Sahara (71 page)

“But it appears both our efforts have paid off,” acknowledged Chapman. “You and Al, finding and burning the source of the synthetic amino acid that stimulated the dinoflagellate population explosion, and our NUMA scientific team discovering the little critters are fussy about reproducing if they’re subjected to a one-part-per-million dose of copper.”

“Have you found a significant drop in the contamination streaming into the Niger River since we shut off the flow?” asked Pitt.

Gunn nodded. “By nearly 30 percent. I underestimated the migration rate of groundwater from the hazardous waste project south to the river. It moves more rapidly through the textured sand and gravel of the Sahara than I originally projected.”

“How long before the pollution reaches a safe level?”

“Dr. Chapman and I are predicting a good six months before most of its residue has flowed into the ocean.”

“Cutting off the pollutant was a vital first step,” Chapman spelled out. “It gave us extra time to air drop cop particles over large areas of the tides. I think it’s safe to say we’ve turned the corner on an eco-disaster of frightening consequences.”

“But the battle is far from over,” Sandecker reminded him. “The United States alone produces only 58 percent of the oxygen it consumes, oxygen mostly created by plankton in the Pacific Ocean. In another twenty years, because of the increase in auto and air traffic, and the continuing devastation to the world’s forests and wetlands, we’ll begin to use up our oxygen faster than nature can replenish it.”

“And we still face the problem we’re currently experiencing of chemicals poisoning the oceans,” Chapman followed the Admiral. “We’ve had a bad scare, but the near tragedy with the red tides has demonstrated how critically close human and wildlife are to the last gasp of oxygen.”

“Maybe from now on,” said Pitt, “we won’t take our air supply for granted.”

“Two weeks have passed since you took over Fort Foureau,” said Sandecker. “What’s your situation with the operation?”

“Pretty damned good, actually,” answered Giordino. “After cutting off all incoming waste shipments by train, we’ve kept the solar reactor burning day and night. Another thirty-six hours should see all industrial contaminants that Massarde hid away in the underground storage vaults destroyed.”

“What have you done about the nuclear waste storage?” asked Chapman.

“After they had a brief rest from their ordeal at Tebezza,” Pitt replied, “I asked the original French engineers who supervised the construction of the project to return. They agreed and have since assembled Malian work crews to continue excavating the storage chamber down to 1.5 kilometers.”

“Will that depth keep high-level waste safe from earth’s organisms? Plutonium 239, for example, has a half-life of 24,000 years.”

Pitt smiled. “Unknowingly, Massarde couldn’t have selected a better place for the deep burial of waste. The geology is very stable in this part of the Sahara. The rock beds have been undisturbed for hundreds of millions of years. We’re nowhere near crustal-plate boundaries, and far below existing groundwater. No one will have to worry about the waste affecting life ever again.”

“How do you intend to contain the waste after it’s stored underground?”

“The safety criteria the French waste experts have created are stringent. Before burial in the deep rock it will be encased in concrete and then in a stainless-steel cylinder. This is surrounded by a layer of asphalt and a cast-iron enclosure. Finally, a backfill of concrete is poured around the container before it is embedded in the rock.”

Chapman grinned from ear to ear. “My compliments, Dirk. You’ve put together a world-class waste disposal site.”

“Another bit of interesting news,” said Sandecker. “Our government and that of Mongolia have shut down Massarde’s hazardous waste projects in the Mojave and Gobi Deserts after surprise inspections by a team of international waste investigators found them to be substandard and unsafe.”

“The Australian outback installation was also closed,” Chapman added.

Pitt sat back and sighed. “I’m happy to hear Massarde is out of the waste disposal business.”

“Speaking of the Scorpion,” said Giordino, “how’s his condition?”

“He was buried in Tripoli yesterday,” replied Sandecker. “CIA agents reported that just before he died, he went insane and tried to make a meal of a doctor.”

“The perfect ending,” Giordino muttered sardonically.

“By the way,” said Sandecker. “The President sends his warmest regards and thanks. Says he’s going to issue a special citation of merit for your achievement.”

Pitt and Giordino turned to each other and shrugged indifferently.

Sandecker chose to ignore the display of distaste. “You might be interested in knowing that for the first time in two decades, our State Department is working closely with the new Malian parliament. Much of the improved relations were due to you turning all profits from the project over to the government to aid their social programs.”

“It seemed the proper thing to do since we couldn’t profit by it,” said Pitt benevolently.

“Any chance of a coup by the army?” inquired Gunn.

“Without Kazim, the inner core of his officers fell apart. To a man they crawled on their knees and swore undying allegiance to the leaders of the new government.”

“It’s been almost a month since any of us have seen your ugly faces in person,” Sandecker smiled. “Your job is finished in the Sahara. When can I expect you back in Washington?”

“Even the turmoil and mess of the nation’s capital would look good after this place,” muttered Giordino.

“A week’s vacation would be nice,” Pitt answered seriously. “I have to ship something home and take care of some personal business. And then there’s a little historical project I’d like to investigate here in the desert.”

“The
Texas?”

“How did you know?”

“St. Julien Perlmutter whispered in my ear.”

“I’d be grateful for a favor, Admiral.”

Sandecker made an act of shrugging condescendingly. “I guess I owe you a little free time.”

“Please arrange for Julien to fly to Mali as quickly as possible.”

“With Julien weighing in at 180 kilograms,” Sandecker looked at Pitt roguishly, “you’ll never get him on a camel.”

“Much less induce him to trek over blistering sand under a blazing sun,” Gunn joined in.

“If I’m right,” said Pitt, staring through the monitor at them in amusement, “all I’ll need to get Julien to walk twenty paces across desert terrain is a bottle of chilled Chardonnay.”

“Before I forget,” Sandecker spoke up, “the Aussies were overjoyed at your discovery of Kitty Mannock and her aircraft. You and Giordino are national heroes according to the Sydney papers.”

“Do they have plans for a recovery?”

“A wealthy rancher from her home town has agreed to fund the operation. He plans to restore the plane and hang it in a museum in Melbourne. A recovery team should be at the location you provided by tomorrow.”

“And Kitty?”

“A national holiday when her body is returned. I was told by the Australian ambassador that contributions are pouring in from all over the country for a memorial over her proposed grave site.”

“Our country should contribute too, especially the South.”

Curious, Sandecker asked, “What is our connection with her?”

“She’s going to lead us to the
Texas,”
answered Pitt matter-of-factly.

Sandecker exchanged questioning looks with the NUMA men around the table. Then he refaced Pitt’s image in the monitor and said, “We’d all be interested in knowing how a woman who’s been dead for sixty-five years can pull off that little trick.”

“I found Kitty’s logbook in the wreckage,” Pitt replied slowly. “She describes her discovery of a ship before she died, an iron ship buried in the desert.”

61

“Good lord!” Perlmutter uttered as he peered out the helicopter’s windshield at the sunrise illuminating the dead j land below. “You walked through that?”

“Actually, we sailed across this section of the desert in our improvised land yacht,” Pitt answered. “We’re flying our trek in reverse.”

Perlmutter had flown into Algiers on a military jet, and then caught a commercial airliner to the small desert city of Adrar in southern Algeria. There, Pitt and Giordino had met him shortly after midnight and escorted him aboard a helicopter they’d borrowed from the project’s French construction crew.

After refueling, they headed south, spotting the land yacht just after dawn, lying forlornly on its side where they had left it after their rescue by the Arab truck driver. They landed and dismantled the old wing, cables, and wheels that had saved their lives, lashing the pieces to the landing skids of the helicopter. Then they lifted off with Pitt at the controls and set a course for the ravine that held Kitty Mannock’s lost aircraft.

During the flight, Perlmutter read over a copy Pitt had made of Kitty’s logbook. “What a courageous lady,” he said in admiration. “With only a few swallows of water, a broken ankle, and a badly sprained knee, she hobbled nearly 16 kilometers under the most wretched conditions.”

“And that was only one way,” Pitt reminded him. “After stumbling on the ship in the desert, she limped back to her aircraft.”

“Yes, here it is,” said Perlmutter, reading aloud.

Wednesday, October 14. Extreme heat. Becoming very miserable. Followed ravine southward until it finally opened out onto a wide, dry riverbed, I estimate about 10 miles from plane. Have trouble sleeping in the bitter cold nights. This afternoon I found a strange-looking ship half buried in the desert. Thought I was hallucinating, but after touching the sloping sides of iron, I realized it was real. Entered around an old cannon protruding through an opening and spent the night. Shelter at last.

Thursday, October 15. Searched interior of ship. Too dark to see very much. Found several remains of the former crew. Very well preserved. Must have been dead a long time judging from the look of their uniforms. A plane flew over, but did not see the ship. I could not climb outside in time to signal. It was traveling in the direction of my crash. I will never be found here and have decided to return to my plane in the chance it has been discovered. I know now it was a mistake to try and walk out. If searchers found my plane they could never follow my trail. The wind has blown sand over it like snow in a blizzard. The desert has its own game, and I cannot beat it.

Perlmutter paused and looked up. “That explains why you found the logbook with her entries at the crash site. She came back in the vain hope the search planes had found hers.”

“What were her last words?” asked Giordino. Perlmutter turned a page and continued reading.

Sunday, October 18. Returned to plane but have seen no sign of rescue party. Am pretty well done in. If I am found after I’m gone, please forgive the grief I’ve caused. A kiss for my mum and dad. Tell them I tried to die bravely. I cannot write more, my brain no longer controls my hand.

When Perlmutter finished, each man felt a deep sense of sadness and melancholy. They were all moved by Kitty’s epic fight to survive. Tough guys to the end, they all fought to suppress their glistening eyes.

“She could have taught a lot of men the meaning of courage,” Pitt said heavily.

Perlmutter nodded. “Thanks to her endurance, another great mystery may be solved.”

“She gave us a ball park,” acknowledged Pitt. “All we have to do is follow the ravine south until it opens into an old riverbed and start our search for the ironclad from there.”

Two hours later, the Aussie recovery team paused in their task of carefully dismantling the weathered remains of Kitty Mannock’s old Fairchild airplane and looked up as a helicopter appeared and circled the ravine containing the wreckage. Smiles broke out as the Aussies recognized the missing wing and landing gear tied to the chopper’s landing skids.

Pitt eased back on the cyclic control and brought the craft to a gentle landing on the flat ground above the ravine to avoid covering the recovery workers and their equipment in a tornado of dust and sand. He shut down the engines and checked his watch. It was eight-forty
A.M
., a few hours shy of the hottest time of day.

St. Julien Perlmutter shifted his bulk in the copilot’s seat in preparation for his exit. “I wasn’t built for these contraptions,” he grumbled as the full blast of the heat hit him upon exiting the air-conditioned cabin.

“Beats the hell out of walking,” Giordino said as he surveyed the familiar ground. “Believe me, I know.”

A big, brawny Aussie with a ruddy face climbed from the ravine and approached them. “Allo there, you must be Dirk Pitt.”

“I’m Al Giordino, he’s Pitt.” Giordino gestured over his shoulder.

“Ned Quinn, I’m in charge of the recovery operation.”

Pitt winced as Quinn’s huge paw crushed his hand. Massaging his knuckles, Pitt said, “We brought back the parts of Kitty’s aircraft that we borrowed a few weeks ago.”

“Much appreciated.” Quinn’s voice rasped like iron against a grinding wheel. “Amazin’ bit of ingenuity, using the wing to sail over the desert.” .

“St. Julien Perlmutter,” said Perlmutter, introducing himself.

Quinn patted an enormous belly that hung over a pair of work pants. “Seems we both take to good food and drink, Mr. Perlmutter.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have some of that good Aussie beer with you by chance?”

“You like our beer?”

“I keep a case of Castlemaine from Brisbane on hand for special occasions.”

“We don’t have any Castlemaine,” said Quinn, mightily impressed, “but I can offer you a bottle of Fosters.”

“I’d be much obliged,” Perlmutter said gratefully as his sweat glands began to pour.

Quinn walked over to the cab of a flatbed truck and pulled four bottles from an ice chest. He brought them back and passed them around.

“How soon will you be finishing up?” asked Pitt, moving off the subject of brew.

Quinn turned and stared at the portable crane that was preparing to lift the engine from the ancient aircraft onto the truck. “Another three or four hours before she’s snugly tied down and we’re on our way back to Algiers.”