Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

“Something more than a peck,” Giordino said.

“He’s a sick one, no doubt about it. Best to steer clear of him whenever possible.”

“Who ultimately does run this place?” Pitt asked.

“A guy named Edward Bolcke. Some sort of genius mining engineer. He’s got his own residence just up the way.” Maguire pointed toward the dock. “He built this entire complex to extract and refine rare earth elements. From what we’ve learned, he’s a major player in the world market, and is particularly tight with the Chinese. One of the extraction workers claims a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of rare earth elements are processed here a year, much of it stolen.”

Giordino whistled. “Makes for a tidy profit.”

“The extraction facilities,” Pitt said, thinking escape. “I’m guessing they must use a large amount of chemicals in the process.”

“Some deadly, I hope,” Giordino said.

“Yes, but it’s out of reach,” Maguire said. “All the serious stuff is performed in the buildings beyond our access. We’re just the grunts. We load and off-load the ships and run the millhouse. You hoping to play with matches?”

“Something on that order.”

“You might as well forget about it. Brown and I considered it for weeks, but we’ve seen too many good men die in the attempt. Somebody will blow the whistle on this place one of these days. We just need to hang on until it happens.”

A string of lights above their heads flashed briefly.

“Lights out in five minutes,” Maguire said. “You boys best find a place to bunk.”

He led them to a large screened room filled with rattan sleeping mats. Pitt and Giordino picked two and lay down as the room filled with men and the lights went out. Pitt ignored the discomfort of the steamy room and the hard mat as he lay in the darkness, contemplating a way out of the death camp. He drifted to sleep without an answer, not knowing his opportunity would come much sooner than he thought.

57

THE LABORERS FROZE WHEN THEY HEARD THE thumping whine of a helicopter landing. Johansson’s whip immediately prompted the men back to work, purging any hopes that an armed force had arrived to set them free.

Instead it was Bolcke himself, arriving fresh from Australia, where he had set in motion the final stages for his takeover of the Mount Weld mining operation. Climbing out of the helicopter, he bypassed a waiting golf cart and strode to the dock, a pair of armed guards in tow.

A ragged group of laborers, including Pitt and Giordino, were transferring the Adelaide ’s final hold of ore when Bolcke stepped onto the dock. He glanced at the slaves with disdain, briefly locking eyes with Pitt. In that instant, Pitt seemed to read into the Austrian’s psyche. He saw a joyless man, one scrubbed clean of compassion, ethics, and even a soul.

Bolcke coldly eyed the piled ore before examining the ship. He waited briefly for Gomez, who was summoned from the ship and scurried down the gangplank.

“The cargo was what we anticipated?” Bolcke asked.

“Yes, thirty thousand tons of crushed monazite ore. That’s the last of it there.” Gomez pointed at the final mound.

“Any trouble with the acquisition?”

“The shipping line sent out an added security team. We subdued them without issue.”

“Someone was expecting an attack?”

Gomez nodded. “Fortunately, they arrived after we had already seized the ship.”

A troubled look crossed Bolcke’s face. “Then we must dispose of the vessel.”

“After changing identities at sea, we entered the canal without question,” Gomez said.

“I can’t afford the risk. I have an important transaction pending with the Chinese. Wait three days and dispose of the ship.”

“There’s a salvage yard in São Paulo I can take her to. They’ll pay top dollar.”

Bolcke thought a moment. “No, it’s not worth the risk. Strip what’s valuable, and dispose of her in the Atlantic.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pitt lingered near the ore pile, straining to overhear the conversation while his cart was filled. He watched as Bolcke turned his back on Gomez and walked toward his residence and Gomez returned to the ship.

“The Adelaide ’s headed out in a few days,” he said to Giordino. “I think we need to be aboard when they shove off.”

“Fine by me. I just don’t want to go as a piece of toast.” He tapped his steel collar.

“I have a theory about our dog collars,” Pitt said. He fell silent when Johansson emerged from the bush, cracking his whip.

“Pick up the pace,” he yelled. “You’re falling behind the mill.”

The laborers quickened their movements, none making eye contact with him. Johansson paced the dock area until he spotted Giordino, pushing a fully loaded cart and limping. The bullwhip snapped, striking Giordino in the back of the thigh. “You, there. Get a move on.”

Giordino turned and gave him a look that could blister paint. His knuckles turning white as he pushed, Giordino propelled the ore carrier ahead as if it were an empty grocery cart. Johansson smiled at the display of strength, then wandered off to berate another group of laborers.

Pitt followed Giordino along the path to the millhouse. It ran parallel to the twin white lines alongside the dock, and Pitt gradually eased the cart toward the nearest line. When he approached within three feet, he began feeling a tingling in the collar. He took a quick step and pulled himself onto the cart for a moment as it rolled along. The tingling immediately ceased. He veered the cart back onto the path, catching a brief shock as he pushed off with his foot. When he caught up to Giordino, Pitt was smiling.

After a brief lunch of cold fish stew, the two men were led into the millhouse, where they were assigned to feed the ball mill—a huge metal cylinder mounted horizontally on rotating gears. Crushed ore was fed into one end, where it would collide with hardened steel balls housed inside as the cylinder rotated. The balls pulverized the ore into a near powder, which was filtered out the opposite end. The mill rumbled like an overgrown washing machine loaded with marbles.

The raw ore that had been transferred from the dock was piled in large mounds along the open side of the building. A short conveyor carried the ore to a raised platform built over the ball mill, where it was manually fed into the device through a large funnel. A guard ordered Pitt onto the platform to feed the mill, while Giordino joined another man shoveling ore onto the conveyor.

The work was less strenuous than the hauling. The ball mill took time to digest the ore, which allowed frequent rests for the laborers. During one of these intervals, Johansson made an appearance. The overseer entered the far side of the building, lingering at the back end of the ball mill, where workers collected the powder in more carts and transferred them to the next staging area. The mill guard stepped over and joined him in a brief discussion of the output.

A few minutes later, Johansson walked the length of the ball mill. For once, his hands were empty, the rawhide lash coiled to his belt. As he approached the feed piles, he spotted Giordino and the other worker seated on one of the mounds. Johansson’s face flushed, and his eyes bulged with rage.

“On your feet!” he screamed. “Why aren’t you working?”

“The ball mill is full up,” Giordino said, casually pointing to the spinning cylinder. He remained seated while his companion jumped upright.

“I said, on your feet.”

Giordino tried rising, but his injured leg lost its footing, and he buckled to his knee. Johansson lunged forward, catching Giordino before he could recover. Grabbing a shovel wedged in the ore, the Swede swung it hard, aiming for the bum leg.