Deep Six (5 page)

“If the spill is indeed this nerve agent, once it’s found, what is the process for eliminating it?”

Sandecker shrugged. “Unfortunately, the present state of the art in containment and cleanup technology and the physical-chemical characteristics of Nerve Agent S are such that once it enters the water very little
can
be done to ameliorate the penetration. Our only hope is to cut off the source before it releases enough poison to turn the ocean into a cesspool devoid of all life.”

“Any lead on where it originates?” asked the President.

“In all probability a ship sunk between Kodiak Island and the Alaskan mainland,” replied Sandecker. “Our next step is to backtrace the currents and draw up a search grid.”

The President leaned over the coffee table and studied the red circle on the chart for a few moments. Then he gave Sandecker an appraising stare. “As director of NUMA, Admiral, you’ll have the dirty job of neutralizing this thing. You have my authority to tap any agency or department of the government with the necessary expertise—the National Science Board, the Army and Coast Guard, the EPA, whoever.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Exactly how potent is Nerve Agent S in seawater?”

Sandecker looked tired, his face drawn. “One teaspoon will kill every living organism in four million gallons of seawater.”

“Then we better
find
it,” said the President, a touch of desperation in his voice. “And damned quick!”

3

DEEP BENEATH
the murky waters of the James River, off the shoreline of Newport News, Virginia, a pair of divers struggled against the current as they burrowed their way through the muck packed against the rotting hull of the shipwreck.

There was no sense of direction in the black dimensionless liquid. Visibility was measured in inches as they grimly clutched the pipe of an airlift that sucked up the thick ooze and spit it onto a barge seventy feet above in the sunlight. They labored almost by Braille, their only illumination coming from the feeble glimmer of underwater lights mounted on the edge of the crater they’d slowly excavated over the past several days. All they could see clearly were particles suspended in the water that drifted past their face masks like windswept rain.

It was hard for them to believe there was a world above, sky and clouds and trees bending in a summer breeze. In the nightmare of swirling mud and perpetual darkness it hardly seemed possible that five hundred yards away people and cars moved on the sidewalks and streets of the small city.

There are some people who say you can’t sweat underwater, but you
can.
The divers could feel the sweat forcing its way through the pores of their skin against the protective constriction of their dry suits. They were beginning to experience the creeping grasp of weariness, yet they had only been on the bottom for eight minutes.

Inch by inch they worked their way into a gaping hole on the starboard bow of the hulk. The planking that framed the cavernlike opening was shattered and twisted as though a giant fist had rammed into the ship. They began to uncover artifacts: a shoe, the hinge from an old chest, brass calipers, tools, even a piece of cloth. It was an eerie sensation to touch man-made objects that no one had seen in 127 years.

One of the men paused to check their air gauges. He calculated they could work another ten minutes and still have a safe supply of breathable air to reach the surface.

They turned off the valve on the airlift, stopping the suction, while they waited for the river current to carry away the cloud of disturbed silt. Except for the exhaust of their breathing regulators, it became very still. A little more of the wreck became visible. The deck timbers were crushed and broken inward. Coils of rope trailed into the murk like mud-encrusted snakes. The interior of the hull seemed bleak and forbidding. They could almost sense the restless ghosts of the men who had gone down with the ship.

Suddenly they heard a strange humming—not the sound made by the outboard motor of a small boat, but heavier, like the distant drone of an aircraft engine. There was no way of telling its direction. They listened for a few moments as the sound grew louder, magnified by the density of the water. It was a surface sound and did not concern them, so they reactivated the airlift and turned back to their work.

No more than a minute later the end of the suction pipe struck something hard. Quickly they closed off the air valve again and excitedly brushed away the mud with their hands. Soon they realized they were touching, not wood, but an object that was harder, much harder, and covered with rust.

To the support crew on the barge over the wreck site time seemed to have reversed itself. They stood spellbound as an ancient PBY Catalina flying boat made a sweeping bank from the west, lined up on the river and kissed the water with the ungainly finesse of an inebriated goose. The sun glinted on the aquamarine paint covering the aluminum hull, and the letters NUMA grew larger as the lumbering seaplane taxied toward the barge. The engines shut down; the co-pilot emerged from a side hatch and threw a mooring line to one of the men on the barge.

Then a woman appeared and jumped lightly onto the battered wooden deck. She was slim, her elegant body covered by a narrow-falling tan overshirt, worn long and loose, held low on the hip by a thin sash, over tapering pants in green cotton. She wore moccasin-style boater shoes on her feet. In her mid-forties, she was about five foot seven; her hair was the color of aspen gold and her skin a copper tan. Her face was handsome, with high cheekbones, the face of a woman who fits no mold but her own.

She picked her way around a maze of cables and salvage equipment and stopped when she found herself surrounded by a gallery of male stares registering speculation mixed with undisguised fascination. She raised her sunglasses and stared back through plum-brown eyes.

“Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?” she demanded without preamble.

A rugged individual, shorter than she was, but with shoulders twice the width of his waist stepped forward and pointed into the river.

“You’ll find him down there.”

She turned and her eyes followed the protruding finger. A large orange buoy swayed in the rippling current, its cable angling into the dirty green depths. About thirty feet beyond, she could see the diver’s bubbles boil to the surface.

“How soon before he comes up?”

“Another five minutes.”

“I see,” she said, pondering a moment. Then she asked, “Is Albert Giordino with him?”

“He’s standing here talking to you.”

Clad only in shabby sneakers, cutoff jeans and torn T-shirt, Giordino’s tacky outfit was matched by his black, curly windblown hair and a two-week beard. He definitely did not fit her picture of NUMA’s deputy director of special projects.

She seemed more amused than taken aback. “My name is Julie Mendoza, Environmental Protection Agency. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the two of you, but perhaps I should wait until Mr. Pitt surfaces.”

Giordino shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He broke into a friendly smile. “We don’t stock much in the way of creature comforts but we do have cold beer.”

“Love one, thank you.”

Giordino pulled a can of Coors from an ice bucket and handed it to her. “What’s an EPA man—ah— woman doing flying around in a NUMA plane?”

“A suggestion of Admiral Sandecker.”

Mendoza didn’t offer more, so Giordino didn’t press.

“What project is this?” Mendoza asked.

“The
Cumberland.”

“A Civil War ship, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, historically very significant. She was a Union frigate sunk in 1862 by the Confederate ironclad
Merrimack
—or the
Virginia,
as she was known to the South.”

“As I recall, she went down before the
Merrimack
fought the
Monitor,
making her the first ship ever destroyed by one that was armored.”

“You know your history,” said Giordino, properly impressed.

“And NUMA is going to raise her?”

Giordino shook his head. “Too costly. We’re only after the ram.”

“Ram?”

“A hell of a battle,” Giordino explained. “The crew of the
Cumberland
fought until the water came in their gun barrels, even though their cannon shot bounced off the Confederate’s casemate like golf balls off a Brink’s truck. In the end the
Merrimack
rammed the
Cumberland,
sending her to the bottom, flag still flying. But as the
Merrimack
backed away, her wedge-shaped ram caught inside the frigate and broke off. We’re looking for that ram.”

“What possible value can an old hunk of iron have?”

“Maybe it doesn’t put dollar signs in the eyes of people like treasure from a Spanish galleon, but historically it’s priceless, a piece of America’s naval heritage.”

Mendoza was about to ask another question, but her attention was diverted by two black rubber-helmeted heads that broke water beside the barge. The divers swam over, climbed a rusty ladder and shrugged off their heavy gear. Water streamed from their dry suits, gleaming in the sunlight.

The taller of the two pulled off his hood and ran his hands through a thick mane of ebony hair. His face was darkly tanned and the eyes were the most vivid green Mendoza had ever seen. He had the look of a man who smiled easily and often, who challenged life and accepted the wins and losses with equal indifference. When he stood at his full height he was three inches over six feet, and the lean, hard body under the dry suit strained at the seams. Mendoza knew without asking that this was Dirk Pitt.

He waved at the barge crew’s approach. “We found it,” he said with a wide grin.

Giordino slapped him on the back delightedly. “Nice going, pal.”

Everyone began asking the divers a barrage of questions, which they answered between swallows of beer. Finally Giordino remembered Mendoza and motioned her forward.

“This is Julie Mendoza of the EPA. She wants to have a chat with us.”

Dirk Pitt extended his hand, giving her an appraising stare. “Julie.”

“Mr. Pitt.”

“If you’ll give me a minute to unsuit and dry off—”

“I’m afraid we’re running late,” she interrupted. “We can talk in the air. Admiral Sandecker thought the plane would be faster than a helicopter.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I can’t take the time to explain. We have to leave immediately. All I can say is that you’ve been ordered to a new project.”

There was a huskiness in her voice that intrigued Pitt—not masculine exactly, but a voice that would be at home in a Harold Robbins novel. “Why the mad rush?” he asked.

“Not here or now,” she said, glancing around at the salvage crew tuned in to the conversation.

He turned to Giordino. “What do you think, Al?”

Giordino faked a bemused look. “Hard to say. The lady looks pretty determined. On the other hand, I’ve found a home here on the barge. I kind of hate to leave.”

Mendoza flushed in anger, realizing the men were toying with her. “Please, minutes count.”

“Mind telling us where we’re going?”

“Langley Air Force Base, where a military jet is waiting to take us to Kodiak, Alaska.”

She might as well have told them they were going to the moon. Pitt looked into her eyes, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. All he could read was her dead seriousness.

“I think, to be on the safe side, I’d better contact the admiral and confirm.”

“You can do that on the way to Langley,” she said, her tone unyielding. “I’ve seen to your personal affairs. Your clothes and whatever else you might need for a two-week operation have already been packed and loaded on board.” She paused and stared him squarely in the eye. “So much for small talk, Mr. Pitt. While we stand here, people are dying. You couldn’t know that. But take my word for it. If you’re half the man you’re reported to be, you’ll stop screwing around and get on the plane—now!”

“You really go for the jugular, don’t you, lady?”

“If I have to.”

There was an icy silence. Pitt took a deep breath, then blew it out. He faced Giordino.

“I hear Alaska is beautiful this time of year.”

Giordino managed a faraway look. “Some great saloons in Skagway we should check out.”

Pitt gestured to the other diver, who was peeling off his dry suit. “She’s all yours, Charlie. Go ahead and bring up the
Merrimack’s
ram and get it over to the conservation lab.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Pitt nodded, and then along with Giordino walked toward the Catalina, talking between themselves as if Julie Mendoza no longer existed.

“I hope she packed my fishing gear,” said Giordino with a straight voice. “The salmon should be running.”

“I’ve a mind to ride a caribou,” Pitt carried on. “Heard tell they can outrun a dog sled.”

As Mendoza followed them, the words of Admiral Sandecker came back to haunt her: “I don’t envy you riding herd on those two devils, Pitt in particular. He could con a great white shark into becoming a vegetarian. So keep a sharp eye and your legs crossed.”