Casually losing himself in the crowd, the bald assassin made his way to the edge of the property's grounds, where he tossed his cup and lab coat into a streetside trash can. Hopping onto a bicycle, he paused briefly as a clanging fire truck roared down the street toward the engulfed building. Then, without looking back, he casually pedaled away.
A dinging bell echoed in Dahlgren's mind like some distant train at a railroad crossing. The feverish hope that the sound was part of a dream fell away as his consciousness took hold and told him it was a ringing telephone. Groping for the receiver on his nightstand, he yawned a weary “Hullo.”
“Jack, you still sawing logs?” Dirk's voice laughed over the line.
“Yeah, thanks for the wake-up call,” he replied groggily.
“I thought bankers didn't like to stay up late.”
“This one does. And likes to drink vodka, too. I think a dinosaur crapped in my mouth during the night,” Dahlgren said with a belch.
“Sorry to hear. Say, I'm thinking of taking a drive to Portland to stretch out my sea legs and take in a car show. Care to ride shotgun?”
“No thanks. I'm supposed to take the teller kayaking today. That is, if I can still stand up.”
“Okay. I'll send over a Bombay martini to get you started.”
“Roger that,” Dahlgren replied with a grimace.
Dirk headed south from Seattle on Interstate 5 in the NUMA jeep, enjoying the sights of the lush forested region of western Washington. He found cross-country drives relaxing, as they allowed his mind to roam freely with the open countryside. Finding himself making good time, he decided to detour west along the coast, taking a side road to Willapa Bay before continuing south along the Pacific waters of the large bay. Soon he reached the wide blue mouth of the Columbia River, and cruised the same shores upon which Lewis and Clark had triumphantly set foot back in 1805.
Crossing the mighty river over the four-mile-long Astoria-Megler Bridge, Dirk exited at the historic fishing port of Astoria. As he stopped at a red light on the bridge off ramp, a road sign caught his eye. In white letters on a green field, warrenton 8 mi. was preceded by an arrow pointing west. Prodded by curiosity, he followed the sign right, away from Portland, and quickly traversed the few miles to Warrenton.
The small town at Oregon's northwest tip, originally built on a tidal marsh as a fishing and sport boat passage to the Pacific, supported some four thousand residents. It took Dirk only a few minutes of driving about the town before he found what he was looking for on Main Street. Parking his jeep next to a white Clatsop County official vehicle, he strolled up a concrete walkway to the front door of the Warrenton Community Library.
It was a small library but looked like it had been in existence for six or seven decades. A musty smell of old books and older dust wafted lightly in the air. Dirk walked straight to a large metal desk, from which a fiftyish woman with contemporary eyeglasses and short blond hair looked up suspiciously. A plastic green badge pinned to her blouse revealed her name: margaret.
“Good morning, Margaret. My name is Dirk,” he said with a smile. “I wonder if you might have copies of the local newspaper from the nineteen forties?”
The librarian warmed slightly. “The Warrenton News, which went out of print in 1964. We do have original copies from the nineteen thirties through the sixties. Right this way,” she said.
Margaret walked to a cramped corner of the library, where she pulled out several drawers of a filing cabinet before discovering the location of the 1940s editions.
“What exactly is it that you are looking for?” she asked, more out of nosiness than of a desire to help.
“I'm interested in the story of a local family that died suddenly from poisoning back in 1942.”
“Oh, that would be Leigh Hunt,” Margaret exclaimed with a knowing smugness. “He was a friend of my father. Apparently, that was quite a shock around here. Let's see, I think that happened during the summer,” she said while flipping through the cabinet. “Did you know the family?” she asked Dirk without looking up.
“No, just a history buff interested in the mystery of their deaths.”
“Here we go,” the librarian said, pulling out an edition of the daily newspaper dated Sunday, June 21, 1942. It was a small journal, mostly containing weather, tide, and salmon-fishing statistics combined with a few local stories and advertisements. Margaret flattened out the paper on top of the filing cabinet so Dirk could read the headline story.
Four Dead on De Laura Beach Local resident Leigh Hunt, his two sons Tad (age 13) and Tom (age 11), and a nephew known only as Skip, were found dead Saturday, June 20th, on De Laura Beach. The four went out clamming in the afternoon, according to Hunt's wife Marie, and failed to return home for dinner. County Sheriff Kit Edwards discovered the bodies, which showed no signs of a struggle or physical injury. “Not finding any physical marks, we immediately suspected smoke inhalation or poisoning. Leigh had a large supply of a cyanide treatment in his workshop that he used for tanning leather,” Edwards remarked. “He and the boys must have been exposed to a strong dose before they went to the beach, and the poison caught up with them there,” he stated. Funeral arrangements are pending examination of the bodies by the county coroner.
“Is there a follow-up news report on the coroner's findings?” he asked.
Margaret rifled through another dozen editions of the News before finding a small article related to the deaths. Reading out loud, she cited that the coroner's office confirmed accidental cyanide inhalation as the suspected cause of death.
“My father never did believe it was an accident,” Margaret added, to Dirk's surprise.
“It doesn't make sense that they would have died later at the beach after inhaling the fumes in Hunt's work shed,” Dirk mused.
“Papa said the same thing,” Margaret replied, letting down her guard slightly. “And he said the authorities never did consider the birds.”
“Birds?”
“Yes. About a hundred seagulls were found dead on the beach around the area that Hunt and the boys were found. Fort Stevens, the Army base, was right near that beach. Papa always suspected it was some sort of Army experiment that accidentally killed them. Guess nobody will ever know for sure.”
“Wartime secrets can be difficult to unlock sometimes,” Dirk replied. “Thank you for your help, Margaret.”
Dirk returned to the jeep and drove through the town to the coastal highway and turned south. A short stretch of pavement later, he approached a small side road marked de laura beach road. The road led through an open pair of gates marked fort stevens state park before narrowing through thick underbrush. Dirk jammed the jeep into low gear and surged over a jagged ridge before descending to a large abandoned gun emplacement overlooking the ocean. Battery Russell had been one of several coastal defense sites guarding the entrance to the Columbia River which sprang up during the Civil War, then were later updated with huge long-range guns during World War II. From the emplacement, Dirk had a clear view of the shimmering blue waters at the mouth of the Columbia River, as well as the De Laura Beach below, which was dotted with afternoon pic nickers. Dirk soaked in a few deep breaths of the fresh sea air, then drove back out the small road, pulling off nearly into the brush at one point to let an oncoming black Cadillac pass by. Driving a quarter mile farther, he stopped the car at a large historical marker along the roadside that caught his eye. Carved on a massive gray slab of granite was a highly detailed engraving of a submarine, beneath which was inscribed:
On June 21, 1942, a 5.5" shell exploded here. One of 17 fired at Columbia River Harbor Defense Installations by the Japanese Submarine I-25. The only hostile shelling of a military base on the U.S. mainland during World War II and the first since the War of 1812.
As he read the inscription, he instinctively moved away from the road as the Cadillac returned and passed by slowly, to avoid kicking up dust. Dirk studied the submarine carving for a long moment and started to walk away. But something caught h
is eye and he looked again. It was the date. June 21, just a day after Hunt and the boys were found dead on the beach.
Dirk reached into the jeep's glove compartment and pulled out a cellular phone, leaning against the car's hood as he dialed the number. After four rings, a deep and jolly voice boomed through the handset.
“Perlmutter here.”
“Julien, it's Dirk. How's my favorite nautical historian?”
“Dirk, my boy, so good to hear from you! I was just enjoying some pickled green mangoes your father sent me from the Philippines. Pray tell, how are you enjoying the Great White North?”
“We just finished our survey in the Aleutians, so I am back in the Pacific Northwest. The islands were quite beautiful, though, but it was a little cold for my blood.”
“Heavens, I can imagine,” Perlmutter's voice bellowed. “So, what's on your mind, Dirk?”
“World War Two-era Japanese submarines, to be exact. I'm curious about their record of attacks on the U.S. mainland and any unusual weaponry in their arsenals.”
“Imperial submarines, eh? I recall they made some fairly harmless attacks on the West Coast, but I have not delved into my Japanese wartime files in some time. I'll have to do some nosing about for you.”
“Thanks, Julien. And one more thing. Let me know if you run across any references to the use of cyanide as an armament.”
“Cyanide. Now, that would be nasty, wouldn't it?” Perlmutter asked rhetorically before hanging up.
Contemplating the enormous collection of rare maritime history books and manuscripts jammed into his Georgetown carriage house, St. Julien Perlmutter needed only a few seconds of pondering to pinpoint the material he was looking for. Perlmutter resembled an overgrown Santa Claus, with sparkling blue eyes, a huge gray beard, and an enormous belly that helped him tip the scales at nearly four hundred pounds. Besides a penchant for gourmet foods, Perlmutter was known as one of the world's foremost maritime historians, in large part due to his peerless collection of sea-related ephemeris.
Clad in silk pajamas and a paisley robe, Perlmutter padded across a thick Persian carpet to a mahogany bookcase, where he examined several titles before pulling down a book and two large binders with his meaty hands. Satisfied it was the material he was looking for, the immense man returned to an overstuffed red leather chair, where a plate of truffles and a hot pot of tea beckoned him.
Dirk continued on his drive to Portland, where he found the antique auto auction he was looking for at a large, grassy fairgrounds at the city's edge. Scores of people milled about the gleaming autos, most from the forties, fifties, and sixties, which were neatly lined up on the wide grass field. Dirk sauntered by the cars, admiring the paint jobs and mechanical restorations, before heading to a large white-canopied tent where the auctioning was taking place.
Inside, loudspeakers blared out the auctioneer's grating staccato voice as he spat out price bids like a rapid-fire machine gun. Grabbing a side seat away from the blare, Dirk watched in amusement as the team of auctioneers, wearing a ridiculous combination of seventies-style tuxedos and cheap cowboy hats, pranced around in a futile attempt to hype the excitement, and price, of each car. After several Corvettes and an early Thunderbird were passed through, Dirk sat up as a 1958 Chrysler 300-D drove up onto the stage. The huge car was painted an original Aztec turquoise, enhanced by miles of gleaming chrome and a pair of rear tail fins that jutted into the air like the dorsal fin of a shark. In a reaction only a true car fanatic could understand, Dirk felt his heartbeat quicken simply at the sight of the artistic mass of steel and glass.
“Perfectly restored to concourse condition by Pastime Restorations of Golden, Colorado,” the auctioneer pitched. He resumed his vocal convulsions, but bidding on the car surprisingly stalled early. Dirk raised his hand in the air and was soon dueling for the car with an overweight man wearing yellow suspenders. Dirk quickly countered his opponent's bids in rapid succession, showing his intent was serious. The tactic worked. Yellow Suspenders shook his head after the third bid and headed toward the bar.
“Sold to the man in the NUMA hat!” the auctioneer barked as the surrounding crowd applauded politely. Though it cost him several months' salary, Dirk recognized it was a good buy, knowing that less than two hundred Chrysler 300-D convertibles were manufactured in 1958.
As he arranged to have the car shipped up to Seattle, his cell phone started to ring.
“Dirk, it's Julien. I have some information for you.”
“That was fast service.”
“Well, I wanted to get back to you before supper,” Perlmutter replied, contemplating his next meal.
“What can you tell me, Julien?”
“After Pearl Harbor, the Japanese placed nine or ten submarines on station along the West Coast, but they were gradually pulled off as the battle action moved to the South Pacific. The Japanese submarines were primarily on reconnaissance missions, observing the major bays and harbors while trying to track major ship movements. They did manage to sink a handful of merchant ships early in the war and create a dose of psychological fear in the general public along the way. As for actual land attacks, the first occurred in early 1942, when the I-17 lobbed a few shells near Santa Barbara, damaging a pier and an oil derrick. In June of '42, the I-25 fired upon Fort Stevens, near Astoria, Oregon, while the I-26 bombarded a radio station on Vancouver Island in Canada. No fatalities were recorded in either of the attacks. In August of 1942, the I-25 returned near Cape Blanco, Oregon, and launched a seaplane armed with incendiary bombs in an attempt to set fire to the nearby forests. The attack was a failure, as only one small fire was ignited in the region.”
“Sounds like they were primarily nuisance attacks,” Dirk commented.
“Yes, there was nothing overly strategic about their actions. Things slowed down after the incendiary attack, as the submarines were moved north to support the Aleutian campaign. Imperial submarines were heavily involved in supporting the capture and later evacuation of Attu and Kiska islands during fighting in 1943. The Japanese lost five subs during the Aleutian battles as our sonar technology really began to pick them out of the seas. After the fall of Kiska, just a few Imperial submarines continued to operate in the north and western Pacific. The I-180 was attacked and sunk near Kodiak, Alaska, in April of 1944, then things were pretty quiet on the home front until the I-403 was sunk off Cape Flattery, Washington, in January 1945.”
“Odd that one would get tagged off the West Coast at a point in the war when their navy was on its last legs.”
“It's even more queer when you consider that the I-403 was one of their big boats. Apparently, it was planning an air attack when it was surprised by an American destroyer.”
“Hard to believe they constructed submarines back then capable of carrying an airplane,” Dirk marveled.
“Their big boats could carry not just one but actually three airplanes. They were massive beasts.”
“Did you find any indication that the naval forces used cyanide weapons?”
“None that was recorded in battle, but they did exist. It was the Imperial Army, I believe, and its biological warfare unit in China, that experimented with biological and chemical weapons. They did fool around with cyanide artillery shells, among other things, so it is possible the Navy tried experimenting with them, but there is no official record of their use.”
“I guess there is no way to prove it, but I suspect the I-25 launched a cyanide shell that killed four people the day before it attacked Fort Stevens.”
“Quite possible. May be hard to prove, as the I-25 was later lost in the South Pacific, presumably sunk near Espiritu Santo Island in 1943. But with one possible exception, all accounts I have seen indicate that the Japanese vessels were armed only with conventional weapons.”
“And the exception?”
“The I-403 again. I found a reference in a postwar Army journal stating that a shipment of Maka^e ordnance was transferred to the Navy and delivered to the submarine in Kure prior to
her last sailing. I've never seen a reference to Maka^e before, however, and could find no other references in my ordnance and munitions files.”
“Any idea what the term means?”
“The best translation I can make of it is ”Black Wind.“ ”
Dirk made a short phone call to Leo Delgado, then reached I Dahlgren, who was drinking a beer in a lounge overlooking Lake i Washington following his morning kayak with the bank teller.
“Jack, you up for a dive tomorrow?” Dirk asked.
“Sure. Spearfishing in the Sound?”
“I've got something a little bigger in mind.”
“King salmon are game for me.”
“The fish I'm interested in,” Dirk continued, “hasn't swum in over sixty years.”
Irv Fowler woke up with a raging headache. Too many beers the night before, the scientist mused as he dragged himself out of bed. Chugging down a cup of coffee and a donut, he convinced himself he felt better. But as the day wore on, the pain seemed to swell, with little relief offered despite his multiple hits on a bottle of aspirin. Eventually, his back joined in the game, sending out waves of pain with every movement he made. By midafternoon, he felt weak and tired, and left early from his temporary office at Alaska State Health and Social Services to drive back to his apartment and rest.
After he downed a bowl of chicken soup, his abdomen started firing off streaks of shooting pain. So much for home remedies, he thought. After several fitful naps, he staggered into the bathroom for another dose of aspirin to help kill the pain. Looking into the glassy-eyed worn and weary face that stared back at him from the mirror, he noticed a bright red rash emerging on his cheeks.
“Damndest flu I've ever had,” he muttered aloud, then fell back into bed in a heap.
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