Dirk gauged the path of the boat and swam another hundred yards toward the center of the river, then stopped. Summer swam past before realizing her brother had halted.
“What gives? We need to keep going,” she whispered after swimming back to him.
Dirk nodded downriver toward the catamaran. The sleek vessel had arced well out into the river as it circled downstream. He mentally calculated the trajectory of the yacht if it held its current circular course.
“They'll be within sight of us on the next upriver pass,” he said quietly.
Summer could see he was right. The bright beams of the searchlights would shine upon their position on the next loop. They would have to remain submerged for several minutes to guarantee their concealment.
Dirk took a quick glance upriver. “Sister, I think it's time for Plan B.”
“Plan B?” she asked.
“Yes, Plan B. Stick out your thumb and start hitchhiking.”
The large wooden sailboat creaked lazily down the river, its foremast sail and a small auxiliary motor pushing it along just 3 knots faster than the current. As the vessel crept closer, Dirk could see that it was a three-masted Chinese junk of about twenty-five meters in length. Unlike most dilapidated sailing boats in this part of the world, the junk appeared to be maintained in pristine condition. A string of multicolored Chinese lanterns hung gaily from bow to stern, lending a party like atmosphere to the boat. Constructed entirely of rich teak-wood, the highly varnished surfaces seemed to glisten under the swaying overhead lamps. Somewhere belowdecks, a pair of stereo speakers blared out an orchestral tune, which Dirk recognized as a Gershwin melody. Yet despite the festive atmosphere, there was not a soul to be seen on deck.
“Ahoy! We're in the water. Can you help?”
Dirk's muted shout went unanswered as the junk approached. He repeated the call, careful not to draw attention from the catamaran, which had completed a downstream turn and was now headed upriver. Swimming closer to the moving junk, Dirk thought he detected a shadowy movement on the stern, but, again, there was no response to his call for help. He tried a third time, failing to notice as he spoke that the muffled drone of the junk's motor audibly raised a note.
The junk's golden teak hull began gliding past Dirk and Summer, an ornately carved dragon on the prow eyeing them maliciously in the water less than ten feet from the starboard beam. Like a phantom in the night, the junk slipped by strangely impervious to the voices calling from the water. As the stern and rudderpost floated past, Dirk abandoned hope of rescue from the junk and angrily wondered whether the pilot was asleep, drunk, or both.
Peering toward the slowly approaching catamaran, he was startled by a sudden splash in the water near his head. It was an orange plastic float tied to a coil of rope, trailing back to the stern of the junk.
“Grab hold and hang on tight,” he instructed his sister, making sure Summer had a strong grip on the line before grasping it himself. As the line quickly drew taut, the force of the junk sailing faster than the river momentarily jerked them underwater. With a face full of water, they were dragged along the river's surface like a fallen water-skier who forgot to let go of the towline. Dirk slowly began pulling himself up the line hand over hand as his legs flailed out behind him. Reaching the high, blunt stern of the junk, he shimmied up the rope almost vertically until reaching the stern railing. A pair of hands emerged from the darkness, grabbing about his lapels and forcefully yanking him over the railing and onto the deck.
“Thanks,” Dirk muttered, paying little heed to a tall figure in the shadows. “My sister is still on the line,” he gasped, standing and grabbing the line at the stern rail and pulling at it. The tall man stepped up behind him and clasped the line, throwing his weight into it with Dirk. Together, they hoisted Summer up the railing like a gigged flounder until she flopped over the railing and onto the deck in a soggy heap. A high-pitched bark erupted from across the deck and, in an instant, a small black-and-tan dachshund raced over to Summer and began licking her face.
“Dark night for a swim, don't you think?” the stranger said in English.
“You're American,” Dirk stated with surprise.
“Ever since being born in the Land of Lincoln,” came the reply.
Dirk studied the man beside him for the first time. He stood six-foot-three, nearly matching his own height, though he carried a good twenty pounds more heft. A wave of unruly white hair and a matching goatee indicated that he was at least forty years his senior. The man's blue-green eyes, which seemed to twinkle with mischief under the hanging lights, touched a nerve with him. He felt as if he was looking at an older version of his own father, he finally decided.
“We're in great danger,” Summer injected, rising to her feet. She scooped up the small dog as she stood and rubbed its ears briskly, which produced a sharp wag of its tail. “Our research vessel was sunk by these murderers and they mean to kill us,” she said, nodding downriver toward the catamaran that was circling slowly in their direction.
“I heard the machine-gun fire,” the man replied.
“They intend to make another deadly attack. We need to alert the authorities,” she pleaded.
“Thousands of additional lives are at risk,” Dirk added somberly.
The white-haired man perused the odd pair up and down. Summer, soaked but elegant still in her ripped silk cocktail dress, appeared an unusual companion for Dirk, who was battered and bruised in a shredded blue jumpsuit. Neither attempted to conceal the handcuff shackles that dangled from their wrists.
A slight grin fell across the man's lips. “I guess I'll buy it. We better hide you belowdecks until we get past that cat. You can stay in Mauser's cabin.”
“Mauser? How many people are aboard?” Dirk asked.
“Just me and that fellow who's kissing your sister,” he replied. Dirk turned to see the small dachshund happily licking the water off Summer's face.
The junk's owner quickly led them through a bulkhead door and down a flight of steps that led to a tastefully decorated stateroom.
“There's towels in the bath and dry clothes in the closet. And here, this will warm you up.” He grabbed a bottle sitting on a side table and poured them each a glass of the clear fluid. Dirk downed a shot quickly, tasting a bitter flavor from the smooth liquor that clearly packed a high alcohol content.
“Soju,” the man said. “A local rice brew. Help yourself while I try to get us past your friends in the cat.”
“Thank you for helping us,” Summer replied appreciatively. “By the way, my name is Summer Pitt, and this is my brother, Dirk.”
“Pleased to meet you. My name is Clive Cussler.”
Cussler returned to the junk's exposed wheel and slipped the engine into gear, tweaking the throttle slightly higher while nosing the bow farther toward midriver It took only a few minutes before the catamaran approached from downstream, pulling alongside and washing the junk in a flood of spotlights. Cussler slipped on a conical straw peasant's hat and hunched his tall frame low at the wheel.
Through the glare of the lights, he could see several men pointing automatic weapons at him. As the catamaran crept to within inches of the port beam, an unseen man on the bridge barked a question across through the boat's PA system. Cussler replied by shaking his head. Another command echoed across from the catamaran as the spotlights bounced about the junk. Cussler again shook his head, wondering whether the waterlogged coil of rope and wet pairs of footprints across the deck would be detected. For several long minutes, the catamaran held steady at the junk's side as if waiting to board. Then, with a sudden blast of its engines, the catamaran roared away, resuming its river search closer to shore.
Cussler guided the junk down the last vestiges of the Han River until its waters were swallowed by the Yellow Sea. As the sea-lanes opened and the potential for nearby water traffic fell away, Cussler punched a handful of electronic controls at the helm. Hydraulic winches began to whir as lines were pulled and yards were raised, pulling the traditional red, square-shaped lug sails of a classic junk to the peak of the main- and mizzenmasts. Cussler manually tied off the out haul lines and then powered off the small diesel motor. The old junk now leaped through the waves under the graceful power of its sails.