Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

He wasn’t a sloppy housekeeper, and he was a fair cook, but he was seldom at home. If he wasn’t chasing around the world on undersea projects with Pitt, he was mounting expeditions to search for anything that was lost, be it ships, aircraft or people. He loved to hunt for the missing. He could never sit around his living room watching TV in the evenings or read a book. Giordino’s mind was constantly traveling, and his thoughts were rarely trained on the lady by his side, a condition that frustrated the gentler sex no end.

He threw his dirty clothes in the washer and took a quick shower. Then he packed an overnight bag and drove to Dulles International, where he caught an early evening flight to Miami. Upon arrival, he rented a car, drove to the city’s port area and checked into a dockside motel. Next he checked the Yellow Pages for marine architects, copying the names, addresses and phone numbers of those who specialized in private motor yachts. Then he began to call.

The first four, who had already left for home, responded with answering machines, but the fifth picked up the call. Giordino was not surprised. He had expected that one of them would be conscientiously working late, creating the construction plans for some rich man’s floating home away from home.

“Mr. Wes Wilbanks?” inquired Giordino.

“Yes, this is Wes. What can I do for you this time of night?” The voice had a soft Southern drawl.

“My name is Albert Giordino. I’m with the National Underwater & Marine Agency. I need your help in identifying the manufacturer of a boat.”

“Is it docked here in Miami?”

“No, sir. It could be anywhere in the world.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“More than you know.”

“I’ll be in the office tomorrow at around ten.”

“This is a matter of some urgency,” Giordino said with quiet authority.

“Okay, I’ll be wrapping up in about an hour. Why don’t you drop by then? Do you have the address?”

“Yes, but I’m a stranger to Miami.”

Wilbanks gave Giordino directions. The architect’s office was only a few blocks away, so Giordino grabbed a fast dinner at a small Cuban cafe and set off on foot, following the directions he’d received over the phone.

The man who opened the door was in his early thirties, quite tall and dressed in shorts and a flowered shirt. Giordino’s head barely came to Wilbanks’ shoulder, and he had to look up. The handsome face was framed by an abundance of fashionably slicked-back hair that was graying at the temples. He definitely had the look of someone who belonged to the yachting set, Giordino decided.

“Mr. Giordino, Wes Wilbanks. I’m real pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“Come on in. Would you like some coffee? Made this morning, but the chicory keeps it flavorful.”

“Love some.”

Wilbanks led him into an office with a hardwood floor, shelves covering one wall stacked with books on yacht and small-boat design. The other wall was filled with half hull models that Giordino assumed were built from Wilbanks’ plans. The middle of the room contained a large antique drafting table. A desk with a computer sat nestled on a bench in front of a picture window overlooking the port.

Giordino accepted a cup of coffee and laid the sketches from the second officer of the container ship Rio Grande on the drafting table. “I know this isn’t much to go on, but I’m hoping you might point me toward the manufacturer.”

Wilbanks studied the drawings, tilting his head from side to side. After a solid minute, he rubbed his chin and peered over the sketch paper. “At first glance it looks like a basic design from any one of a hundred boatbuilders. But I do believe whoever observed the boat and sketched it was fooled by the angle from which he viewed it. Actually, I believe there are two hulls, not one, mounting a futuristic pod that gives it a space-age look. I’ve always wanted to create something like this but have yet to find a customer willing to stray very far from conventional designs—”

“You sound like you’re talking about a craft for flying to the moon”

“Not far from it.” Wilbanks sat down at his computer and turned it on. “Let me show you with computer graphics what I mean.” He rummaged through a drawer, retrieved a disk and inserted it into his machine. “Here’s a concept I created purely for fun and out of frustration at knowing I’ll never get paid to build it.”

The image of a sleek sport cruiser without any sharp lines or edges filled the monitor. Gone was the traditional angular bow. The entire hull and pod that covered the cockpit were smooth and rounded. Nothing conservative about this craft. It looked like something from fifty years in the future. Giordino was impressed. Through the use of computer graphics, Wilbanks gave him a tour through the interior of the boat, focusing on the bold and unusual design of the appliances and furniture. This was truly imagination and innovation at work.

“You visualize all this from a couple of rough drawings?” Giordino asked in awe.

“Hold on and you’ll see,” said Wilbanks. He ran the sketches through an electronic scanner that transferred the images to his computer monitor. Then he overlaid the images with his own plans and compared them. Except for minor differences in design and dimensions, they were a very close match.

“All in the eyes of the beholder,” Giordino murmured.

“I’m insanely envious that one of my peers got there first,” Wilbanks said. “I’d have sold my kids for a contract to do this baby.”

“Can you give me an idea as to the size and power source?”

“Of mine or yours?”

“The boat in the sketches,” replied Giordino.

“I should say the overall length is somewhere around thirty meters. The beam, just under ten meters. As to power plants, if it were me I would have specified a pair of Blitzen Seastorm turbodiesels. Most likely BAD 98s, which combined could produce more than twenty-five hundred horsepower. Estimated cruising speed with these engines could easily push a boat this size through calm seas at seventy knots or more, much more depending upon the efficiency of the twin hulls.”

“Who has the facilities to build such a boat?”

Wilbanks leaned back and thought a moment. “A boat of this size and configuration calls for pretty radical fiberglass forming. Glastec Boats in San Diego could do the job, as could Heinklemann Specialty Boat Builders in Kiel, Germany.”

“What about the Japanese?”

“They’re not players in the yacht industry. Hong Kong has a number of small boatyards, but they primarily build in wood. Most fiberglass-boat builders stick to tried and proven concepts.”

“Then in your judgment it’s either Glastec or Heinklemann,” said Giordino.

“Those are the two I’d call in to bid on my design,” Wilbanks assured him.

“What about the architect?”

“I can think of at least twenty off the top of my head who specialize in radical design.”

Giordino smiled. “I was lucky in stumbling onto number twenty-one.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Seaside Motel.”

“NUMA doesn’t exactly splurge with their expense accounts, do they?”

“You should meet my boss, Admiral James Sandecker. He and Shylock were bosom buddies.”

Wilbanks laughed. “Tell you what, drop back by my office about ten in the morning. I should have something for you.”

“I’m grateful for your help.”

Giordino shook Wilbanks’ hand, then took a long walk along the waterfront before returning to his motel room, where he read a mystery novel before finally falling asleep.

At ten o’clock on the nose, Giordino entered Wilbanks’ studio. The boat architect was studying a set of plans. He held them up and grinned.