off a rugged face that was more intriguing than classically handsome.
But it was the eyes that radiated an aura about the man. They were a
deep shade of iridescent green and revealed a sense of intelligence,
adventure, and integrity all rolled into one. They were the eyes of a
man who could be trusted. And they were the same green eyes, Sarah
recalled, that she had seen before blacking out at the camp.
"Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty." The words came from a warm, deep
voice.
"You ... you're the man at the camp," Sarah stammered.
"Yes. My apologies for not properly introducing myself on the island,
Sarah. My name is Dirk Pitt." He neglected to add "Junior," although
he shared the same name as his father.
"You know who I am?" she asked, still confused.
"Well, not intimately," Dirk smiled non threateningly "but a brainy
scientist named Irv told me a little about you and your project on
Yu-naska. Irv seemed to think he poisoned everyone with his chili."
"Irv and Sandy! Are they all right?"
"Yes. They took a little nap, like you, but are fine now. They're
resting just down the hall," Dirk said, motioning with his thumb toward
the corridor. He could see the look of bewilderment in Sarah's eyes
and touched her shoulder with his hand in a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry, you're in good hands. You're aboard the National
Underwater and Marine Agency research ship Deep Endeavor. We were
returning from an underwater survey of the Aleutian Basin when we
picked up a distress call from the Coast Guard weather station on
Yu-naska. I flew to the station in a helicopter we have on board and
happened to see your camp while flying back to the ship. I gave you
and
your friends an all-expense-paid aerial tour of Yunaska, but you slept
through the whole thing," Dirk added with mock disappointment.
"I'm sorry," Sarah murmured, feeling somewhat bashful. "I guess I owe
you a big thanks, Mr. Pitt."
"Please, call me "Dirk." "
"Okay, Dirk," Sarah replied with a smile, feeling an odd flutter as she
spoke his name. "How are the Coast Guard people?"
Dirk's face went dark and a look of sorrow crossed his brow. "I'm
afraid we didn't make it in time. We found two men and a dog at the
station. They were all dead."
A shiver went up Sarah's spine. Two men dead, and she and her
companions nearly as well. None of it made any sense.
"What on earth happened?" Sarah asked in shock.
"We don't know for sure. Our ship's doctor is running some tests, but,
as you can imagine, his resources are somewhat limited. It appears to
have been some sort of airborne fume or toxin. All we know for sure is
that the Coast Guard station thought there was something in the air. We
flew in with gas masks and were not impacted. We even took some white
mice from our shipboard lab with us. They all survived fine, without
any apparent symptoms. Whatever it was, it must have dissipated by the
time we landed at the Coast Guard station. You and your team were
apparently far enough away from the source to be impacted less
severely. You probably didn't receive a full dose of whatever it
was."
Sarah's eyes dropped and she fell quiet. The horror and pain of the
whole ordeal came back to her with a showering of fatigue. She wanted
to sleep it all off and hope it was just a bad dream.
"Sarah, I'll have the doctor check on you, then let you sleep some
more. Perhaps later I can buy you a plate of king crab legs for
dinner?" Dirk asked with a smile.
Sarah smiled briefly in return. "I'd like that," she murmured, then
fell fast asleep.
Kermit Burch stood at the helm reading a fax communique when Dirk
stepped into the bridge from the starboard wing door. The seasoned
captain of the Deep Endeavor shook his head slightly as he read the
document, then turned to Dirk with a slightly annoyed look on his
face.
"We've notified the Coast Guard and the Department of Homeland
Security, but nobody intends to do anything until the local authorities
have filed their report. The village public safety officer from Atka
is the area law enforcement official and he can't get to the island
until morning," Burch snorted. "Two men dead and they treat it as an
accident."
"We don't have much to go on," Dirk replied. "I spoke with Carl Nash,
our saltwater environmental analyst, who is well versed on terrestrial
pollutants. According to Nash, there are naturally occurring
environmental emissions, such as sulfuric volcanic releases, which
could have killed the men. High concentrations of industrial
pollutants are another potential culprit, although I'm not aware of any
neighborhood chemical plants in the Aleutians."
"The public safety officer told me it sounds to him like a classic case
of carbon monoxide poisoning from the station house generator. Of
course, that doesn't explain our friends from the CDC succumbing to
similar effects four miles away."
"Nor does it explain the dog I found dead outside of the station
house," Dirk added.
"Well, perhaps the CDC crew can shed some light on the matter. How are
our three guests doing, by the way?"
"A little groggy still. They don't remember much, other than that it
struck pretty rapidly."
"The sooner we get them to a proper medical facility, the sooner
I'll rest easier. The nearest airfield is Unalaska, which we can make
in under fourteen hours. I'll radio ahead for a medical flight to
transfer them to Anchorage."
"Captain, I'd like to take the helicopter back out and reconnoiter the
island. We didn't have much of a chance to look around on the last
flight. Maybe there's something we missed. Any objections?"
"No ... just so long as you take that Texas joker with you," Burch
replied with a pained grin.
As Dirk ran through a preflight checklist from the pilot seat of the
NUMA Sikorsky S-76C+ offshore helicopter, a sandy-haired man with a
bushy mustache ambled across the flight platform. With scuffed cowboy
boots, chiseled arms, and a ubiquitous scowl that hid a mordant sense
of humor, Jack Dahlgren looked like a bull rider who got lost on the
way to the rodeo. A notorious practical joker, Dahlgren had already
worked his way under Burch's skin by spiking the galley's coffee urn
with a cheap bottle of rum on their first night at sea. An engineering
whiz who grew up in west Texas, Dahlgren knew his way around horses and
guns, as well as every type of mechanical equipment that operated above
or below the sea.
"Is this the scenic island tour my travel agent recommended?" he asked
Dirk, sticking his head through a sliding cockpit window.
"Step right up, sonny boy, you won't be disappointed. All the water,
rocks, and sea lions your eyes can absorb."
"Sounds swell. I'll give you an extra quarter if you can find me a bar
with a short-skirted waitress."
"I'll see what I can do," Dirk grinned as Dahlgren climbed into the
copilot's seat.
The two men had become fast friends years before, while studying ocean
engineering at Florida Atlantic University. Avid divers, they
regularly cut classes together in order to spearfish the coral reefs
lying off Boca Raton, using their fresh-caught fish to woo local
sorority girls with barbecues on the beach. After graduating, Jack
completed his college ROTC commitment in the Navy while Dirk obtained a
master's degree from the New York Maritime College and trained at a
commercial dive school. The two men were reunited when Dirk joined his
father at NUMA as a special projects director and convinced his old
friend to accompany him at the prestigious research agency.
After years of diving together, there was almost an unspoken bond
between the two men. They knew they could depend on each other and
performed at their best when the chips were down. Dahlgren had seen
the look of determination in Dirk's eyes before and knew the dogged
persistence that came with it. The mysterious events on Yu-naska were
weighing on his friend, Dahlgren noticed, and he wasn't likely to let
it go.
The main rotor blade of the Sikorsky wound to a high pitch as Dirk
gently eased the helicopter up and off a small landing platform mounted
amidships of the Deep Endeavor. Climbing to one hundred feet, Dirk
held the helicopter stationary for a moment, admiring the bird's-eye
view of the NUMA research ship. The wide-beamed, turquoise-colored
survey ship had a stubby look to her 270-foot length. But the lack of
a svelte streamline made for a stable work platform, ideal for
operating the myriad of cranes and hoists strategically positioned
about the large, open stern deck. In the middle of the deck, a bright
yellow submersible sparkled like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight
as it rested on a large wooden cradle, while several technicians
tinkered with its thrusters and electronics. One of the technicians
stood and waved his cap toward the suspended helicopter. Dirk threw
the man a quick wave, then banked the chopper and headed northeast
toward the island of Yunaska, less than ten miles away.
"Back to Yunaska?" asked Dahlgren.
"The Coast Guard station we scouted this morning."
"Great," Dahlgren moaned. "We acting as a flying hearse?"
"No, just checking out the source of whatever killed the men and
dog."
"And are we looking for animal, vegetable, or mineral?" Dahlgren asked
through his headset, his teeth mashing a large wad of gum.
"All three," Dirk replied. "Carl Nash told me that a toxic cloud could
be created by anything from an active volcano to an algae bloom, not to
mention your garden-variety industrial pollutant."
"Just stop at the next walrus and I'll ask for directions to the
closest pesticide factory."
"That reminds me, where's Basil?" Dirk asked, his eyes glancing about
the cockpit.
"Right here, safe and sound," Dahlgren replied, grabbing a small cage
from beneath his seat and holding it up in front of his face. Inside,
a small white mouse peered back at Dahlgren, his tiny whiskers
twitching back and forth.
"Breathe deep, little friend, and don't go to sleep on us," Dahlgren
requested of the furry rodent. He then strung the cage from an
overhead lanyard, like a canary in a coal mine, so they could easily
see if the mouse succumbed to any toxins in the air.
The grassy island of Yunaska crested out of the slate green water ahead
of them, a sprinkling of light cirrus clouds dancing about the larger
of the island's two extinct volcanic peaks. Dirk gradually increased
the helicopter's altitude as they approached the craggy shoreline, then
banked left along the water's edge. Flying counterclockwise around the
island's perimeter, it took only a few minutes before they spotted the
yellow building of the Coast Guard station. Bringing the helicopter to
a hover, Dirk and Dahlgren carefully examined the ground surrounding
the station for any unusual signs. Dirk eyed the body of Max the husky
still lying outside the hut's door and it brought back to mind the look
of pain and horror on the dead men's faces inside when he and Dahlgren
first landed at the station earlier in the day. He carefully shelved
his emotions and shifted his mental motor to discovering the source of
the deadly toxic breeze.
Dirk nodded past the windscreen to the right. "The prevailing winds
come from the west, so the source would likely have come from farther
up the coast. Or possibly from offshore."
"Makes sense. The CDC team was camped to the east of here and they
obviously caught a less lethal dose of the mystery gas," Dahlgren
replied while peering at the ground through low-power binoculars.
helicopter edged forward and away from the yellow structure. For the
next hour the two men strained eyeballs searching the grassy island for
signs of a natural or man-made origin to the toxin. Dirk traced wide
semicircular arcs north and south across the island, expanding their
way west until they reached the western coast and returned to the
vicinity of the Coast Guard station.
"Nothing but grass and rocks," Dahlgren grumbled. "The seals can keep
it, as far as I'm concerned."
"Speaking of which, take a look down there," Dirk replied, pointing to
a small gravel beach ahead of them.
A half-dozen brown sea lions lay stretched out on the ground, seemingly
enjoying the rays of the late afternoon sun. Dahlgren looked closer
his forehead suddenly wrinkling in puzzlement.
"Geez, they're not moving. They've all bought it, too."
"This thing must not have come from Yunaska but from the sea, or the
next island over."
"Amukta is the next rock pile to the west," Dahlgren replied, running
his finger across a chart of the region.
Dirk could clearly see the dirty gray outline of the island on the
horizon. "Looks to be about twenty miles from here."
Eyeing the helicopter's fuel gauge, he continued, "I think we've got
time for a quick gander before our fuel runs low. Okay if you miss
your pedicure treatment in the ship's salon?"
"Sure I'll just reschedule it with my body wrap tomorrow," Dahlgren
replied.
"I'll let Burch know where we're headed," Dirk said, dialing up the
ship's radio frequency.
"Tell him to hold supper in the galley," Dahlgren added while rubbing
his stomach. "I'm working up an appetite taking in all this
scenery."
As Dirk radioed the survey ship, he guided the Sikorsky toward the
island of Amukta, skimming low over the open water. The powerful
helicopter, designed for offshore oil transport, flew straight as a
rail under Dirk's firm hand. After cruising steadily for ten minutes,
Dahlgren quietly lifted an arm and pointed out the cockpit window to an
object on the horizon. It was a white speck, growing larger by the
second, until it slowly revealed itself as a large boat complete with
trailing wake. Without a word, Dirk applied gentle pressur
e to his
left pedal control until the helicopter eased about on the same line as
the boat. Approaching rapidly, they could see it was a steel-hulled
fishing trawler, running to the southwest at full bore.
"Now, there's a tub calling out for a little spit and polish," Pitt
remarked as he eased off the throttle to match speeds with the boat.
Though not appearing particularly old, the fishing vessel had obvious
signs of hard use over the years. Scrapes, dents, and grease marks
abounded both on the hull and throughout the open deck. Its original
coating of white paint was worn thin in the spots where rust had not
yet declared victory. By outward appearance, she looked as tired as
the frayed bald tires hanging over her sides like a string of donuts.
Yet like many disheveled-appearing work boats her twin diesel engines
were newly rebuilt and pushed the hulk hard through the waves with a
barely a wisp of black smoke from the funnel.
Dirk studied the boat carefully, noting with interest that no flags
flew from the mast, which might identify nationality. Both the bow
sides and the stern were absent a ship name or home port. As he
perused the stern deck, two Asian men in blue jumpsuits stepped into
view and peered at the helicopter with looks of angst.
"Don't look overly friendly now, do they?" Dahlgren remarked before
waving and grinning toward the boat. The two jumpsuits simply scowled
in return.