Yaeger pulled out a tablet computer and called up a map of the area where the ship’s course changed.
“There’s a small atoll called Clipperton Island. It’s only about twenty miles from the position you gave me . . . and dead-on along that same heading.” He looked at Pitt and shook his head. “Nice deduction.”
“They didn’t have time to flood her, so they probably set her on a course toward Clipperton, assuming she’d founder on the reef and disappear.”
“Only the storm blew her clear of the island,” Yaeger said, “and she kept on sailing for another four thousand miles until arriving in Valparaiso.”
Pitt took a sip of coffee. “That still doesn’t put us any closer to who attacked the ship and disposed of the crew.”
“I’ve searched for port documents showing recent shipments of bauxite, but nothing’s surfaced.”
“And it probably won’t. Hiram, see if you can find mention of any other pirate attacks—or lost ships, for that matter—that have occurred recently in the Pacific. And one more favor.” Pitt picked up the silver rock and tossed it to Yaeger. “I picked this up on the Tasmanian Star. On your way back to the computer center, drop this off with the boys in subsea geology and have them tell us what it is.”
“Will do.” Yaeger studied the rock as he headed for the door. “Not our bauxite?”
Pitt shook his head. “A pang in my stomach and a large, grounded ghost ship says not.”
9
PITT JOGGED UP THE ENTRY STEPS TO THE EISENHOWER Executive Office Building, trying to shake his creeping jet lag. Adjacent to the White House, the imposing stone structure was Pitt’s favorite federal building. Built in 1888 in the French Second Empire style of architecture, it featured a steep-pitched mansard roof and towering windows, making it look like a transplant from a Victor Hugo story. A monument to the use of granite and slate, almost no wood had been used in its construction, to reduce the risk of fire. Ironically, a fire on the second floor had nearly destroyed Vice President Cheney’s office in 2007.
Recent Vice Presidents had maintained only a ceremonial office in the building, preferring to inhabit the West Wing, where they could stay glued to the President. That all changed with the arrival of Admiral James Sandecker. A reluctant appointee when his predecessor had died in office, Sandecker preferred to keep his distance from the spinmasters that infiltrated every administration. Instead he made the vice presidential office in the old Executive Office Building his primary work domain. He gladly hiked the underground tunnel to the White House several times a day, if need be, to the chagrin of his less physically fit aides.
After passing through several layers of security, Pitt reached the foyer to the Vice President’s suite on the second floor and was escorted into the private office. The large room was decorated with the nautical motif befitting a retired admiral, showcasing several antique oil paintings of long-forgotten clipper ships battling the high seas. Though right on time, Pitt walked into a meeting in progress. Two men and a woman sat in wingback chairs around a coffee table, listening to the Vice President, who paced the lush carpet while clenching a large cigar.
“Dirk, there you are.” He zipped across the room to shake Pitt’s hand. “Come, take a seat.”
Though diminutive in stature, Sandecker had the energy of ten men. A fiery intensity burned in his blue eyes, which contrasted with his flaming red hair and matching Van Dyke beard. A Washington veteran who despised politics, he was both respected and feared for bluntness and integrity. For Pitt, he was something of a father figure, having been his boss at NUMA for many years before becoming Vice President.
“Good to see you, Admiral. You’re looking fit.”
“One keeps plenty fit in this office just smacking down the gadflies,” he said. “Dirk, let me introduce you around. Dan Fowler, here, is with DARPA, Tom Cerny is a special aide to the President, and Ann Bennett is from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
Pitt shook hands then took a seat, glancing at his watch.
“You’re not late,” Fowler said. “We just had some earlier business with the Vice President.”
“Fair enough. So how may a humble marine engineer be of service?”
“You’re probably not aware,” Sandecker said, “but there’s been an alarming rash of security breaches in our weapons development programs, stretching back at least three years. Without going into specifics, I can tell you they’ve been at a high level and are costing us dearly.”
“I take it the Chinese are the primary beneficiaries.”
“Yes,” Fowler said. “How did you know?”
“I recall them introducing a new fighter jet last year. It looked suspiciously like our F-35.”
“That’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Sandecker said. “Unfortunately, we’ve had only limited success at plugging the leaks. A multiagency task force has been formed, by request of the President, to investigate the situation.”
“These breaches directly threaten the ability of our military forces,” Cerny said. He had a pasty face and large dark eyes and spoke with the fast delivery of a used-car salesman. “The President is deeply disturbed by these events and has demanded whatever action is necessary to protect our vital technology.”
Pitt fought off the urge to cry “Hooray for the President!” Cerny, he pegged, was a typical presidential yes-man who relished the power he wielded while accomplishing nothing with it.
“That’s well and fine,” Pitt said, “but isn’t half the government already engaged in hunting spies and chasing terrorists?”
“There’s plenty of risk to go around.”
Sandecker lit his cigar as the men engaged, puffing it in defiance of the building’s smoking ban. “The task force has a need for some marine resources. Just a small project I thought you could assist with. Agent Bennett has the particulars.”
“It’s a missing person, actually,” Bennett said.
Pitt locked eyes with the thirtyish agent, a pert, attractive woman concealed behind a conservative appearance. Her blond hair, layered short, matched the serious cut of her charcoal business suit. But the effect was softened by her dimpled cheeks and a petite nose that held up a pair of clear-framed reading glasses. She returned Pitt’s gaze through lively aqua-colored eyes, then looked down at the folder in her lap.
“An important research scientist with DARPA, Joseph Eberson, disappeared several days ago in San Diego,” she said. “He was believed to have gone on a fishing excursion aboard a private pleasure craft named Cuttlefish. The bodies of the boat owner and his assistant were found a few miles offshore by a passing sailboat. Local search-and-rescue teams combed the area but failed to locate Eberson or the boat.”
“You suspect foul play?”
“We have no specific reason to think so,” Fowler said, “but Eberson was involved with some of the Navy’s most sensitive research programs. We need closure on what happened to him. We have no reason to suspect that he defected, but an abduction has been viewed as a possibility.”
“What you really want is a body,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately, if the boat sank and he drowned with his buddies, his body could be halfway to Tahiti by now. Or inside the stomach of a great white shark.”
“That’s why we’d like you to help us find the boat,” Ann said, a hint of pleading in her eyes.
“Sounds more like a job for the San Diego Police Department.”
“We’d like to recover the boat so our investigators can try to determine if Eberson was aboard,” Fowler said. “We’re told the waters could be rather deep, so that’s beyond the police department’s capability.”
Pitt turned to Sandecker. “Where’s the Navy in all this?”
“As it happens, the Navy’s West Coast salvage fleet is engaged in a training exercise in Alaska. On top of that, the bodies were found in Mexican territorial waters. Things will be a lot less complicated if an oceanographic research ship handled the search and recovery.”