Treasure of Khan (37 page)

D
IRK'S ARMS HAD BEGUN TO
feel like spaghetti. The airlift had to be constantly wrestled into place against the invisible push of the surrounding waters. Though Dahlgren had relieved him a few times, he had been toting the pressurized tube for over an hour. The work had been made more strenuous by the building currents of an outgoing tide, which pushed the surface water seaward at nearly two knots. The current was much lighter on the bottom, but manhandling the wavering airlift over the dredge site was like balancing a flagpole on the head of a pin.

Dirk glanced at his dive watch as he wrestled the airlift over a few inches. Only fifteen minutes to go till the end of the shift, then a break from the monotonous work. Progress was slower than he had hoped, but he had still uncovered a rough square about six feet across. The encrusted wood was thick but flat, consistent with the shape of a ship's rudder. Only the size was a little perplexing. Dahlgren's probe marks had encompassed an object nearly twenty feet long, an enormous dimension for a sailing ship rudder.

Following the ascent of his air bubbles as they rose to the surface, he gazed again at the undersides of the large black ship moored next to the barge. He and Dahlgren had heard the rumble of the ship's engines underwater as it drew near and they watched with curiosity as the dark shape brazenly drew alongside the barge. They had watched the positioning thrusters engaged and felt a slight assurance that the fool wasn't going to drop anchor on them. Another well-financed video documentary group, Dirk surmised. There would no doubt be an array of underwater photographers descending on them shortly. Hooray, he thought sarcastically.

He shook off the annoyance and refocused on driving the airlift into the fine sand. Pushing the lip toward a small mound, he noticed that no sand was being sucked up, then realized that the vibration and whooshing noise of the compressed air had ceased. Summer must have shut off the airlift, which meant she was signaling them back to the barge for some reason or the compressor just ran out of gas. He sat for a moment, deciding to wait a minute or two before surfacing to see if Summer restarted the motor.

A few yards away, Dahlgren was driving his probe into the sand. Out of the corner of his eye, Dirk noticed him suddenly rise off the bottom. Something about the movement didn't seem right and Dirk looked over to see that his instincts were right. Dahlgren had let go of the probe and had his hands wrapped around his faceplate and air line, while his legs hung loose beneath him. He was being yanked off the bottom, Dirk realized, like a puppet on a string.

He had no time to react, for an instant later the airlift was ripped from his own hands, sailing off through the water in the direction of Dahlgren. Dirk looked up just in time to see his own air line pull taut in the water and then jerk him up off the seafloor.

“What the…” he started to mouth, but the words fell away as he tried to draw a breath of air. He inhaled a slight puff and then there was nothing. The compressor supplying the air lines had been cut off, too. Like Dahlgren, he found himself grabbing hold of the air line to control his movements and not rip the connection from his dive helmet. Beside him, the airlift swung wildly in the water like a pendulum out of control. The big plastic pipe came barreling at him, slamming into his leg before bouncing off in another direction. Out of air, yanked like a rag doll, and pummeled by the airlift, Dirk faced enough sensory obstacles to drive most people to panic. From there, it would be just a short step to drowning.

But Dirk didn't panic. He had spent the better part of his life scuba diving. Technical failures underwater were nothing new to him. He had sucked a tank of air dry on shallow-water dives many times. The key to surviving an emergency, underwater or elsewhere, he told himself, was to remain calm and think logically.

Air was the first necessity. His natural inclination was to kick to the surface, but that wasn't necessary. While working on surface-supplied air, the divers all carried a small emergency bottle of air. Slightly larger than a thermos, the thirteen-cubic-foot bailout bottle, called a “pony tank,” provided about ten minutes of air. Dirk let go of the air line with one hand and reached under his left arm, where the bottle was attached to his buoyancy compensator. Twisting the valve on the top of the tank, he immediately drew in a breath of air through the regulator. After a couple of deep draws, he could feel his heart begin to slow its racing beat.

His thoughts ran to Dahlgren, who was on the shared line of surface air. Thirty feet ahead, he saw a purge of exhaust bubbles rise from Dahlgren's helmet and knew that he was breathing off his emergency air as well. The dangling airlift had ventured over toward Dahlgren and was gyrating in the water close behind him. The airlift pipe was being dragged by its flexible outlet hose secured to the barge, which created an elastic springing action like a rubber band. The hose would stretch under the drag of the water-filled tube, then snap back, whipping the tube forcefully through the water. Dirk saw that the tube was pulled taut in a precarious position behind Dahlgren and he waved to get his friend's attention. The Texan was busy pulling himself up the air line and didn't see the airlift or Dirk's warning. A second later, the outstretched tube burst forward, launching straight toward Dahlgren. To Dirk's horror, the tube shot up like an arrow and struck the back of Dahlgren's head just beneath his dive helmet. As the airlift fluttered off, Dahlgren's body went limp.

Dirk cursed to himself as he felt his heart race faster again. He noticed that the seafloor had dropped away beneath them and that they were being pulled more forcefully through the water. On the surface, an offshore breeze had joined forces with the island currents to push the stubby barge along at over four knots. Under the waves, Dirk wondered why in blazes the barge was drifting and where Summer was. Then he turned toward Dahlgren. There was no thought of surfacing yet. He had to reach Dahlgren and make sure he was still breathing.

With a frantic determination, Dirk began reeling himself up the air line to close in on Dahlgren. His tired arms ached in pain with each pull, made harder by the thirty-five-pound weight belt strapped around his midsection. He didn't dare jettison the belt yet, as he needed to stay at the same submerged depth as his friend.

Pulling himself up like an underwater mountaineer, he clawed his way to within ten feet of Dahlgren when his old nemesis reappeared. The dancing airlift came rushing toward him, swinging past just out of arm's reach. The big tube swung toward Dahlgren, flexed a moment, then reversed direction and bounded back. This time, Dirk stuck out an arm and caught hold of the tube as it swung by. The heavy mass of the water-filled tube nearly jerked him out of his fins as he straddled his legs around it and bounced through the water. Riding it like a bucking bronco, he carefully shimmied up to the top of the tube, where it was clasped to the thick rubber hose. Pulling out a small dive knife that was strapped to his leg, Dirk lunged at the hose with the blade and began sawing through it. The tube whipped violently beneath him as he muscled the knife through to sever the hose. The heavy plastic tube snapped away with the last cut and sank to the depths as Dirk slid off and gave it a farewell kick.

Free of the mad battering ram, Dirk turned his attention back to Dahlgren. Dirk's fight to rid himself of the airlift had caused him to lose his place on the air line and he found himself trailing Dahlgren by thirty feet again. His friend looked like a wet mop, towed through the water by the line from his neck. With his tired arms stinging, Dirk pulled himself up the line again, fighting foot by foot until he was even with Dahlgren. He coiled his own air line around his waist in a bowline knot, then kicked and swam his way over to his friend. Reaching over and grabbing Dahlgren's BC, Dirk pulled himself up and peered into his face mask.

Dahlgren was unconscious with his eyes closed. He was breathing lightly, though, as evidenced by a small stream of exhaust bubbles that floated out of his regulator every few seconds. Grabbing Dahlgren with one hand, Dirk reached down and unbuckled his own weight belt, then reached up to his buoyancy compensator and hit the button on the inflation hose. What little air was left in his emergency pony bottle surged into his vest, filling it half full before running out of compressed air. It was more than enough to propel them to the surface, with Dirk kicking his legs hard to accelerate the ascent.

No sooner did they break the surface then they were dragged forward, yanked under the water like a fallen water-skier who forgets to let go of the rope. A second later, they would resurface for a moment, then get pulled under again. As they bounded up and down, Dirk reached down and ditched Dahlgren's weight belt, then managed to twist off his own dive helmet. Grabbing gulps of air when they popped to the surface, he grasped the manual inflation tube to Dahlgren's BC. While pushed under the surface, he opened the thumb valve and exhaled into it. In a few cycles, he had Dahlgren's vest fully inflated, which helped reduce the duration of their immersions.

Fearful that his friend's head or neck might get injured by the tug of the air line, Dirk cinched up a few inches of the line and ran it through a D ring on Dahlgren's BC, then tied it in a knot. As long as the line didn't snap, he would safely be towed by his vest.

With his buddy mostly afloat, Dirk let go of him to grab his own air line again. He had to get aboard the barge now and began pulling himself hand over hand toward the moving platform. There was more than forty feet of line ahead of him, and he was already heavily fatigued from his time in the water. With his strength diminished, his progress slowed to just inches at a time. He repeatedly had to will himself to shake off the pain and a creeping urge to just let go. Instead, he reluctantly placed one hand ahead of the other and pulled, repeating the process without stopping.

For the first time, he looked up at the barge, hoping to see Summer standing at the rail. But there was no sign of her or anyone else on the open deck. Dirk knew his sister would never willfully abandon him. Something had happened when the black ship came alongside and Dirk was afraid of the prospects. A renewed sense of urgency mixed with anger surged through his body, and he hauled himself up the last few feet of line in a possessed fury.

Finally reaching the side of the barge, he yanked himself up and through the railing and collapsed on the deck. He afforded himself just a few seconds of rest, then ripped off his dive gear and scanned the deck for Summer, shouting her name. Met with a silent response, he stood up and grabbed Dahlgren's air line and began reeling him toward the barge. The Texan disappeared under the water for several seconds before reappearing, as larger ocean-borne waves rolled over him. He had regained consciousness and slowly kicked his legs and arms in a mostly futile attempt at propulsion. With his arms fatigued nearly to the breaking point, Dirk pulled him alongside the barge, then tied off the air line on the rail. Reaching into the water, he grabbed Dahlgren by the collar and hoisted him aboard.

Dahlgren rolled onto the deck, then teetered to a sitting position. He clumsily pulled off his dive helmet and gazed at Dirk with blurry eyes. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he winced as his fingers rolled over a baseball-sized lump.

“What in blazes happened down there?” he asked in a slurred voice.

“Before or after the airlift used your skull for batting practice?” Dirk replied.

“So that was the sucker that hit me. I remember getting yanked off the bottom, then my air went dry. I hit my pony tank and was preparing to ascend when the lights went out.”

“Lucky thing you cranked on your emergency air. It took me a few minutes to ditch the airlift and get you to the surface amid the tow ride.”

“Thanks for not throwing me back,” Dahlgren smiled, his senses slowly returning. “So where's Summer? And why are we twenty miles from shore?” he asked, noting the rugged coast of Hawaii receding in the distance.

“I don't know,” Dirk said solemnly.

As Dahlgren rested, Dirk searched the shack and examined the rest of the barge for signs of Summer's disappearance. When he returned, Dahlgren could tell by the look on his face that the news was not good.

“Radio is gone. Zodiac is gone. Generator is missing. And all of our mooring lines were cut at deck level.”

“And we're drifting to China. Pirates in Hawaii?”

“Or treasure hunters thinking we had a gold ship.” Dirk stared back toward the island. He could no longer see the cove but knew the black ship was still there.

“The ship we heard roll in?” Dahlgren asked, his vision too fuzzy to see for himself.

“Yes.”

“Then Summer must be aboard her.”

Dirk silently nodded. If she was on the ship, then she might be all right. It was something to hope for. But hope was fleeing his grasp by the minute as they moved farther and farther away from land. They had to help themselves before they could help Summer. Drifting across the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a powerless barge, they could float for weeks before approaching a passing ship. Hope, Dirk thought grimly as he watched the island shrink in size, was for a quick means back to shore.

T
HE LAST PLACE IN THE
world that Rudi Gunn wanted to be was back in the Russian-built truck bouncing over a rough dirt road. But that's exactly where he found himself. His back, rear, and legs all ached from the constant jarring. With every rut and pothole sending his teeth chattering, he was convinced that the truck manufacturer had neglected to install shocks and springs on the vehicle.

“The suspension on this thing must have been designed by the Marquis de Sade,” he grimaced as they rolled over a harsh bump.

“Relax,” Giordino grinned from behind the wheel. “This is the smooth section of the highway.”

Gunn turned a lighter shade of pale, observing that the highway consisted of a weathered pair of dirt tracks through the high steppe grass. They had bounced across the open lands since midday, en route to Borjin's compound of Xanadu. They had to rely on Pitt and Giordino's collective memory to find their way there and several times were forced to guess which of the myriad of tracks to follow over the rolling hills. Familiar landmarks confirmed they were on the right route as they approached the small mountain range to the southeast that they knew housed the estate.

“Another two hours, Rudi,” Pitt said, gauging the distance out the windshield, “and your troubles will be over.”

Gunn silently shook his head, having the distinct feeling that his troubles were just beginning. A follow-up phone call from Hiram Yaeger before they departed Ulaanbaatar had added a new sense of urgency and gravity to their mission. The revelation that an odd series of earthquakes had been occurring in Mongolia was impossible to ignore.

“We're just scratching the surface on establishing a correlation, but this much we know,” Yaeger said in a weary voice. “A series of earthquakes have rocked several areas in north-central Mongolia, as well as a dispersed area in and around the southern border of China. The earthquakes are unique from the norm in that their epicenters are relatively close to the surface. They mostly have been moderately sized quakes, as measured on the Richter scale, yet have produced high-intensity surface waves, which can be particularly destructive. Dr. McCammon has discovered that the foreshocks that preceded each quake are nearly uniform in intensity, which is inconsistent with a naturally occurring earthquake.”

“So you think there is some sort of man-made activity that is inducing the earthquakes?” Pitt asked.

“As unlikely as it sounds, the seismological records seem to indicate as much.”

“I know that oil drilling sometimes generates earthquakes, and underground nuclear testing has suspected links. I recall that when the old Rocky Flats Arsenal near Denver began injecting contaminated water deep into the ground, earthquakes shook the surrounding area. Have you determined if there is some sort of major drilling operation going on? Or perhaps some nuclear testing by Mongolia's neighbor to the south?”

“The epicenters in the northern part of the country have been located in a mountainous region east of Ulaanbaatar, a remote and rugged area, from what we've been able to determine. And a drilling-induced quake would not show the uniform preshock seismicity, according to Max. As far as the southern-area quakes, we would see it in the seismic profiles if a nuclear test blast had occurred.”

“Then let me take a guess and say that brings us to the late Dr. von Wachter.”

“Give that man a cookie,” Yaeger said. “When Max told us that von Wachter had been killed in a landslide in the Khentii Mountains east of Ulaanbaatar, the light went on. The coincidence was too great. We concluded that his acoustic seismic array, or an offshoot of the technology, must have something to do with the earthquakes.”

“That doesn't seem possible,” Gunn said. “You would need a tremendous shock wave to set things off.”

“That's the general perception,” Yaeger replied. “But Dr. McCammon, working with Max and some other seismologists, has a theory on that. We spoke to a colleague of von Wachter's, who had been told by the doctor of his success at reflection imagery. The secret of his detailed imaging, if you will, was the ability to condense and packet the acoustic waves emitted into the ground. Normally transmitted sound waves behave like a pebble thrown into a pond, rippling out in all directions. Von Wachter developed a means of packeting the waves so that they remained concentrated in a narrow band as they penetrate the earth. The resulting waves, as they reflect back to the surface, apparently produce a crisp, detailed image far beyond any existing technology. Or so the colleague stated.”

“So how do you get from a seismic image to an earthquake?” Gunn persisted.

“By two leaps of faith. First, that von Wachter's system produces a detailed image that visibly identifies active subterranean faults and fault lines. That is hardly a stretch of the imagination for shallow faults, which existing technologies can already detect.”

“Okay, so von Wachter's seismic array can accurately pinpoint active faults beneath the surface,” Gunn said. “You would still need to disturb those pressure points in some manner, say by drilling or with explosives, in order to produce a rupture and subsequent earthquake.”

“That's our second leap. You are correct, the fault would need to be disturbed in order to trigger an earthquake. But a seismic wave is a seismic wave. The fault doesn't care if it comes from an explosion…”

“…or an acoustic blast,” Pitt said, finishing Yaeger's sentence. “It makes sense. The ten-foot hanging tripod is a transducer array system that generates the acoustic blast. From the size of the transducers and the power supply that goes with it, it looked to me like they could generate a sonic boom.”

“If the acoustic blast is pinpointed at a fault line, the resulting vibrations from the seismic waves could induce a fracture, then, bammo, instant earthquake. It's just a theory, but McCammon and Max both agree it could work. Perhaps von Wachter's imaging technology was never intended as such but was discovered as an inadvertent side effect.”

“Either way, it is in the hands of Borjin now. We've got to assume he possesses the technology and the ability to use it,” Pitt said.

“You've already seen the effects up close,” Yaeger said. “One of the quakes that matched the profile was at Lake Baikal. Perhaps by accident, it set off the underwater landslide, which created the seiche wave that nearly killed you. We now suspect their real target was an oil pipeline at the northern end of the lake, which they succeeded in rupturing.”

“That explains why they tried to sink the
Vereshchagin
and destroy our computers. We told Borjin's sister, Tatiana, of our seismic studies in the lake. She must have realized that our equipment would have detected the man-made signals that preceded the earthquake,” Giordino said.

“Signals that we could have traced to a vessel on the lake…the
Primorski,
” Pitt added.

“So they've already put the technology to destructive use,” Gunn said.

“It's worse than you think. We don't know the purpose or motivation behind the earthquakes in Mongolia and China. But the characteristics of those quakes exactly match the two recent Persian Gulf earthquakes that have devastated oil exports from the region.”

The men in the hotel room were shocked. That the technology existed to induce an earthquake was startling enough. More unbelievable was that it was being used to instigate a near-global economic collapse, and that the trail led to the enigmatic mogul who lived in the hinterlands of Mongolia. Borjin's games of deception and destruction were becoming clearer to Pitt now. With his apparent discovery of oil reserves in Inner Mongolia, he was positioning himself to become the de facto oil king of East Asia. Pitt doubted his ambitions would end there.

“Has this been elevated?” Pitt asked.

“I've been in touch with Vice President Sandecker and have a briefing scheduled with him. The old bull wants to see something concrete. He promised he would have the president convene a National Security Council special session if the facts warrant immediate attention. I told him of your involvement, and he asked that you provide proof that the earthquakes can be specifically linked to Borjin.” Admiral James Sandecker, now Vice President Sandecker, was Pitt's former boss at NUMA and still maintained a close relationship with Pitt and his staff at the marine agency.

“The proof,” Pitt said, “is in the laboratory on Borjin's compound. He's got a seismic array sitting there, though I don't think it is the same one used at Baikal.”

“Perhaps the Baikal device was flown to the Persian Gulf. We have to assume that there are at least two of the devices at large,” Yaeger said.

“Three might be a safer bet. I guess you've proven by the Baikal and gulf quakes that they can trigger the device aboard a ship.”

“Yes. The epicenters of both Persian Gulf quakes were located offshore.”

“The ships might be the link,” Pitt noted. “The vessel at Baikal had a moon pool and a derrick on the stern deck. You might start the hunt in the Persian Gulf for a similar utility or research vessel.”

“It's a frightening prospect that they might be able to set off earthquakes all over the globe,” Yaeger replied. “You boys be careful. I'm not even sure what the vice president can do to help you in Mongolia.”

“Thanks, Hiram. You just track those ships down and we'll see about putting the finger on Borjin.”

 

P
ITT DIDN'T
wait to hear the results of Yaeger's briefing with Sandecker. He knew there was little that could be done in the short term. Though Mongolia and the U.S. had strong developing ties, it would take days, if not weeks, to generate government intervention. And the evidence against Borjin himself was circumstantial at best.

With the lives of Theresa and Wofford at stake, Pitt instead formulated a plan of infiltration with Giordino and Gunn, then set off for Xanadu. Borjin certainly wouldn't be expecting visitors, he knew. With a little stealth, and a large dose of luck, they just might be able to free Theresa and Wofford and escape with incriminating proof against Borjin.

The dust-caked truck crested a small hill, then Giordino applied the brakes as they approached a side road. The smoothly grated lane, fronted by a small gate, signaled the entryway to Borjin's retreat.

“The happy trail to Xanadu,” Giordino stated.

“Let's hope the opposing traffic is light today,” Pitt grimaced.

Dusk was drawing near, and Pitt figured it wasn't likely that anybody would be departing the compound late in the day, with Ulaanbaatar a four-hour drive away. There was still the risk that one of Borjin's horse-mounted patrols would be making the rounds beyond the gates, but there was little they could do about that.

Giordino turned onto the side trail and followed the empty road as it wound up and into the heart of the mountain range. After cresting a steep summit, Giordino slowed the truck as the river appeared alongside the road. An unusually strong summer rainstorm had just struck the mountaintop and the river raged with its powerful runoff. After days of encountering dry dust, Giordino was surprised to find the road turned muddy from the recent rains.

“If my memory serves, the compound is roughly two miles from the point here where the river first makes an appearance,” Giordino said.

“It's the aqueduct we need to keep a sharp lookout for,” Pitt replied.

Giordino drove on slowly, all eyes keeping a sharp lookout for both the aqueduct and wandering security patrols. Pitt finally spotted a large pipe sprouting from the river, which fed into the concrete-lined aqueduct. It was the landmark they were looking for that told them they were within a half mile of the compound.

Giordino found an opening off the road and pulled the truck into a strand of pine trees, then shut off the motor. The dust and mud-splattered truck blended well into the surroundings, and it would take an observant eye to spot them from the road.

Gunn looked nervously at his watch, noting it was a little before eight o'clock.

“What now?” he asked.

Pitt pulled out a thermos and poured a round of coffees.

“Relax and wait until dark,” he replied, sipping at the steaming brew, “till it's time for the bogeymen to come out.”