Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“About four days.”

“Recon showed it heading south at the Mississippi Delta,” Dirk said.

“Why hasn’t the Coast Guard or Navy tracked her down and boarded her?” Pitt asked.

“They would have but for one thing,” Dirk said. “The ship has vanished.”

65

WITHIN CLEAR SIGHT OF THE CANAL AUTHORITY Administration Building, a rust-covered grain ship sat at anchor, absorbing the gentle waves of the Pacific. Named the Santa Rita, she was flagged in Guam, though the government of Guam would have been surprised to learn as much. Aside from never filing papers there, the Santa Rita had never once carried an ounce of grain.

She was in fact an aging resource of China’s Ministry of State Security. Originally configured as a spy ship to monitor the Taiwan Strait, she later carried missiles to Iran in her grain-hauling configuration. Retired to less clandestine duty, she had been under contract to haul a shipment of Mexican pharmaceuticals to Shanghai when Zhou took her over off Costa Rica.

The tired agent was resting on the bridge, just a short time after returning from his nighttime foray into Bolcke’s camp, when his cell phone rang. As he checked the number, his stoic face registered a hint of surprise.

“Zhou,” he answered bluntly.

“Zhou, this is Edward Bolcke. I have to inform you we will be making a slight change in the rendezvous plans.”

“I was expecting the transfer to occur within the hour.”

“There’s been a minor security delay, but there’s no cau

se for alarm. The shipment is safe. We will, however, need to postpone the rendezvous for another six hours.”

Zhou grew silent. His explosives would detonate at Bolcke’s compound in approximately four hours. He had timed them to go off after he received the Sea Arrow’s motor and plans. The entire transfer was now in jeopardy.

“That is unacceptable,” Zhou said calmly. “I have a strict timetable to adhere to.”

“My apologies, but you can understand the sensitivities at play. My vessel is nearing the Gatun Locks and will still require the complete canal passage. If you wish, you might consider entering the canal at your end. If you head north through the Miraflores Locks, we could make the transfer in Miraflores Lake. That would reduce the time of our delivery by an hour or two. I can make a call and move you up for immediate passage through the lock.”

The last place Zhou wanted to be was trapped in the middle of the Panama Canal. But if that was the only opportunity to acquire the Sea Arrow’s secrets, so be it. With luck, Bolcke might not know his facility was a smoldering ruin when he passed over the technology.

“Very well,” Zhou said. “Make the transit arrangements, and I will proceed to Miraflores Lake. Please expedite your vessel, as we will be waiting.”

Hanging up, he stared out the bridge window, feeling like he was about to dance on the edge of a razor.

66

NEARLY FORTY SHIPS WERE MOORED IN LIMON BAY, congesting like a swarm of bees around a hive. Each awaited its turn to be funneled from the Atlantic Ocean into the Panama Canal. A small containership arrived and cut past the long line of freighters, tankers, and other carriers to take its place at the front of the line.

The century-old Big Ditch was handling more ships than ever, but its capacity was soon to swell. A major expansion was under way, adding two new sets of locks capable of handling the world’s largest containerships. While expensive to cross, the Panama Canal shaved thousands of miles off the alternative of traveling around Cape Horn.

Watching the containership sail past, the captains waiting their turn in Limon Bay knew that jumping to the head of the line required paying a steep premium.

The containership slowed as a pilot boat drew alongside, delivering a Panama Canal Authority boarding officer and a canal pilot. The ship’s captain escorted them to the bridge, where he relinquished command to the pilot, a requirement of all ships transiting the canal. The boarding officer confirmed the ship’s tonnage and dimensions to determine the vessel’s fare.

“Manifest, please,” he asked the captain.

The officer thumbed through the document, noting a short list of equipment parts.

“Most of those containers empty?” he asked.

“Yes, taking them to Balboa,” the captain said.

“I noticed you were riding high in the water.” He computed the fee, with a steep kicker for moving up in line. “Your account will be charged accordingly.” Then he turned to the pilot. “The Portobelo is cleared to proceed.” He left the bridge and reboarded the pilot boat, which whisked him to the next ship waiting in line.

The pilot sailed the Portobelo down a long channel to the Gatun Locks, the canal’s Atlantic entry point. The locks consisted of a parallel set of three huge sequential chambers, which enabled southbound vessels to be lifted eighty-five feet above sea level to begin crossing the isthmus.