Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“Bolcke is orchestrating the theft of our own rare earth?”

“Yes,” Tao said. “He was brought in as a consultant at the mine some years ago, giving him opportunity to establish the theft ring. But it’s worse than that.” He nodded at Zhou.

“I examined a number of port records to track the freighter’s path,” Zhou said. “From Tianjin it sailed to Shanghai, and then to Hong Kong, where it off-loaded thirty metric tons of crushed bastnasite that the Ministry of Commerce had purchased on the open market. The purchase was brokered through Bolcke’s firm, Habsburg Industries.”

“Bolcke is selling us our own rare earth?” Jintai nearly popped out of his chair.

Zhou nodded.

“The greedy swine!” Catching his breath, he turned to Tao. “What do we do now?”

Tao carefully snuffed his cigarette in an ashtray before locking eyes with Jintai.

“The American technology must be obtained at all costs. We will send Zhou to Panama to proceed with its acquisition.”

“What about the rare earths? Do we proceed with the export ban and fund the mine acquisition?”

“We will still push for the export ban. As for the mine funding . . .” His hardened face turned sly. “We will arrange to pay back Mr. Bolcke in a manner that will produce the same ends.”

37

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sp; PLUMERIA BLOSSOMS, MIXED WITH THE FAINT aroma of aviation fuel, filled the air as Pitt and Giordino exited the terminal at Honolulu International Airport. The bright sunshine and tropical breeze instantly washed away the fatigue of their twelve-hour flight from Washington. Giordino hailed a cab, and they hopped in for the short ride to Pearl Harbor.

The palm-lined streets brought back a flood of memories to Pitt. He had spent considerable time in the Hawaiian Islands during his first years with NUMA. It was here he had fallen in love with a radiant woman named Summer Moran. Though it had been decades since he had last seen her alive, her delicate face and sparkling eyes remained as clear to him as the sky overhead. The deceased mother of his two grown children, she lay buried in an ocean-view cemetery on the other side of the island.

Pitt shook away his recollections as they reached the entrance to the Navy base. A young ensign was waiting for them at the visitors’ gate and politely loaded their bags into a Jeep. He navigated onto the docks and pulled up next to a slab-sided vessel with a slim, round superstructure that looked like it had been lopped off with a sharp knife.

“What is it?” Giordino asked. “Some sort of car ferry on steroids?”

“You’re not far from the mark,” Pitt said. “The Fortitude’s design is based on a high-speed automobile ferry built by an Australian company.”

“Catamaran hull?” Giordino said, noting the ship’s rotund bow was supported by twin vertical hulls.

“Yes, and made of aluminum. The Fortitude is driven by water-jet propulsion. She’s part of the Military Sealift Command, and is designed to transport troops and equipment quickly. The Navy’s building a small fleet of them.”

As they retrieved their bags from the Jeep, a lantern-jawed man in fatigues approached them. “Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes, I’m Pitt.”

“Lieutenant Aaron Plugrad, Coast Guard Maritime Safety.” The man reached out and shook Pitt’s hand with an iron grip. “My men are already secured aboard the Fortitude. I’m told we can shove off at any time.”

“What’s the size of your team, Lieutenant?”

“I lead a squad of eight men, well trained to combat piracy operations. If there’s a hijacking attempt, we’ll stop it.”

Plugrad and his men came from a little-known command called the Coast Guard Deployable Operations Group. Essentially a SWAT team at sea, they were trained in counterterrorism, high-risk ship boardings, and explosives detection.

“One question for you, sir,” Plugrad said. “We received a crate from NUMA containing a dozen high-end Hazmat suits. We went ahead and loaded the crate aboard ship.”

“Those are for your men,” Pitt said. “Be sure each is issued a suit when we board the Adelaide. We have a theory that the potential assault may involve the use of a beefed-up microwave system similar to those developed by the Army for crowd control.”

“I’m familiar with that system,” Plugrad said. “We’ll take the necessary precautions.”

Pitt and Giordino boarded the sleek ship, where they were greeted by the Fortitude’s captain, a prematurely gray Navy commander named Jarrett. He led the NUMA men to the bridge, where he outlined their proposed course on a navigation monitor.

“We’ll be looking to rendezvous with the Adelaide here,” Jarrett said, stabbing a finger at an empty expanse of ocean southeast of the Hawaiian Islands. “It’s about eleven hundred miles from Oahu. We’ll zero in on the Adelaide’s course once we get closer, but we should catch her in less than twenty-four hours.”