Black Wind (10 page)

11

A
LTHOUGH
K
EITH
C
ATANA
had been in South Korea only three months, he had already identified his favorite off-base watering hole. Chang's Saloon appeared little different from the dozen or so other bars of “A-Town,” a seedy entertainment section on the fringe of Kunsan City that catered to the American servicemen stationed at Kunsan Air Force Base. Chang's skipped the loud blaring music that emanated from most of the other bars and offered a decent price for an OB beer, one of the local Korean brews. But perhaps more important, in Catana's eyes, Chang's attracted the best-looking working girls of A-Town.

Abandoned by two buddies who decided to pursue a group of American servicewomen headed to a dance club around the corner, Catana sat silently nursing his fourth beer, welcoming the early periphery of a warm buzz. The twenty-three-year-old master sergeant was an avionics specialist at the air base, supporting F-16 attack jets of the Eighth Fighter Wing. Located just a few minutes' flight time from the DMZ, his squadron stood in constant preparedness for an aerial counterstrike should North Korea initiate an invasion of the South.

Sentimental memories of his family back in Arkansas were suddenly jolted from his brain when the door to the bar flung open and in strolled the most stunning Korean woman Catana had ever laid eyes on. Four beers were not enough to deceive himself; she was a genuine beauty. Her long, straight black hair accentuated a delicate, almost porcelain-skinned face that featured a petite nose and mouth but stunningly bold black eyes. A tight leather skirt and silk top accentuated her small build but magnified a distorted symmetry created by her large, surgically enhanced breasts.

Like a tigress searching for prey, the woman surveyed the crowded bar from front to back before focusing on the lone airman sitting alone in a corner. With her sights locked, she swiveled her way over to Catana's table and smoothly slipped into the chair facing him.

“Hello, Joe. Be a friend and buy me a drink?” she purred.

“Glad to,” Catana stammered in reply. She was definitely in a different league from the normal A-Town hookers, he thought, and not the type that caters to enlisted servicemen. But who was he to argue? If the heavens intended to drop this creature in his lap on payday, then good fortune was indeed smiling his way.

It took only one quick beer before the harlot invited him back to her hotel room. Catana was pleasantly surprised that the woman didn't wrangle about price, or, in fact, mention it at all, he thought oddly.

She led him to a cheap motel nearby, where they walked arm in arm down its seedy hallway that was complete with red lights. At the end of the hall, the woman unlocked the door to a small, hot corner room. Sleep wasn't the major draw of the room, Catana could see, as evidenced by a condom machine mounted near the bed.

After closing the door, the woman quickly stripped off her top, then embraced Catana in a deep, passionate kiss. He paid little attention to a noise near the closet as he soaked in the warmth of the exotic woman, intoxicated by a combination of her beauty, the alcohol, and the expensive perfume she wore. His pleasurable delirium was suddenly jolted by a sharp jab to his buttocks, followed by a hot, searing pain. Whirling unsteadily around, he was shocked to find himself facing another man in the room. The stocky bald man grinned a crooked smile through his long mustache, his dark cold eyes seeming to penetrate right through Catana's skull. In his hands, he held a fully depressed hypodermic needle.

Pain and confusion overwhelmed Catana as his body suddenly went numb. He tried to raise his hands but his limbs were useless. Even his lips refused to cooperate with his brain in voicing a cry of protest. It took just a few seconds before a wave of blackness rolled over him and all feeling departed his senses.

It was hours later when the incessant pounding jarred him from a state of unconsciousness. The pounding was not in his head, as he first imagined, but came externally, from the motel room door. He noticed a warm stickiness enveloping him as he fought to clear the fog from his vision. Why the pounding? Why the wetness? The dimly lit room and cobwebs in his mind refused to reveal the mystery.

The banging ceased for a moment, then a loud blow struck the door, bashing it open with a flood of light. Squinting through the brightness, he saw a company of policemen storm into the room, followed by two men with cameras. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden infusion of light, he was able to notice what the wetness was around him.

Blood. It was everywhere: on the sheets, on the pillows, and smeared all over his body. But mostly it was pooled about the prone figure of the nude woman lying dead beside him.

Catana instinctively lurched back from the body in shock at the sight of the corpse. As two of the policemen pulled him off the bed and handcuffed his wrists, he cried out in horror.

“What happened? Who did this?” he said in a daze.

He looked on in shock as a third policeman pulled back a sheet partially covering the woman, fully exposing a body that had been brutally mutilated. To Catana's further bewilderment, he saw that the body was not that of the beautiful woman he had met the night before but rather was of a young girl whom he did not know.

Catana sagged as he was dragged out of the room amid a flurry of photographs. By noon that day, the story of the rape and savage murder of a thirteen-year-old Korean girl by a U.S. serviceman was a countrywide horror. By evening, it had become a national outrage. And by the time of the girl's funeral two days later, it was a full-blown international incident.

12

T
HE HIGH NOONDAY SUN
shimmered brightly off the sapphire waters of the Bohol Sea, forcing Raul Biazon to squint as he gazed toward the large research vessel moored in the distance. For a moment, the Philippine government biologist thought the sun's rays were playing a trick on his eyes. No respectable scientific research ship could possibly be emblazoned in such a lively hue. But as the small weather-beaten launch in which he rode drew closer, he saw that there was nothing wrong with his vision. The ship was in fact painted a glistening turquoise blue from stem to stern, which made the vessel appear as if it belonged under the sea rather than bobbing atop it. Leave it to the Americans, Biazon thought, to escape the ordinary.

The launch pilot guided the worn wooden boat alongside a stepladder suspended over the side of the ship and Biazon wasted no time in leaping aboard. Speaking briefly to the pilot in Tagalog, he turned and scampered up the ladder and sprang onto the deck, nearly colliding with a tall brawny man who stood at the rail. With thinning blond hair and sturdy build, there was a Viking-like air about the man who was dressed in an immaculate white warm-weather captain's uniform.

“Dr. Biazon? Welcome aboard the
Mariana Explorer
. I'm Captain Bill Stenseth,” the man smiled warmly through gray eyes.

“Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Captain,” Biazon replied, regaining his stance and composure. “When a local fisherman informed me that a NUMA research vessel was seen in the region, I thought you might be able to offer some assistance.”

“Let's head to the bridge and out of the heat,” Stenseth directed, “and you can fill us in on the environmental calamity you mentioned over the radio.”

“I hope that I am not interfering with your research work,” Biazon said as the two men climbed a flight of stairs.

“Not at all. We've just completed a seismic mapping project off Mindanao and are taking a break to test some equipment before heading up to Manila. Besides,” Stenseth said with a grin, “when my boss says, ‘Stop the boat,' I stop the boat.”

“Your boss?” Biazon inquired with a confused look.

“Yes,” Stenseth replied as they reached the bridge wing and he pulled open the side door. “He's traveling on board with us.”

Biazon stepped through the door and into the bridge, shivering involuntarily as a blast of refrigerated air struck his perspiration-soaked body. At the rear of the bridge, he noticed a tall, distinguished-looking man in shorts and a polo shirt bent over a chart table studying a map.

“Dr. Biazon, may I present the director of NUMA, Dirk Pitt,” Stenseth introduced. “Dirk, this is Dr. Raul Biazon, hazardous wastes manager with the Philippines Environmental Management Bureau.”

Biazon was shocked to find the head of a large government agency working at sea so far from Washington. But one look at Pitt and Biazon knew he wasn't the typical government administrator. Standing nearly a foot taller than his own five-foot-four frame, the NUMA chief carried a tan, lean, muscular body that showed few indications of having spent much time behind a desk. Though Biazon wouldn't know, the senior Pitt was nearly the spitting image of his son who carried the same name. The face was weathered and the ebony hair showed tinges of gray at the temples, but the opaline green eyes sparkled with life. They were eyes that had absorbed much in their day, Biazon gauged, reflecting an assorted mix of intelligence, mirth, and tenacity.

“Welcome aboard,” Pitt greeted warmly, shaking Biazon's hand with a firm grip. “My underwater technology director, Al Giordino,” he added, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the far corner of the wheelhouse. Curled up asleep on a bench seat was a short, thick man with dark curly hair. A light snore drifted from the man's lips with each breath of air that exhaled from his barrel-shaped chest. His powerful build reminded Biazon of a rhinoceros.

“Al, come join the party,” Pitt yelled across the bridge.

Giordino pried his eyes open, then popped instantly awake. He quickly stood and joined the other men at the table, showing no signs of slumber.

“As I told the captain, I appreciate your offer of assistance,” Biazon said.

“The Philippine government has always been supportive of our research work in your country's waters,” Pitt replied. “When we received your radio call to help identify a toxic marine affliction, we were glad to help. Perhaps you can tell us a little more about the specifics of the outbreak.”

“A few weeks ago, our office was contacted by a resort hotel on Panglao Island. The hotel's management was upset because a large quantity of dead fish were washing up on the guest beach.”

“I could see where that would tend to dampen the holidaymakers' spirits,” Giordino grinned.

“Indeed,” Biazon replied sternly. “We began monitoring the shoreline and have witnessed the fish kill growing at an alarming rate. Dead marine life is washing ashore along a ten-kilometer stretch of beach now, and growing day by day. The resort owners are all up in arms, and we, of course, are concerned about potential damage to the coral reef.”

“Have you been able to diagnose what is killing the fish?” Stenseth asked.

“Not yet. Toxic poisoning is all we can infer. We have sent samples to our departmental lab in Cebu for analysis but are still awaiting the results.” The look on Biazon's face revealed his dissatisfaction with the snail-paced response from the agency lab.

“Any speculation as to the source?” Pitt asked.

Biazon shook his head. “We initially suspected industrial pollutants, which, regrettably, are an all too common source of environmental damage in my country. But my field team and I have scoured the impacted coastal region and failed to locate any heavy industrial businesses operating in the area. We also examined the coastline for obvious spillways or illegal dump sites but came up empty. It is my belief that the source of the kill originates at sea.”

“Perhaps a red tide?” Giordino said.

“We do experience toxic phytoplankton outbreaks in the Philippines,” Biazon said, “though they are typically seen during the warmer late summer months.”

“It might also be some covert offshore industrial dumping,” Pitt replied. “Where exactly is the impacted area, Dr. Biazon?”

Biazon glanced at the map, which showed Mindanao and the southern Philippine island groupings. “Off the province of Bohol,” he said, pointing to a large round island north of Mindanao. “Panglao is a small resort island located here, adjacent to the southwest coast. It's about fifty kilometers from our present position.”

“I can have us there in under two hours,” Stenseth said, eyeing the distance.

Pitt nodded toward the map. “We've got a ship full of scientists who can help find the answers. Bill, lay a course in to Panglao Island and we'll take a look.”

“Thank you,” a visibly relieved Biazon said.

“Doctor, perhaps you'd like a tour of the ship while we get under way?” Pitt offered.

“I'd like that very much.”

“Al, you care to join us?”

Giordino looked at his watch pensively. “No, thanks. Two hours will be just enough time for me to finish my project,” he replied, easing himself back down on the bench seat and drifting rapidly back to sleep.

*  *  *

T
HE
M
ARIANA
E
XPLORER
cruised easily through a flat sea and arrived at Panglao Island in just over ninety minutes. Pitt studied an electronic navigational map of the area that was displayed on a color monitor as Biazon denoted a rectangular area where the fish kill was occurring.

“Bill, the current runs east to west through here, which would suggest that the hot zone is located at the eastern end of Dr. Biazon's box. Why don't we start to the west and work our way east into the current, taking water samples at quarter-mile increments.”

Stenseth nodded. “I'll run a zigzag course, to see if we can gauge how far from shore the toxin is concentrated.”

“And let's deploy the side-scan sonar. Might as well see if there's any obvious man-made objects involved.”

Dr. Biazon watched with interest as a towed sonar fish was deployed off the stern, then the
Mariana Explorer
began following a dot-to-dot path laid out on the navigation screen. At periodic intervals, a team of marine biologists collected seawater samples from varying depths. As the ship moved to the next position, the collected samples were sent down to the shipboard laboratory for immediate analysis.

On the bridge, Giordino tracked the signals from the side-scan sonar. The electronic image of the shallow seafloor revealed an interweaving mix of flat sand bottom and craggy coral mounts as the ship sailed over the fringes of a coral reef. In a short time, his trained eyes had already discerned a ship's anchor and an outboard motor lying beneath the well-traveled waters. As the monitor revealed each object, Giordino reached over and punched a
MARK
button on the console, which flagged the location for later assessment.

Pitt and Biazon stood nearby, admiring the tropical beaches of Panglao Island less than a half mile away. Pitt glanced down at the water alongside the ship, where he spotted a sea turtle and scores of dead fish floating belly-up.

“We've entered the toxic zone,” Pitt said. “We should know the results shortly.”

As the research vessel plowed west, the concentration of dead fish in the water increased, then gradually fell away until the blue sea around them grew empty again.

“We're a half mile beyond Dr. Biazon's grid,” Stenseth reported. “Judging by the water, it looks like we're well clear of the toxic zone.”

“Agreed,” Pitt replied. “Let's stand by here until we see what kind of results the lab has found.”

As the ship ground to a halt and the sonar towfish was retrieved, Pitt led Biazon down a level into a teak-paneled conference room, followed by Giordino and Stenseth. Biazon studied the portraits of several famous underwater explorers which lined one wall, recognizing the images of William Beebe, Sylvia Earle, and Don Walsh. As they were seated, a pair of marine biologists clad in the requisite white lab coats entered the conference room. A short, attractive female, her brunet hair tied back in a ponytail, walked to a suspended viewing screen at the front of the room, while her male assistant began typing commands into the computer-driven projection system.

“We have completed an assessment of forty-four discrete water samples collected, which were analyzed using molecular separation of existing toxic molecules,” she said in a clear voice. As she spoke, an image appeared on the screen behind her, similar to the navigation screen Biazon had noticed the ship tracking to earlier. A zigzag line punctuated by forty-four large dots ran parallel to an outline of the Panglao Island shoreline. Each dot was color-coded, though Biazon noted that most of them glowed green.

“The samples were measured for toxic content in parts per billion, with positive results occurring in fifteen of the samples,” the biologist stated, pointing to a row of yellow dots. “As you can see from the chart, the concentration increases as the samples moved east, with the highest reading registered here,” she said, tracing past a few orange-colored dots to a lone red dot near the top of the map.

“So the source is from an isolated location,” Pitt said.

“The samples tested negative beyond the red point, indicating that it is likely of a concentrated origin spreading east with the current.”

“That would seem to dispel the red tide theory. Al, do the results mesh with anything we picked up on the sonar?”

Giordino walked over to the console and leaned over the operator's shoulder, typing in a quick series of commands. A dozen
X
s suddenly appeared on the projection screen, overlaid at random points along the zigzag tracking line. Each
X
was lettered, beginning with
A
at the bottom, proceeding to
L
near the top.

“Al's ‘Dirty Dozen' hit list,” he smiled, retaking his seat. “We ran over twelve objects that appeared man-made. Mostly chunks of pipe, rusty anchors, and the like. Three items appeared that could be suspected culprits,” he said, eyeing a sheet of handwritten notes. “Mark
C
was a trio of fifty-five-gallon drums lying in the sand.”

Every eye in the room jumped to the
X
marked
C
on the overhead. The water samples on either side of the mark were all illuminated with green dots, which signified a negative test result.

“No toxins registered in the vicinity,” Pitt said. “Next.”

“Mark
F
looks to be a wooden sailboat, perhaps a local fishing boat. She's sitting upright on the bottom with her mast still standing.”

This
X
was located adjacent to the first yellow dot. Pitt commented that it was still down current of the toxic readings.

“Strike two. But you're getting warmer.”

“My last mark is a little odd, as the image was just at the range of the sonar,” Giordino said, pausing with uncertainty.

“Well, what did it look like?” Stenseth asked.

“A ship's propeller. Looked like it was protruding from the reef. I couldn't make out any sign of the ship that went with it, though. Might just be a lone propeller that got bashed off against the reef. I tagged it at mark
K
.”

Every voice in the room fell silent as their eyes found the
X
marked
K
on the overhead screen. It was positioned right above the red dot.

“It would appear there's something more to it than just a propeller,” Pitt said finally. “Leaking fuel from a submerged ship, or perhaps its cargo?”

“We did not detect abnormally high readings of petroleum compounds in the water samples,” the NUMA biologist stated.