Black Wind (Dirk Pitt 18)

Kermit Burch stood at the helm reading a fax communique when Dirk stepped into the bridge from the starboard wing door. The seasoned captain of the Deep Endeavor shook his head slightly as he read the document, then turned to Dirk with a slightly annoyed look on his face.

"We've notified the Coast Guard and the Department of Homeland Security, but nobody intends to do anything until the local authorities have filed their report. The village public safety officer from Atka is the area law enforcement official and he can't get to the island until morning," Burch snorted. "Two men dead and they treat it as an accident."

"We don't have much to go on," Dirk replied. "I spoke with Carl Nash, our saltwater environmental analyst, who is well versed on te

rrestrial pollutants. According to Nash, there are naturally occurring environmental emissions, such as sulfuric volcanic releases, which could have killed the men. High concentrations of industrial pollutants are another potential culprit, although I'm not aware of any neighborhood chemical plants in the Aleutians."

"The public safety officer told me it sounds to him like a classic case of carbon monoxide poisoning from the station house generator. Of course, that doesn't explain our friends from the CDC succumbing to similar effects four miles away."

"Nor does it explain the dog I found dead outside of the station house," Dirk added.

"Well, perhaps the CDC crew can shed some light on the matter. How are our three guests doing, by the way?"

"A little groggy still. They don't remember much, other than that it struck pretty rapidly."

"The sooner we get them to a proper medical facility, the sooner

I'll rest easier. The nearest airfield is Unalaska, which we can make in under fourteen hours. I'll radio ahead for a medical flight to transfer them to Anchorage."

"Captain, I'd like to take the helicopter back out and reconnoiter the island. We didn't have much of a chance to look around on the last flight. Maybe there's something we missed. Any objections?"

"No ... just so long as you take that Texas joker with you," Burch replied with a pained grin.

As Dirk ran through a preflight checklist from the pilot seat of the NUMA Sikorsky S-76C+ offshore helicopter, a sandy-haired man with a bushy mustache ambled across the flight platform. With scuffed cowboy boots, chiseled arms, and a ubiquitous scowl that hid a mordant sense of humor, Jack Dahlgren looked like a bull rider who got lost on the way to the rodeo. A notorious practical joker, Dahlgren had already worked his way under Burch's skin by spiking the galley's coffee urn with a cheap bottle of rum on their first night at sea. An engineering whiz who grew up in west Texas, Dahlgren knew his way around horses and guns, as well as every type of mechanical equipment that operated above or below the sea.

"Is this the scenic island tour my travel agent recommended?" he asked Dirk, sticking his head through a sliding cockpit window.

"Step right up, sonny boy, you won't be disappointed. All the water, rocks, and sea lions your eyes can absorb."

"Sounds swell. I'll give you an extra quarter if you can find me a bar with a short-skirted waitress."

"I'll see what I can do," Dirk grinned as Dahlgren climbed into the copilot's seat.

The two men had become fast friends years before, while studying ocean engineering at Florida Atlantic University. Avid divers, they regularly cut classes together in order to spearfish the coral reefs lying off Boca Raton, using their fresh-caught fish to woo local sorority girls with barbecues on the beach. After graduating, Jack completed his college ROTC commitment in the Navy while Dirk obtained a master's degree from the New York Maritime College and trained at a commercial dive school. The two men were reunited when Dirk joined his father at NUMA as a special projects director and convinced his old friend to accompany him at the prestigious research agency.

After years of diving together, there was almost an unspoken bond between the two men. They knew they could depend on each other and performed at their best when the chips were down. Dahlgren had seen the look of determination in Dirk's eyes before and knew the dogged persistence that came with it. The mysterious events on Yu-naska were weighing on his friend, Dahlgren noticed, and he wasn't likely to let it go.

The main rotor blade of the Sikorsky wound to a high pitch as Dirk gently eased the helicopter up and off a small landing platform mounted amidships of the Deep Endeavor. Climbing to one hundred feet, Dirk held the helicopter stationary for a moment, admiring the bird's-eye view of the NUMA research ship. The wide-beamed, turquoise-colored survey ship had a stubby look to her 270-foot length. But the lack of a svelte streamline made for a stable work platform, ideal for operating the myriad of cranes and hoists strategically positioned about the large, open stern deck. In the middle of the deck, a bright yellow submersible sparkled like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight as it rested on a large wooden cradle, while several technicians tinkered with its thrusters and electronics. One of the technicians stood and waved his cap toward the suspended helicopter. Dirk threw the man a quick wave, then banked the chopper and headed northeast toward the island of Yunaska, less than ten miles away.

"Back to Yunaska?" asked Dahlgren.

"The Coast Guard station we scouted this morning."

"Great," Dahlgren moaned. "We acting as a flying hearse?"

"No, just checking out the source of whatever killed the men and dog."

"And are we looking for animal, vegetable, or mineral?" Dahlgren asked through his headset, his teeth mashing a large wad of gum.

"All three," Dirk replied. "Carl Nash told me that a toxic cloud could be created by anything from an active volcano to an algae bloom, not to mention your garden-variety industrial pollutant."

"Just stop at the next walrus and I'll ask for directions to the closest pesticide factory."

"That reminds me, where's Basil?" Dirk asked, his eyes glancing about the cockpit.

"Right here, safe and sound," Dahlgren replied, grabbing a small cage from beneath his seat and holding it up in front of his face. Inside, a small white mouse peered back at Dahlgren, his tiny whiskers twitching back and forth.

"Breathe deep, little friend, and don't go to sleep on us," Dahlgren requested of the furry rodent. He then strung the cage from an overhead lanyard, like a canary in a coal mine, so they could easily see if the mouse succumbed to any toxins in the air.