Pitt was already banking the helicopter to the east, crossing over Waldorf, Maryland, on a path to the Chesapeake Bay.
“Washington doesn’t rate?” Giordino asked.
“While I would think twice about swimming in the Anacostia River,” Gunn said, “both it and the Potomac have historically shown minimally active dead zones.”
“We’ll shoot for Annapolis,” Pitt said.
They soon reached the Chesapeake and Pitt banked the Robinson to the north. They cruised above the western side of the ten-mile-wide bay, performing flybys over several commercial vessels and a large sailboat Pitt recognized as a skipjack. The Severn River inlet loomed to their left and Pitt followed the waterway west, curling around Annapolis and its surrounding creeks. Aside from a few rusty dredge barges filled with mud, nothing resembled the black tow barge.
As Pitt looped back to the Chesapeake, Gunn called again. “We found several more anoxic zones farther north.”
“Any near population centers?” Pitt asked.
“The Patapsco River is loaded with them.”
“Baltimore?”
“Yes, just outside the Inner Harbor.” Gunn paused for a moment. “Winds in Baltimore are currently out of the southeast at around ten knots. If your theory is right and they set it off in the Patapsco, they could kick up a cloud of hydrogen sulfide that would drift right over the city.”
“There’s three million people there,” Giordino said.
“The gas would be exponentially more lethal than the bomb itself,” Gunn said.
“It fits the threat,” Pitt said. “Rudi, do you remember the letter to the President from the Ukrainian rebel group?”
“Yes. Didn’t it say they were going to hit Washington?”
“No. They said they would strike our historic capital. And they said the Star-Spangled Banner will no longer wave. Direct lyrics from our national anthem.”
“Of course,” Gunn said. “Fort McHenry. Francis Scott Key. He wrote the original poem from Baltimore.”
“Not only that, but if I’m not mistaken, Baltimore was an early, temporary capital for the Continental Congress before New York and Washington, D.C.”
“I’ll alert the Baltimore Coast Guard station at once.”
“We’ll be there in a flash. Pitt out.”
Pitt nudged the cyclic control forward to squeeze more speed out of the Robinson as he angled back north up the Chesapeake. The entrance to the Patapsco River appeared on the horizon less than ten miles away.
“I sure hope you’re wrong about all that,” Giordino said.
“So do I,” Pitt said. “So do I.”
But five minutes later, upon reaching the approach to the Patapsco River, they spotted a small black barge under tow to Baltimore.
82
“Wagner’s Point is three miles ahead.” The Lauren Belle’s helmsman pointed out the pilothouse window to a landmass just beyond the Francis Scott Key Bridge.
Vasko glanced at the approaching highway bridge, then turned his attention to a nautical chart of Chesapeake Bay. Provided by Hendriks, it marked in purple highlights the bay’s low-oxygen zones. They were already sailing over such a zone, but their target was a southern tributary of the Patapsco River past the Key Bridge. It not only had a history of high anoxic rates during the summer but the site had the added advantage of being within sight of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.
He stepped across the small pilothouse and showed the chart to the helmsman. “Take us just off the tip of the Point. We’ll cut and sink the barge there. What’s our top speed without a tow?”
“She’ll do close to fifteen knots.”
“There’s a charter plane waiting for us across the bay at a place called Smith’s Field. Get us there as fast as possible, once we cut the barge loose.”
“Will do.” A thumping noise vibrated through the bridge, and he pointed out an open rear door. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”