Flood Tide - Cussler Clive - Страница 62
- Предыдущая
- 62/131
- Следующая
Stewart looked through a doorway at Gunn, who was sitting in front of a computer monitor that was mounted beneath a large video screen. “Ready when you are, Rudi.”
“Drop her in,” said Gunn with the wave of a hand.
The winch attached to the cradle hummed and the AUV slowly settled into the perpetual gloom of the river. The diver uncoupled the cradle, swam to a ladder and climbed onto the work platform.
Stewart entered the small compartment that was rilled from deck to roof with electronic equipment. He sat down next to Gunn, who was operating the AUV from a computer console while staring into the video monitor. All that was revealed was a long gray wall of steel casing that trailed off into the gloom. “Frankly, this seems like much ado about nothing.”
“You'll get no argument from me,” said Gunn. “The order to investigate Sungari from under the surface came direct from the White House.”
“Do they really think Qin Shang would conduct his smuggling operations through underwater passageways that connect to the hulls of his ships?”
“Some hotshot in Washington must think so. That's why we're here.”
“Like me to send for some coffee from the galley?” asked Stewart.
“I could use a cup,” said Gunn without turning from the monitor.
The cook's galley assistant soon brought a tray of cups along with a filled coffeepot. Three hours later the cups and pot were as empty as the inspection project. Nothing showed on the monitor except a seemingly unending wall of steel casings that were driven deep into the silt to act as a barrier for the landfill that in turn acted as a foundation for the dock and terminal buildings. Finally, just before noon, Gunn turned to Stewart.
“So much for the west side of the port,” Gunn said wearily. He rubbed his eyes to relieve the strain. “It gets awfully tedious staring at gray, shapeless casing for hours on end.”
“See any hint of a door leading to a passage?”
“No so much as a crack or hinge.”
“We can move the AUV across the river channel and, with luck, finish up the east side before dark,” said Stewart.
“The sooner we wrap this up, the better.” Gunn typed a command on the keyboard that sent the AUV on a course toward the opposite side of the port. Then he leaned back and relaxed in his chair.
“Sure you don't want to knock off for a sandwich?” asked Stewart.
Gunn shook his head. “I'll see it through and fill my empty stomach at dinner.”
It took only ten minutes for the AUV to cross under the river to the east side of the port. Gunn then programmed the AUV's controls to start the run at the end of the casing wall, working north to south. The AUV had only covered two hundred yards when the phone beside him buzzed. “Can you take that?” he asked Stewart.
The Marine Denizen's skipper picked up the receiver and then handed it to Gunn. “It's Dirk Pitt.”
“Pitt.” Gunn turned from the monitor, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He took the phone and spoke into the mouthpiece, “Dirk?”
“Hello, Rudi,” came Pitt's familiar voice. “I'm calling from an airplane somewhere over the Nevada desert.”
“How did your underwater search of the United States go?”
“Got a little hairy there for a while, but all Al and I found was a smooth hull and keel with no openings.”
“If we don't find anything on this end in the next few hours, we'll join you.”
“Are you using a submersible?” asked Pitt.
“Not necessary,” replied Gunn. “An AUV is doing the job just fine.”
“Keep a tight leash on it, or Qin Shang's underwater security people will steal it before your eyes. They're sneaky devils.”
Gunn hesitated before he replied, wondering what Pitt meant. He was about to ask when Stewart came back. “They're serving lunch, Rudi. I'll talk to you after we reach Washington. Good luck, and give my best to Frank Stewart.” Then the connection went dead.
“How is Dirk?” inquired Stewart. “I haven't seen him since we worked together on the Lady Flamborough cruise-ship search down off Tierra del Fuego a few years ago.”
“Testy as ever. He gave me a strange warning.”
“Warning?”
“He said Qin Shang's underwater security people might steal the AUV,” Gunn answered, obviously confused.
“What underwater security?” said Stewart sarcastically.
Gunn didn't reply. His eyes suddenly widened and he pointed at the video monitor. “My God, look!”
Stewart's eyes followed Gunn's outstretched finger and stiffened.
A face wearing a diver mask filled the screen of the monitor They stared in amazement as the diver pulled off the mask and revealed very Chinese-featured eyes, nose and mouth. Then he flashed a wide gnn and waved as a child waves bye-bye.
Then the image went dark and was replaced with jagged gray and white streaks. Gunn frantically commanded the AUV to return to the Marine Denizen, but there was no response. The AUV had disappeared as if it had never been launched.
PlTT KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE INSTANT THE NUMA driver stopped the car. A tiny indescribable alarm tingled inside his brain and traveled to the nape of his neck. Something was not as it should have been.
A life-threatening situation was the last thing on his mind on the ride from Andrews Air Force Base, where the NUMA jet had landed, to his home on a far corner of Washington's National Airport. Darkness had closed over the city, but he ignored the ocean of lights illuminating the buildings. He tried to relax and let his mind drift, but it kept returning to Orion Lake. He thought it odd that the story had not broken in the news media.
From the outside, the former aircraft-maintenance hangar that was built in 1937, the year Amelia Earhart disappeared, appeared forlorn and deserted. Weeds grew right up to its rusting, corrugated-metal walls, whose paint had long since vanished after decades of onslaught by the extremes of Washington's weather patterns. Though it had been condemned as an eyesore and scheduled to be demolished, Pitt had visualized the hangar's potential. Stepping in at the last minute, he thwarted FAA bureaucrats by winning a battle to have it placed on the national register of historic landmarks. Preventing its destruction, he purchased the building and surrounding acre of property and went to work on the interior, remodeling it into a combination living quarters and storage facility for his collection of classic automobiles and aircraft.
Pitt's grandfather had acquired a small fortune in developing Southern California real estate. On his death, he left his grandson a considerable inheritance. After paying the estate taxes, Pitt had chosen to invest in classic cars and aircraft rather than stocks and bonds. In twenty years, he had built up a collection that was highly unique.
Rather than bathe the hangar in a battery of floodlights, Pitt preferred that it appear desolate and empty. One small light atop an electrical pole that gave off a dim yellow glow was all that illuminated the unpaved road that ended at the hangar. He turned and stared through the car's window and studied the top of the pole. A red light that should have beamed from a concealed security camera was dark.
It was an indication as conspicuous to him as a blinking stop sign that something was drastically wrong.
Pitt's security system was designed and installed by a friend with an intelligence agency who was at the top of his trade. No one but a skilled professional could have come within a country mile of breaking the code and compromising it. He gazed around the barren landscape and detected the shadow of a van faintly visible fifty yards away under the reflected light from the city across the Potomac. Pitt didn't require the services of a psychic to know that someone or some group had gained entry into the hangar and was waiting to throw a welcome inside.
“What's your name?” Pitt asked the driver.
- Предыдущая
- 62/131
- Следующая
