Clive Cussler: Deep Six

“What about the boarding crew, the doctor? They died.”

“The contamination had already covered the decks, the railings, almost anything they touched on the exterior of the vessel. In the case of the ferry, its entire center section was open to accommodate automobiles. The passengers and crew had no protection. Modern naval ships are constructed to be buttoned up in case of radioactivity from nuclear attack. They can patrol the contaminated currents with a very small, acceptable degree of risk.”

The President nodded his consent. “Okay, I’ll order an assist from the Navy Department, but I’m not sold on dropping an evacuation plan. Stubborn Alaskans or not, there are still women and children to consider.”

“My other suggestion, Mr. President, or request if you will, is a delay of forty-eight hours before you initiate the operation. That might give my response team time to find the source.”

The President fell silent. He stared at Sandecker with deepening interest. “Who are the people in charge?”

“The on-scene coordinator and chairman of the Regional Emergency Response Team is Dr. Julie Mendoza, a senior biochemical engineer for the EPA.”

“I’m not familiar with the name.”

“She’s recognized as the best in the country on assessment and control of hazardous contamination in water,” Sandecker said without hesitation. “The underwater search for the shipwreck we believe contains the nerve agent will be headed by my special projects director, Dirk Pitt.”

The President’s eyes widened. “I know Mr. Pitt. He proved most helpful on the Canadian affair a few months ago.”

You mean, saved your ass, Sandecker thought, before he continued. “We have nearly two hundred other pollution experts who have been called in to assist. Every expert in private industry has been tapped to provide the experience and technical data for a successful cleanup.”

The President glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to cut this short,” he said. “They won’t start the third act without me. Anyway, you’ve got forty-eight hours, Admiral. Then I order an evacuation and declare the area a national disaster.”

Fawcett accompanied the President back to his box. He seated himself slightly to the rear but close enough so they could converse in low tones while feigning interest in the performance on stage.

“Do you wish to cancel the cruise with Moran and Larimer?”

The President imperceptibly shook his head. “No. My economic recovery package for the Soviet satellite countries has top priority over any other business.”

“I strongly advise against it. You’re waging a hopeless battle for a lost cause.”

“So you’ve informed me at least five times in the past week.” The President held a program over his face to conceal a yawn. “How do the votes stack up?”

“A wave of nonpartisan, conservative support is gaining ground against you. We’ll need fifteen votes in the House and five, maybe six, to pass the measure in the Senate.”

“We’ve faced bigger odds.”

“Yes,” Fawcett muttered sadly. “But if we’re defeated this time your administration may never see a second term.”

The dawn was creeping out of the east as a low, dark line began to rise above the horizon. Through the windows of the helicopter the black blur took on a symmetrical cone-shaped feature and soon became a mountain peak, surrounded by the sea. There was a three-quarter moon behind it. The light altered from ivory to indigo blue and then to an orange radiance as the sun rose, and the slopes could be seen mantled in snow.

Pitt glanced over at Giordino. He was asleep — a state he could slip in and out of like an old sweater. He had slept from the time they left Anchorage. Five minutes after transferring to the helicopter, he promptly drifted off again.

Pitt turned to Mendoza. She sat perched behind the pilot. The look on her face was that of a little girl eager to see a parade. Her gaze was fixed on the mountain. In the early light it seemed to Pitt her face had softened. Her expression was not so businesslike and the lines of her mouth held a tenderness that was not there before.

“Augustine Volcano,” she said, unaware that Pitt’s attention was focused on her and not out the window. “Named by Captain Cook in 1778. You wouldn’t know to look at it but Augustine is the most active volcano in Alaska, having erupted six times in the last century.”

Pitt regretfully turned away and stared below. The island seemed devoid of any human habitation. Long swirling flows of lava rock spilled down the mountain’s sides until they met the sea. A small cloud drifted about the summit.

“Very picturesque,” he said, yawning. “Might have possibilities as a ski resort.”

“Don’t bet on it.” She laughed. “That cloud you see over the peak is steam. Augustine is a constant performer. The last eruption in 1987 surpassed Mount St. Helens in Washington. The fall of ash and pumice was measured as far away as Athens.”

Pitt had to ask, “What’s its status now?”

“Recent data confirm the heat around the summit is increasing, probably forecasting an impending explosion.”

“Naturally, you can’t say when.”

“Naturally.” She shrugged. “Volcanoes are unpredictable. Sometimes they become violent without the slightest warning; sometimes they take months to build up to a spectacular climax that never happens. They sputter, rumble a little and then go dormant. Those earth scientists I told you about who died from the nerve agent — they were on the island to study the impending activity.”

“Where are we settling down?”

“About ten miles off the shore,” she replied, “on the Coast Guard cutter Catawba.”

“The Catawba,” he repeated as if reminiscing.

“Yes, you know of her?”

“Set a copter on her flight pad myself a few years ago.”

“Where was that?”

“North Atlantic, near Iceland.” He was gazing beyond the island now. He sighed and massaged his temples. “A good friend and I were hunting for a ship imbedded in an iceberg.”

“Did you find it?”

He nodded. “A burned-out hulk. Barely beat the Russians to it. Later we crashed in the surf on the Icelandic coast. My friend was killed.”

She could see his mind was reliving the events. The expression on his face took on a faraway sadness. She changed the subject.

“We’ll have to say goodbye — temporarily, I mean— when we land.”

He shook off the past and stared at her. “You’re leaving us?”

“You and Al will be staying on the Catawba to search for the nerve agent’s location. I’m going to the island where the local response team has set up a data base.”

“And part of my job is to send water samples from the ship to your lab?”

“Yes, by measuring trace levels of the contamination we can direct you toward the surface.”

“Like following breadcrumbs.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“After we find it, what then?”

“Once your salvage team brings up the drams containing the nerve agent, the Army will dispose of it by deep well injection, on an island near the Arctic Circle.”

“How deep is the well?”

“Four thousand feet.”

“All neat and tidy.”

The open-for-business look returned to her eyes. “It happens to be the most efficient method open to us.”

“You’re optimistic.”

She looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“The salvage. It could take months.”

“We can’t even afford weeks,” she came back almost vehemently.

“You’re treading in my territory now,” Pitt said as if lecturing. “Divers can’t risk working in water where one drop on their skin will kill them. The only reasonably safe way is to use submersibles — a damned slow and tedious process. And submersibles require highly trained crews, with specially constructed vessels as work platforms.”