Pitt stood at the helm and soaked up the unrivaled strength and ultrasmooth ride of the super sport yacht as she, loafed along at 30 knots over the dull blue-gray water of the Niger Delta. His eyes ceaselessly scanned the waters ahead as the shoreline sped by, shifting occasionally to check the depths on a chart and the digital numbers on the depthsounder. He'd passed one patrol boat, but the crew merely waved in natant admiration at the sight of the yacht planing over the surface of the river. A military helicopter had circled curiously overhead, and a military jet, a French-built Mirage, Pitt judged, had dropped low to have a look at the boat and flown on, apparently satisfied. So far, so good. There had been no attempts to halt or detain them.
Down in the spacious interior, Rudi Gunn sat in the middle of a small but highly customized laboratory that was planned by a multidisciplinary team of scientists that included highly sophisticated, compact versions of instrumentation developed through NASA for space exploration. The lab was not only set up to analyze water samples but to telemeter the accumulated data via satellite to a team of NUMA scientists working with computer data bases to identify complex compounds.
Gunn, a scientist from toes to his thinning hairline, was oblivious to any danger outside the bulkheads of the elegant boat. He poured himself into his task with total commitment, trusting Pitt and Giordino to shield him from distraction or interruption.
The engines and weapon systems were Giordino's department. To muffle the roar of the engines he wore a headset that was plugged to a tape player and listened to Harry Connick, Jr., play the piano and sing old jazz favorites. He was sitting on a padded bench seat in the engine room, his hands busy unpacking several cases of portable rocket launchers and their missiles. The Rapier was a new all-purpose weapon designed to engage subsonic aircraft, seagoing vessels, tanks, and concrete bunkers. It could be fired from the shoulder or mounted in quad to a central firing system. Giordino was fitting the completed assemblies in housings that allowed the missile clusters to fire through the armored ports of the domed turret above the engine room that looked to the casual eye like a skylight. The seemingly innocent superstructure protruded a good meter above the aft deck and could swivel on a 220-degree arc. After assembling the launcher and guidance units, and then inserting the missiles in their tubes, Giordino began concentrating on cleaning and loading a small arsenal of automatic rifles and handguns. Next, he unloaded a crate of incendiary/concussion grenades and carefully loaded four of them in a bulky clip that hung from a stubby automatic grenade launcher.
They all went about their respective jobs with cold efficiency and an unerring sense of dedication that would ensure the success of their mission and their individual survival. Admiral Sandecker had handpicked the best. He couldn't have found a better crew to tackle the near impossible if he'd canvassed the entire country. His faith in them bordered on fanatical.
The kilometers flowed under the hull. The Cameroon Highlands and the Yoruba Hills bounding the southern part of the river rose in a haze flattened by dense humidity. Rain forests alternated with groves of acacias and mangroves along the shore. Villages and small towns appeared and slipped past as the bow of the Calliope cut the water in a great V of foam.
The traffic on the river consisted of every known vessel from dugout canoes to old chugging ferryboats dangerously overloaded with waving passengers to small cargo ships stained with rust that plodded from one port to the next, their funnel smoke fanned by a gentle northern breeze. It was a scene of peaceful contentment that Pitt knew couldn't last. Around each bend in the river, an unknown threat might be waiting to send them to meet the devil.
About noon they passed under the great 1404-meter bridge that spanned the river from the port and market city of Onitsha to the agricultural town of Asaba. Roman Catholic cathedrals stood sentinel over the bustling Onitsha streets that were bounded by industrial plants. Docks along the water were heavy with ships and boats that transported food and trade goods downstream and imported commodities upstream from the Niger Delta.
Pitt concentrated on skirting the river traffic, smiling to himself at the shaking fists and angry curses thrown at the Calliope as she roared perilously close to small boats that rolled wickedly from the wash of her churning wake. Once free of the port, he relaxed and released his hands from the wheel and flexed his fingers. He had been at the helm for nearly six hours, but suffered little stiffness or fatigue. His chair at the controls was as comfortable as any enjoyed by a corporate executive and the steering as light as that of an expensive, luxury automobile.
Giordino appeared with a bottle of Coors beer and a tuna sandwich. "Thought you might need a little nutrition. You haven't eaten since we left the Sounder."
"Thanks, I couldn't hear my stomach grumbling above the noise of the engines." Pitt turned over the helm to his friend and nodded past the bow. "Be wary of that tug towing those barges as you come abeam to pass. He's fishtailing all over the channel."
"I'll keep a wide passage to port," Giordino acknowledged.
"Are we in shape to repel boarders?" Pitt grinned.
"As ready as we'll ever be. Any suspicious characters lurking about?"
Pitt shook his head. "A couple of flybys by the Nigerian air force, and friendly waves from passing patrol boats. Otherwise, a lazy, hazy day cruising up the river."
"The local bureaucrats must have bought the Admiral's scam."
"Let's hope the countries further upriver are as gullible."
Giordino tossed a thumb at the French tricolor flapping on the stern. "I'd feel a whole lot better if we had the Stars and Stripes, the State Department, Ralph Nader, the Denver Broncos, and a company of Marines behind us."
"The battleship Iowa would be nice too."
"Is the beer cold? I put a case in the galley fridge only an hour ago."
"Cold enough," Pitt answered between bites of the sandwich. "Any startling revelations from Rudi?"
Giordino gave a negative dip of his head. "He's wrapped up in a chemical never, never land. I tried to make conversation but he waved me off."
"I think I'll pay him a visit."
Giordino yawned. "Careful he doesn't bite your knee off."
Pitt laughed and went down the stairway into Gunn's lab. The little NUMA scientist was studying a computer printout, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. Giordino had misread Gunn's disposition. He was actually in a good mood.
"Having any luck?" asked Pitt.
"This damn river has every pollutant in it known to man and then some," replied Gunn. "It's far more contaminated than the bad old days on the Hudson, the James, and the Cuyahoga."
"Looks complicated," said Pitt as he stepped around the cabin, studying the sophisticated equipment that was packed together from deck to ceiling. "What function do these instruments serve?"
"Where did you get the brew?"
"Want one?"
"Sure."
"Giordino's got a case crammed in the galley refrigerator. Hold on a minute."
Pitt ducked through a cabin door to the galley and returned, handing Gunn a cold bottle of beer.
Gunn took several swallows and sighed. Then he said, "Okay, to answer your question. There are three key elements to our search approach. The first requires an automated micro-incubator. I use this unit to expose a tiny sample of river water into vials containing red tide samples we obtained off the coast. The micro-incubator then optically monitors the growth of the dinoflagellates. After a few hours the computer gives me an indication of how potent the concoction and how rapid the growth of the little buggers. A little play with numbers and I have a reasonable estimate of how close we're coming to the source of our problem."
"So the red tide stimulator isn't coming from Nigeria."
"The numbers suggest the source is further up the river."
Gunn moved around Pitt to a pair of square, box-like units about the size of small television sets but with doors where the screens would have been. "These two instruments are for identifying the nasty glo
b, as I call it, or a combination of globs that's behind our problem. The first is a gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. To put it concisely, I merely take vials of river water samples and place them inside. The system then automatically extracts and analyzes the contents. The results are interpreted by our on-board computers."
"What exactly does it tell you?" asked Pitt.
"It identifies synthetic organic pollutants, including solvents, pesticides, PCBs, dioxins, and a host of other drugs and chemical compounds. This baby, I hope, will home in on the chemistry of the compound that's mutating and stimulating the red tide."
"What if the contaminant is a metal?"
"That's where the inductively coupled plasma/mass spectrometer comes in," said Gunn, gesturing at the second instrument. "Its purpose is to automatically identify all metals and other elements which might be present in the water."
"Looks similar to the other one," observed Pitt.
"Basically the same principle, but different technology. Again, I merely load the sample vials of water taken from the river, punch the start buttons, and check the performance every 2 kilometers."
"What has it told you?"
Gunn paused to rub a pair of red-rimmed eyes. "That the Niger River is carrying half the metals known to man, from copper to mercury to gold and silver, even uranium. All in concentrations above their natural background levels."
"Sifting through the scatter won't be easy," murmured Pitt.
"Finally," added Gunn, "the data is telemetered to our researchers at NUMA who review my results in their own laboratories and look for something I might have missed."
Pitt, for the life of him, couldn't see Gunn missing anything. It was plain that his friend for many years was more than just a competent scientist and analyst; he was a man who thought coldly, clearly, and as constructively as possible. He was a dedicated hard driver who didn't know the meaning of the word quit.
"Any hint yet of the toxic compound that might be our evil-doer?" Pitt asked.
Gunn finished off the beer and dropped it in a cardboard box filled with computer readout sheets. "Toxic is only a relative term. In the world of chemistry there are no toxic compounds, only toxic levels."
"Well?"
"I've identified a lot of different contaminants and naturally occurring compounds, both metal and organic. The systems are reading shocking levels of pesticides that are banned in the U.S. but are still widely used in the third world. But I haven't been able to isolate the synthetic chemical pollutants that cause the dinoflagellates to run crazy. At the moment, I don't even know what I'm tracking. All I can do is follow the bloodhounds."
"The further we go, the hotter the swill," mused Pitt. "I was hoping you might have a handle on it by now. The deeper we get into Africa, the tougher the return trip to the open sea, especially if the local military decides to nose around."
"Get used to the idea we might not find it," Gunn said irritably. "You don't realize how many chemicals are out there. The number comes to over seven million known man-made chemical compounds, and each week U.S. chemists alone create more than six thousand new ones."
"But they can't all be toxic."
"At some level most all of these chemicals will have some toxic properties. Anything is toxic if swallowed, inhaled, or injected in sufficient doses. Even water can be fatal if enough is consumed. Too much will flush out the necessary electrolytes from the body."
Pitt looked at him. "So there are no absolutes, no guarantees."
"None," Gunn shook his head. "All I know for certain is we haven't passed the spot where our doomsday plague empties into the river. Since entering the delta and passing the main tributaries of the lower Niger, the Kaduna, and Benue Rivers, the water samples have driven the dinoflagellates into a frenzy. But I haven't a clue that points to the villain. The only good news is that I ruled out bacterial microorganisms as the cause."
"How did you eliminate it?"
"By sterilizing the river water samples. The removal of bacteria didn't slow down the little buggers from proliferating one little bit."
Pitt gave Gunn a light pat on the shoulder. "If anyone can put a collar on it, Rudi, you can."
"Oh I'll sift the stuff out." Gunn pulled off his glasses and wiped the lenses. "It may still be unknown, ungodly, and unnatural, but I'll sift it out. That's a promise."
Their luck ran out the following afternoon, only an hour after they crossed the Nigerian border onto the stretch of river separating Benin and Niger. Pitt was gazing silently over the bow of the Calliope at the river walled by thick green jungle, a dank and forbidding jungle. Gray clouds had turned the water to a leaden color. The river ahead curved slightly and seemed to beckon, like the bony finger of death.
Giordino was at the helm, the first faint edges of fatigue wrinkling the sides of his eyes. Pitt stood at his shoulder, attention shifting to a lone cormorant soaring delicately on an updraft above the water ahead. Suddenly, it flapped its wings and dipped into the trees along the bank.
Pitt lifted a pair of binoculars from the counter and glimpsed the bow of a vessel barely showing around a bend in the river. "The locals are about to pay us a social call," he announced.
"I see it." Giordino raised out of the chair and shielded his eyes against the sun with one hand. "Correction, them. There are two."
"Heading straight toward us, guns tracking and looking for trouble."
"What flag are they flying?"
"Benin," Pitt answered. "Russian-built, judging by their lines." Pitt laid down the binoculars and spread out a recognition chart on West African air force and navy units. "Riverine attack craft, armed with two twin, 30-millimeter guns with a rate of fire around five hundred rounds per minute."
"Not good," Giordino muttered briefly. He glanced down at the chart of the river. "Another 40 kilometers and we'll be out of Benin territory and into Niger waters. With luck, and the engines pushed to the hilt, we could make the border by lunch."
"Forget luck. These guys are not about to wave us a cheery bon voyage as we pass merrily on our way. This doesn't have the look of a routine inspection. Not with all their weapons aimed down our throats."
Giordino looked back and pointed skyward over the stern. "The plot thickens. They've called in a vulture."
Pitt swung and spotted a helicopter angling around the last bend, no more than 10 meters above the water surface. "All doubts of a friendly encounter have just evaporated."
"Smells like a setup," Giordino said calmly.
Pitt alerted Gunn, who came up out of his electronic cabin and was briefed on the situation.
"I half expected it," was all he said.
"They've been waiting for us," said Pitt. "This is no chance encounter. If they only mean to lock us up and confiscate the boat, they'll damned well execute us as spies when they find out we're as French as a backup trio for Bruce Springsteen. We can't allow that. Whatever data we've accumulated since entering the river must get into the hands of Sandecker and Chapman. These guys are primed for trouble. No innocent, naive cooperation on our part. It's a case of they go under, or we do."
"I might take out the helicopter, and if I'm lucky, the nearest boat," said Giordino. "But I can't take all three before one of them hammers us into scrap."
"Okay, here's the drill," Pitt spoke quietly, gazing at the approaching gunboats. He explained his game plan as Giordino and Gunn listened thoughtfully. When he concluded, he looked at them. "Any remarks?"
"They speak French hereabout," commented Gunn. "How's your vocabulary?"
Pitt shrugged. "I'll fake it."
"Then let's do it," Giordino said, his voice edged with icy anticipation.
His friends were head of the class, Pitt thought. Gunn and Giordino weren't professionally trained members of a Special Forces Team, perhaps, but brave and competent men to have standing at his side during a fight. He couldn't have felt more confident if he was commanding a missile destroyer manned by a crew of two hundred.
"Right," he s
aid with a grim smile. "Wear your headsets and stay on the air. Good luck."
Admiral Pierre Matabu stood on the bridge of the lead gunboat and peered through a pair of glasses at the sport yacht skimming up the river. He had the air about him of a con man eyeing an easy mark. Matabu was short, squat, in his mid-thirties, and dressed in an ostentatious, braid embellished uniform of his own design. As Chief of the Benin navy, a position granted him by his brother, President Tougouri, he commanded a fleet consisting of four hundred men, two river gunboats, and three ocean-going patrol craft. His prior experience before achieving flag rank was three years as a deck hand on a river ferry.
Commander Behanzin Ketou, skipper of the vessel, stood slightly to his side and behind. "It was wise of you to fly from the capital and take command, Admiral."
Sahara Page 12