“You've got a beautiful vessel,” Dirk said, emerging from belowdecks dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Summer followed him onto the deck, clad in an oversized pair of coveralls and a man's work shirt.
“The standard Chinese merchant ship that dates back almost two thousand years,” Cussler replied. “This one was built in Shanghai in 1907 for a wealthy tea trader. She's made entirely from a hard teakwood called ”Takien Tong.“ She's extremely durable and surprisingly seaworthy.”
“Where did you find her?” Summer asked.
“A friend of mine found her abandoned in a Malaysian boatyard and decided to refurbish her. Took him six years to complete the job. After he grew bored with sailing, I traded him a few antique cars for her. Plan to cruise the Asian Pacific in her. Started in Japan and am going to work my way down to Wellington.”
“You sail her by yourself?” Summer asked.
“She's been modified with a strong diesel engine and hydraulic lifts for the lug sails which are linked to a computerized automatic pilot. She's a breeze to manage, and can, in fact, sail herself.”
“Do you have a satellite phone aboard?” Dirk asked.
“Afraid not. A ship-to-shore radio is the best I can offer you. I didn't want any phone calls or Internet messages bothering me on this cruise.”
“Understandable. Where are you headed, and, for that matter, where are we located now?” he asked.
Cussler pulled out a marine navigation chart and held it under the weak light of the helm console. “We're entering the Yellow Sea about forty miles northwest of Seoul. I take it you aren't interested in staying aboard till Wellington?” he grinned, running an index finger across the chart. “How about Inchon?” he continued, tapping the map. “I can drop you there in about eight hours. I believe there's a U.S. Air Force base located somewhere near there.”
“That would be great. Anywhere we can find a phone and get ahold of someone at NUMA headquarters.”
“NUMA,” Cussler said, mulling over the word. “You're not from that NUMA ship that sank southwest of Japan?”
“The Sea Rover. Yes, we are. How did you know about that?” Summer asked.
“It was all over CNN. I saw them interview the captain. Told how the crew was rescued by a Japanese freighter following an explosion in the engine room.”
Dirk and Summer stared at each other in disbelief.
“Captain Morgan and the crew are alive?” she finally blurted.
“Yes, that was the fellow's name. I thought he said the whole crew was rescued.”
Summer retold the story of their attack on the ship and abduction by Kang's men and their uncertainty over the fate of their crew members.
“I suspect there's more than a few people out there looking for you,” Cussler said. “You're safe for now. There's some sandwiches and beer in the galley. Why don't you two grab a bite and get some rest. I'll wake you when we reach Inchon.”
“Thank you. I'll take you up on that,” Summer replied, heading belowdecks.
Dirk lingered a moment, standing at the rail and watching the first glimmer of daybreak attempt to paint the eastern horizon. As he contemplated the events of the past three days, a hardened resolve surged through his exhausted body. By some miracle, the Sea Rover's crew had survived the sinking of the NUMA research ship. But Kang still had blood on his hands, and the stakes were now dramatically higher. If what Kang had told them was true, then millions of lives were at risk. The madman would have to be stopped, he knew, and quick.
on Sea Launch platform Odyssey and airship Icarus June 16, 2007 Long Beach, California Though it was A cool, damp Southern California morning, Danny Stamp could feel the sweat beginning to drip from his underarms. The veteran engineer was as nervous as a teenager on prom night awaiting his first make-out session. But as those who knew him could affirm, he always felt this way when his baby was on the move.
No diaper-clad infant, his baby today was a 209-foot Zenit-3SL liquid-fuel rocket that was in the delicate process of being transferred to its launch platform. The roundish and slightly balding launch vehicle director peered purposefully over the railing of a large ship's superstructure as the $90 million rocket he was responsible for inched into view below his feet. As the huge white cylinder rolled slowly out of its horizontal berth on a centipede like cradle, Stamp's eyes were drawn to the large blue letters emblazoned on the rocket's housing that read sea launch.
Incorporated in the nineteen nineties, Sea Launch was an international commercial venture formed to provide rocket-launch services a *
geared primarily for satellite telecommunications operators. The American aerospace giant Boeing was the prime founder, signing on to handle launch operations as well as integrating the customer's satellite payloads into the rocket housing. Turning swords into rubles, a pair of Russian companies joined the consortium by providing the actual rockets, or “launch vehicles,” as they are known in the parlance. Ex-military rockets that once carried nuclear warheads, the Zenits were tried-and-true launch vehicles that were perfectly suited to commercial applications. But it was a Norwegian firm, Kvaerner, that provided perhaps the most unique asset to the venture. Starting with a used North Sea oil platform, the Oslo firm constructed a self-propelled floating launchpad that could be positioned for launching in almost any ocean waters of the world.
Though an interesting selling point, practicality dictates that there is only one area on the globe worth launching from and that is the equator. For a geosynchronous satellite, which remains in a fixed relative orbital position following the earth's rotation, there is no more direct path to orbit than from the equator. Less rocket fuel burned in pushing a satellite to orbit can allow for a heavier satellite payload. Satellite owners, seeking to maximize revenues from their multimillion-dollar investments, can thus add more capacity to their satellites or additional operating fuel to extend the satellite's life. Integrating the satellites into the launch vehicle in Long Beach, then sailing the rocket to the equator for launch had grown from an intriguing idea to an efficient business model in the high-stakes, high-risk game of commercial space operations.
A handheld Motorola radio fastened to Stamp's belt suddenly cackled with static. “Rollout complete. Ready for crane hook-up,” barked the unseen voice. Stamp paused and studied the Zenit rocket, which protruded from the ship's stern like a stinger on a wasp. In an unusual bid for flexibility, the Sea Launch team actually assembled the rocket and its payload in the bowels of a custom-fitted ship named the Sea Launch Commander. Officially known as the “Assembly and Command Ship,” the 660-foot cargo-designed vessel contained myriad computer bays on its upper deck, as well as a mission operations command center, which directed the complete launch operation at sea. On the lower deck was a cavernous assembly compartment that housed the Zenit rocket components. Here, an army of white-smocked engineers and technicians bolted together horizontally the segmented Russian rocket sections utilizing a rail system that ran nearly the length of the ship. Once the rocket assembly was complete, the mission satellite was encapsulated into the upper-section payload fairing and then the entire launch vehicle was rolled at a snail's pace out the stern of the Sea Launch Commander.