Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“That’s a precarious spot for a toxic mercury problem,” Dirk said, “right at the head of the Gulf Stream.”

“That’s what has us worried. A major mercury plume there might carry up Florida’s east coast, and beyond.”

A crewman entered the wardroom and approached Summer. “Miss Pitt, your teleconference is ready. There’s a Mr. Perlmutter waiting on-screen.”

Summer smiled at her brother as she jumped from her chair. “Maybe he found the stone,” she said, before following the crewman to a nearby video conference room.

“The stone?” Giordino asked. “What were you two up to in Jamaica?”

Dirk described their encounter-laden quest for the two Aztec stones since deciphering the codex, eliciting a grave look of concern from Pitt.

“There must be something valuable waiting for the person who puts the two pieces together,” Giordino said. He rubbed his chin a moment. “You said Aztec stone? You should meet our friend Herbert.”

Giordino stepped to a corner table, where the statue they plucked off the bottom was serving time as a paperweight for some sonar records. He grabbed the statue along with a handful of photos.

“Say hello to Herbert.” He set the statue on the table in front of Dirk. “We found him in a large canoe near one of the vents. Our shipboard archeologist thinks it could be Aztec.”

Dirk studied the figurine with a hint of recognition. The warrior’s strong profile and costume had a distinct familiarity.

“Dr. Madero showed us a similar statue in his university’s museum. It looks a lot like one of the Aztec deities.” He looked at Giordino with curiosity. “You said you found this on a canoe?”

Giordino nodded and slid over the photos. “Images we took from the Starfish, at a depth of twelve hundred feet.”

“The stone depicts the voyage of several large boats on a pilgrimage to the Aztec’s homeland,” Dirk said. “Dr. Madero told us that while the Mayans were known to trade at sea, there’s no record of the Aztecs traveling offshore.”

“Then either the canoe is Mayan or somebody needs to change the history books.”

“Did you find any other artifacts with the canoe?” Dirk asked.

“No,” Pitt said. “But those mining vehicle tracks ran right up to it, so someone else may have picked it over.”

Summer returned to the room, showing a defeated look on her face.

“No luck with the stone?” Dirk said.

“None of it good. It’s not at Yale, or anywhere else in the U.S., as far as St. Julien can determine. It seems that Ellsworth Boyd, the archeologist who found half the stone, never made it back home. Shortly after departing Jamaica, he was killed in Cuba. Believe it or not, he died in the explosion that sank the USS Maine.”

“What was he doing aboard the Maine?” Giordino asked.

Summer shook her head. “Nobody knows. St. Julien’s going to do some more digging. He seems to think there’s a chance the stone was with him aboard the Maine.”

The group fell silent as they contemplated the sunken warship that instigated the Spanish–American War.

Dirk finally looked at his father with a devilish smile. “You said we’re heading to a spot about twenty miles off of Havana?”

“That’s correct.”

“That should put us right in the ballpark.”

“The ballpark for what?”

“If my history serves,” Dirk said, “the place where the Maine now lies at a rest.”

33

When the armored cruiser Maine blew up unexpectedly in February 1898, killing two hundred and sixty-one sailors, there was an immediate siren call for war. Though the cause of the spark that triggered her powder magazines to detonate still remains a mystery, contemporary fingers all pointed at Spain. Jingoistic fever, fanned by a strong dose of yellow journalism, quickly incited a declaration of war.

The resulting Spanish–American War was itself a short-lived affair. Within months, the American Navy had crushed the Spanish fleet in battles at Santiago and Manila Bay. In July, Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders won the day at San Juan Hill, and by August a peace agreement had been brokered between the antagonists.