Clive Cussler - Black Wind

“Thanks, Mr. Cussler. And good luck on your voyage,” Dirk said, shaking the man's hand. Summer leaned over and kissed the old sailor on the cheek. “Your kindness was overwhelming,” she gushed, then patted the dog good-bye.

“You kids take care. Be seeing you.”

Dirk and Summer stood on the dock and waved good-bye as the junk eased out into the harbor, smiling as Mauser barked a final farewell from the bow deck. They made their way up a set of well-worn concrete steps and entered a faded yellow building that was a combination marina office, sundry store, and restaurant. The walls were draped in the traditional lobster trap and fishing net motif that sufficed for interior decorating in a thousand seafood restaurants around the world. Only, this one smelled like the nets were hung up while still dripping wet with salt water.

Dirk found a phone on the wall in back and, after several failed attempts, completed a connection to NUMA headquarters in Washington. The NUMA operator required only minimal convincing before patching the call through to Rudi Gunn's home line, despite the late hour on the East Coast. Gunn had just dropped off to sleep but answered the phone on the second ring and nearly flew out of bed when he heard Dirk's voice. After several minutes of animated conversation, Dirk hung up the phone.

“Well?” Summer asked.

Dirk glanced toward the smelly restaurant with a look of adventure. “I'm afraid it's time to take the man up and sample some kimchi while we wait for a ride,” he replied, rubbing his stomach with hunger.

The hungry pair downed a Korean breakfast of hot soup, rice, tofu flavored with dried seaweed, and the omnipresent side dish of fermented vegetables, kimchi, which nearly blew smoke out of their ears from the spiciness. As they finished their meal, a bulky pair of U.S. Air Force security police strode sternly into the restaurant. Summer waved the two men over and the senior of the two men confirmed their identity.

“I'm First Sergeant Bimson, Fifty-first Fighter Wing Security Forces. This is Staff Sergeant Rodgers,“ he continued, nodding to his partner. ”We have orders to escort you to Osan Air Base without delay.”

“The pleasure will be all ours,” Summer assured him as they stood and left the marina restaurant, following the airmen to a government sedan parked outside.

Though Seoul was actually a shorter distance to Inchon than Osan Air Base, Gunn had elected to take no chances with their safety, ordering their transport to the nearest military base. The airmen drove south from Inchon, winding through mountainous hills and past flooded rice paddies before entering the sprawling complex of Osan, which started life as a lone airfield constructed during the Korean War. The modern base now hosted a large contingent of combat-ready F-16 fighter jets and A-10 Thunderbolt II attack planes, deployed in the forward defense of South Korea.

Entering the main gate, they traveled a short distance to the base hospital, where a fast-talking colonel greeted Dirk and Summer and led them to a medical examination room. After a brief checkup and treatment of Dirk's wounds, they were allowed to clean up and then given a fresh set of clothes. Summer laughed that the baggy military fatigues provided did nothing for her figure.

“What's our travel situation?” Dirk asked of the colonel. “There's an Air Mobility Command C-141 bound for McChord Air Force Base leaving in a few hours that I'm holding a pair of first-class seats on. Your NUMA people have arranged a government aircraft to transport you from McChord to Washington, DC, after you arrive. In the meantime, you are welcome to rest here for a bit, then I'll take you by the officers' club, where you can grab a hot meal before jumping on that twenty-hour plane ride stateside.”

“Colonel, if we have the time I'd like to contact an in-country Special Ops unit, preferably Navy, if that's at all possible. And I'd like to make a phone call to Washington.”

The Air Force colonel's face turned up indignantly at Dirk's mention of the word Navy. “There's only one Navy base in the country and that's just a small operations support facility in Chinhae near Pusan. I'll send over one of our Air Force S.O. captains. As I think about it, there are SEALs and UDTs running in and out of here all the time. He ought to be able to help you out.”

Two hours later, Dirk and Summer climbed aboard a gray Air Force C-141B Starlifter with a large contingent of GIs headed stateside. As they settled into their seats in the windowless transport jet, Dirk found an eye mask and a pair of earplugs in the seat back in front of him. Donning the sleep aids, he turned to Summer and said, “Please don't wake me till we're over land. Preferably, land where they don't serve seaweed for breakfast.”

He then pulled down the eye mask, stretched out flat in the seat, and promptly fell fast asleep.

The fire was minuscule by most arson standards, burning less than twenty minutes before it was brought under control. Yet the targeted damage had been carefully calculated with a precise outcome in mind.

It was two in the morning when the fire bells sounded aboard the Sea Launch Commander, jolting Christiano from a deep sleep in his captain's cabin. In an instant he was on the bridge, alertly checking the ship's fire control monitors. A graphic image of the ship showed a single red light on the ship's lower topside deck.

“Conduit room on the shelter deck, just forward of the launch control center,” reported a dark-haired crewman manning the bridge watch. “Automated water mist system has been activated.”

“Cut all electrical power except for emergency systems to that part of the ship,” Christiano ordered. “Notify the port fire station that we require assistance.”

“Yes, sir. I have two men en route to the conduit room and am awaiting their report.”

While at port, the Commander carried only a skeleton marine crew aboard around the clock, few of whom had any degree of firefighting training. A rapidly spreading fire could easily gut the ship before sufficient help arrived, Christiano knew. The captain looked out a bridge window, half-expecting to see smoke and flames erupting from the ship but there were none. The only indication of fire was the acrid odor of burned electrical components that wafted through his nostrils and the distant shriek of a port fire truck rumbling toward the pier. His attention turned toward a handheld radio clipped to the crewman's belt as a deep voice suddenly rasped through the bridge.

“Briggs here,” the radio crackled. “The fire is burning in the conduit room but does not appear to have spread. The computer hardware bay is okay, and the FM-200 gas system has been activated there to prevent combustion. It doesn't look like the fire suppression system was triggered in the conduit room, but if we can get some extinguishers on her before she spreads I think we can contain it.”

Christiano grabbed the radio. “Do what you can, Briggs, help is on the way. Bridge out.”

Briggs and a fellow mechanic he had pressed into fire duty found a smoking rage billowing from the conduit room. No bigger than a large walk-in closet, the room housed power connections between the ship's electrical generator output and the myriad computers aboard the vessel that supported payload processing and launch operations. Briggs leaned into the bay and quickly emptied two fire extinguishers, then stood back a moment to see if the smoke would lessen. A cloud of acrid blue haze rolled out of the room, the noxious fumes it carried filtered by Briggs's respirator. His assistant passed him a third fire extinguisher and this time Briggs burst into the fiery room, directing the carbon dioxide spray at the remaining flames he could see flickering through the billows of dark smoke. His extinguisher empty, he quickly danced out of the room and caught his breath before peering in again. The room was pitch-black, with the beam of his flashlight reflecting only smoke. Satisfied that the flames were doused and not likely to reignite, he stepped into a side hallway and radioed the bridge.