Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

Stokes whispered something but Pitt couldn’t make it out. He turned his head, cocked an ear and paused. “You want me to stop?” Pitt asked.

“Smell it...?” Stokes barely whispered.

“Smell what?”

“Smoke.”

Then Pitt had it too. He inhaled deeply. The scent of wood smoke was coming from somewhere ahead. He was tired, desperately tired, but he leaned forward against the harness and staggered on. Soon his ears picked up the sound of a small gas engine, of a chain saw cutting into wood. The wood smell became stronger, and he could see smoke drifting over the tops of the trees in the early light of dawn. His heart was pounding under the strain, but he wasn’t about to quit this close to his destination.

The sun rose but remained hidden behind dark gray clouds. A light drizzle was falling when he stumbled into a clearing that touched the sea and opened onto a small harbor. He found himself staring at a small community of log houses with corrugated metal roofs. Smoke was rising out of their stone chimneys. Tall cylindrical totem poles were standing in different parts of the village, carved with the features of stacked animal and human figures. A small fleet of fishing boats rocked gently beside a floating dock, their crews working over engines and repairing nets. Several children, standing under a shed with open sides, were observing a man carving a huge log with a chain saw. Two women chatted as they hung wash on a line. One of them spotted Pitt, pointed and began shouting at the others.

Overcome by exhaustion, Pitt sank to his knees as a crowd of a dozen people rushed toward him. One man, with long straight black hair and a round face, knelt down beside Pitt and put an arm around his shoulder. “You’re all right now,” he said with concern. He motioned to three men who gathered around Stokes and gave them an order. “Carry him into the tribal house.”

Pitt looked at the man. “You wouldn’t by chance be Mason Broadmoor?”

Coal-black eyes stared at him curiously. “Why, yes, I am.”

“Boy,” said Pitt as he sagged bone weary to the soft ground, “am I ever glad to see you.”

The nervous giggle of a little girl roused Pitt from a light sleep. Tired as he was, he’d only slept four hours. He opened his eyes, stared at her a moment, gave her a bright smile and crossed his eyes. She ran out of the room, yelling for her mother.

He was in a cozy room with a small stove radiating wondrous heat, lying in a bed made up of bear and wolf hides. He smiled to himself at the recollection of Broadmoor standing in the middle of an isolated Indian village with few modern conveniences, calling over his satellite phone for an air ambulance to transport Stokes to a hospital on the mainland.

Pitt had borrowed the phone to contact the Mountie office at Shearwater. At the mention of Stokes’ name, he was immediately put through to an Inspector Pendleton, who questioned Pitt in detail about the events commencing the previous morning. Pitt ended the briefing by giving Pendleton directions to the crash site so the Mounties could send in a team to retrieve the cameras inside the pontoons if they had survived the impact.

A seaplane arrived before Pitt had finished a bowl of fish soup that was thrust on him by Broadmoor’s wife. Two paramedics and a doctor examined Stokes and assured Pitt the Mountie had every chance of pulling through. Only after the seaplane had lifted off the water on its flight back to the mainland and the nearest hospital had Pitt gratefully accepted the loan of the Broadmoor family bed and fallen dead asleep.

Broadmoor’s wife entered from the main living room and kitchen. A woman of grace and poise, stout yet supple, Irma Broadmoor had haunting coffee eyes and a laughing mouth. “How are you feeling, Mr. Pitt? I didn’t expect you to wake up for another three hours at least.”

Pitt checked and made sure he still wore his pants and shirt before he threw back the covers and dropped his bare feet to the floor. “I’m sorry to have put you and your husband out of your bed.”

She laughed, a light musical laugh. “The time is a little past noon. You’ve only been asleep since eight o’clock.”

“I’m most grateful for your hospitality.”

“You must be hungry. That bowl of fish soup wasn’t enough for a big man like you. What would you like to eat?”

“A can of beans will be fine.”

“People sitting around a campfire eating canned beans in the north woods is a myth. I’ll grill some salmon steaks. I hope you like salmon”

“I do indeed.”

“While you’re waiting, you can talk to Mason. He’s working outside.”

Pitt pulled on his socks and hiking boots, ran his hands through his hair and faced the world. He found Broadmoor in the open shed, chiseling away on a five-meter-long red cedar log that lay horizontal on four heavy-duty sawhorses. Broadmoor was attacking it with a round wooden mallet shaped like a bell and a concave chisel called a fantail gouge. The carving was not far enough along for Pitt to visualize the finished product. The faces of animals were still in the rough stage.

Broadmoor looked up as Pitt approached. “Have a good rest?”

“I didn’t know bearskins were so soft.”

Broadmoor smiled. “Don’t let the word out or they’ll be extinct within a year.”

“Ed Posey told me you carved totem poles. I’ve never seen one in the works before.”

“My family have been carvers for generations. Totems evolved because the early Indians of the Northwest had no written language. Family histories and legends were preserved by carving symbols, usually animals, on red cedar trees.”

“Do they have religious significance?” asked Pitt.

Broadmoor shook his head. “They were never worshiped as icons of gods, but respected more as guardian spirits.”

“What are the symbols on this pole?”

“This is a mortuary pole, or what you might call a commemorative column. The pole is in honor of my uncle, who passed away last week. When I finish the carvings, they will illustrate his personal crest, which was an eagle and a bear, along with a traditional Haida figure of the deceased. After completion it will be erected, during a feast, at the corner of his widow’s house.”

“As a respected master carver, you must be booked up for many months in advance.”

Broadmoor shrugged modestly. “Almost two years.”

“Do you know why I’m here?” Pitt asked, and the abrupt question caught Broadmoor with the mallet raised to strike the fantail gouge.

The wood-carver laid his tools aside and motioned for Pitt to follow him to the edge of the harbor, where he stopped beside a small boathouse that extended into the water. He opened the doors and stepped inside. Two small craft floated within a U-shaped dock.

“Are you into Jet Skis?” asked Pitt.

Broadmoor smiled. “I believe the term is now watercraft.”

Pitt studied the pair of sleek Duo 300 WetJets by Mastercraft Boats. High-performance craft that could seat two people, they were vividly painted with Haida animal symbols. “They look like they can almost fly.”

“Over water, they do. I modified their engines to gain another fifteen horsepower. They move along at almost fifty knots.” Broadmoor suddenly changed the subject. “Ed Posey said you wanted to circle Kunghit Island with acoustic measuring equipment. I thought the watercraft might be an efficient means of conducting your project.”

“They’d be ideal. Unfortunately, my hydrophone gear was badly damaged when Stokes and I crashed. The only other avenue left open to me is to probe the mine itself.”

“What do you hope to discover?”

“The method of excavation Dorsett is using to retrieve the diamonds.”

Broadmoor picked up a pebble at the waterline and threw it far out into the deep green water. “The company has a small fleet of boats patrolling the waters around the island,” he said finally. “They’re armed and have been known to attack fishermen who venture too close.”