In his hands, the control stick shook like a jackhammer. Dirk used all his strength to hold the craft steady and willed it forward as it began to shake itself apart. Agonizingly close, he could see the shoreline beckoning as the aircraft lurched ahead low to the sea, smoke belching its wheels skimming just above the surf. But just short of the shoreline, the shot-up turbine could take no more. Digesting a handful of its own parts, the turbine wailed before grinding to a halt with a loud pop.
As the turbine died, Dirk pulled on the collective control lever with all his might to keep the nose up as power to the rotors was lost. The tail rotor sliced down into the water, acting as an anchor to slow the forward progress of the entire craft. The Sikorsky hung suspended for a moment in the air before gravity caught up and the cabin dropped to the water, slapping the surface with a smack. The main rotor spun into the surf, attempting to whip through the sea, but the sudden impact with the water cracked the main spindle and the entire rotor cartwheeled off to the side fifty feet before sinking in a spray of foam.
The cabin of the Sikorsky remarkably held together during the crash and bobbed on the surface for a second before being sucked under the waves. Through the smashed windshield, Dirk caught a glimpse of a wave breaking over a sandy beach before the icy water filled the cockpit and stung his body. Dahlgren was trying to kick out a side-panel door as the green water enveloped them rapidly, rising to the cockpit ceiling. In unison, each man raised his head and took a last gasp of air before the murky cold water rose over them. Then the turquoise helicopter disappeared completely from the surface in a swirl of bubbles, sinking swiftly to the rocky seafloor.
Captain Burch immediately launched a search-and-rescue mission after he lost radio contact with Dirk and Dahlgren. He brought the Deep Endeavor to Dirk's last reported position, then began a visual search for the two men, sailing west in a zigzag pattern from Yunaska to Amukta. Every available crewman was called to the deck to scan the horizon for signs of the men or helicopter, while in the ship's radio shack the radioman continued a tireless call for the missing aircraft.
After three hours of searching, no trace was found of the helicopter and an apprehensive dread fell over the ship's crew. The Deep Endeavor had worked its way close to Amukta Island, which was little more than a steep volcanic cone popping out of the sea. Dusk was approaching and the sky turned a purplish red on the western horizon as the day's light slowly diminished. Executive Officer Leo Delgado was studying the steep shape of the mountainous island when a faint blur caught his eye.
“Captain, there's smoke on the shoreline,” he reported, pointing a finger toward the hazy spot on the island.
Burch held a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked intently at the spot for several moments.
“Burning debris, sir?” Delgado asked, fearful of the answer.
“Perhaps. Or it could be a signal fire. Can't tell from here. Delgado, take two men in the Zodiac and see what you can find on shore. I'll bring the ship in behind you as close as I can get.”
“Yes, sir,” Delgado responded, already crossing the bridge before the captain had finished speaking.
A gusty breeze had kicked up, making the evening seas choppy by the time the Zodiac was lowered into the water. Delgado and the two crewmen got doused with cold sea spray repeatedly as the rubber boat bounced over the swells in their anxious drive to the shore. The skies were nearly dark and the helmsmen had a difficult time tracking the wisps of smoke against the black backdrop of the peaked island. The island appeared to be surrounded by a steep and rocky shoreline and Delgado wondered whether they would even be able to get ashore. Finally, he spotted a quick glimpse of the fire's flame and directed the Zodiac toward it. A small channel through the rocks opened up, leading to a pebble-strewn patch of beach. Gunning the motor to ride the crest of a wave in, the twelve-foot rubber boat bounded through the channel and ground to the shore with a crunch as the hull plate scraped some small rocks before sliding to a stop.
Delgado jumped out of the inflatable boat and ran apprehensively toward the smoky fire. Two shadowy figures could be seen hunched over the smoldering driftwood fire trying to keep warm, their backs turned to Delgado.
“Pitt? Dahlgren? Are you guys okay?” Delgado shouted out hesitantly before approaching too close.
The two soggy-looking derelicts slowly turned toward Delgado as if rudely interrupted from an important meeting. Dahlgren was holding a half-eaten crab claw in one hand, while the head of a white mouse peeked out of his chest pocket sniffing the night air. Dirk stood holding a sharp stick, the end of which pierced the shell of a huge Alaskan king crab whose spiny legs Dirk dangled over the open flame.
“Well,” Dirk said, tearing a steaming leg off the big crustacean, “we could use some lemon and butter.”
After briefing Burch on their encounter with the fishing trawler, Dirk and Dahlgren limped to the ship's medical station for treatment of their wounds and to slip into some dry clothes. Dahlgren's bullet wound had pierced the meaty section of his left calf but, fortunately, had missed damaging any tendons. As the ship's doctor inserted sutures to close up the wound, Dahlgren nonchalantly lit up a cigar while lying on the examination table. When the smoke hit the physician's nostrils, he nearly ripped out the sutures by hand before forcing Dahlgren to douse the smelly tobacco. With a grin, the doctor handed Dahlgren a pair of crutches and told him to stay off his leg for three days.
Dirk had his bloodied cheek and forehead cleaned and bandaged after catching a face full of shattered glass when the helicopter hit the surf. Remarkably, the two men incurred no other injuries from the crash and sinking of the Sikorsky. Dirk had saved them from drowning when he noticed a fuselage door had popped off during the crash landing. After the helicopter filled with water, Dirk grabbed Dahlgren and swam out the opening and made for the surface. With the aid of Dahlgren's trusty Zippo lighter, they were able to ignite some dry driftwood on the beach and stave off hypothermia until Delgado arrived in the rubber boat.
Captain Burch, meanwhile, reported the loss of the helicopter to NUMA headquarters, as well as reporting the incident to the Coast Guard and the Atka village public safety officer. The nearest Coast Guard patrol vessel was hundreds of miles away at Attu Is land. Information about the fishing trawler was reported in detail but the odds for an interdiction were slim at best.
After donning a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, Dirk made his way to the wheelhouse. Burch was leaning over the chart table plotting a course through the Aleutian Islands.
“Aren't we heading back to Yunaska to retrieve the bodies of the Coast Guardsmen?” Dirk asked.
Burch shook his head. “Not our job. Better to leave them be and allow the proper authorities to handle the investigation. I'm laying a course for the fishing port at Unalaska to disembark the CDC scientists.”
“I'd rather make for that trawler,” Dirk said.
“We've lost our helicopter and they have an eight-hour lead on us. We'd be lucky to find them, assuming we could even outrun them. The Navy, Coast Guard, and local authorities have all been alerted to your description. They have a better chance of finding that trawler than we do.”
“Perhaps, but their resources are all thin in this part of the world. Those chances are slim at best.”
“There's little more we can do. Our survey work is finished and we need to get those injured scientists appropriate medical care. There's no sense in hanging around any longer.”
Dirk nodded. “You're right, of course.” Wishing there was a way to find the trawler, he headed down the ladder to the ship's galley for a cup of coffee. Dinner had long since been served and a cleanup crew was working over the kitchen before shutting down. Dirk filled a mug of coffee from a large silver urn, then turned and spotted Sarah sitting in a wheelchair at the end of the dining hall. The golden-haired woman sat alone at a table, peering out a large porthole at the moonlit water outside. She was dressed in the dull medical ward attire of cotton pajamas, slippers, and a blue rob
e but still gave off a vibrant glow. As Dirk approached, she looked up and her eyes twinkled.
“Too late for dinner?” he asked apologetically.
“Afraid so. You missed the chef's special Halibut Oscar, which was truly excellent.”
“Just my luck,” Dirk replied, drawing a chair and sitting down directly across from her.
“What happened to you?” Sarah asked with concern in her voice as she eyed the bandages on Dirk's face.
“Just a little accident with the helicopter. I don't think my boss is going to like the news,” he said with a grimace, thinking about the expensive helicopter sitting at the bottom of the sea. Dirk proceeded to describe the events of the flight, all the while gazing intently into Sarah's hazel-colored eyes.
“Do you think the fishing boat had something to do with the death of the Coast Guardsmen and us getting sick?” she asked.
“It only goes to figure. They obviously weren't too keen on us seeing them poaching sea lions, or whatever else they were up to.”
“The sea lions,” Sarah murmured. “Did you see any sea lions on the west end of the island when you flew over?”
“Yes, Jack spotted several just past the Coast Guard-station on the western shore. They all appeared to be dead.”
“Do you think the Deep Endeavor could obtain one of the cadavers to study? I could arrange to have the specimen sent to the state lab in Washington we are working out of.”
“Captain Burch isn't eager to stick around the area, but I'm sure I can convince him to retrieve one for scientific purposes,” Dirk said before taking a long draw from his coffee. “We are actually headed back to port in Seattle, so could deliver it there in a few more days.”
“We could perform an autopsy of the animal and determine the source of death relatively quickly. I'm sure the Alaska state authorities will take some time to release the cause of death of the two Coast Guardsmen, and they might not want the CDC looking over their shoulder.”
“Do you think there might be a link with the dead sea lions that were found on the other Aleutian islands?”
“I don't know. We believe the cadavers found near the mainland were infected by a canine distemper virus.”
“Distemper? From dogs?”
“Yes. A viral outbreak likely occurred through contact between an infected domestic dog and one or more sea lions. Distemper is very contagious and could spread rapidly through a concentrated sea lion population.”
“Wasn't there a similar outbreak in Russia a few years ago?” Dirk tried to recall.
“Kazakhstan, actually. Thousands of Caspian seals died in 2000 due to an outbreak of distemper near the Ural River along the Caspian Sea.”
“Irv told me you found healthy, uninfected sea lions on Yunaska.”
“Yes, the distemper did not appear to have reached this far west. Which will make an examination of the dead sea lions you saw from the helicopter that much more intriguing.”
A quiet pause fell over the couple and Sarah could see a faraway look in Dirk's eyes as the wheels churned inside his head. After a moment, she broke the silence.
“The men on the boat. Who do you think they were? What were they doing?”
Dirk stared out the porthole for a long minute. “I don't know,” he replied quietly, “but I intend to find out.”
The twelfth hole of the Kasumigaseki Golf Club stretched 290 yards down a tight fairway before it dog legged left to an elevated green tightly guarded by a deep bunker in front. The U.S. ambassador to Japan, Edward Hamilton, waggled the head of his oversized driver several times before swinging hard into the golf ball, sending it soaring some 275 yards off the tee box and straight down the fairway.
“Fine shot, Ed,” offered David Monaco, the British ambassador to Japan and Hamilton's weekly golf partner for nearly three years. The lanky Brit teed up his ball, then punched a long arcing shot that rolled twenty yards past Hamilton's ball before bounding into a patch of tall grass on the left fringe of the fairway.
“Nice power, Dave, but I think you found the rough,” Hamilton said as he spotted his playing partner's ball. The two men proceeded to walk down the fairway while a pair of female caddies, in the unique tradition of Japan's oldest country clubs, manhandled their golf bags a respectable distance behind them. Lurking nearby, four not-so-inconspicuous government bodyguards maintained a rough perimeter around the duo as they made their way around the course.
The weekly outing at the golf course located south of Tokyo was an informal way of sharing information about the goings-on in and around their host country. The two allied ambassadors actually found it one of their most productive uses of time.
“I hear you are making good progress on establishing the economic partnership agreement with Tokyo,” Monaco remarked as they hiked up the fairway.
“It just makes sense for everyone involved to ease trade restrictions. Our own steel tariffs may still get in the way of an agreement. The trade attitudes here are certainly changing, however. I think South Korea will even forge a partnership agreement with the Japanese shortly.”
“Speaking of Korea, I understand that some chaps in Seoul are going to issue another appeal for the removal of U.S. armed forces in the Korean National Assembly next week,” Monaco said in a soft but accented voice.
“Yes, we've heard that as well. The South Koreans' Democratic Labor Party is using the issue as a divisive wedge to gain more political power. Fortunately, they still only represent a small minority within the National Assembly.”
“It's a damn mystery how they can think that way, given the past aggressiveness of the North.”
“True, but it does play on a sensitive cultural issue. The DLP tries to compare us to the historical foreign occupations of Korea by the Chinese and the Japanese and it strikes a chord with the average man on the street.”
“Yes, but I would be surprised if the leaders of the party are operating on a simply altruistic motive,” Monaco said as the two approached Hamilton's ball.
“My counterpart in Seoul tells me we have no definitive proof, but we are pretty sure that at least some party officials are receiving support from the North,” Hamilton replied. Taking a 3-iron from his caddy, Hamilton lined up the pin, then knocked another straight shot that cut the corner of the dogleg and landed on the far side of the green, avoiding the large bunker.
“I understand that support for the measure extends well beyond the DLP, I'm afraid,” Monaco continued. “The economic gains from reunification are catching a lot of blokes' attention. I heard the president of South Korea's Hyko Tractor Industries remark at a trade seminar in Osaka how he could reduce labor costs and compete internationally if he had access to the North's labor force.”
Monaco strode through the rough grass for a minute before locating his ball, then lofted a 5-iron shot that bounced up onto the green, rolling shy of the pin by thirty feet.
“That's assuming a reunification would maintain free markets,” Hamilton replied. “It's still clear that the North would have the most to gain from a reunification of both countries, and even more so if American forces are not in play.”
“I'll see if my people can find any connections,” Monaco offered as they approached the green. “But, for now, I'm just glad we're working this side of the Sea of Japan.”
Hamilton nodded in appreciation as he attempted a chip shot to the hole. His club scuffed the ground before striking the ball, which caused it to plop short of the pin by fifteen feet. He waited as Monaco putted out in two strokes for par, then bent over the ball with a putter for his own attempt at par. But as he swung through the ball, a sudden thump emanated from his head, followed by a loud crack in the distance. Hamilton's eyes rolled back and a shower of blood and tissue sprayed out from his left temple and onto the pants and shoes of Monaco. As the British diplomat looked on in horror, Hamilton fell to his knees in a pool of blood, his hands still tightly clutching the putter. He tried to speak but only a gurgle rolled from his lips before he toppled stiff
ly onto the manicured grass surface. A fraction of a second later, the dead man's bloodstained golf ball found the rim of the hole and dropped into the cup with a clink.
Six hundred yards away, a short, stout Asian man dressed in blue stood up in the bunker of the eighteenth hole. The sun glared off his bald head and brightened a lifeless pair of coal black eyes that were made more menacing by a long, thin Fu Manchu mustache. His squat, powerful build was more aptly suited to wrestling than golf, but his fluid movements revealed a flexibility to his strength. With the bored demeanor of a child putting away his toys, the man carefully disassembled an M-40 sniper rifle and placed the gun parts in a concealed compartment inside his golf bag. Pulling out a sand wedge, he forcefully lofted an overpowered shot out of the bunker in a spray of sand. He then calmly three-putted to finish his round, then strolled slowly to his car and stowed his clubs in the trunk. Exiting the parking lot, he patiently gave way as a flood of police cars and ambulances came streaking up to the clubhouse with sirens blaring, then he eased his car into the adjacent road where he quickly became lost in the local traffic.
A pair of technicians wearing protective gear steered the Deep Endeavor's Zodiac to the western shore of Yunaska, where they selected a young male sea lion from the assortment of dead mammals strewn about the beach. The animal was carefully wrapped in a synthetic sheet, then placed into a heavy body bag for transport back to the ship. The NUMA research vessel stood off nearby with spotlights beaming on the water, guiding the rubber boat back in short order. A section of the galley was cleared away and the sealed cadaver was stored in a cold freezer for the remainder of the voyage, just next to a crate of frozen sherbet.
Once all was secured, Captain Burch pushed the research vessel hard toward the island of Unalaska, with its port city of the same name, situated more than two hundred miles away. Running at top speed all through the night, Burch was able to bring the Deep Endeavor into the commercial fishing port just before ten the next morning. A weathered ambulance waited at the dock to transfer Sarah, Irv, and Sandy to the town's small airfield, where a chartered plane was waiting to whisk them to Anchorage. Dirk insisted on pushing Sarah to the ambulance in her wheelchair and gave her a long kiss on the cheek as she was loaded in.
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