Black Wind (5 page)

Dirk could clearly see the dirty gray outline of the island on the horizon. “Looks to be about twenty miles from here.”

Eyeing the helicopter's fuel gauge, he continued, “I think we've got time for a quick gander before our fuel runs low. Okay if you miss your pedicure treatment in the ship's salon?”

“Sure, I'll just reschedule it with my body wrap tomorrow,” Dahlgren replied.

“I'll let Burch know where we're headed,” Dirk said, dialing up the ship's radio frequency.

“Tell him to hold supper in the galley,” Dahlgren added while rubbing his stomach. “I'm working up an appetite taking in all this scenery.”

As Dirk radioed the survey ship, he guided the Sikorsky toward the island of Amukta, skimming low over the open water. The powerful helicopter, designed for offshore oil transport, flew straight as a rail under Dirk's firm hand. After cruising steadily for ten minutes, Dahlgren quietly lifted an arm and pointed out the cockpit window to an object on the horizon. It was a white speck, growing larger by the second, until it slowly revealed itself as a large boat complete with trailing wake. Without a word, Dirk applied gentle pressure to his left pedal control until the helicopter eased about on the same line as the boat. Approaching rapidly, they could see it was a steel-hulled fishing trawler, running to the southwest at full bore.

“Now, there's a tub calling out for a little spit and polish,” Pitt remarked as he eased off the throttle to match speeds with the boat.

Though not appearing particularly old, the fishing vessel had obvious signs of hard use over the years. Scrapes, dents, and grease marks abounded both on the hull and throughout the open deck. Its original coating of white paint was worn thin in the spots where rust had not yet declared victory. By outward appearance, she looked as tired as the frayed bald tires hanging over her sides like a string of donuts. Yet like many disheveled-appearing workboats, her twin diesel engines were newly rebuilt and pushed the hulk hard through the waves with a barely a wisp of black smoke from the funnel.

Dirk studied the boat carefully, noting with interest that no flags flew from the mast, which might identify nationality. Both the bow sides and the stern were absent a ship name or home port. As he perused the stern deck, two Asian men in blue jumpsuits stepped into view and peered at the helicopter with looks of angst.

“Don't look overly friendly now, do they?” Dahlgren remarked before waving and grinning toward the boat. The two jumpsuits simply scowled in return.

“You wouldn't be, either, if you worked on that mangy derelict,” Dirk said as he steadied the Sikorsky in a hover just aft of the churning boat. “Anything strike you as odd about that fishing boat?” he asked, eyeing the stern deck.

“You mean the fact that no fishing equipment is anywhere to be seen?”

“Precisely,” Dirk replied, inching the helicopter closer to the boat. He noted an odd trestle mounted in the center of the deck, built up approximately fifteen feet high. No streaks of rust could be seen on the metal framing, indicating it was a recent addition to the boat. In a star-shaped pattern at the base of the trestle was a gray powdery marking that appeared singed into the surface of the deck.

As the helicopter crept closer, the two men on deck suddenly began jabbering animately with each other, then ducked down a stairwell. At the head of the stairwell, five sea lion carcasses were stretched out on the deck side by side like sardines in a tin. To the left of the corpses was a small steel pen, which contained three live sea lions.

“Since when has the demand for seal blubber surpassed the market for crab legs?” Dahlgren said idly.

“Not sure, but I don't think Nanook of the North would be too happy about these guys stealing his dinner.”

Then came the flash of fire. Dirk detected it out of the corner of his eye and instinctively pressed hard on the left foot pedal, throwing the Sikorsky into a quick half spin. The move saved their lives. As the helicopter began to turn, a spray of bullets found their mark and burst into the machine. But rather than smashing into the forward section of the cockpit, the hail of fire entered in front of the pilots and ripped into the instrument panel. The console, gauges, and radio shattered into bits, but the pilots and critical mechanical components went unharmed.

“Guess they didn't like the Nanook comment,” Dahlgren deadpanned as he watched the two men in jumpsuits reappear and fire into the helicopter with automatic rifles.

Dirk said nothing as he throttled up the Sikorsky to its maximum thrust and attempted to swing clear of the gunmen. On the port half deck of the trawler, the two men were continuing to fire their Russian-made AK-74s at the helicopter. Without contemplating their target, they foolishly aimed their fire at the cabin rather than the more susceptible rotors. Inside the helicopter, the rackety sound of the machine-gun fire was lost to the whine of the engine and rotors. Dirk and Dahlgren could hear only a slight tapping behind them on the fuselage.

Dirk wheeled the helicopter around in a wide arc to the starboard side of the trawler, putting the ship's bridge between him and the gunmen, shielding themselves from the gunfire. Temporarily free from attack, he muscled the helicopter level, then aimed it toward the island of Amukta looming in the distance.

But the damage had been done. The cockpit began filling with smoke as Dirk fought the fiercely bucking controls. The rain of lead had smashed into the electronics, pierced hydraulic lines, and riddled the control gauges. Dahlgren detected a warm trickle on his ankle and felt down to find a neat hole shot through his calf. Several rounds had also found the turbine, but still the rotor chugged on, coughing and cajoling itself in gasps.

“I'll try for the island, but be prepared to ditch,” Dirk shouted over the racket of the disintegrating engine. A foul blue smoke filled the cockpit, accompanied by the acrid odor of burning wiring. Through the haze, Dirk could barely make out the island ahead, and what looked like a small beach.

In his hands, the control stick shook like a jackhammer. Dirk used all his strength to hold the craft steady and willed it forward as it began to shake itself apart. Agonizingly close, he could see the shoreline beckoning as the aircraft lurched ahead low to the sea, smoke belching, its wheels skimming just above the surf. But just short of the shoreline, the shot-up turbine could take no more. Digesting a handful of its own parts, the turbine wailed before grinding to a halt with a loud pop.

As the turbine died, Dirk pulled on the collective control lever with all his might to keep the nose up as power to the rotors was lost. The tail rotor sliced down into the water, acting as an anchor to slow the forward progress of the entire craft. The Sikorsky hung suspended for a moment in the air before gravity caught up and the cabin dropped to the water, slapping the surface with a smack. The main rotor spun into the surf, attempting to whip through the sea, but the sudden impact with the water cracked the main spindle and the entire rotor cartwheeled off to the side fifty feet before sinking in a spray of foam.

The cabin of the Sikorsky remarkably held together during the crash and bobbed on the surface for a second before being sucked under the waves. Through the smashed windshield, Dirk caught a glimpse of a wave breaking over a sandy beach before the icy water filled the cockpit and stung his body. Dahlgren was trying to kick out a side-panel door as the green water enveloped them rapidly, rising to the cockpit ceiling. In unison, each man raised his head and took a last gasp of air before the murky cold water rose over them. Then the turquoise helicopter disappeared completely from the surface in a swirl of bubbles, sinking swiftly to the rocky seafloor.

3

C
APTAIN
B
URCH
immediately launched a search-and-rescue mission after he lost radio contact with Dirk and Dahlgren. He brought the
Deep Endeavor
to Dirk's last reported position, then began a visual search for the two men, sailing west in a zigzag pattern from Yunaska to Amukta. Every available crewman was called to the deck to scan the horizon for signs of the men or helicopter, while in the ship's radio shack the radioman continued a tireless call for the missing aircraft.

After three hours of searching, no trace was found of the helicopter and an apprehensive dread fell over the ship's crew. The
Deep Endeavor
had worked its way close to Amukta Island, which was little more than a steep volcanic cone popping out of the sea. Dusk was approaching and the sky turned a purplish red on the western horizon as the day's light slowly diminished. Executive Officer Leo Delgado was studying the steep shape of the mountainous island when a faint blur caught his eye.

“Captain, there's smoke on the shoreline,” he reported, pointing a finger toward the hazy spot on the island.

Burch held a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked intently at the spot for several moments.

“Burning debris, sir?” Delgado asked, fearful of the answer.

“Perhaps. Or it could be a signal fire. Can't tell from here. Delgado, take two men in the Zodiac and see what you can find on shore. I'll bring the ship in behind you as close as I can get.”

“Yes, sir,” Delgado responded, already crossing the bridge before the captain had finished speaking.

A gusty breeze had kicked up, making the evening seas choppy by the time the Zodiac was lowered into the water. Delgado and the two crewmen got doused with cold sea spray repeatedly as the rubber boat bounced over the swells in their anxious drive to the shore. The skies were nearly dark and the helmsmen had a difficult time tracking the wisps of smoke against the black backdrop of the peaked island. The island appeared to be surrounded by a steep and rocky shoreline and Delgado wondered whether they would even be able to get ashore. Finally, he spotted a quick glimpse of the fire's flame and directed the Zodiac toward it. A small channel through the rocks opened up, leading to a pebble-strewn patch of beach. Gunning the motor to ride the crest of a wave in, the twelve-foot rubber boat bounded through the channel and ground to the shore with a crunch as the hull plate scraped some small rocks before sliding to a stop.

Delgado jumped out of the inflatable boat and ran apprehensively toward the smoky fire. Two shadowy figures could be seen hunched over the smoldering driftwood fire trying to keep warm, their backs turned to Delgado.

“Pitt? Dahlgren? Are you guys okay?” Delgado shouted out hesitantly before approaching too close.

The two soggy-looking derelicts slowly turned toward Delgado as if rudely interrupted from an important meeting. Dahlgren was holding a half-eaten crab claw in one hand, while the head of a white mouse peeked out of his chest pocket sniffing the night air. Dirk stood holding a sharp stick, the end of which pierced the shell of a huge Alaskan king crab whose spiny legs Dirk dangled over the open flame.

“Well,” Dirk said, tearing a steaming leg off the big crustacean, “we could use some lemon and butter.”

*  *  *

A
FTER BRIEFING
Burch on their encounter with the fishing trawler, Dirk and Dahlgren limped to the ship's medical station for treatment of their wounds and to slip into some dry clothes. Dahlgren's bullet wound had pierced the meaty section of his left calf but, fortunately, had missed damaging any tendons. As the ship's doctor inserted sutures to close up the wound, Dahlgren nonchalantly lit up a cigar while lying on the examination table. When the smoke hit the physician's nostrils, he nearly ripped out the sutures by hand before forcing Dahlgren to douse the smelly tobacco. With a grin, the doctor handed Dahlgren a pair of crutches and told him to stay off his leg for three days.

Dirk had his bloodied cheek and forehead cleaned and bandaged after catching a face full of shattered glass when the helicopter hit the surf. Remarkably, the two men incurred no other injuries from the crash and sinking of the Sikorsky. Dirk had saved them from drowning when he noticed a fuselage door had popped off during the crash landing. After the helicopter filled with water, Dirk grabbed Dahlgren and swam out the opening and made for the surface. With the aid of Dahlgren's trusty Zippo lighter, they were able to ignite some dry driftwood on the beach and stave off hypothermia until Delgado arrived in the rubber boat.

Captain Burch, meanwhile, reported the loss of the helicopter to NUMA headquarters, as well as reporting the incident to the Coast Guard and the Atka village public safety officer. The nearest Coast Guard patrol vessel was hundreds of miles away at Attu Island. Information about the fishing trawler was reported in detail but the odds for an interdiction were slim at best.

After donning a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, Dirk made his way to the wheelhouse. Burch was leaning over the chart table plotting a course through the Aleutian Islands.

“Aren't we heading back to Yunaska to retrieve the bodies of the Coast Guardsmen?” Dirk asked.

Burch shook his head. “Not our job. Better to leave them be and allow the proper authorities to handle the investigation. I'm laying a course for the fishing port at Unalaska to disembark the CDC scientists.”

“I'd rather make for that trawler,” Dirk said.

“We've lost our helicopter and they have an eight-hour lead on us. We'd be lucky to find them, assuming we could even outrun them. The Navy, Coast Guard, and local authorities have all been alerted to your description. They have a better chance of finding that trawler than we do.”

“Perhaps, but their resources are all thin in this part of the world. Those chances are slim at best.”

“There's little more we can do. Our survey work is finished and we need to get those injured scientists appropriate medical care. There's no sense in hanging around any longer.”

Dirk nodded. “You're right, of course.” Wishing there was a way to find the trawler, he headed down the ladder to the ship's galley for a cup of coffee. Dinner had long since been served and a cleanup crew was working over the kitchen before shutting down. Dirk filled a mug of coffee from a large silver urn, then turned and spotted Sarah sitting in a wheelchair at the end of the dining hall. The golden-haired woman sat alone at a table, peering out a large porthole at the moonlit water outside. She was dressed in the dull medical ward attire of cotton pajamas, slippers, and a blue robe but still gave off a vibrant glow. As Dirk approached, she looked up and her eyes twinkled.

“Too late for dinner?” he asked apologetically.

“Afraid so. You missed the chef's special Halibut Oscar, which was truly excellent.”

“Just my luck,” Dirk replied, drawing a chair and sitting down directly across from her.

“What happened to you?” Sarah asked with concern in her voice as she eyed the bandages on Dirk's face.

“Just a little accident with the helicopter. I don't think my boss is going to like the news,” he said with a grimace, thinking about the expensive helicopter sitting at the bottom of the sea. Dirk proceeded to describe the events of the flight, all the while gazing intently into Sarah's hazel-colored eyes.

“Do you think the fishing boat had something to do with the death of the Coast Guardsmen and us getting sick?” she asked.

“It only goes to figure. They obviously weren't too keen on us seeing them poaching sea lions, or whatever else they were up to.”

“The sea lions,” Sarah murmured. “Did you see any sea lions on the west end of the island when you flew over?”

“Yes, Jack spotted several just past the Coast Guard station on the western shore. They all appeared to be dead.”

“Do you think the
Deep Endeavor
could obtain one of the cadavers to study? I could arrange to have the specimen sent to the state lab in Washington we are working out of.”

“Captain Burch isn't eager to stick around the area, but I'm sure I can convince him to retrieve one for scientific purposes,” Dirk said before taking a long draw from his coffee. “We are actually headed back to port in Seattle, so we could deliver it there in a few more days.”

“We could perform an autopsy of the animal and determine the source of death relatively quickly. I'm sure the Alaska state authorities will take some time to release the cause of death of the two Coast Guardsmen, and they might not want the CDC looking over their shoulder.”

“Do you think there might be a link with the dead sea lions that were found on the other Aleutian islands?”

“I don't know. We believe the cadavers found near the mainland were infected by a canine distemper virus.”

“Distemper? From dogs?”

“Yes. A viral outbreak likely occurred through contact between an infected domestic dog and one or more sea lions. Distemper is very contagious and could spread rapidly through a concentrated sea lion population.”

“Wasn't there a similar outbreak in Russia a few years ago?” Dirk tried to recall.

“Kazakhstan, actually. Thousands of Caspian seals died in 2000 due to an outbreak of distemper near the Ural River along the Caspian Sea.”

“Irv told me you found healthy, uninfected sea lions on Yunaska.”

“Yes, the distemper did not appear to have reached this far west. Which will make an examination of the dead sea lions you saw from the helicopter that much more intriguing.”

A quiet pause fell over the couple and Sarah could see a faraway look in Dirk's eyes as the wheels churned inside his head. After a moment, she broke the silence.

“The men on the boat. Who do you think they were? What were they doing?”

Dirk stared out the porthole for a long minute. “I don't know,” he replied quietly, “but I intend to find out.”