“A prudent call.”
“It seems the thieves were standing by, waiting for us to salvage the Cuttlefish,” Gunn said. “What was in that crate that was so valuable?”
Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a question I’d like an answer for.”
“Whatever it was,” Giordino said, “nobody’s going to be too happy about its demise. Now it’s nothing but a worthless bundle of mashed wires.”
“Speaking of which,” Gunn said, “we replaced the bridge radio with a spare unit from belowdecks. I guess I should let the Edisto know we can all head back to San Diego now.”
“Rudi, aren’t you forgetting some unfinished business downstairs?” Giordino said, pointing toward the sea.
He looked down his angular nose at Giordino. “Do you think we’ve been sitting around playing tiddlywinks while you were gone?”
He stepped to the rear of the bridge and pointed out the window at the barge. Bathed in the glow of a dim deck light sat the Cuttlefish, supported on a pair of wooden cradles.
“You landed her without us!” Giordino turned to Pitt. “Now, how did we miss that?”
“Guess we were too focused on the Coast Guard cutter. Nice work, Rudi. Did she give you any trouble coming up?”
“None at all. We just ran the sling cables from the submersible to the barge crane and hoisted away. She came up clean as a whistle, but I think you’ll want to take a look at her hull.”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” Pitt said.
Gunn gathered some flashlights, and they motored in the inflatable to the bow of the barge. The vessel was ghostly quiet, its pilot asleep in his bunk with the dachshund curled at his feet.
The Cuttlefish stood tall above them. The hull’s sides were clean and dry, and the boat’s chrome sparkled bright under their lights, showing little indication it had been submerged for nearly a week.
Giordino let out a low whistle as they viewed a gaping hole ripped in the base of the hull. “She must have sunk in a heartbeat.”
“I guess the DARPA folks had reason to be suspicious,” Gunn said. “By the looks of it, this was no accident.”
“Our buddies in the cabin cruiser probably attached some explosives to the hull,” Giordino said. “Must have detonated prematurely, before they could lay their hands on the crate.”
“Actually, they planted the explosives inside the boat.” Pitt studied the damage with his flashlight. “The blast marks seem to indicate an internal explosion.”
Gunn put his hand on a serrated section next to the hole; it flared outward. “You’re right. The explosives must have been placed inside the cabin.”
Pitt knelt beneath the opening and shined his flashlight into the dark interior. The remnants of the boat’s galley were visible above him, with black-stained bulkheads and a crater-sized blast hole through the ceiling. Still, the interior damage was less severe than the breach in the hull.
Examining the damage, Pitt noticed a pair of frayed orange wires trailing from the hole. He traced the wires’ path across the galley to an aft corner bulkhead, where they rose through a drilled hole. Squeezing through the blast hole, Pitt climbed into the galley and stepped aft past the cramped dining area to a flight of steps. He followed them up to the wheelhouse, where he stopped and studied the helm. In front of the pilot’s seat, he pulled open a kick panel, which contained a rat’s maze of colored wires that powered the boat’s electronics. He soon found the orange wires. One was spliced to a power lead, while the other ran up to the throttle housing. A minute later, he found its terminus—a hidden toggle switch mounted beneath the helm panel.
Giordino and Gunn had walked around the Cuttlefish and climbed up its stern. Finding Pitt standing at the helm, lost in thought, Gunn asked what he had discovered.
“A slight twist in my theory,” Pitt said. “It wasn’t the Mexicans who blew up the Cuttlefish. It was Heiland himself.”
21
STEPPING INTO THE DRAKE’S MESS JUST AFTER SUNUP, Pitt was surprised to find Ann seated across from Gunn, finishing her breakfast. Grabbing a cup of coffee, he headed to their table.
“Good morning. Mind if I join you?”
Gunn waved him to a seat next to Ann. “Always interrupting my fun.”
Pitt looked to Ann. “Sleep well?”
“Just fine,” she said, softly averting his gaze.
Pitt smiled at her sudden sheepishness. Returning from the barge the night before, he had gone straight to his cabin to go to bed. He’d answered a light knock at his door to find Ann in the doorway, an expectant look on her face. She’d worn a loose-fitting ship’s bathrobe that failed to conceal the straps of her lingerie. Barefoot, she stood on her good leg, relieving the pressure on her wrapped and swollen left ankle.
“I was hoping you would stop by to say good night,” she whispered.
Pitt quelled an uneasy desire as he gazed into her needy eyes. “Negligence on my part,” he said with a smile.
He bent down and plucked her off her feet, holding her tight. She buried her head in his neck as he carried her down the narrow corridor and into her cabin. Setting her gently on the bunk, he leaned over and kissed her forehead.
“Good night, my dear,” he said softly. Before she could respond, he’d backed out of her cabin and closed the door behind him.
“Your cook is excellent,” Ann said to Gunn, now pushing away her empty plate while trying to change the subject.
“Food is a key element of shipboard morale, particularly on long voyages. We insist on highly trained chefs for all our vessels.” Gunn took a bite of toast and turned to Pitt. “Ann was just telling me how she put her college springboard experience to good use by diving from the bridge wing last evening.”
“I’d give her a 9.0.” Pitt winked. “Though I might raise my marks if she would dive into what this expedition was really all about.”
Ann gave a nervous cough into her napkin. “What do you mean?”
“We were searching for much more than just a missing boat, weren’t we?”
“It was important that we find the boat, and any equipment that was still aboard.”
“We succeeded on both counts,” Pitt said, “so how about you tell us something about that equipment?”
“I can’t disclose that.”
Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “Aside from nearly getting yourself killed, you also placed this ship and crew in danger. I think we’re entitled to some answers.”
Ann looked Pitt in the eye for the first time—and realized she couldn’t sidestep the issue. She gazed around the room to ensure no one was eavesdropping.
“As you know, Dr. Heiland’s company was engaged in a high-level research-and-development project for DARPA. His work was in support of a secret Navy submarine program called Sea Arrow. Heiland was specifically involved in the development of an advanced propulsion system. I really can’t tell you more than that except that he was doing some final prototype testing on a breakthrough development when his boat was lost at sea.”
“That was the item in the crate?”
“A scale model,” Ann said. “While there was a suspicion of foul play in the loss of the Cuttlefish, no one anticipated any interference with our search-and-recovery project. I’m truly sorry your crew was placed in danger. It was thought that the fewer people aware of Heiland’s research, the better. I know the Vice President wasn’t happy about keeping you in the dark, but he was forced to go along at the request of Tom Cerny.”
“So who were those guys who tried to steal it?” Gunn asked.
Ann shrugged. “A mystery, at the moment. By their looks, I don’t believe the men were from Mexico, but possibly Central or South America. I’ve already spoken to Washington and been assured we’ll have the Mexican authorities’ assistance in examining the two bodies and tracing the pickup truck.
”
“We’ve provided a pretty good description of their boat to the Mexican Navy,” Gunn said.
“They don’t seem like the usual suspects for a defense-related theft,” Pitt noted. “Did you think they had already absconded with Heiland’s magic box?”
“Yes,” Ann said. “When the bodies of Heiland and his assistant were found, we presumed they had been hijacked at sea and the prototype stolen. That’s why I was so shocked to see the crate still secured aboard the Cuttlefish.”
“I guess you have Heiland to thank for that,” Pitt said. He described his discovery of the orange wires and hidden toggle switch. “I’m guessing that Heiland realized he was under attack and blew up his own boat.”
“The two bodies showed severe trauma consistent with a fire or explosion,” Ann said. “We never considered it was of their own doing, but that may need to be reevaluated now.”
“I think Heiland beat them to the punch,” Pitt said. “And, to make matters worse for the bad guys, the Cuttlefish sank in water too deep for conventional diving. They were probably scrambling to locate their own salvage ship when we showed up. So they let us raise it for them.”
Gunn turned to Ann. “Your high diving saved the day.”
“No, it was Dirk and Al who recaptured the crate. Though its destruction saved it from falling into the wrong hands, the loss of the model has magnified some other problems.”
“Namely?” Pitt asked.
“I’ve been told that neither DARPA nor the Navy have any detailed plans or design specs for Heiland’s work. Carl Heiland was a highly respected engineer—a genius, really—and because of that he was given free rein. Over the years he’s made many brilliant modifications in submarine design and torpedo development. As a result, he wasn’t required to submit the usual mountain of documentation demanded by most defense contracts.”
“So no one else knows how to complete the Sea Arrow?” Pitt asked.
“Exactly,” Ann replied with a tight-lipped grimace.
“With Heiland dead and his model destroyed,” Gunn said, “those plans would be extremely valuable.”
“Fowler tells me that is now our top priority.” She looked at her watch and then at Pitt. “The Vice President’s office has arranged a return jet for us to Washington. It leaves San Diego at one o’clock. I’d like to visit Heiland’s headquarters in Del Mar before we go. Could you drive me there on the way to the airport?”
Pitt rose from the table and offered Ann her crutches. “I never fail to heed the call of small children, little old ladies, or pretty girls with wrenched ankles.” He gave a slight bow. “Just show me the way.”
An hour later, they pulled into the headquarters of Heiland Research and Associates. The office occupied a shared building on a rise overlooking the beach town of Del Mar, just north of San Diego. The site offered a clear view of the ocean to the west, as well as Del Mar’s famed racetrack in the valley below. Ann flashed her credentials at the front desk and signed them in.
“Welcome, Miss Bennett,” the receptionist said. “Mrs. Marsdale is expecting you.”
A minute later, a stylish woman with short dark hair entered the lobby and introduced herself as Carl Heiland’s operations manager. As she led them to a nearby conference room, Ann followed awkwardly on her crutches.
“We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Marsdale,” Ann said. “I’m on the team investigating the death of Mr. Heiland, and I am concerned about securing his working papers related to the Sea Arrow project.”
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.” The shock of Heiland’s death still marked her face. “I assume his death was no accident?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Carl and Manfred were just too competent to die in a boating accident. Carl was a safe and prudent man. I know he always had concerns about maintaining the secrecy of his work.”
“We don’t think it was an accident,” Ann said, “but the investigation is still ongoing. We do believe that someone was trying to acquire his test model.”
Marsdale nodded. “The FBI was here a few days ago, and we gave them what we could. But as I told them, this is Dr. Heiland’s business headquarters. We handle the government contracts and related admin support, and that’s about it. The entire firm employs only twelve people.”
“Where is your research facility?” Pitt asked.
“We don’t really have one. There’s a small shop out back, where we employ a few interns for ongoing research topics, but Carl and Manfred seldom worked here. They traveled frequently but actually conducted most of their research in Idaho.”
“Idaho?” Ann asked.
“Yes, there’s a Navy research facility in Bayview. Dr. Heiland has a cabin nearby, where he and Manfred would escape to problem-solve.”
“That would be Manfred Ortega, Dr. Heiland’s assistant?”
“Yes. Carl called him Manny. A brilliant engineer in his own right. The two of them together created magical work. They were the brains of the whole company. I don’t know what we’ll do now.”
There was a long silence as they all realized the deaths of Carl and Manny meant the likely demise of Heiland Research and Associates.
“Did the FBI gather all of the materials here on site?” Ann asked.
“They took all of our admin files—and even our computers, for a time. We had sent the technical files to DARPA headquarters, which was just as well. The FBI agents were like a bull in a china shop, so I didn’t let them in Carl’s office, but they had the run of the rest of the place.”
“Would you mind if I had a look around his office?” Ann said. “I’m sure you can understand the national security ramifications of securing all of his work.”
“Sure. He never left much here, but his office is just down the hall.” Marsdale grabbed some keys from her desk and led them to a corner office. Of modest size, Heiland’s office looked seldom used. Like the man, it was frugal in décor, sporting a few submarine models and a painting of a mahogany rumrunner under sail. The only incongruous item was a stuffed moose head, with an assortment of fishing caps dangling from its antlers, mounted just above the desk.
Marsdale gave a puzzled look when she saw several desk drawers had been left open. “That’s odd.” She suddenly stiffened. “Someone’s been in here and searched his desk. I remember leaving a contract in his in-box for signature and now it’s gone.”
She turned to Ann with a worried expression. “I’m the only one in the building with keys to his office.”
“Were there any other important documents in here?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Like I said, he was seldom here for very long.”
She looked at the desk and then glanced up at the moose. “There was a picture of his boat and cabin on his desk—it’s gone, too. And Carl used to hang the keys to his cabin on the moose antler when he was here and they’re also missing.”
“Do you have security cameras in the building?” Pitt asked.
“We do. I’ll contact our security firm immediately.” Her voice cracked in distress. “I’m very sorry.”
“If you don’t mind,” Ann said, “I’d like to call the FBI back in to scour the office. Combined with your security video, that should allow us to develop some potential leads.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever it takes to find out who is behind all this.”
As Ann and Pitt returned to the car, she stopped and stared out at the ocean. “They were here, weren’t they?”
“I’d bet on it,” Pitt said.
“I’ve got a favor to ask.” She turned and locked eyes with him. “Would you mind delaying our return to Washington a day? I’d like to redirect our flight to Idaho. If Marsdale is right, all of Heiland’s plans may be safe in Bayview without us even knowing it.”
“I’m game,” Pitt said. “Fact is, I’ve always been curious to see where all those famous potatoes come from.”
22
THE GOVERNMENT GULFSTREAM JET DESCENDED out of a sapphire sky and touched down on the main runway of Coeur d’Alene Airport’s Pappy Boyington Field. A native son of the scenic Idaho town, Gregory “Pappy” Boyington had grown up to fly F4U Corsairs in the Pacific, winning the Medal of Honor while commanding the legendary Black Sheep Squadron. The airport that bore his name was now home to tame Piper Cubs and private jets of wealthy tourists. Pitt grabbed Ann’s crutches and helped her off the plane at the private jet terminal, where they negotiated the use of a rental car. Pitt took the wheel as they headed north on Route 95.
They were traveling up Idaho’s northern panhandle, a region of rich forested hills and pristine blue lakes, far from the potato fields in the state’s southern plains. Traffic was light, and Pitt nudged the rental car past the sixty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. Twenty minutes later they reached the town of Athol, where Pitt turned onto a side road and drove east. A large sign welcomed them onto the grounds of Farragut State Park.
“An Idaho state park named after a Civil War admiral?” Pitt said.
“As a matter of fact, it is.” Ann scanned a travel brochure she picked up at the airport. “In the early days of World War Two, the Navy established an inland base here after it was feared the Japanese would bomb the West Coast. The Farragut Naval Training Station was indeed named for David Farragut, hero of the Battle of Mobile Bay and the first full admiral in the U.S. Navy. Nearly fifty thousand men were stationed here at one point. After the war, the base closed down, and the land was conveyed to Idaho, which turned it into a state park.”
“There’s some trivia to fling at your next Pentagon cocktail hour,” Pitt said.
The road exited the park and corkscrewed down a hill into Bayview. The hamlet was at the tip of a narrow inlet on the large glacial lake of Pend Oreille. Pitt had to squeeze past some road construction equipment before dropping down to the main waterfront drive. Several marinas filled with bass boats, day cruisers, and a large number of houseboats occupied the northern half of the bay. The Navy Acoustic Research Detachment controlled the southern shore.
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