Black Wind dp-18

by Clive Cussler

  The Chinese junk looked like an antiquated relic amid the modern freighters and containerships swarming about Inchon Harbor. Cussler carefully threaded the high-sterned sailing vessel through a maze of midmorning commercial traffic before easing into a small public marina that was nestled between two large cargo docks. An odd assortment of beat-up sampans and expensive weekend sailboats encircled the marina as he motored the teak junk to a transit dock and tied up. He gave a quick knock on the spare cabin door to wake its slumbering occupants, then brewed a large pot of coffee in the galley as a marina employee refilled the junk's fuel tank.

  Summer staggered out into the sunshine of the aft deck holding the dachshund in her arms as Dirk followed a few steps behind, trying to suppress a yawn. Cussler threw a mug of coffee in their hands, then ducked belowdecks for a moment before emerging with a hacksaw in his grip.

  “Might be a good idea to off-load those handcuffs before going ashore,” he grinned.

  “I'll be only too happy to dispose of these bracelets,” Summer concurred, rubbing her wrists.

  Dirk peered around the neighboring boats, then turned to Cussler. “Anybody follow us in?” he asked.

  “No, I'm quite sure we arrived alone. I kept a keen watch, and zigzagged our course a few times just to be sure. Nobody seemed intent on following us. I bet those boys are still cruising up and down the Han River looking for you two,” he laughed.

  “I sure hope so,” Summer said with a shudder, stroking the small dog's ears for comfort.

  Dirk picked up the hacksaw and began cutting into the shackle on Summer's left wrist. “You saved our lives back there. Is there anything we can do to repay you?” he asked while gliding the saw blade evenly across an edge of the handcuff.

  “You don't owe me anything,” he replied warmly. “Just stay out of any more trouble and let the government take care of those hoodlums.”

  “Can do,” Dirk replied. After efficiently sawing through both of Summer's shackles, he relaxed while she and Cussler took turns cutting through his handcuffs. When the last shackle fell free, he sat up and downed the last of his coffee.

  “There's a phone in the marina restaurant you can use to call the American embassy, if you like. Here, take some Korean won. You can use it to make the call and buy a bowl of kimchi,” Cussler said, passing Summer a few purple-colored bills of the national currency.

  “Thanks, Mr. Cussler. And good luck on your voyage,” Dirk said, shaking the man's hand. Summer leaned over and kissed the old sailor on the cheek. “Your kindness was overwhelming,” she gushed, then patted the dog good-bye.

  “You kids take care. Be seeing you.”

  Dirk and Summer stood on the dock and waved good-bye as the junk eased out into the harbor, smiling as Mauser barked a final farewell from the bow deck. They made their way up a set of well-worn concrete steps and entered a faded yellow building that was a combination marina office, sundry store, and restaurant. The walls were draped in the traditional lobster trap and fishing net motif that sufficed for interior decorating in a thousand seafood restaurants around the world. Only, this one smelled like the nets were hung up while still dripping wet with salt water.

  Dirk found a phone on the wall in back and, after several failed attempts, completed a connection to NUMA headquarters in Washington. The NUMA operator required only minimal convincing before patching the call through to Rudi Gunn's home line, despite the late hour on the East Coast. Gunn had just dropped off to sleep but answered the phone on the second ring and nearly flew out of bed when he heard Dirk's voice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Dirk hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Summer asked.

  Dirk glanced toward the smelly restaurant with a look of adventure. “I'm afraid it's time to take the man up and sample some kimchi while we wait for a ride,” he replied, rubbing his stomach with hunger.

  The hungry pair downed a Korean breakfast of hot soup, rice, tofu flavored with dried seaweed, and the omnipresent side dish of fermented vegetables, kimchi, which nearly blew smoke out of their ears from the spiciness. As they finished their meal, a bulky pair of U.S. Air Force security police strode sternly into the restaurant. Summer waved the two men over and the senior of the two men confirmed their identity.

  “I'm First Sergeant Bimson, Fifty-first Fighter Wing Security Forces. This is Staff Sergeant Rodgers,“ he continued, nodding to his partner. ”We have orders to escort you to Osan Air Base without delay.”

  “The pleasure will be all ours,” Summer assured him as they stood and left the marina restaurant, following the airmen to a government sedan parked outside.

  Though Seoul was actually a shorter distance to Inchon than Osan Air Base, Gunn had elected to take no chances with their safety, ordering their transport to the nearest military base. The airmen drove south from Inchon, winding through mountainous hills and past flooded rice paddies before entering the sprawling complex of Osan, which started life as a lone airfield constructed during the Korean War. The modern base now hosted a large contingent of combat-ready F-16 fighter jets and A-10 Thunderbolt II attack planes, deployed in the forward defense of South Korea.

  Entering the main gate, they traveled a short distance to the base hospital, where a fast-talking colonel greeted Dirk and Summer and led them to a medical examination room. After a brief checkup and treatment of Dirk's wounds, they were allowed to clean up and then given a fresh set of clothes. Summer laughed that the baggy military fatigues provided did nothing for her figure.

  “What's our travel situation?” Dirk asked of the colonel. “There's an Air Mobility Command C-141 bound for McChord Air Force Base leaving in a few hours that I'm holding a pair of first-class seats on. Your NUMA people have arranged a government aircraft to transport you from McChord to Washington, DC, after you arrive. In the meantime, you are welcome to rest here for a bit, then I'll take you by the officers' club, where you can grab a hot meal before jumping on that twenty-hour plane ride stateside.”

  “Colonel, if we have the time I'd like to contact an in-country Special Ops unit, preferably Navy, if that's at all possible. And I'd like to make a phone call to Washington.”

  The Air Force colonel's face turned up indignantly at Dirk's mention of the word Navy. “There's only one Navy base in the country and that's just a small operations support facility in Chinhae near Pusan. I'll send over one of our Air Force S.O. captains. As I think about it, there are SEALs and UDTs running in and out of here all the time. He ought to be able to help you out.”

  Two hours later, Dirk and Summer climbed aboard a gray Air Force C-141B Starlifter with a large contingent of GIs headed stateside. As they settled into their seats in the windowless transport jet, Dirk found an eye mask and a pair of earplugs in the seat back in front of him. Donning the sleep aids, he turned to Summer and said, “Please don't wake me till we're over land. Preferably, land where they don't serve seaweed for breakfast.”

  He then pulled down the eye mask, stretched out flat in the seat, and promptly fell fast asleep.

  The fire was minuscule by most arson standards, burning less than twenty minutes before it was brought under control. Yet the targeted damage had been carefully calculated with a precise outcome in mind.

  It was two in the morning when the fire bells sounded aboard the Sea Launch Commander, jolting Christiano from a deep sleep in his captain's cabin. In an instant he was on the bridge, alertly checking the ship's fire control monitors. A graphic image of the ship showed a single red light on the ship's lower topside deck.

  “Conduit room on the shelter deck, just forward of the launch control center,” reported a dark-haired crewman manning the bridge watch. “Automated water mist system has been activated.”

  “Cut all electrical power except for emergency systems to that part of the ship,” Christiano ordered. “Notify the port fire station that we require assistance.”

  “Yes, sir. I have two men en route to the conduit room and am awaiting their report.”

&nbs
p; While at port, the Commander carried only a skeleton marine crew aboard around the clock, few of whom had any degree of firefighting training. A rapidly spreading fire could easily gut the ship before sufficient help arrived, Christiano knew. The captain looked out a bridge window, half-expecting to see smoke and flames erupting from the ship but there were none. The only indication of fire was the acrid odor of burned electrical components that wafted through his nostrils and the distant shriek of a port fire truck rumbling toward the pier. His attention turned toward a handheld radio clipped to the crewman's belt as a deep voice suddenly rasped through the bridge.

  “Briggs here,” the radio crackled. “The fire is burning in the conduit room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on her before she spreads I think we can contain it.”

  Christiano grabbed the radio. “Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the way. Bridge out.”

  Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the bridge.

  “The fire is extinguished. Briggs out.”

  Though the flames were extinguished, the damage had been done. It would take another two hours before the melted mass of wire, cabling, and connectors stopped smoldering and the Port of Long Beach Fire Department declared the ship safe. The pungent smell of an electrical fire hung over the ship like a cloud, refusing to go away for days. Danny Stamp arrived at the ship shortly after the fire crew left, the launch director having been summoned by Christiana Sitting with the captain in the adjacent launch control center, he shook his head as he listened to the damage assessment from the Sea Launch Commander's computer operations manager.

  “You couldn't have picked a worse place for a fire to break out,” the systems man said, his face tinted red in frustration. “Literally every launch ops computer on the ship runs through that room, as well as most of the test and tracking monitors. We'll have to rewire the whole works. It's a complete nightmare,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What about the actual hardware?” asked Stamp.

  “Well, if you want to call that the good news, there was no damage to any of our hardware resources. I was really concerned with the potential for water damage, but, thankfully, our own crew put down the flames before any hoses were let loose on board.”

  “In order to go operational, then, we're just talking about restringing the hardware. How long will that take?”

  “Oh, man. We've got to rebuild the conduit room, order and obtain a couple miles of cable, some of it custom application, and re string the whole system. That would take three or four weeks at best under normal circumstances.”

  “Our circumstances are a pending launch with significant delay penalties. You've got eight days,” Stamp replied, staring hard into the eyes of the computer manager.

  The frazzled man nodded his head slowly, then got up to leave the room. “Guess I've got to get a few people out of bed,” he muttered while slipping out through a side door.

  “Do you think he can do it?” Christiano asked once the door had closed shut.

  “If it can be done, then he'll get us close.”

  “What about the Odyssey} Do we hold her in port until the damage to the Commander'is repaired?”

  “No,” Stamp said after mulling over the question. “The Zenit is loaded and secured aboard the Odyssey, so we'll send her out as planned. We can still make the equator with the Commanderin half the time the platform will take to get there. And there's no harm in having the Odyssey wait on station a few days if we're a little late getting out. That's just more opportunity for the platform crew to prep for the launch.”

  Christiano nodded, then sat silently in thought.

  “I'll notify the customer of our revised plans,” Stamp continued. “I'm sure I'll have to do a Kabuki dance to keep them calm. Do we know the cause of the fire yet?”

  “The fire inspector will take a look first thing in the morning. Everything points to a short, probably some defective cable couplings.”

  Stamp nodded silently. What next? he wondered.

  The Long Beach fire inspector stepped aboard the Sea Launch Commander promptly at 8 A.M. After performing a cursory examination of the charred conduit room, he proceeded to interview the fire response team and other crewmen on duty when the fire started. He | then returned to the site of the blaze and methodically examined the burn damage, taking photographs of the blackened room and making notes. After carefully scrutinizing the charred cables and melted fittings for nearly an hour, he satisfied himself that there was no evidence present indicating arson.

  It would have taken an excruciatingly attentive analysis to detect the proof. But beneath his soot-covered boots, there were the peculiar minuscule remains of a frozen orange juice container. A chemical analysis of the container would show that a homemade napalm mixture of gasoline and Styrofoam chunks had been mixed and stored in the small container. Planted by one of Kang's men days before and ignited by a small timer, the tiny fire bomb had splattered its flaming goo about the conduit room in a rain of fire, quickly incinerating its contents. With the overhead sprinkler system sabotaged to appear faulty, the damage was assured, as scripted. Enough damage to delay the Sea Launch Commander from sailing for several days, but not enough to raise suspicions that the cause was anything but accidental.

  Stepping past the charred and indistinguishable juice container, the inspector paused outside the conduit room as he completed his fire assessment. “Electrical short due to faulty wiring or improper grounding,” he wrote in a small notebook, then stuck his pen in his shirt pocket and made his way off the ship past a gang of oncoming construction workmen.

  A slow gray drizzle was falling at McChord Air Force Base south of Tacoma when the C-141 lumbered in from its transpacific flight. The big jet's tires screeched on the damp runway before the aircraft rolled to a stop in front of a transit terminal, where its engines were shut down and the large rear cargo door lowered to the tarmac.

  Holding true to his word, Dirk had slept nearly the entire flight and exited the ramp feeling refreshed but hungry. Summer followed behind in a groggier state, having slept unevenly in the noisy aircraft. An air transit lieutenant located the pair and escorted them to the base officers' club for a quick hamburger before returning them to the flight line. Spotting a phone booth, Dirk eagerly dialed a local number.

  “Dirk, you're all right!” Sarah answered with obvious relief.

  “Still kicking,” he chimed.

  “Captain Burch told me you were aboard the NUMA ship that sank in the East China Sea. I've been worried sick about you.”

  Dirk beamed to himself, then proceeded to tell her an abbreviated version of events since flying to Japan.

  “My gosh, the same people that released the cyanide in the Aleutians intend to launch a larger attack?”

  “It appears that way. We hope to find out more when we get back to D.C.”

  “Well,
keep your friends at the CDC informed. We have a terrorism emergency response team in place to combat sudden chemical or biological outbreaks.”

  “You'll be the first one I call. By the way, how's the leg?” “Fine, though I'm still getting used to these blasted crutches. When are you going to autograph my cast?”

  Dirk suddenly noticed Summer waving him toward a small jet parked on the runway.

  “When I take you to dinner.”

  “I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a weeklong conference on environmental toxins,” she said with disappointment. “It will have to be the following week.” “Consider it a date.”

  Dirk barely had time to sprint to the Gulfstream V jet that was warming its engines on the tarmac. Climbing aboard, he was chagrined to find Summer sitting at the center of attention, surrounded by a small group of Pentagon colonels and generals on the jet bound for Andrews Air Force Base.

  The large executive jet buzzed over the Jefferson Memorial at six the next morning en route to landing at the Air Force base located just southeast of the nation's capital. A NUMA van was waiting for the pair and whisked them through the light early morning traffic to the headquarters building, where Rudi Gunn greeted them in his office.

  “Thank God you're safe,” Gunn gushed. “We were turning Japan upside down looking for you and that cable ship.”

  “Nice idea but wrong country,” Summer said with a gibe. “There's some folks here who'd like to hear about your ordeal first hand,“ Gunn continued, hardly giving Dirk and Summer a chance to relax. ”Let's go to the admiral's office.”

  They followed Gunn as he led them around the bay to a large corner office overlooking the Potomac River. Though Admiral Sandecker was no longer the director of NUMA, Gunn subconsciously refused to acknowledge the fact. The door to the office was open and they walked in.

  Two men were seated at a side couch discussing coastal port security, while Homeland Security Special Assistant Webster sat in a chair across from them, studiously reviewing a file folder.