Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

“That makes eight appearances of the unknown plague in the past four months,” said Gunn. “The occurrences seem to be intensifying.”

Sandecker studied his cigar. “And not one lead to the source.”

“Frustration is mine,” Yaeger said holding his palms up in a helpless gesture. “I’ve tried a hundred different computer-generated projections. Nothing comes close to fitting the puzzle. No known disease or chemical pollution can travel thousands of miles, pop up out of the blue and kill every living thing within a limited area, before totally vanishing without a trace.”

“I’ve got thirty scientists working on the problem,” said Gunn, “and they have yet to stumble on a clue indicating a source.”

“Anything from the pathologists on those five fishermen the Coast Guard found dead on their boat off Chirikof Island?” asked Sandecker.

“Preliminary postmortem examinations show no tissue damage from poison, inhaled or ingested, nor any fast acting disease that’s known to medical science. As soon as Colonel Hunt over at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center has completed his report, I’ll have him call you.”

“Dammit!” Sandecker burst out. “Something killed them. The skipper died in the wheelhouse, his hands gripped on the helm, while the crew went down on deck in the act of bringing in their nets. People just don’t drop dead without cause, certainly not hardy men in their twenties and thirties.”

Yaeger nodded in agreement. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place. It has to be something we haven’t considered.”

Sandecker idly stared at his cigar smoke as it spiraled toward the paneled ceiling. He seldom laid all his cards on the table, preferring to turn them over slowly, one at a time. “I was talking to Dirk just before our meeting.”

“Anything new at his end?” asked Gunn.

“Not from the biologists on board Ice Hunter, but Dirk has a theory, pretty farfetched he admits, but one none of us had thought of.”

“I’d like to hear it,” said Yaeger.

“He came up with a type of pollution.”

Gunn looked at Sandecker, his eyes skeptical. “What type of pollution could he possibly suggest that we missed?”

Sandecker grinned like a sniper sighting through his scope. “Noise,” he answered flatly.

“Noise,” repeated Gunn. “What kind of noise?”

“He thinks there might be deadly sound waves that travel through water for hundreds perhaps thousands of miles, before they surface and loll everything within a certain radius.” Sandecker paused and studied his subordinates for their reaction.

Yaeger was not a cynical man, but he inclined his head and laughed. “I’m afraid old Pitt is hitting his special brand of tequila too hard and too fast.”

Oddly, there was not a hint of doubt on Gunn’s face. He peered intently at the projected image of the Pacific Ocean for a few moments. Then he said, “I think Dirk is onto something.”

Yaeger’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”

“I do,” Gunn replied earnestly. “Rogue underwater acoustics might very well be our villain.”

“I’m happy to hear another vote,” said Sandecker.

“When he first laid it on me, I thought Dirk’s mind was sluggish from exhaustion. But the more I considered his theory, the more I came to believe in its possibilities.”

“Word has it,” said Yaeger, “that he single-handedly saved Polar Queen from running onto the rocks.”

Gunn nodded. “It’s true. After Al dropped him from a helicopter onto the ship, he steered it away from certain destruction.”

“Back to the dead fishermen,” Sandecker said, returning the conference to a more somber note. “How long before we have to turn their bodies over to local Alaskan authorities?”

“About five minutes after they learn we have them,” replied Gunn. “The crewmen on the Coast Guard cutter that discovered the ship drifting in the Gulf of Alaska will surely talk once they dock at their station in Kodiak and come ashore.”

“Even after their captain has ordered them to remain quiet,” said Sandecker.

“We’re not at war, Admiral. The Coast Guard is highly regarded in northern waters. They won’t enjoy being party to a cover-up against men whose lives they are committed to saving. A couple of drinks at the Yukon Saloon and they’ll break the news to anyone who will listen.”

Sandecker sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Commandant MacIntyre was not happy about the secrecy. It wasn’t until he received a direct order from the secretary of’ defense that he caved in and turned the bodies over to NUMA scientists.”

Yaeger gave Sandecker a knowing look. “I wonder who got to the secretary of defense?”

Sandecker smiled slyly. “After I explained the seriousness of the situation, he was most cooperative.”

“Much hell will erupt,” Yaeger prophesied, “once the local brotherhood of fishermen and the dead crew’s family members discover that the bodies were found and autopsies performed a week before they were notified.”

“Especially,” Gunn added, “when they learn we shipped the bodies to Washington for the postmortem.”

“We were too early in the hunt for the news media to play havoc with wild stories about how an entire crew and their pet parrot were found dead on a ship under mysterious circumstances. At the time, we didn’t need another unexplained-phenomena blitz while we were groping in the dark ourselves.”

Gunn shrugged. “The proverbial cat’s out of the bag now. There’s no hiding the Polar Queen disaster. After tonight it will be the lead news story on every TV news program around the world.”

Sandecker nodded at Yaeger. “Hiram, you delve into your library and extract every piece of data dealing with underwater acoustics. Search out any experiments, commercial or military, involving high-energy sound waves through water, their cause and effects on humans and underwater mammals.”

“I’ll start on it immediately,” Yaeger assured him.

Gunn and Yaeger rose from their chairs and left the conference room. Sandecker sat there, slouched in his chair and puffing on his cigar. His eyes moved from sea battle to sea battle, lingering for several moments on each before moving to the next. Then he closed his eyes tightly as he collected his thoughts.

It was the uncertainty of the dilemma that clouded his mind. After a while, he opened his eyes and stared at the computer-generated chart of the Pacific Ocean. “Where will it strike next?” he spoke aloud to the empty room. “Who will it kill?”

Colonel Leigh Hunt sat at his desk in his basement office-he disliked the more formal administration offices on the upper floors of Walter Reed-and contemplated a bottle of Cutty Sark. Out the window, darkness had settled over the District of Columbia, the streetlights had come on, and the rush-hour traffic was beginning to dwindle. The postmortems on the five fishermen fished from the cold waters of the Northwest were completed, and he was about to head home to his cat. The decision was whether to take a drink or make a final call before leaving. He decided to do both at the same time.

He punched the numbers on his telephone with one hand while he poured the scotch into a coffee cup. After two rings, a gruff voice answered.

“Colonel Hunt, I hope that’s you.”

“It is,” replied Hunt. “How’d you know?”

“I had a gut feeling you’d call about now.”

“Always a pleasure to talk to the Navy,” said Hunt affably.

“What can you tell me?” asked Sandecker.

“First, are you sure these cadavers were found on a fishing boat in the middle of the sea?”

“They were.”

“And the two porpoises and four seals you also sent over here?”

“Where else would you expect to find them?”