Trojan Odyssey (25 page)

“And if
they
chase after us again?” prompted Dodge.

Pitt grinned broadly. “We turn and run, now that we've gotten so good at it.”

D
AWN BROKE OVER
an empty sea. The radar disclosed no vessels within thirty miles, and except for the lights of a helicopter that passed over an hour earlier, the search for the source of the brown crud went uninterrupted. Just to be on the safe side, they had run without lights the entire night.

Turning south soon after their confrontation with the bogus ghost ship, they were now sailing in Bahia Punta Gorda, where the trail of increasing toxicity in the seawater had led them. So far they had been blessed with good weather, with just the slightest hint of a breeze and low winds.

The Nicaraguan coastline was only two miles distant. The lowlands were a faint line across the horizon, as if some giant hand had drawn it using a T square and a pen with black ink. Mists covered the shore and drifted against the foothills in the low mountains to the west.

“Most strange,” said Gunn, peering through binoculars.

Pitt looked up. “What?”

“According to the charts of the bay of Punta Gorda, the only habitation is a small fishing village called Barra del Rio Maiz.”

“So?”

Gunn handed the glasses to Pitt. “Take a look and tell me what you see.”

Pitt focused the lenses for his eyes and scanned the shoreline. “That's no isolated fishing village, it looks like a major deepwater container port. I count two containerships unloading at a huge dock with cranes, and another two ships anchored and waiting their turn.”

“There is also an extensive area devoted to warehouses.”

“It's a beehive of activity, all right.”

“What's your take on the situation?” asked Gunn.

“My only guess is equipment and supplies are being stored to build the proposed high-speed railroad between the seas.”

“They've been damned quiet about it,” said Gunn. “I've read no reports that the project was actually funded and under way.”

“Two of the ships are flying the Republic of China red flag,” said Pitt. “That answers the question on funding.”

The great bay of Punta Gorda that they were entering suddenly turned into a sea of ugly brown. Everyone's attention turned to the water. No one spoke. No one moved as the massive brown crud materialized out of the morning haze thick as a bowl of oatmeal.

They stood and watched silently as the bow plowed through water that looked as if it was suffering from a plague, its surface painted the burnt umber of a painter's palette. The effect was of skin invaded by leprosy.

Standing at the helm, chewing on an unlit cigar, Giordino slowed the engines while Dodge furiously recorded and analyzed the chemistry of the water.

During the long night, Pitt had become more familiar with Renee and Dodge. She had grown up in Florida and became a master diver at an early age. Falling in love with life underwater, she had achieved her master's degree in ocean biology. A few months before coming aboard
Poco Bonito,
she came off a divorce that left her with scars. Away from home during long projects at sea, Renee returned after a lengthy research program in the Solomon Islands to find the love of her life had moved out and was living with another woman. Men, she asserted, were no longer a priority.

Pitt launched a campaign to make her laugh at every chance he could think of something funny to say.

His wit fell on deaf ears when it came to Dodge. A taciturn man, somehow happily married for thirty years, he had five children and four grandchildren. He had worked for NUMA since its inception. With a Ph.D. in chemistry, he had specialized in water pollution, working in NUMA's laboratory. But with the death of his wife a year earlier, he had volunteered for fieldwork. He might have cracked a thin smile at Pitt's attempts at humor, but he never laughed.

Around them, the new sun revealed a sea surface thick with the notorious brown crud. It had the consistency of an oil slick, only much denser, and flattened the sea. No swells rolled through it, as Giordino held
Poco Bonito
at a reduced speed of ten knots.

After avoiding the explosion outside Bluefields and the narrow escape from the pirate yacht, the uneasy tension that had been building up in the ship all night seemed to become a mist so thick they could reach out and feel it. Pitt and Renee had pulled aboard several buckets of the crud and poured it into glass containers for future analysis in the NUMA labs in Washington. They also collected dead sea life they found floating in the contamination, for Renee to study.

And then, suddenly, Giordino shouted from the pilothouse, his hand motions animated by Italian breeding. “Off the port bow! Something is happening in the water!”

They all saw it then, a movement in the sea as though a giant whale was thrashing in its death throes. Everyone stood as still as a statue as Giordino turned the bow of the boat twelve degrees toward the turbulence.

Pitt stepped into the pilothouse and examined the readings on the depth finder. The bottom was coming up rapidly. It was almost as if they were crossing a steep slope rising from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The naked ugliness of the crud gave the sea the look of a bubbling mud pot.

“Unbelievable,” muttered Dodge, as if hypnotized. “According to the depth marked on the chart around our position, we should be recording six hundred feet.”

Pitt didn't say anything. He was standing on the bow with the binoculars pressed to his eyes. “It looks as if the sea is boiling,” he said to Giordino through the open window beside the helm. “Can't be from a volcanic source. There are no steam or heat waves.”

“The bottom is coming up at an incredible rate,” Dodge called out. “It's as though it was spewing out of a volcano but without molten lava.”

The shore had drawn closer, less than two miles distant. The water was becoming more violent, with waves slashing in every direction. The boat was rocked violently, as if shook by a huge vibrator. The brown crud had thickened until it looked like pure, unadulterated mud.

Giordino stepped to the door of the pilothouse and hailed Pitt. “The water temperature has taken a jump. It returned to a normal eighty-three degrees in the last mile.”

“How do you explain that?”

“No more than you can.”

Dodge was having trouble accepting any of it. The water temperature's sudden increase, the unmarked rise on the seabed, the incredible amount of brown crud rising from nowhere. It was just inconceivable.

Pitt wasn't buying it either. Everything they'd discovered went against the known laws of the sea. Volcanoes were known to rise from the depths, but not an upheaval of mud and silt. This should have been a liquid, live environment where fish of every variety existed. Here there were no living creatures. They might have swum or crawled across the bottom once. Now they were either dead and buried under a mountain of crud or had migrated to clear water. Nothing grew, nothing lived. It was a world of the dead, covered over with toxic muck that seemed to have materialized from nowhere.

Giordino was having a difficult time keeping the boat on an even keel. The waves were not high, no more than five feet, but unlike waves generated in one direction by the winds of a storm, these whipped and buffeted the boat from every point of the compass. Another two hundred yards and the water went crazy with uncontrolled violence.

“A mass of mad mud,” Renee spoke, as if gazing at a mirage. “Pretty soon it will become an island—”

“Sooner than you think,” Giordino yelled, hauling the throttles into reverse. “Hang on. The bottom has come up beneath us.” The boat yawed, but it was too late. The bow struck the rising muck, throwing everyone forward, and stuck fast. The bow wave died away and the propellers thrashed madly, chopping the mud into an ivory-brown froth as they tried to pull
Poco Bonito
off the mysterious rise. With the boat imprisoned in the mud, they felt like unproductive spectators.

“Cut the engines,” Pitt ordered Giordino. “High tide is in another hour. Wait and try then. In the meantime, we'll carry all the heavy material and supplies to the stern of the boat.”

“Do you really think that by moving a few hundred pounds, you can raise the bow enough to slip off the mud pile?” asked Renee doubtfully.

Pitt was already hauling a large coil of rope toward the transom. “Add another seven hundred pounds of bodies, and who knows? We just might get lucky.”

Though every man and one woman worked as though their lives depended on it, it took the better part of the next hour to stack luggage, food supplies, nonessential equipment and furniture as far back on the stern deck as possible. The fishing nets and traps used to disguise the boat were thrown overboard, along with the bow anchors.

Pitt gazed at the hands on his Doxa watch. “High tide in thirteen minutes and then the moment of truth.”

“The moment has come sooner than you thought,” said Giordino. “We have a vessel approaching from the north on radar. And she's coming fast.”

Pitt snatched up the binoculars and peered into the distance. “Appears to be a yacht.”

Gunn shaded his eyes from the eastern sun and gazed out over the brown crud. “The same one that attacked us last night?”

“I didn't get a good look at her in the dark through the night glasses. But I think it's safe to say there is little doubt of it being the same vessel. Our friends have tracked us down.”

“No time like the present,” said Giordino, “to get a head start on the posse.”

Pitt herded everyone to the very edge of the
Poco Bonito
's transom. Giordino took the helm and looked astern. Making certain they all had a firm grip on the railing, Pitt nodded a signal for reverse full power. The mighty diesels reverberated as Giordino pushed the throttles as far as they could go. The boat slewed and fishtailed, but was stuck fast. The thickness of the brown crud acted as a glue, adhering to the keel of
Poco Bonito.
Even with the crew and a ton of solid substance crammed against the transom, the forward part of the boat had raised but two inches. Not enough to break loose.

Pitt hoped for a wave to lift the bow, but no waves came. The thick brown substance laid the sea flat as a newspaper. The engines strained and the propellers dug into the muck, but nothing happened. All eyes had turned to the yacht that was approaching at high speed directly toward them.

Now that he saw her clearly in the daylight, Pitt estimated her overall length at one hundred and fifty feet. Unlike the standard white, the mega-yacht was painted lavender, like he'd seen on the Odyssey pickup truck at the dock. A masterpiece of craftsmanship, she was the essence of oceangoing luxury. She carried a twenty-foot powerboat as a tender and a six-passenger helicopter.

She was near enough for him to make out her name in gold letters:
EPONA
. Below the name, painted across the bulkhead of the second deck, was the same Odyssey logo of a running horse. A flag flying from the communications antenna also flaunted the golden horse on a lavender background.

Pitt observed two crewmen feverishly preparing to lower the tender while several others took up positions on the long forward deck, weapons in hand. None made any attempt at taking cover. They were lulled by the belief that a fishing boat had no bite and took no precautions. The hair on the nape of Pitt's neck rose a fraction as he spotted a pair of the men loading a rocket launcher.

“She's coming straight for us,” muttered Dodge uneasily.

“They don't look like any pirates I ever read about,” Giordino shouted from inside the pilothouse over the roar of the engines. “They never captured ships from an elegant yacht. Ten will get you twenty, it was stolen.”

“Not stolen,” Pitt retorted. “It belongs to Odyssey.”

“Is it me, or are they everywhere?”

Pitt turned and called out, “Renee!”

She was sitting with her back against the transom. “What is it?”

“Go down in the galley, empty whatever bottles you can find, then fill them with fuel from the tank on the generator motor.”

“Why not fuel from the engines?” asked Dodge.

“Because gas ignites more easily than diesel fuel,” Pitt explained. “After the bottles are filled, insert a cloth and twist on the top.”

“Molotov cocktails?”

“Precisely.”

Renee no sooner disappeared below than the
Epona
swung in a wide arc toward them. Coming head-on, she was closing fast. From the new view, Pitt could see that she had the twin hulls of a catamaran. “If we don't get off this mud pile,” he said irritably, “we'll have a most exasperating complication.”

“Exasperating complication,” Giordino shot back. “Is that the best you can do?”

Then to everyone's stunned amazement, Giordino suddenly ran from the pilothouse, scrambled up the ladder to the roof, stood poised for a moment like an Olympic diver and leaped onto the stern deck between Pitt and Gunn.

Call it luck, call it foresight or fate. Giordino's weight and momentum striking the stern deck was the extra inducement it took to jar the boat loose. Sluggishly, inch by inch, the boat slowly slithered off the unyielding muck. Finally, the keel slipped free and the boat leaped astern as if yanked on a big spring.