  After he hung up, Pitt leaned back and put his feet on the desk.

  He felt good, optimistic that a vague instinct was about to pay off.

  Now he was about to try another long shot, one that was so crazy he almost felt foolish for pursuing it. He copied a number out of the National University Directory and called it.

  "University of Pennsylvania, Department of Anthropology."

  "May I speak to Dr. Grace Perth?"

  "Just a sec."

  "Thank you."

  Pitt waited for nearly two minutes before a motherly voice said, "Hello."

  "Dr. Perth?"

  "Speaking."

  "My name is Dirk Pitt and I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Have you got a moment to answer a couple of academic questions for me?"

  "What do you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?" Dr. Perth asked sweetly. Pitt tried to picture her in his mind. His initial image was that of a prim, white-haired lady in a tweed suit. He erased it as a stereotype.

  "If we take a male between the ages of thirty and forty, of medium height and weight, who was a native of Peking, China, and another male of the same description from Seoul, South Korea, how could we tell them apart?"

  "You're not doing a number on me, are you, Mr. Pitt?"

  Pitt laughed. "No, Doctor, I'm quite serious," he assured her.

  "Hmmm, Chinese versus Korean," she muttered while thinking.

  "By and large, people of Korean ancestry tend to be more classic, or extreme, Mongoloin. Chinese features, on the other hand, lean more generally to Asian. But I wouldn't want to make my living guessing which was which, because the overlap is so great. It would be far simpler to judge them by their clothes or behavior, or the way they cut their hair-in short, their cultural characteristics."

  "i thought they might have certain facial features that could separate them, such as you find between Chinese and Japanese."

  "Well now, here the genetic spread is more obvious. If your Oriental male has a fairly dense heard growth, you'd have a rather strong indication that he's Japanese. But in the case of China and Korea, you're dealing with two racial groups that have intermixed for centuries, so much so that the individual variations would tend to blur out any distinction."

  "You make it sound hopeless."

  "Awfully difficult, maybe, but not hopeless," Dr. Perth said. "A series of laboratory tests could raise your probability factor."

  "My interest is strictly from a visual view."

  "Are your subjects living?"

  "No, drowning victims."

  "A pity. With a living individual there are little traits of facial expressions that are culturally acquired and can be detected by someone who has had a lot of experience with both races. A pretty good guess may be made on that basis alone."

  "No such luck."

  "Perhaps if you could define their facial characteristics to me."

  Pitt dreaded the thought, but he closed his eyes and began describing the lifeless heads he'd seen on the Eagle. At first the vision was vague, but soon it focused with clarity and he found himself dissecting each detail with the callous objectivity of a surgeon narrating a heart transplant into a tape recorder. At one point he suddenly broke off.

  "Yes, Mr. Pitt, please go on," said Dr. Perth.

  "I just remembered something that escaped me," Pitt said. "Two of the bodies did in fact have thick facial hair. One had a mustache while another sprouted a goatee."

  "Interesting."

  "So they weren't Korean or Chinese?"

  "Not necessarily"

  "What else could they be but Japanese?"

  "You're leaping before you look, Mr. Pitt," she said, as if lecturing a student. "The features you've described to me suggest a heavy tendency toward the classic Mongoloin."

  "But the facial hair?"

  "You must consider history. The Japanese have been invading and marauding Korea since the sixteenth century. And for thirty-five years, from 1910 until 1945, Korea was a colony of japan, so there was a great blending of their particular genetic variations."

  Pitt hesitated before he put the next question to Dr. Perth.

  Then he chose his words carefully. "If you were to stick your neck out and give an opinion on the race of the men I've described, what would you say?"

  Grace Perth came back with all flags flying. "Looking at it from a percentage factor, I'd say your test group's ancestry was ten percent Japanese, thirty percent Chinese and sixty percent Korean."

  "Sounds like you've constructed the genetic makeup of your average Korean."

  "You read it anyway you wish to see it, Mr. Pitt. I've gone as far as I can go."

  "Thank you, Dr. Perth," Pitt said, suddenly exultant. "Thank you very much."

  "SO THAT's DIRK PITT," Min Koryo said. She sat in her wheelchair peering over a breakfast tray at a large TV screen in her office wall.

 
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