Black Wind

A lone sentry finally emerged in the distance, walking slowly along the shoreline. As he passed under a floodlight, Dirk could clearly see the glint of an assault rifle slung under the man's shoulder. Casually, the guard strode out onto the dock and alongside the three boats, pausing for several minutes near the large yacht. Growing bored, he strode back down the dock and onto shore, advancing along a stone walkway toward the estate elevator, where he deposited himself in a small security station at the base of the cliff.

“That's our man,” Dirk whispered. “As long as he stays in that hut, his view of the speedboat is overshadowed by the larger boats.” “Now's the time to steal it, before he makes the next round.” Dirk nodded and the two of them pushed away from the rocks and began swimming silently toward the dock. He kept an eye on the guardhouse while mentally computing how long it might take to hotwire the speedboat's ignition in the dark if the keys weren't conveniently left in the boat.

They swam well away from the dock, so as not to arouse suspicion until they were directly offshore of the speedboat, then slowly worked their way in toward it. With handcuffs still clasped to their wrists, their swimming motions felt clumsy, but they quietly kept their hands under the water as they stroked.

Furtively approaching the dock, they were blocked from view of the guardhouse until they reached the stern of the boat, where they again had a view of the shore. The guard was still in the security hut, where he could be seen sitting on a stool reading a magazine.

Using hand motions, Dirk directed Summer to remove the boat's stern line while he would swim forward and take care of the bowline. Moving along the boat's hull, he felt the looming presence of Kang's yacht towering over him as he crossed the smaller boat's bow. Stretching to grab the mooring line in order to pull himself to the dock, he suddenly heard a sharp click directly above him and he froze still in the water. A spark of yellow light erupted briefly, and, in the glow, he could see the ruddy face of a guard lighting a cigarette on the fantail of Kang's yacht no more than ten feet away.

Dirk didn't move a muscle, steadying himself with one hand clasped on the speedboat's prow, careful not to disturb the quietly lapping water. He watched patiently as the red ember of the cigarette rhythmically flared like a crimson beacon as the guard inhaled on the tobacco. Dirk found himself holding his breath, not for himself but for Summer, whom he hoped would avoid detection at the stern of the boat. The guard fully enjoyed his smoke, pulling at it for ten minutes before flinging the butt over the railing. The burning stub landed in the water just three feet from Dirk's head, extinguishing with a hiss.

Waiting until he heard the padded sound of footsteps move away from the railing, Dirk ducked underwater and swam toward the rear of the speedboat. Surfacing just astern of the boat's propeller, he found Summer waiting with an impatient look on her face. Dirk shook his head at her, then quietly pulled himself up the rear transom of the speedboat and peered toward the pilot seat. In the darkness, he could just barely make out the dashboard ignition, which winked back at him void of a key. He slunk back into the water and looked at Summer, then reached for the loose mooring line in her hands. She was surprised when he ducked underwater for a minute, then surfaced empty-handed, expecting that he was going to retie the line to the dock, instead him pointing offshore. Summer followed his finger and began swimming silently away from the boat. When they were safely out of earshot, they stopped and rested.

“What was that all about?” Summer asked with a tinge of annoyance.

Dirk described the guard positioned on the stern of Kang's yacht. “There wasn't much chance without the starter key. As close as the boats are together, he'd have seen or heard me trying to rummage around hot-wiring the ignition. Chances are, there's a guard or two on the catamaran as well. I think we're going to have to settle for the skiff.”

The small skiff that Kang's thugs had used to ferry Dirk and Summer into the cavern was pulled up onto the shore, adjacent to the dock.

“That's awfully close to the guardhouse,” Summer noted.

Dirk looked ashore, spotting the guard still sitting in the guardhouse, about twenty meters from the skiff. “Stealth it will be,” he said confidently.

Kicking back toward shore, they swam widely around the docked boats and approached the rocky beach from the east side. When their feet touched bottom, Dirk had Summer wait in the water while he crept slowly to the shoreline.

Inching his way out of the water, he crawled snakelike on his belly toward the boat, which was wedged between two rocks about twenty feet from the water. Using the boat as a shield between him and the guardhouse, he burrowed alongside the wooden skiff until he could peer over the side. A spool of line, coiled on the front bench and tied to a small bow cleat, caught his eye. Reaching over the gunwale, he unfastened the line and pulled the coil to his chest, then burrowed backward over the loose pebble beach to the boat's stern, which faced the water. Running his hand along the top of the transom, he felt a bolt-hole for attaching an outboard motor and ran one end of the line through, tying it securely.

Scurrying on his belly back into the water, he played out the line until he reached the end of its fifty-foot length. Summer swam over and they huddled together, hunched over in four feet of water with just their heads poking above the surface.

“We'll reel it in like a marlin,” Dirk whispered. “If anybody gets wise, we can duck back behind those rocks by the cavern,” he said, tilting his head toward the protruding boulders nearby. Placing Summer's hands on the line, he leaned back in the water and gradually began applying tension to the line. Summer tightened her grip and then threw her weight onto the line as it drew taut.

The small boat jumped easily from its perch, emitting a jarring grind as its hull scraped across its rocky berth. They quickly eased off the line and stared toward the guardhouse. Inside, the guard still had his nose stuck in the magazine, impervious to the noise made by the boat. They quietly took up the slack and continued to reel the boat toward them a foot at a time, stopping periodically to ensure they had not attracted any attention. Summer held her breath as the boat approached the water's edge, letting out a long sigh when they tugged it fully into the water, the scraping sound at last ceasing.

“Let's tow her out a little farther,” Dirk whispered, winding the towline over his shoulder and kicking toward the center of the cove. When they were a hundred meters from the shoreline, he tossed the line into the boat and pulled himself over the side, then grabbed Summer's hand and pulled her aboard.

“Not exactly a Fountain offshore powerboat but I guess she'll do,” he said, surveying the interior of the small boat. Spying a pair of oars under the bench seat, he popped the shafts into the side oarlocks and dipped the blades into the water. Facing the stern of the skiff, with Kang's compound illuminated in the background, he pulled heavily on the oars, propelling the small boat swiftly into the center of the cove.

“It's about a mile to the main river channel,” Summer estimated. “Maybe we can find a friendly South Korean naval or Coast Guard vessel on the river.”

“I'd settle for a passing freighter.”

“Sure,” Summer replied. “Just as long as it doesn't have a Kang Enterprises lightning bolt on the funnel.”

Glancing toward the shoreline, Dirk suddenly detected a movement in the distance and squinted to better see across the water. As his eyes focused, he grimaced slightly.

“I'm afraid it's not going to be a freighter offering us the first lift,” he said as his knuckles tightened their grip on the oars.

The dock side guard had grown bored with his magazine and decided to patrol the moored boats once again. A fellow guard stationed on Kang's yacht was from a neighboring province and he loved to harass the man about the lack of attractive women in his home region. Walking toward the dock, he at first failed to take notice of the empty beach, but then tripped as he stepped onto the dock ramp. Grabbing the side rail to steady himself, his eyes fell to the ground nearby, detecting the scarred indentation of a boat that had been dragged across the pebbly beach. Only, the boat was gone.

The embarrassed guard quickly radioed his discovery to the central security post and, in an instant, two heavily armed guards came running from the shadows. After a brief but heated exchange, several flashlights were produced, their yellow beams rapidly waved in a chaotic frenzy about the water, rocks, and sky in a frantic search for the missing skiff. But it was the guard on the stern of Kang's yacht who located the two escapees. Shining a powerful marine spotlight across the water of the cove, he pinpointed the small white boat lurching across the waves.

“Not a good time to be in the limelight,” Summer cursed as the rays of the distant searchlight fell over them. The clattering burst of an assault rifle rattled across the water, accompanied by the whistling of bullets that raced harmlessly over their heads.

“Get down low in the boat,” Dirk commanded his sister as he pulled harder on the oars. “We're out of accurate firing range but they could still get off a lucky shot.”

The small skiff was just midway across the cove and Dirk and Summer would be sitting ducks for a gunman in Kang's speedboat, which could be on them in a matter of seconds. Dirk silently hoped and prayed that nobody would notice the boat's stern line as they rushed to chase after them.

On shore, one of the guards had already jumped into the green speedboat and started the motor. Tongju, awakened by the gunfire, burst out of his cabin on the catamaran and began barking inquiries at one of the guards.

“Take the speedboat. Kill them if you have to,” he hissed.

The two other guards scrambled into the speedboat, one of them casting off the bowline as he jumped aboard. In the rushed moment, none of the men noticed that the stern line was dropped over the outboard side. The pilot saw only that the lines to the dock cleat were free. As the boat drifted clear of the dock, he jammed it into gear and pushed the throttle all the way to its stops.

The green boat surged forward for a split second, then mysteriously stopped dead in its tracks. The engine continued to scream with a whine, churning at high rpm, but the boat sat drifting lazily. The confused pilot pulled back on the throttle, unsure of what was causing the lack of forward motion.

“Idiot!” Tongju screamed from the deck of the catamaran with uncharacteristic emotion. “Your stern line is caught in the propeller. Put someone over the side to cut it free.”

Dirk's handiwork had paid off. Diving under the speedboat, he had tightly wrapped the stern line around the propeller and its exposed shaft, clogging its ability to spin freely. The heavy hand of the pilot on the throttle had only served to wind the line tighter, spinning it up and into the drive shaft coupling in a laborious mess. It would take a diver twenty minutes to cut and yank free the mass of coiled rope embedded in the driveline.

Realizing the speedboat's predicament, Tongju burst into the cabin of the catamaran's pilot.

“Start the engines. Get us under way immediately,” he barked. The groggy pilot, clad in a pair of red silk pajamas, nodded sharply and made his way quickly to the wheelhouse.

Three-quarters of a mile away, Dirk grunted as he pulled another stroke of the oars, his heart pounding fiercely. His shoulder and arm muscles began to burn from the strenuous effort to propel the skiff faster, and even his thigh muscles ached from pushing against the oars. His tired body was telling himself to slow the pace but his mental will pushed to keep rowing with all his strength. They had gained a few precious minutes by sabotaging the speedboat, but Kang's men still had two more boats at their disposal.

In the distance, they could hear the deep muffled exhaust of the catamaran as its engines were started and revved. As Dirk rowed in a controlled rhythm, Summer helped guide him through the inlet they approached at the far end of the cove. Kang's compound and boats suddenly drifted from view as they began threading their way through the S-curved inlet.

“We've got maybe five minutes,” he exhaled between strokes. “You up for another swim?”

“I can't exactly glide through the water like Esther Williams with these,” she said, holding up the two handcuffs that dangled from her wrists, “but I can certainly do without another dose of Kang's hospitality-” She knew better than to ask whether Dirk was up for a strenuous swim. Despite his exhausted state, she knew her brother was like a fish in the water. Growing up in Hawaii, they swam in the warm surf constantly. Dirk excelled at marathon swimming and routinely swam five-mile ocean legs for pleasure.

“If we can make it to the main channel, we may have a chance,” he said.

The inlet grew dark as they made their way past the first bend and the lights of Kang's compound became shielded by the surrounding hills. The otherwise still night was broken only by the faraway sound of the catamaran's four diesel engines, which they could detect were now throttled up. Like a machine himself, Dirk rhythmically tugged at the oars, smoothly dipping the blades in and out of the water in a long, efficient stroke. Summer acted as coxswain, offering subtle course changes to guide them through the channel in the shortest route possible while offering periodic words of encouragement.

“We're coming up on the second bend,” she said. “Pull to your right and we should clear the inlet in another thirty meters.”

Dirk continued his even stroke, easing off the left oar with every third pull to nose the bow into and through the bend. The beating drone of the catamaran's engines grew louder behind them as the speedy boat ripped across the cove. Though his limbs ached, Dirk seemed to grow stronger with the approach of their adversary, propelling the small boat even faster through the flat water.

The ebony darkness softened around them as they rounded the last bend of the inlet and rowed into the expansive breadth of the Han River. Patches of starry lights twinkled across the horizon, shining from small villages scattered along the river and hillsides. The faint lights were the only clue to the river's width, which stretched nearly five miles across to the opposite shore. In the late hour of the night, traffic on the river was almost nonexistent. Several miles downstream sat a handful of small commercial freighters, moored for the night while waiting to traverse the Han to Seoul at first daylight. A brightly illuminated dredge ship was slowly making its way upstream nearly across from Dirk and Summer but was still some four miles away. Upriver, a small vessel with an array of multicolored lights appeared to be moving down the center of the river at a slow pace.

“Afraid I don't see any passing water taxis,” Summer said, scanning the dark horizons.

As Dirk tried to row toward the center of the river, he could feel the current pushing them downstream. The river's flow was aided by an outgoing tide that pulled at the remains of the Han River as it dispersed into the dusky waters of the Yellow Sea. He eased off the oars for a moment to survey their options. The dredge ship looked appealing, but they would have to fight the crosscurrent to reach it, which would be near impossible once they took to the water. Peering downriver, he spotted a small cluster of yellow lights on the opposite shore twinkling fuzzily through the damp air.

“Let's try for the village there,” he said, pointing an oar in the direction of the lights, which were about two miles downstream. “If we swim directly across the river, the current should carry us pretty close.” “Whatever entails the least swimming.”

Unbeknownst to both was the fact that the Korean demarcation line ran through this section of the Han River delta. The twinkling lights downriver were not a village at all but a heavily garrisoned North Korean military patrol boat base.

Any further contingency planning was suddenly dashed by the abrupt roar of the high-speed catamaran as it burst out of the inlet. A pair of bright spotlights flared from beside the wheelhouse, sweeping back and forth rapidly across the water. It would be only seconds before one of the beams fell on the small white skiff heading across the river.

“Time to exit stage right,” Dirk said, swinging the boat around so that the bow pointed downstream. Summer quickly slipped over the side followed by Dirk, who hesitated a moment, flinging a pair of life jackets out away from the boat before he rolled into the water.

“Let's angle across and slightly upriver to put as much distance as possible between us and the drifting boat,” he said.

“Right. We'll surface for air at the count of thirty.”

The clatter of machine-gun fire suddenly tore through the night air while a seam like spray of bullets slapped into the water a few yards in front of them. One of the spotlights had found the skiff and a guard opened fire as the catamaran raced toward it.

In unison, Dirk and Summer ducked under the water, kicking down to a depth of four feet before angling into the current. The powerful flow of the river made them feel like they were swimming in place as they inched their way toward mid-river Gaining ground upriver was hopeless as the current overpowered them, but it pushed them downstream at a much slower pace than the drifting skiff.

The deep pulsations of the catamaran's diesel engines resonated through the water and they could feel the boat as it approached the skiff. Counting time with each breaststroke, Dirk hoped that Summer would not get separated from him in the darkness. Swimming at night in the black water, their only indication of direction was the tug of the river's current. As he approached the count of thirty, he eased slowly to the surface, breaking the water with barely a ripple.

Just ten feet away, Summer's face emerged from the water and Dirk could hear her breathing deeply. Glancing briefly at each other, then back toward the skiff, they quickly gulped a deep swallow of fresh air and resubmerged, kicking back into the river current for another count of thirty.

The quick glimpse Dirk made toward the skiff was a reassuring one. Kang's catamaran had barreled in on the skiff from upriver with guns blazing and was now creeping up close to assess the damage. No one on board had bothered to look across the river, assuming that Dirk and Summer were still in the boat. In their brief time in the water, they had already established a separation of nearly a hundred meters from the skiff.

As the catamaran approached the drifting boat, Tongju ordered his gunmen to cease firing. There was no sign of the two escapees, whom Tongju expected to find sprawled dead in the bottom of the bullet-ridden boat. Looking down from the upper deck of the catamaran, Tongju cursed to himself as they pulled alongside and shined a light into the skiff. The small boat was completely empty.

“Search the surrounding water and shoreline,” he ordered crisply. The catamaran circled around the skiff while the spotlights were splayed across the water, all eyes peering intently into the darkness. Suddenly, a gunman on the bow of the catamaran yelled out.

“There, in the water ... two objects!” he cried, pointing an arm off the port bow.

Tongju nodded at the words. This time they are finished, he thought with ruthless satisfaction.

After their fourth submerged interval, Dirk and Summer reunited on the surface and took a moment to rest. Fighting their way across the current, they had distanced themselves from the skiff by almost four hundred meters.

“We can swim on the surface for the time being,” Dirk said between deep breaths. “Give us a chance to see what our friends are up to.”

Summer followed her brother's lead and rolled onto her back, kicking into a backstroke that allowed them to watch the distant catamaran as they moved farther across the river. Kang's boat was idling near the skiff, its spotlights circling the immediate area around them. Shouting erupted from the catamaran and the boat suddenly raced downriver a short distance. Gunfire exploded again for a moment, then ceased as the boat stopped in the water.

Tongju had raced the catamaran toward the two objects spotted floating on the water and watched with disdain as his gunmen blasted away at the empty life vests that Dirk had tossed into the water. The boat idled around the life jackets for several minutes, waiting for the two escapees to surface in case they were hiding submerged nearby, before resuming the search. Dirk and Summer struggled toward midriver as they watched the catamaran begin making a wide-circle search around the skiff and life jackets. With each loop around the still-drifting skiff, the catamaran's pilot enlarged the circle in an ever-expanding spiral.

“Won't be too many more minutes before they work their way up and out our direction,” Summer lamented.

Dirk scanned the watery horizon. They had worked their way about a mile into the river but were still barely a quarter of the way across the vast waterway. They could turn back and try for the nearest shoreline, but that would entail crossing the path of the advancing catamaran. Or they could continue with their original plan of traversing the river toward the lights on the opposite shore. But fatigue was beginning to creep up on them, hastened by their long immersion in the cool water. Another three-mile swim would be a tall order, made more difficult by the repeated submergings they would have to perform to avoid Kang's boat. Whether they could in fact survive the game of cat and mouse with Tongju and his gunmen would be uncertain at best.

But there was a third option. The small vessel with the colored lights that they had earlier noticed upriver was approaching on a nearby path about a half mile away. In the darkness, Dirk had trouble identifying the boat, but it appeared to be a wooden sailing vessel of some kind. A small red sail, revealed under the white mast light to be square shaped in dimension, was raised near the bow, but the boat didn't appear to be moving much faster than the current.

Dirk gauged the path of the boat and swam another hundred yards toward the center of the river, then stopped. Summer swam past before realizing her brother had halted.

“What gives? We need to keep going,” she whispered after swimming back to him.

Dirk nodded downriver toward the catamaran. The sleek vessel had arced well out into the river as it circled downstream. He mentally calculated the trajectory of the yacht if it held its current circular course.

“They'll be within sight of us on the next upriver pass,” he said quietly.

Summer could see he was right. The bright beams of the searchlights would shine upon their position on the next loop. They would have to remain submerged for several minutes to guarantee their concealment.

Dirk took a quick glance upriver. “Sister, I think it's time for Plan B.”

“Plan B?” she asked.

“Yes, Plan B. Stick out your thumb and start hitchhiking.”

The large wooden sailboat creaked lazily down the river, its foremast sail and a small auxiliary motor pushing it along just 3 knots faster than the current. As the vessel crept closer, Dirk could see that it was a three-masted Chinese junk of about twenty-five meters in length. Unlike most dilapidated sailing boats in this part of the world, the junk appeared to be maintained in pristine condition. A string of multicolored Chinese lanterns hung gaily from bow to stern, lending a party like atmosphere to the boat. Constructed entirely of rich teak-wood, the highly varnished surfaces seemed to glisten under the swaying overhead lamps. Somewhere belowdecks, a pair of stereo speakers blared out an orchestral tune, which Dirk recognized as a Gershwin melody. Yet despite the festive atmosphere, there was not a soul to be seen on deck.

“Ahoy! We're in the water. Can you help?”

Dirk's muted shout went unanswered as the junk approached. He repeated the call, careful not to draw attention from the catamaran, which had completed a downstream turn and was now headed upriver. Swimming closer to the moving junk, Dirk thought he detected a shadowy movement on the stern, but, again, there was no response to his call for help. He tried a third time, failing to notice as he spoke that the muffled drone of the junk's motor audibly raised a note.

The junk's golden teak hull began gliding past Dirk and Summer, an ornately carved dragon on the prow eyeing them maliciously in the water less than ten feet from the starboard beam. Like a phantom in the night, the junk slipped by strangely impervious to the voices calling from the water. As the stern and rudderpost floated past, Dirk abandoned hope of rescue from the junk and angrily wondered whether the pilot was asleep, drunk, or both.

Peering toward the slowly approaching catamaran, he was startled by a sudden splash in the water near his head. It was an orange plastic float tied to a coil of rope, trailing back to the stern of the junk.

“Grab hold and hang on tight,” he instructed his sister, making sure Summer had a strong grip on the line before grasping it himself. As the line quickly drew taut, the force of the junk sailing faster than the river momentarily jerked them underwater. With a face full of water, they were dragged along the river's surface like a fallen water-skier who forgot to let go of the towline. Dirk slowly began pulling himself up the line hand over hand as his legs flailed out behind him. Reaching the high, blunt stern of the junk, he shimmied up the rope almost vertically until reaching the stern railing. A pair of hands emerged from the darkness, grabbing about his lapels and forcefully yanking him over the railing and onto the deck.

“Thanks,” Dirk muttered, paying little heed to a tall figure in the shadows. “My sister is still on the line,” he gasped, standing and grabbing the line at the stern rail and pulling at it. The tall man stepped up behind him and clasped the line, throwing his weight into it with Dirk. Together, they hoisted Summer up the railing like a gigged flounder until she flopped over the railing and onto the deck in a soggy heap. A high-pitched bark erupted from across the deck and, in an instant, a small black-and-tan dachshund raced over to Summer and began licking her face.

“Dark night for a swim, don't you think?” the stranger said in English.

“You're American,” Dirk stated with surprise.

“Ever since being born in the Land of Lincoln,” came the reply.

Dirk studied the man beside him for the first time. He stood six-foot-three, nearly matching his own height, though he carried a good twenty pounds more heft. A wave of unruly white hair and a matching goatee indicated that he was at least forty years his senior. The man's blue-green eyes, which seemed to twinkle with mischief under the hanging lights, touched a nerve with him. He felt as if he was looking at an older version of his own father, he finally decided.

“We're in great danger,” Summer injected, rising to her feet. She scooped up the small dog as she stood and rubbed its ears briskly, which produced a sharp wag of its tail. “Our research vessel was sunk by these murderers and they mean to kill us,” she said, nodding downriver toward the catamaran that was circling slowly in their direction.

“I heard the machine-gun fire,” the man replied.

“They intend to make another deadly attack. We need to alert the authorities,” she pleaded.

“Thousands of additional lives are at risk,” Dirk added somberly.

The white-haired man perused the odd pair up and down. Summer, soaked but elegant still in her ripped silk cocktail dress, appeared an unusual companion for Dirk, who was battered and bruised in a shredded blue jumpsuit. Neither attempted to conceal the handcuff shackles that dangled from their wrists.

A slight grin fell across the man's lips. “I guess I'll buy it. We better hide you belowdecks until we get past that cat. You can stay in Mauser's cabin.”

“Mauser? How many people are aboard?” Dirk asked.

“Just me and that fellow who's kissing your sister,” he replied. Dirk turned to see the small dachshund happily licking the water off Summer's face.

The junk's owner quickly led them through a bulkhead door and down a flight of steps that led to a tastefully decorated stateroom.

“There's towels in the bath and dry clothes in the closet. And here, this will warm you up.” He grabbed a bottle sitting on a side table and poured them each a glass of the clear fluid. Dirk downed a shot quickly, tasting a bitter flavor from the smooth liquor that clearly packed a high alcohol content.

“Soju,” the man said. “A local rice brew. Help yourself while I try to get us past your friends in the cat.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Summer replied appreciatively. “By the way, my name is Summer Pitt, and this is my brother, Dirk.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Clive Cussler.”

Cussler returned to the junk's exposed wheel and slipped the engine into gear, tweaking the throttle slightly higher while nosing the bow farther toward midriver It took only a few minutes before the catamaran approached from downstream, pulling alongside and washing the junk in a flood of spotlights. Cussler slipped on a conical straw peasant's hat and hunched his tall frame low at the wheel.

Through the glare of the lights, he could see several men pointing automatic weapons at him. As the catamaran crept to within inches of the port beam, an unseen man on the bridge barked a question across through the boat's PA system. Cussler replied by shaking his head. Another command echoed across from the catamaran as the spotlights bounced about the junk. Cussler again shook his head, wondering whether the waterlogged coil of rope and wet pairs of footprints across the deck would be detected. For several long minutes, the catamaran held steady at the junk's side as if waiting to board. Then, with a sudden blast of its engines, the catamaran roared away, resuming its river search closer to shore.

Cussler guided the junk down the last vestiges of the Han River until its waters were swallowed by the Yellow Sea. As the sea-lanes opened and the potential for nearby water traffic fell away, Cussler punched a handful of electronic controls at the helm. Hydraulic winches began to whir as lines were pulled and yards were raised, pulling the traditional red, square-shaped lug sails of a classic junk to the peak of the main- and mizzenmasts. Cussler manually tied off the out haul lines and then powered off the small diesel motor. The old junk now leaped through the waves under the graceful power of its sails.

“You've got a beautiful vessel,” Dirk said, emerging from belowdecks dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Summer followed him onto the deck, clad in an oversized pair of coveralls and a man's work shirt.

“The standard Chinese merchant ship that dates back almost two thousand years,” Cussler replied. “This one was built in Shanghai in 1907 for a wealthy tea trader. She's made entirely from a hard teakwood called ”Takien Tong.“ She's extremely durable and surprisingly seaworthy.”

“Where did you find her?” Summer asked.

“A friend of mine found her abandoned in a Malaysian boatyard and decided to refurbish her. Took him six years to complete the job. After he grew bored with sailing, I traded him a few antique cars for her. Plan to cruise the Asian Pacific in her. Started in Japan and am going to work my way down to Wellington.”

“You sail her by yourself?” Summer asked.

“She's been modified with a strong diesel engine and hydraulic lifts for the lug sails which are linked to a computerized automatic pilot. She's a breeze to manage, and can, in fact, sail herself.”

“Do you have a satellite phone aboard?” Dirk asked.

“Afraid not. A ship-to-shore radio is the best I can offer you. I didn't want any phone calls or Internet messages bothering me on this cruise.”

“Understandable. Where are you headed, and, for that matter, where are we located now?” he asked.

Cussler pulled out a marine navigation chart and held it under the weak light of the helm console. “We're entering the Yellow Sea about forty miles northwest of Seoul. I take it you aren't interested in staying aboard till Wellington?” he grinned, running an index finger across the chart. “How about Inchon?” he continued, tapping the map. “I can drop you there in about eight hours. I believe there's a U.S. Air Force base located somewhere near there.”

“That would be great. Anywhere we can find a phone and get ahold of someone at NUMA headquarters.”

“NUMA,” Cussler said, mulling over the word. “You're not from that NUMA ship that sank southwest of Japan?”

“The Sea Rover. Yes, we are. How did you know about that?” Summer asked.

“It was all over CNN. I saw them interview the captain. Told how the crew was rescued by a Japanese freighter following an explosion in the engine room.”

Dirk and Summer stared at each other in disbelief.

“Captain Morgan and the crew are alive?” she finally blurted.

“Yes, that was the fellow's name. I thought he said the whole crew was rescued.”

Summer retold the story of their attack on the ship and abduction by Kang's men and their uncertainty over the fate of their crew members.

“I suspect there's more than a few people out there looking for you,” Cussler said. “You're safe for now. There's some sandwiches and beer in the galley. Why don't you two grab a bite and get some rest. I'll wake you when we reach Inchon.”

“Thank you. I'll take you up on that,” Summer replied, heading belowdecks.

Dirk lingered a moment, standing at the rail and watching the first glimmer of daybreak attempt to paint the eastern horizon. As he contemplated the events of the past three days, a hardened resolve surged through his exhausted body. By some miracle, the Sea Rover's crew had survived the sinking of the NUMA research ship. But Kang still had blood on his hands, and the stakes were now dramatically higher. If what Kang had told them was true, then millions of lives were at risk. The madman would have to be stopped, he knew, and quick.

on Sea Launch platform Odyssey and airship Icarus June 16, 2007 Long Beach, California Though it was A cool, damp Southern California morning, Danny Stamp could feel the sweat beginning to drip from his underarms. The veteran engineer was as nervous as a teenager on prom night awaiting his first make-out session. But as those who knew him could affirm, he always felt this way when his baby was on the move.

No diaper-clad infant, his baby today was a 209-foot Zenit-3SL liquid-fuel rocket that was in the delicate process of being transferred to its launch platform. The roundish and slightly balding launch vehicle director peered purposefully over the railing of a large ship's superstructure as the $90 million rocket he was responsible for inched into view below his feet. As the huge white cylinder rolled slowly out of its horizontal berth on a centipede like cradle, Stamp's eyes were drawn to the large blue letters emblazoned on the rocket's housing that read sea launch.

Incorporated in the nineteen nineties, Sea Launch was an international commercial venture formed to provide rocket-launch services a *

geared primarily for satellite telecommunications operators. The American aerospace giant Boeing was the prime founder, signing on to handle launch operations as well as integrating the customer's satellite payloads into the rocket housing. Turning swords into rubles, a pair of Russian companies joined the consortium by providing the actual rockets, or “launch vehicles,” as they are known in the parlance. Ex-military rockets that once carried nuclear warheads, the Zenits were tried-and-true launch vehicles that were perfectly suited to commercial applications. But it was a Norwegian firm, Kvaerner, that provided perhaps the most unique asset to the venture. Starting with a used North Sea oil platform, the Oslo firm constructed a self-propelled floating launchpad that could be positioned for launching in almost any ocean waters of the world.

Though an interesting selling point, practicality dictates that there is only one area on the globe worth launching from and that is the equator. For a geosynchronous satellite, which remains in a fixed relative orbital position following the earth's rotation, there is no more direct path to orbit than from the equator. Less rocket fuel burned in pushing a satellite to orbit can allow for a heavier satellite payload. Satellite owners, seeking to maximize revenues from their multimillion-dollar investments, can thus add more capacity to their satellites or additional operating fuel to extend the satellite's life. Integrating the satellites into the launch vehicle in Long Beach, then sailing the rocket to the equator for launch had grown from an intriguing idea to an efficient business model in the high-stakes, high-risk game of commercial space operations.

A handheld Motorola radio fastened to Stamp's belt suddenly cackled with static. “Rollout complete. Ready for crane hook-up,” barked the unseen voice. Stamp paused and studied the Zenit rocket, which protruded from the ship's stern like a stinger on a wasp. In an unusual bid for flexibility, the Sea Launch team actually assembled the rocket and its payload in the bowels of a custom-fitted ship named the Sea Launch Commander. Officially known as the “Assembly and Command Ship,” the 660-foot cargo-designed vessel contained myriad computer bays on its upper deck, as well as a mission operations command center, which directed the complete launch operation at sea. On the lower deck was a cavernous assembly compartment that housed the Zenit rocket components. Here, an army of white-smocked engineers and technicians bolted together horizontally the segmented Russian rocket sections utilizing a rail system that ran nearly the length of the ship. Once the rocket assembly was complete, the mission satellite was encapsulated into the upper-section payload fairing and then the entire launch vehicle was rolled at a snail's pace out the stern of the Sea Launch Commander.

“Proceed with hookup. Transfer when ready,” Stamp spoke into the radio with a slight Midwestern accent. He glanced up at a huge crane system built onto the edge of the towering launch platform. A pair of tilted M-shaped trusses extended off one end of the platform, dangling several lines of thick cable. The floating platform, christened Odyssey, had been positioned just aft of the Sea Launch Commander, its crane system hanging directly above the prone rocket. The crane's winch lines were silently dropped down to the launch vehicle, where teams of engineers in hard hats attached the cables to a series of slings and lift points along the length of the rocket.

“Sea Launch Commander, this is Odyssey” a new voice blared through Stamp's radio. “Ready to transfer launch vehicle.”

Stamp nodded to a short fellow standing beside him, a bearded man named Christiano who captained the Sea Launch Commander. Christiano spoke into his own radio.

“This is Commander. Proceed with transfer at will. Good luck, Odyssey.”

Seconds later, the cable lines drew taut and the horizontal rocket was lifted slowly off its cradle. Stamp held his breath as the Zenit rocket was hoisted high into the air until it hung suspended far above the decks of the Commander. The unfueled rocket was just a fraction of its launch weight, so the process was akin to lifting an empty beer can. But Stamp couldn't help feeling nervous watching the huge rocket dangling in midair above him.

After a tantalizingly slow rise to the top of the launch platform, the crane operations crew activated the movable winch and the launch vehicle was tugged horizontally into an environmentally controlled hangar on Odyssey's high deck. Once the tip of the rocket had cleared the hangar doors, the entire launch vehicle was gently nested down into a wheeled cradle. When the floating platform reached the designated launch site, the cradle device would roll the rocket out of its hangar and tilt it up on end for firing.

“Launch vehicle secure. Well done, gentlemen. The beers are on me tonight. Odyssey out.”

Stamp visibly relaxed, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Piece of cake,” he said to Christiano as if the outcome was never in doubt.

“Looks like we'll make the scheduled launch date in seventeen days after all,” Christiano replied as he watched the empty launch vehicle cradle slide back into the ship's lower-deck hangar. “The long-range weather forecast is still looking favorable. After final checks and fueling, the Odyssey can depart in four days and we'll follow in the Commander forty-eight hours later after additional spares and provisions are put aboard. We'll easily catch up with her before reaching the launch site.”

“A good thing, too,” Stamp said with relief. “There's a penalty clause in the customer contract that's a killer if we are late to launch.”

“Nobody could have predicted the dockworkers' strike would delay receipt of the Zenit rocket components by fifteen days,” Christiano said, shaking his head.

“The launch vehicle team did a heckuva job making up lost schedule. I'm not looking forward to seeing the overtime charges but the team must have set a record for assembly and integration. Even with our paranoid customer shielding the mission payload from everyone.”

“What's so terribly secretive about a broadcast television satellite?”

“Search me,” Stamp said, shrugging his shoulders. “Typical Asian lack Wind reticence, I guess. The whole operation doesn't make sense to me. They've got a relatively lightweight satellite that they could have easily launched off the Chinese Long March rocket for a couple of million dollars less than our fees.”

“Angst with the Chinese isn't an unusual sentiment in the Far East.”

“True, but usually overlooked when it comes to dollars and cents. Perhaps it's due to the head of the telecommunications firm. He's apparently a real maverick.”

“He owns the company outright, doesn't he?” Christiano asked, his eyes searching skyward trying to recall.

“Yep,” Stamp replied. “Dae-jong Kang is one rich and powerful man.”

Kang leaned back in the padded leather chair of his cherry-wood study and listened intently as a pair of engineers from his Inchon facility provided a technical briefing. Tongju safsilently at the back of the room, his dark eyes scrutinizing the men out of habit. One of the engineers, a slight, disheveled man with glasses and a deeply receding hairline, spoke to Kang with a raspy voice.

“As you know, the Koreasat 2 satellite was delivered to the launch provider's facility approximately three weeks ago, where it was encapsulated inside the payload fairing, or nose cone section, of the Zenit rocket. The entire launch vehicle has since been loaded onto the self-propelled launch platform, which is preparing for departure to the equator.”

“There have been no security lapses?” Kang asked, throwing a cold glance toward Tongju.

The engineer shook his head. “We've had our own security team protecting the satellite around the clock. The Sea Launch team suspects nothing. By all external appearances, the satellite is designated for television broadcast services. Now that the satellite is enshrouded in the rocket housing, there is little chance of suspicion.” The engineer swallowed a sip of coffee from an overflowing mug, spilling a few drops of the hot liquid on the sleeve of his worn checkered sport coat. The brown stain matched a similar pattern of spots on his tie.

“The aerosol device ... it was verified as operational?” Kang asked. “Yes. As you know, we made a number of modifications from the small-scale model that was tested in the Aleutian Islands. There is no longer a dual agent capability, as the deployment of the cyanide mixture was eliminated from the mission. Plus, the system was redesigned with removable canisters that will allow us to arm the payload with the bio agent just hours before launch. And, of course, it is a much higher volume system. The Aleutian test model, you may recall, carried less than five kilograms of biochemical compound, while the satellite vehicle will deploy 325 kilograms of the chimera agent after hydrogenation Before the satellite was encapsulated at the Sea Launch facility, we conducted a final late-night test under secure conditions. The test results were flawless. We are confident the aerosol system will operate as designed over the target.”

“I do not expect any failures from our equipment,” Kang stated. “The launch operation will be the most critical phase of the mission,” the raspy-voiced engineer continued. “Lee-Wook, have we obtained the necessary command and control data to proceed with an independent launch?”

The second engineer, a younger, greasy-haired man with a broad nose, was clearly intimidated by Kang's presence.

“There are two primary components to the launch process,” Lee-Wook replied, stuttering slightly. “The first is positioning and stabilizing the floating launch platform, then erecting, fueling, and preparing the rocket for launch. We have obtained the Sea Launch operating procedures for these steps,” he said, neglecting to mention the cash bribes involved, “which our team has reviewed and practiced thoroughly. In addition, we have obtained the services of two Ukrainian launch specialists formerly employed by Yuzhnoye, the manufacturer of the Zenit rocket. They are assisting with trajectory and fueling computations and will be on hand to assist with the mechanical preparations.”

“Yes, I am aware of the enticements required to obtain them,” Kang replied with distaste. “I believe the Russians could teach the West a thing or two about capitalistic extortion.”

Lee-Wook ignored the comment and continued speaking, his stutter finally under control. “The second critical component is the actual launch initiation and flight control. During a normal launch at sea, the Sea Launch assembly and command ship performs these controls. For our launch, this duty will be handled by the Baekje. We have refitted the ship with the necessary communications equipment and computer hardware required to execute the launch and flight control,” Lee-Wook said, his voice almost at a whisper. “Our last input has been the software that monitors, tracks, and commands the launch vehicle. The actual launch from the floating platform is a highly automated process, so the software plays a critical role. There are several million lines of software code that support the launch, telemetry, and tracking phases.”

“Have we re-created the necessary software for our mission?”

“It would have required many months to write and test the software on our own. We were fortunate in that all of these software programs are contained within the databases of the assembly and command ship. As the payload customer, our team has had almost unlimited access to the ship for the last three weeks while the Koreasat 2 satellite was being integrated with the launch vehicle. Once on board, our systems team found it relatively easy to breach the vessel's mainframe computers and acquire the software code. Under the nose of their computer experts, we downloaded copies of the software and, over a four-day period, transmitted the code by satellite link direct from the Sea Launch vessel to our laboratory at Inchon.”

“But I was told the Baekje, or Koguryo as she is now called, left port a day ago.”

“We have already transferred a portion of the program to the ship-board computers and will download the remaining software while the ” ship is in transit via satellite."

“And you have determined the optimal flight path to achieve maximum dispersal of the agent?” Kang asked.

“We can theoretically launch up range of the target as far as four thousand kilometers away; however, the probability of accurately striking the target is quite small. There is no guidance system for the sub-orbital payload, so we are relying on wind, thrust, and launch positioning to reach the strike zone. Utilizing normal Pacific wind conditions, our Ukrainian engineers have determined that positioning the launch platform approximately four hundred kilometers up range of the target will maximize the accuracy of delivery. Adjusting for atmospheric conditions at the time of launch, we can expect the pay-load to fall to earth within a five-kilometer radius.”

“But the aerosol system will be activated well before that,” the first engineer injected.

“Correct. At an elevation of six thousand meters, the aerosol, or payload system, will be activated. This will occur shortly after the nose cone fairing has been discarded during flight. In its descent, the pay-load system will be traveling nearly eight kilometers downrange for every one kilometer of descent. A vapor trail of the armed agent will thus be dispersed along a forty-eight-kilometer-long corridor.”

“I would have preferred that the launch not take place so close to the North American mainland,” Kang said with a wrinkled brow, “but if the accuracy of the mission dictates such then so be it. The flight trajectory will be controlled by the rocket burn?”

“Precisely. The Zenit-3SL is a three-stage rocket designed for pushing heavy payloads into high orbit. But our desired maximum altitude is less than fifty kilometers, so we will not fuel the second and third stages and will short-fuel the first stage. We can terminate the burn at any time, which we will program to do at slightly over a minute into the flight. As the launch vehicle coasts in flight to the east, we'll initiate separation of the payload section from the rocket boosters, then release the payload housing. The mock satellite will deploy the aerosol system automatically and disperse the agent until impact.”

“Are we positive the American missile defense systems pose no risk?”

“The American antiballistic system is still in its infancy. It is geared toward intercontinental ballistic missiles that are launched from thousands of miles away. They will have no time to react. Even if they did, their intercept missiles would arrive after we have initiated separation. They might harmlessly destroy the rocket boosters at best. No, sir, there will be no stopping the payload deployment once we have launched.”

“I am expecting the countdown to occur while the G8 leaders are in the target area,” Kang stated bluntly.

“Weather permitting, we have scheduled the launch to coincide with the pre-summit assembly in Los Angeles,” the engineer said nervously.