Black Wind dp-18

by Clive Cussler

  “We've got a date in Seattle, right? I still owe you a crab dinner,” Dirk said with an engaging smile.

  “I wouldn't miss it,” Sarah replied sheepishly. “Sandy and I will be down just as soon we're okay to leave Anchorage.”

  After seeing the CDC team off, Dirk and Burch met with the village public safety officer and gave him a full report of the incident. Dirk provided a detailed description of the mystery fishing trawler and convinced the VPSO to furnish him with a listing of registered fishing vessels from the state licensing authority. The VPSO also agreed to check with the local commercial fishing entities for information but didn't hold out much hope. Japanese and even Russian fishing boats were known to ply the territorial waters illegally on occasion in search of fertile fishing grounds and had the habit of disappearing whenever the authorities tried to pursue them.

  Burch wasted little time in the port city before turning the Deep Endeavor south, and sailing toward Seattle. Like everyone else, the crew of the ship had plenty of questions about the events of the preceding day but few answers.

  Sarah, Irv, and Sandy endured a noisy and bumpy flight to Anchorage on one of the local twin-engine island-hoppers, arriving at the city's international airport late in the evening. Two exuberant college interns from the regional CDC office met them at the airport and transferred them to Alaska Regional Hospital, where they underwent a battery of toxicology tests and examinations. By this time, the threesome had regained their strength and were showing no outward signs of illness. Oddly, the medical staff was unable to diagnose any abnormal toxicity levels or other ailment with any of the three. After an overnight stay for observation, Sarah, Irv, and Sandy were released from the hospital with a clean bill of health as if nothing at all had happened to them.

  Six days later, the Deep Endeavor cruised quietly into Puget Sound, turning east into the Shilshole Bay just north of Seattle. The research vessel tied up momentarily at the Ballard Locks, where controlled floodgates raised the ship and released it into the fresh water of the ship canal. The Deep Endeavor continued on into Lake Union before slowing along the north shore. Burch inched the vessel up to a private dock jutting from a small modern-looking glass building that housed the NUMA northwest field office. A gathering of the crew's wives and children lined the dock, waving enthusiastically as the ship approached.

  “Looks like you've got your own welcoming committee, Dirk,” Burch remarked, pointing to two figures waving at the end of the pier. Dirk looked out the bridge window and recognized Sarah and Sandy among the happy throng greeting the turquoise ship. Sarah looked radiant in a pair of blue capri pants and a maize satin blouse, which complemented her trim figure.

  “You two look like the model of health,” Dirk said as he warmly greeted the pair.

  “No small part in thanks to you,” Sandy gushed. “Just one night in Alaska Regional Hospital and we were on our way good as new.”

  “How's Irv?”

  “He's fine,” Sarah replied. “He's staying in Anchorage for a few more weeks to coordinate the completion of our sea lion study with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. They agreed to provide field support to help finish our research investigation.”

  “I'm so glad everybody is well. So what was the medical diagnosis in Anchorage?” Dirk asked.

  Sandy and Sarah glanced at each other briefly with a searching look, then shrugged and shook their heads in unison.

  “They didn't find anything,” Sarah finally said. “It's something of a mystery. We all showed signs of an inflamed respiratory track, but that was about it. Blood and urine samples came back clean. If we did inhale a toxin, it was purged from our systems by the time we reached Anchorage.”

  “That's why we're here to pick up the sea lion. Hopefully, there will be some indicators still evident in the animal's tissue,” Sandy said.

  “So, you're not here to see me?” Dirk intoned sadly with an exaggerated frown on his face.

  “Sorry, Dirk,” Sarah laughed. “Why don't you come meet us at the lab later this afternoon after we do our analysis? We can go grab a late lunch.”

  “I would like to know the results,” he agreed, then led the two on board to retrieve the frozen sea lion.

  Once the mammal was hauled away, Dirk and Dahlgren helped secure the ship, transferring ashore the sensitive high-tech survey gear that was stored in an adjacent warehouse. With their docking shores complete, the crew of the Deep Endeavor gradually dispersed to enjoy a few days of R&R before the next project set sail.

  Dahlgren approached Dirk with a rucksack tossed over one shoulder and the pair of crutches under one arm. Only a slight limp was noticeable from his calf wound when he walked.

  “Dirk, I'm off to rustle up a date with a sexy teller I met at the bank before we shipped out. Should I see if she has a cute friend?”

  “No, thanks. Think I'll get cleaned up and go see what Sarah and Sandy discovered from our sea lion Popsicle.”

  “You always did have a thing for the brainy types,” Dahlgren chuckled.

  “What's with the crutches? You've been off those things for three days now.”

  “Never underestimate a woman's sense of sympathy,” Dahlgren grinned, placing one crutch under an arm and pretending to limp in agony.

  “If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate a woman's ability to detect bad acting,” Dirk replied with a laugh. “Happy hunting.”

  Dirk borrowed the keys to a turquoise NUMA Jeep Cherokee and drove a short distance to his rented town house overlooking Lake Washington. Although he called Washington, D.C." his home, he enjoyed the temporary assignment in the Northwest. The lush wooded surroundings, the cold, clear waters, and the youthful and vibrant residents who thrived in the sometimes bleak and damp weather made for a refreshing environment.

  Dirk showered and threw on a pair of dark slacks and a thin pullover sweater, then downed a peanut butter sandwich and an Olympia beer while listening to a litany of messages on his answering machine. Satisfied that the earth had not come to a stop in his absence, he hopped into the Jeep and headed north on 1-5. Exiting east past the lush Jackson Park Golf Course, Dirk turned north and soon entered the park like grounds of Fircrest Campus. Fircrest was an old military complex that had been turned over to the state of Washington and now housed offices and operations for a variety of state government agencies. Dirk spotted a complex of square white buildings surrounded by mature trees and parked in an adjacent lot fronted by a large sign, stating: Washington state public health laboratories.

  A perky receptionist phoned up to the small CDC office shared by the state lab and a few moments later Sarah and Sandy appeared in the lobby. A portion of the cheeriness they showed earlier in the day had clearly left their faces.

  “Dirk, it's good of you to come. There's a quiet Italian restaurant down the street where we can talk. The Pasta Alfredo is great, too,” Sarah suggested.

  “Sure thing. Ladies first,” Dirk replied as he held the front door open for the two scientists.

  After the threesome shoehorned into a red vinyl booth at the nearby neighborhood restaurant, Sarah explained their findings.

  “An examination of the sea lion revealed the classic signs of respiratory seizure as the cause of death. An initial blood test failed to reveal any concentrated levels of toxicity, however.”

  “Similar to the test results for you three in Anchorage,” Dirk added between bites of bread.

  “Exactly. Our vitals showed fine, though we still experienced weakness, headaches, and signs of respiratory irritation by the time we reached Anchorage,” Sandy added.

  “So we went back and carefully reexamined the animal's blood and tissue and finally detected trace elements of the toxin,” Sarah continued. “Though not one hundred percent certain, we are fairly confident the sea lion was killed by hydrogen cyanide poisoning.”

  “Cyanide?” Dirk asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Sandy replied. “It makes sense. Cyanide is actually expelled rapidly from
the human body. In the case of Sarah, Irv, and me, our bodies had naturally purged most, if not all, of the cyanide toxins before we stepped in the door of the Anchorage hospital. Hence, no trace remained when our blood samples were taken.”

  “I've contacted the Alaska State Coroner's Office and informed them of our findings. They have not completed the autopsy report on the two Coast Guardsmen yet, but they will know what to look for. I am convinced that is what killed them,” Sarah said with a tinge of sadness.

  “I always thought cyanide had to be ingested in order to be lethal,” Dirk remarked.

  “That's what's commonly known, but it's not the only deadly form of the poison. Everyone knows of cyanide tablets carried by wartime spies, the deadly Jim Jones cyanide-laced Kool-Aid that killed hundreds in Jonestown, Guyana, and the Tylenol poisonings, which used cyanide. But cyanide gas has also been used as a killing agent. The French tried variations of cyanide gas against the Germans in the trenches during World War One. And though the Germans never used it on the battlefield, they did use a form of cyanide in the concentration camp gas chambers during the Second World War.”

  “The infamous Zyklon B,” Dirk recalled.

  “Yes, a beefed-up fumigant originally developed to kill rodents,” Sarah continued. “And, more recently, Saddam Hussein was suspected of using a form of cyanide gas in attacks on Kurdish villages in his own country, although it was never verified.”

  “Since we packed in our own food and water supplies,” Sandy piped in, “the airborne poisoning makes sense. It would also explain the deaths of the sea lions.”

  “Is it possible for the cyanide to have originated from a natural source?” Dirk inquired.

  “Cyanide is found in a variety of plants and edibles, from lima beans to choke cherries But it's as an industrial solvent where it is most prevalent,” Sarah explained. “Tons of the stuff are manufactured each year for electroplating, gold and silver extraction, and fumigants. Most people probably come in contact with some form of cyanide every day. But to answer your question, it's unlikely to exist in a gaseous state from a natural source sufficient to reach any sort of lethality. Sandy, what did you find in the historical profile of cyanide deaths in the U.S.?”

  “There's been a slew of them, but most are individual accidents or suspected homicides or suicides resulting from ingestion of solid cyanides.” Sandy reached down and picked up a manila folder she had brought along and skimmed through one of the pages inside.

  “The only significant mass death was related to the Tylenol poisonings, which killed seven people, again by ingestion. I found only two references for multiple deaths from suspected cyanide gas. A family of four died in the Oregon town of Warrenton back in 1942, and in 1964 three men were killed in Butte, Montana. The Montana case was listed as a mining accident due to extraction solvents. The Oregon case was listed as undetermined. And I found next to nothing for prior incidences in and around Alaska.”

  “Then a natural-occurring release doesn't sound very likely,” Dirk remarked.

  “So if it was a man-made airborne release, who did it and why?” Sandy asked while jabbing her fork into a bowl of angel-hair pasta.

  “I think the 'who' was our friends on the fishing boat,” he said drily.

  “They weren't picked up by the authorities?” Sarah asked.

  Dirk shook his head in disgust. “No, the trawler disappeared. By the time the local authorities arrived in the area, they were long gone. The official assessment is that they were presumed to be foreign poachers.”

  “I suppose it's possible. It sounds a little dangerous to me, but I guess they could release the gas from their boat upwind of a sea lion colony,” Sarah replied, shaking her head.

  “A fast way to do a lot of killing,” Dirk added. “Though poachers armed with AK-47s does seem a little extreme. And I'm still wondering about the retail market for sea lions.”

  “It is perplexing. I haven't heard of anything like it before.”

  “I hope that you two don't suffer any ill effects from the exposure,” Dirk said, looking at Sarah with concern.

  “Thanks,” Sarah replied. “It was a shock to our system, but we'll be fine. The long-term effect for minimal exposure has not been proven to be dangerous.”

  Dirk pushed away a cleaned plate of Pasta Alfredo and rubbed his taut stomach with satisfaction.

  “Excellent dining choice.”

  “We eat here all the time,” Sarah said as she reached over and out-grabbed Dirk for the bill.

  “I insist on returning the favor,” Dirk said, looking at Sarah with a serious smile.

  “Sandy and I have to travel to the CDC research lab in Spokane for a few days, but I'd love to take you up when we return,” she replied, intentionally leaving Sandy out of the equation.

  Dirk smiled in acknowledgment. “I can't wait.”

  The landing wheels of the Gulfstream V jet dropped slowly from the fuselage as the sleek aircraft aligned its nose at the runway. Its wings cut through the moist, hazy air like a scalpel, as the nineteen-passenger luxury business jet dropped gracefully out of the sky until its rubber tires touched the tarmac with a screech and a wisp of blue smoke. The pilot guided the plane to the corporate jet terminal of Tokyo's modern Narita International Airport before shutting down the high-pitched turbines. As a ground crew chocked the wheels of the jet, a gleaming black Lincoln limousine glided up, stopping precisely at the base of the plane's passenger stairwell.

  Chris Gavin squinted in the bright sun as he stepped down from the jet and climbed into the waiting limo, followed by a legion of assistants and assorted vice presidents. As chief executive officer of SemCon Industries, Gavin commanded the largest semiconductor manufacturing company in the world. The flamboyant and free-spending corporate chief, who inherited the company from a visionary father, had alienated many of his countrymen in the United States by closing profitable factories and brusquely laying off thousands of workers at home in order to move production to newer and cheaper facilities offshore. Profits would be higher, he promised his shareholders, while taking personal delight in broadening his elaborate lifestyle to a worldwide setting.

  Exiting the airport grounds located some sixty-six kilometers northeast of Tokyo, the limo driver entered the Higashi Kanto Expressway and headed toward Japan's capital city with his cargo of high-salaried executives. Twenty minutes later, the driver turned south, exiting the highway some twenty kilometers short of Tokyo. The limo soon entered the industrial section of Chiba, a large port city on the eastern edge of Tokyo Bay. The driver wound past a number of large drab manufacturing buildings before pulling up in front of a sleek glass building overlooking the bay. The modern structure looked more like an executive office building than the industrial fabrication plant it contained, with its shimmering face of gold reflective windows rising four stories high. Mounted on the roof in huge block letters was a blue semcon neon sign, which could be seen for miles away. A large crowd of factory workers, all clad in pale blue lab coats, waited anxiously on the grounds for the arrival of their CEO to officially open the new facility.

  The crowd cheered and cameras flashed as Gavin exited the limo and waved to the assembled employees and media, baring a wide, capped-tooth grin. After a pair of long-winded welcome speeches by the mayor of Chiba and the new plant manager, Gavin offered a few polished words of thanks and inspiration to the employees, then hoisted a comically oversized pair of scissors and cut a thick ribbon stretched tight across the entrance to the new building. As the crowd applauded politely, a muffled boom echoed from somewhere in the depths of the building, which some mistook for a firing of celebratory fireworks. But then a succession of louder explosions rocked the building and the assembly of employees suddenly gasped in confusion.

  In the heart of the building's silicon chip fabrication center, a small timed charge had detonated on a tank of silane gas, a highly flammable substance used in the growth of silicon crystals. Exploding like a torpedo, the tank had flung metallic fr
agments at high velocity into a half-dozen additional silane and oxygen tanks stored nearby, causing them to burst in a series of concussions that culminated in a massive fireball inside the building. Soaring temperatures soon caused the exterior windows to blast out in a burst of hot air, showering the stunned crowd with a hail of glass and debris.

  As the building shook and flames roared from the roof, the panicked employees began to scramble in all directions. Gavin stood holding the pair of giant scissors, a look of stunned confusion on his face. A sharp pain suddenly pierced his neck, jolting his senses. Instinctively rubbing the ache with his fingers, he was shocked to feel a small barbed steel ball the size of a BB lodged in his skin. As he extracted the tiny pellet with a trickle of blood, a nearby woman screamed and ran by him, a large sliver of fallen window glass protruding from her shoulder. A couple of terrified assistants quickly grabbed Gavin and led him toward the limo, shielding him from a nosy photographer eager to snap an embarrassing shot of the corporate mogul in front of his burning building.

  As he was whisked to the limo, Gavin's legs suddenly turned to rubber. He turned toward one of his assistants to speak but no words came from his lips. As the car door was opened, he sprawled forward into the car, falling chest first onto the carpeted floor. A confused aide rolled him over and was horrified to find that the CEO was not breathing. A panicked attempt at CPR was performed as the limo screeched off to a nearby hospital, but it was to no avail. The mercurial self-centered leader of the global company was dead.

  Few people had paid any attention to the bald man with dark eyes and droopy mustache who had crowded up close to the speaker's platform. Wearing a blue lab coat and plastic identification badge, he looked like any other SemCon employee. Fewer still noticed that he carried a plastic drinking cup with an odd bamboo straw sticking out the top. And in the confusion of the explosions, not a single person had noticed as he pulled out the straw, placed it to his lips, and fired a poisoned bead at the head of the giant corporation.