Blue Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “You’re certainly justified in demanding an accounting,” he agreed.

  “I think so,” Sandecker said agreeably.

  “It was quite a task to piece this story together, especially on such short notice, but I’ll do my best to explain what happened.”

  “Or thankfully in this case,” Sandecker said, “what didn’t happen.”

  LeGrand smiled wanly. “The end of World War II is the beginning of the story. With Germany defeated, the Allied coalition fell apart. Churchill came out with his Iron Curtain speech, and the stage was set for the cold war. The U.S. was still complacent because it was the only country that had the bomb. That smugness was eroded when the Soviets exploded their own nuclear device, and the arms race was on. We gained headway with the hydrogen bomb. But the Russians were breathing down our necks, and it was clearly a matter of time before the Soviets gained parity. As you know, the hydrogen bomb utilized a different process to create an explosion.”

  “The thermonuclear bomb uses fusion rather than fission,” said Sandecker, who was well versed in atomic physics, having served on nuclear-powered submarines. “Atoms are joined rather than split apart.”

  LeGrand nodded. “The hydrogen atom was fused with the helium atom. The sun and other stars use the same process to create their energy. Once it became known that the main Soviet fusion lab was in Siberia there was talk in our government of sabotage. Hubris was still strong after defeating the Axis, and some people talked nostalgically of the commando raid on the heavy-water plant in Norway. You’re familiar with that mission, of course.”

  “You mean the plant that was producing an isotope needed for the production of a German A-bomb,” Sandecker said.

  “That’s right. The raid delayed the German effort.”

  “A similar commando raid in Siberia would have been an ambitious undertaking, to say the least.”

  “As a matter of fact, it would have been impossible,” LeGrand said. “The Norway raid was incredibly difficult to launch, even with accessibility and strong partisan support. There was another consideration as well.”

  Sandecker, who tended to see situations from a global perspective, said, “Germany was at war with the Allies at the time of the Norway raid. The U.S.S.R. and the U.S. had not declared open hostilities. Both sides were careful to avoid direct military confrontation. A raid on a Soviet laboratory would be considered an overt act of war that could not be ignored.”

  “That’s correct. It would be no different from the Russians destroying a lab in New Mexico. It could have provoked a shooting war.”

  Sandecker was not exactly innocent when it came to making end runs around politically dicey situations. “A raid might be feasible, but it would have to be an ironclad secret with no way to trace it.”

  LeGrand nodded. “That was precisely what the president said when the situation was presented to him.”

  “A tall order indeed,” Sandecker noted.

  “Granted, but these were not ordinary men. They had created the greatest military industrial machine in history virtually from scratch and ruthlessly used it to squash two formidable foes on several continents and seas. But even all their determination and resourcefulness wasn’t up to this challenge. Fortunately for them, two unconnected developments intersected and showed them the way. The first was the development of the aircraft that came to be known as the flying wing. The design had its problems, but there was one unplanned characteristic that made it very attractive. Stealth technology. The plane’s slim silhouette and clean surface meant that under the right circumstances it could slip undetected past radar.”

  “My guess is that you’re talking about Russian radar,” Sandecker said.

  LeGrand smiled mysteriously. “Supposedly all flying wings, including those still in production, were destroyed by the Air Force. But the president gave the go-ahead for a modified version to be built in secret. It had even greater range and speed than any of the original models. In short, here was a delivery system that could get in and out of Siberia without being detected.”

  “In my experience the Russians are not a dull people,” Sandecker said. “If their lab went up in smoke they would surmise the U.S. was behind it.”

  “Undoubtedly, which is why the second part of the equation was crucial,” LeGrand said. “That was the discovery of anasazium. It was a by-product of the work at Los Alamos. The scientist who discovered the substance was an amateur anthropologist. He was fascinated by the old Pueblo culture that once lived in the Southwest. He named his discovery after the Anasazi. The material has a number of interesting properties. The one that attracted the most interest was its ability to change the hydrogen atom in subtle ways. If anasazium could be secretly introduced into a Soviet weapons lab, it might mess up the fusion research. Estimates were that it would hamstring their bomb project by several years. The U.S. would gain time to build an intercontinental bomber and missile fleet so advanced that the Soviets would never catch up. The plan was to float bombs down on parachutes. They would explode, and release the substance in liquid form, which would get into the lab’s ventilation systems. By itself the substance is not any more harmful than water to humans. Those under attack would think they heard a very strange thunderstorm of extremely short duration.”

  “It doesn’t sound exactly like pinpoint bombing.”

  “It wasn’t. As they say, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “What if the plane crashed for some mechanical reason?”

  “That possibility was taken into account. There was no poison pill like the one Francis Gary Powers didn’t take after his U-2 crash. They wanted no talkative survivors. No parachutes were packed for the crew. In fact, it would have been impossible to parachute from the plane. Ejection seats had not yet been developed, and the pilot’s canopy could not be jettisoned. If wreckage were found it could always be said that this was an experimental plane tragically gone off-course.”

  “The crew knew this?”

  “They were highly motivated volunteers with no sense of failure.”

  “Too bad the plan failed,” Sandecker said.

  “To the contrary,” LeGrand said. “The mission was an unqualified success.”

  “How so? The Soviets built a hydrogen bomb close on our heels, as I recall.”

  “Quite true. They exploded their first thermonuclear device in 1953, two years after the U.S. Remember what I said about hubris. Our people couldn’t imagine that an ignorant peasant like Stalin could outsmart them. He was extremely suspicious of everyone. He ordered Igor Kurchatov, the Soviet equivalent of our man Oppenheimer, to set up a duplicate hydrogen research lab in the Ural Mountains. Their research was successful. Stalin thought the Siberian lab had failed on purpose and ordered its technicians liquidated.”

  “I’m surprised a strike wasn’t ordered into the Ural operation.”

  “A raid was contemplated, but the mission was canceled. Maybe it was considered too dangerous, or perhaps the flying wing had insurmountable technical problems.”

  “What happened to the plane?”

  “It was sealed in its hangar with the cargo. The Alaskan base it flew from was abandoned. The men at the base were scattered all over the globe. None of them had a complete picture of the operation. That was almost the end of it.”

  “Almost. You mean the protocol and the killing of the pilot?”

  LeGrand stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “That and more. Actually the entire flight crew was killed,” he said quietly. “They were the only nonpolitical types who knew the mission and the target intimately. Four men died. Their families were told they were in an accident. They were buried with full military honors at Arlington.”

  “A lovely gesture.”

  LeGrand nervously cleared his throat. “You all know that I’ve done my best to clean things up at the Agency. Sometimes I’ll scrape off one layer of dirt to reveal another even more filthy. Unfortunately much of the good work we’ve done has gone unheralded for obvious
reasons. But the intelligence community did some things that are nothing to be proud of. This sad episode was one of them.”

  “Austin filled me in on his findings. The pilot was at Arlington attending his own funeral. I understand his son saw him.”

  “He insisted that he be allowed one more look at his wife and child,” the director said. “He was told he was going into protective custody for an indefinite time. Of course it was only a ruse. Shortly after he was placed under protection, he was killed by his protector.”

  “The man who lived in upstate New York.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sandecker’s blue eyes hardened. “Sorry I don’t feel any sadness for the assassin. He was a cold-blooded killer at an age when we supposedly attain wisdom. And he would have murdered Austin. What was the reason for the protocol? Wasn’t murdering those crewmen enough?”

  “The brass who decided this thing didn’t want the faintest chance the secret would get out. They thought it could start another war. Relations were bad enough as it was between us and the Soviets. The protocol was set up to react blindly to any attempt to unravel the secret. They thought any spy snooping would come from abroad. No one dreamed the threat would come from the U.S. congress. It was all totally unnecessary. The Speaker of the House was defeated for reelection, and his exposé never got off the ground. It was probably assumed that the little land mine they left to blow up in the face of anyone following their trail would deactivate itself. They never thought it would still be dangerous fifty years later.”

  Sandecker leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “So this ancient scheme cooked up by a bunch of macho cowboys is what almost got my man killed. I understand that the assassin had his bags packed ready to go with a sniper’s rifle and explosives. Apparently planning quite a retirement party for himself. Too bad we can’t let the American public know what tomfoolery their tax dollars were used for in the name of democracy.”

  LeGrand said, “That would be a mistake. It is still extremely sensitive. Reducing Russia’s nuclear arsenal has been a struggle. If this story got out it would strengthen the hand of the nationalists who say the U.S. can’t be trusted.”

  “They would think that anyhow,” Sandecker said dryly. “In my experience there is one thing powerful people fear the most: embarrassment.” He smiled. “I trust there are no more protocols waiting out there to ambush the unwary?”

  It was a veiled warning.

  “I’ve already ordered a complete examination of our computer files to prevent exactly such a possibility,” LeGrand said. “No more surprises.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sandecker said.

  28

  AUSTIN POURED HIMSELF a hot mug of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee straight, took a sip of the high-octane brew, and picked the aluminum cylinder off his desk. He hefted it in his big hand, staring at the battered convex surface as if it were a crystal ball. The object yielded no secrets, only a distorted reflection of his bronzed features and pale hair.

  Setting the cylinder aside, he returned to the map of Alaska spread out on his desk. He had been to Alaska several times, and the sheer immensity of the fiftieth state never failed to boggle his mind. Searching for the old flying wing base in some of the most rugged territory on earth would be like trying to find a single grain of sand on Malibu Beach. Compounding the problem, the base would have been built in a way to keep it from prying eyes. He ran his finger from Barrow deep inside the Arctic Circle south to the Kenai Peninsula. The phone rang as the seed of an idea was beginning to sprout.

  Eyes glued on the map, he grabbed the phone, stuck it in his ear, and snapped a perfunctory hello. Sandecker’s crisp voice came on the line.

  “Kurt, can you come up to my office?”

  “Can this wait, Admiral?” Austin said, trying to hold on to his thought.

  “Of course, Kurt,” Sandecker said magnanimously. “Is five minutes sufficient?”

  The notion withered and died like a flower in the sun. Sandecker must have been the original irresistible force. The admiral’s mind operated at warp speed, and consequently his sense of time tended to be compressed.

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  “Splendid. I think you’ll find it worth your while.”

  When Austin walked into Sandecker’s tenth-floor office he expected to see the director of NUMA behind the immense desk made from a hatch taken from a Confederate blockade runner. Instead the admiral sat off to the side in one of the comfortable dark leather chairs reserved for visitors. He was chatting with a woman who sat with her back to Austin. Sandecker, who was wearing a navy blazer with gold anchors embroidered over the breast pocket, rose to greet Austin.

  “Thank you for coming, Kurt. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  The woman stood, and Austin’s preoccupation with his Alaskan puzzle evaporated in a single glance.

  She was tall and slim, with Eurasian high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. In contrast to her exotic looks she was dressed conservatively in a long burgundy skirt and matching jacket. Her dark blond hair was tightly woven into a single braid down to her shoulder blades. Something about her went beyond natural beauty. She had the erect carriage of someone born to royalty, but at the same time she walked with the lithe easiness of a panther as she came over to shake hands. The deep brown eyes with gold flecks seemed to radiate a tropical heat. Maybe it was his imagination, but her musky scent made Austin think of the throb of distant drums. It suddenly dawned on him who the woman was.

  “You’re Dr. Cabral?”

  Austin would not have been surprised if she had answered with a soft purr. In a low, mellow voice she said, “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Austin. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important. I asked Admiral Sandecker if I might have the chance to thank you personally for your help.”

  “You’re very welcome, but Gamay and Paul did all the hard work. I simply answered the phone and pushed a couple of buttons.”

  “You are far too modest, Mr. Austin,” she said with a smile that could have melted ice cubes. “If not for your quick action I’m afraid my head and those of your colleagues would be decorating a village thousands of miles from these comfortable surroundings.”

  Sandecker stepped between them and guided Francesca back to her chair. “On that happy note, Dr. Cabral, would you mind if we imposed and asked you to tell us your story from start to finish?”

  “Not at all,” she replied. “Talking to someone about my experience has therapeutic value, and I also find myself remembering details I had forgotten.”

  Sandecker motioned for Austin to sit, then slipped into his desk chair and lit up one of the ten custom-made cigars he smoked each day. He and Austin listened with rapt attention as Francesca narrated the gripping tale of the hijacking, the crash and her brush with death, her ascension as a white goddess. She went into great detail about the public works projects in the Chulo village that she took so much pride in. She ended with an account of the arrival of the Trouts, their mad flight, and their rescue by helicopter.

  “Fascinating,” Sandecker said, “absolutely fascinating. Tell me, what became of your friend Tessa?”

  “She stayed on with Dr. Ramirez. Her knowledge of medicinal plants will be invaluable in his research. I talked by phone to my parents to make sure they are well. They wanted me to come home, but I decided to stay in the U.S. I need more of a decompression time before I insert myself back into the São Paulo social whirl. Beyond that, I am determined to carry on the task that was interrupted ten years ago.”

  Sandecker contemplated the stubborn set of Francesca’s jaw. “I firmly believe past is not only present but also future. It would help to know what lies ahead if you told us something about the events that led to your plane trip.”

  Francesca stared into the distance as if she could see through time. “It goes back to my childhood. I became aware at a very early age that I come from a privileged background. Even as a girl I knew I lived
in a city with appalling slums. As I grew older and traveled I learned that my city was a microcosm for the world. Here in one place were the haves and the have-nots. I also discovered that the difference between rich and poor nations is the earth’s most plentiful substance: water. Fresh water lubricates development. Without water there is nothing to eat. Without food there is no will to live, to raise one’s standard of living. Even the oil-rich countries use much of their petroleum revenues to buy or produce water. We take it for granted that when we turn on the tap water will flow, but that will not always be the case. The competition for water has become greater than ever.”

  “The U.S. is no stranger to water disputes,” Sandecker said. “In the old days range wars were fought over water rights.”

  “That will be nothing compared with the troubles of the future,” Francesca said darkly. “In this century wars will not be fought over oil, as in the past, but over water. The situation is becoming desperate. The world’s water is strained by the population growth. There is no more fresh water on the earth than two thousand years ago when the population was three percent of its current size. Even without the inevitable droughts, like the current one, it will get worse as demand and pollution increase. Some countries will simply run out of water, sparking a global refugee crisis. Tens of millions of people will flood across international borders. It means the collapse of fisheries, environmental destruction, conflict, lower living standards.” She paused for a moment. “As people who deal with the ocean you must see the irony. We are facing a shortage on a planet whose surface is covered two-thirds with water.”

  “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink,” Austin said, quoting the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem.

  “Precisely. But suppose the Mariner had a magic wand he could wave over a bucket of seawater, changing it into fresh.”

  “His ship would have survived.”

  “Now extend that analogy to millions of buckets.”