Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

“It seems Canadian government officials didn’t tell me all I needed to know;” said Pitt, cursing Posey under his breath.

“I guess they figured since you were under their license to do field research, you wouldn’t be harassed by the mine’s security.”

“Your brother. Stokes mentioned the assault and burning of his boat.”

He pointed back toward the partially carved totem pole. “Did he also tell you they killed my uncle?”

Pitt shook his head slowly. “No. I’m sorry.”

“I found his body floating eight kilometers out to sea. He had lashed himself to a pair of fuel cans. The water was cold, and he died of exposure. All we ever found of his fishing boat was a piece of the wheelhouse.”

“You think Dorsett’s security people murdered him.”

“I know they murdered him,” Broadmoor said, anger in his eyes.

“What about the law?”

Broadmoor shook his head. “Inspector Stokes only represents a token investigative force. After Arthur Dorsett sent his prospecting geologists swarming all over the islands until they found the main diamond source on Kunghit, he used his power and wealth to literally take over the island from the government. Never mind that the Haida claim the island as tribal sacred ground. Now it is illegal for any of my people to set foot on the island without permission or to fish within four kilometers of its shore. We can be arrested by the Mounties who are paid to protect us.”

“I see why the mine’s chief of security has so little regard for the law.”

“Merchant, ‘Dapper John’ as he’s called,” Broadmoor said, pure hatred in his round face. “Lucky you escaped. Chances are you’d have simply disappeared. Many men have attempted to search for diamonds in and around the island. None were successful and none were ever seen again.”

“Has any of the diamond wealth gone to the Haida?” Pitt asked.

“So far we’ve been screwed,” answered Broadmoor. “Whether wealth from the diamonds will come to us has become more a legal than a political issue. We’ve negotiated for years in an attempt to get a piece of the action, but Dorsett’s attorneys have stalled us in the courts.”

“I can’t believe the Canadian government allows Arthur Dorsett to dictate to them.”

“The country’s economy is on the ropes, and the politicians close their eyes to payoffs and corruption while embracing any special interest that slips money into the treasury.” He paused and stared into Pitt’s eyes as if trying, to read something. “What is your interest, Mr. Pitt? Do you want to shut the mine down?”

Pitt nodded. “I do, providing I can prove their excavation is causing the acoustic plague responsible for the mass killing of humans and sea life.”

He looked at Pitt. “I will take you inside the mining property.”

Pitt considered the offer briefly. “You have a wife and children. No sense in risking two lives. Put me on the island and I’ll figure a way to get over the mound without being seen.”

“Can’t be done. Their security systems are state-of-the-art. A squirrel can’t get past them, as proven by their little bodies that litter the mound, along with those of hundreds of other animals that inhabited the island before Dorsett’s mining operation gutted what was once a beautiful environment. And then there are the Alsatian police dogs that can smell out a diamond-smuggling intruder at a hundred meters.”

“There’s always the tunnel.”

“You’ll never get through it alone.”

“Better that than your wife becoming another widow.”

“You don’t understand,” Broadmoor said patiently; his eyes burned with consuming flames of revenge. “The mine pays my tribal community to keep their kitchen stocked with fresh fish. Once a week my neighbors and I sail to Kunghit and deliver our catch. At the docks we load it on carts and transport the fish through the tunnel to the office of the head cook. He serves us breakfast, pays us in cash-not nearly what the catch is worth and then we leave. You’ve got black hair. You could pass for a Haida if you wear fisherman’s work clothes and keep your head down. The guards are more concerned with diamonds smuggled out of camp than fish coming in. Since we only deliver and take nothing, we’re not suspect.”

“Are there no good paying jobs for your people at the mine?”

Broadmoor shrugged. “To forget how to fish and hunt is to forget independence. The monies we make stocking their kitchen goes toward a new school for our children.”

“There’s a small problem. Dapper John Merchant. We’ve met and struck up a mutual dislike. He had a close look at my face.”

Broadmoor waved a hand airily. “Merchant recognizing you is not a problem. He’d never soil his expensive Italian shoes by hanging around the tunnel and kitchens. In this weather he seldom shows his face outside his office.”

“I won’t be able to gather much information from the kitchen help,” said Pitt. “Do you know any miners you can trust to describe the excavation procedures?”

“All the mine workers are Chinese, illegally brought in by criminal syndicates. None speak English. Your best hope is an old mining engineer who hates Dorsett Consolidated with a passion.”

“Can you contact him?”

“I don’t even know his name. He works the graveyard shift and usually eats breakfast about the same time we deliver our fish. We’ve talked a few times over a cup of coffee. He’s not happy about the working conditions. During our last conversation, he claimed that in the past year over twenty Chinese workers have died in the mines.”

“If I can get ten minutes alone with him, he might be of great help in solving the acoustics enigma.”

“No guarantee he’ll be there when we make the delivery,” said Broadmoor.

“I’ll have to gamble,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “When do you deliver your next catch?”

“The last of our village fleet should be docking within a few hours. We’ll ice and crate the catch later this evening and be ready to head for Kunghit Island at first light.”

Pitt wondered if he was physically and mentally primed to lay his life on the line again. Then he thought of the hundreds of dead bodies he’d seen on the cruise ship, and there wasn’t the slightest doubt about what he must do.

Six small fishing boats, painted in a variety of vivid colors, sailed into Rose Harbour, their decks stacked with wooden crates filled with fish packed in ice. The diesel engines made a soft chugging sound through tall exhaust stacks as they turned the shafts to the propellers. A low mist covered the water and turned it a gray green. The sun was half a globe on the eastern horizon, and the wind was less than five knots. The waves showed no whitecaps, and the only foam came from the prop wash and the bows of the boats as they shouldered their way through gentle swells.

Broadmoor came up to Pitt, who was sitting in the stern, watching the gulls that dipped and soared over the boat’s wake in hope of a free meal. “Time to go into your act, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt could never get Broadmoor to call him Dirk. He nodded and pretended to carve a nose on a half-finished mask the Haida had loaned him. He was dressed in yellow oilskin pants with suspenders that were slung over a heavy woolen sweater knitted by Irma Broadmoor. He wore a stocking cap pulled down over his thick, black eyebrows. Indians are not known for five o’clock shadows so he had given his face a close shave. He did not look up as he lightly scraped the dull side of the knife over the mask, staring out of the corners of his eyes at the long dock-not a small pier but a true landing stage for big ships, with anchored pilings-that loomed larger as the boats entered the harbor. A tall crane moved on rails along one side of the dock to unload heavy equipment and other cargo from oceangoing ships.