Valhalla Rising (30 page)

Wilbur Hill’s eyes alternated between the photos and the images on the monitor. “I’ve had a fair amount of experience investigating terrorist bomb explosions, and I believe I’m on solid ground in saying Dirk is correct. The bottom of the
Emerald Dolphin
was not blown out by a concentrated explosion. As the photos and video show, the hull burst in several places, as demonstrated by the shattered hull plates extending outward. It also looks as if the explosive devices were spaced equidistant from one another. A sure sign the destruction was well planned and executed.”

“For what purpose?” asked Davis. “Why go to all that trouble to sink a burned-out hulk? Better yet, who could do it? No one alive was left aboard when it was taken in tow.”

“Not so,” said Gunn. “The tug’s captain”—he paused to scan a large notepad—“his name was Jock McDermott, reported pulling one of the cruise ship’s officers from the sea immediately after the ship went down.”

Davis looked skeptical. “How could the man have survived the fire?”

“Good question,” Gunn said, tapping a pen on his notepad. “McDermott was at a loss to explain the miracle. He stated that the man acted as if he was in shock until the tug reached Wellington. Then he slipped ashore before he could be questioned and disappeared.”

“Did McDermott give a description?” Davis probed.

“Only that he was a black man.”

Sandecker didn’t ask for permission from the others seated in his presence to smoke. NUMA was his territory, and he lit up one of the legendary huge cigars that he highly treasured and almost never passed out, even to his closest friends. He exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and spoke slowly. “The prime issue here is that the
Emerald Dolphin
was deliberately sunk to block any investigation by the insurance companies to find the cause of the fire. The sinking was a cover-up. At least that’s how it looks to me.”

Davis stared at Sandecker. “If your theory is on target, Admiral, that leads to the terrible possibility that the fire was an act of arson. I can’t conceive of any motive, even by terrorists, to destroy a cruise ship and twenty-five hundred crew and passengers. Certainly not without a terrorist group claiming responsibility, and none has come forward.”

“I agree the thought is incomprehensible,” said Sandecker. “But if that’s where the facts lead us, that’s where we’ll go.”

“What facts?” Davis persisted. “It would be impossible to find evidence the fire was caused by man and not by an accident or a fault of the ship’s systems.”

“According to the accounts of the surviving ship’s officers, every fire system on board ship failed to function,” said Rudi Gunn. “They tell of their frustration at watching the fire rage out of control without any means of stopping it. We’re talking twelve different main systems, including backups. What are the odds of their all failing?”

“About the same as a man on a bicycle winning the Indianapolis 500,” answered Giordino cynically.

“I believe Dirk and Al have given us the evidence to prove the fire was deliberate,” said Yaeger.

Everyone at the table looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, but Pitt spoke first. “Our lab identified the material we brought back so soon?”

“They worked through the wee hours of the night and nailed it,” Yaeger said triumphantly.

“What are we talking about?” asked Hill.

“A substance we found when we searched the wreck in a submersible,” answered Giordino. “We spotted it in the chapel area, where reports claim the fire started, and brought back a sample.”

“I won’t bore you with a lengthy lecture on how the elements were broken down,” Yaeger continued. “But our NUMA scientists identified it as a highly incendiary material known as Pyrotorch 610. Once it has been ignited, it’s almost impossible to extinguish. The stuff is so unstable that even the military won’t touch it.”

Yaeger reveled in the mixture of expressions around the table. Pitt reached over and shook Giordino’s hand. “Good work, partner.”

Giordino grinned proudly. “It seems our little trip in the
Abyss Navigator
paid off.”

“Too bad Misty isn’t here to hear the news.”

“Misty?” inquired Davis.

“Misty Graham,” said Pitt. “A marine biologist on board the
Deep Encounter.
She accompanied Al and me on the dive in the submersible.”

Sandecker idly knocked the ashes of his cigar into a large brass ashtray. “It looks to me like what we’d thought was just a devastating tragedy has turned into a hideous crime —” He stopped as a blank look that turned to exasperation crossed his face.

Giordino had pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket that was the exact mate to the admiral’s, and slowly lit it.

“You were saying,” prompted Hill, not knowing the behind-the-scenes dance between Sandecker and Giordino and their cigars. The admiral was almost certain Al was stealing his cigars, but he could never prove it. None ever appeared to be missing. He never caught on that Giordino was secretly buying his cigars from the same source in Nicaragua.

“I was saying,” Sandecker spoke slowly, giving the evil eye to Giordino, “that we have a grievous crime on our hands.” He paused to look across the table at Hill and Davis. “I hope you gentlemen and your agencies will launch an immediate in-depth investigation into the atrocity and bring the guilty parties to justice.”

“Now that we definitely know a crime was committed,” said Davis, “I believe we can all work together to find the answers.”

“You can begin with the hijacking of the
Deep Encounter,
” said Pitt. “I don’t harbor the slightest doubt there is a connection.”

“I read a brief report on the incident,” said Hill. “You and Al are very brave men for saving your vessel and defeating the pirates.”

“They were not pirates in the strict sense of the word. Hired mercenary killers are closer to the truth.”

Hill wasn’t sold. “What possible grounds could they have had for stealing a NUMA ship?”

“It was hardly a simple theft,” Pitt said acidly. “They meant to sink the ship and kill every man and woman on board, all fifty of them. You want grounds for a motive? They were out to stop us from making a deep-water survey of the wreck. They were afraid of what we might discover.”

Gunn’s expression was thoughtful. “Who in God’s name could be responsible for such evil?”

“You might start with the Cerberus Corporation,” said Yaeger, glancing at Pitt.

“Nonsense,” snorted Davis. “One of the nation’s largest and most respected companies involved with murdering more than two thousand people on the other side of the world? Can you imagine General Motors, Exxon or Microsoft committing crimes of mass murder? I certainly can’t.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Sandecker. “But Cerberus hardly has lily-white hands. They’ve been involved with some pretty shady business deals.”

“They’ve been investigated by congressional committees on several occasions,” added Gunn.

“None of which amounted to more than political wool-gathering,” retorted Davis.

Sandecker grinned. “It’s pretty tough for Congress to reprimand an outfit that gives both political parties enough funding every election to launch ten third-world countries.”

Davis shook his head. “I’d have to see hard proof before you sold me on investigating Cerberus.”

Pitt caught the glitter in Yaeger’s eyes, as the computer wizard spoke. “Would it help if I told you that the scientists at Cerberus’s chemical division created Pyrotorch 610?”

“You can’t be certain of that,” said Davis, his tone filled with doubt.

“No other company in the world has come close to duplicating its Pyrotorch 610’s properties.”

Davis quickly came back. “The material was probably stolen. Anybody could have gotten hold of it.”

“At least the FBI has a place to start,” said Sandecker to the FBI agent. He turned to Hill. “And what of the CIA?”

“I think the first thing is to mount a salvage expedition on the remains of the pirate ship and see what turns up.”

“Can NUMA help you with that project?” asked Pitt.

“No, thank you,” said Hill. “We have a private company we work with on underwater investigations.”

“So be it,” Sandecker said, between puffs of his cigar. “If you need our services, you have but to call. NUMA will cooperate fully.”

“I would like your permission for my people to interrogate the crew of the
Deep Encounter,
” said Davis.

“Granted,” Sandecker agreed without hesitation. “If there is nothing else?”

“One other question,” said Hill. “Who owned the
Emerald Dolphin?
”

“She sailed under British registry,” replied Gunn, “but she was owned by the Blue Seas Cruise Lines, a British-based company owned primarily by American stockholders.”

Hill smiled faintly at Davis. “A domestic as well as an international act of terror. Looks like our two agencies
will
have to work closely together.”

Davis and Hill left together. After the door closed, Sandecker sat down again. His eyes narrowed until they had a fierce twinkle in them. “As long as both crimes took place at sea, there’s no way they’re leaving NUMA out of the investigation. We’ll go our own separate way without rocking the CIA and the FBI’s boat.” He looked at Pitt and Giordino. “You two take three days off and rest up. Then come back and get to work.”

Pitt looked candidly back at Sandecker, then around the table. “Where do we start?”

“I’ll have a plan when you return. In the meantime, Rudi and Hiram will gather all the data possible.”

“What are you going to do for relaxation?” Gunn asked Pitt and Giordino jointly.

“Before I left for the Pacific, I bought a thirty-six-foot sailboat that I keep at a marina near Annapolis. I thought I’d gather up a couple of ladies and cruise Chesapeake Bay.”

Gunn turned to Pitt. “And you?”

“Me?” Pitt shrugged casually. “I’m going to an air show.”

T
he day could not have been more perfect for the air show and the benefit for the disabled children. More than ten thousand people attended under a cobalt sky free of clouds. A slight breeze blew in off the Atlantic Ocean and cooled the warm summer temperatures.

Gene Taylor Field was a private airport in the middle of a housing community whose residents all owned airplanes. The streets were laid out so families could taxi their aircraft from their houses to the runway and back. Unlike most fields, the immediate area around the runway was landscaped with small bushes, hedges and flower beds. Acres of grass surrounded most of the paved area for car parking and picnicking. The crowds could congregate on the grassy lawns to watch the planes and their pilots performing acrobatics in the air, or they could walk among the vintage aircraft that were parked on display around one end of the runway.

The disabled children were brought in by families, schools and hospitals from four states. There was no shortage of volunteers to escort them around the aircraft on display. It was an emotional event, and everyone was proud to be a part of it.

Kelly was stressed to the limit. She knew her blood pressure was reaching the point of no return. Until now, everything had run smoothly, no glitches, no problems, the volunteers incredibly helpful. The owners and pilots of the ninety aircraft were happy to give their time and participate at their own expense. They were extremely gracious in allowing the children to sit in the cockpits while explaining the story behind their airplanes.

But the one aircraft Kelly was counting on, the transport that was scheduled to give rides to the children, flying them over the skyscrapers of Manhattan, had failed to show. She was on the verge of announcing the bad news to the children when her close friend and co-worker Mary Conrow approached her.

“I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically. “I know you were counting on him.”

“I can’t believe Dirk didn’t call me if he couldn’t arrange for a plane,” Kelly murmured dejectedly.

Mary was a very attractive woman, in her middle thirties, stylishly groomed and fashionably dressed. She wore her autumn-leaf blond hair in long ringlets that fanned out over her shoulders. Wide pale-green eyes stared at the world with a self-assurance that accented her high cheekbones and tapered chin. She was about to say something, when suddenly she shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed into the sky.

“What’s that flying in from the south?”

Kelly stared in the direction where Mary gestured. “I can’t make it out.”

“Looks like an old transport plane!” said Mary excitedly. “I think he’s coming!”

Vast relief flowed through Kelly’s veins, and her heartbeat increased. “It has to be him!” she shouted. “Dirk didn’t let me down.”

They watched, the children watched, the whole crowd watched, as the strange-looking old aircraft lumbered across the sky only a few hundred feet above the tops of the trees surrounding the field. It came slowly, no more than seventy-five miles an hour. There was an awkward sort of grace in her flight through the sky, the reason she had been affectionately known as the Tin Goose, the most successful commercial airliner of her time.