Medusa

CHAPTER 30

AT THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, THE NAVY BLUE SUV pulled up to a hangar at Reagan National Airport and parked next to a sleek Cessna Citation X jet that had NUMA emblazoned in black on its turquoise fuselage. Austin and Casey emerged from the SUV’s backseat, and the lieutenant handed over an eleven-by-sixteen-inch plastic pouch.

“This packet contains the nuts-and-bolts details of the mission we talked about on the drive to the airport,” Casey said. “Good luck, Kurt. And keep your eyes peeled for sharks.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Austin said as they shook hands. “But I’ll take a dorsal-finned man-eater any day over the schools of sharp-toothed politicians and government bureaucrats that swarm the Potomac waters.”

Casey gave him a knowing smile.

“I’ll remember to keep my shark repellant handy, Kurt.”

“I was thinking another type of repellant might be more appropriate for Washington, but good luck to you in any case.”

Austin retrieved his duffel from the SUV and handed it to a baggage handler who loaded it into the jet’s cargo hold. Tucking the pouch under his arm, he stepped up to the open door and paused there. Headlights were bearing down on the Citation and salsa music blared from a car sound system as Zavala’s red Corvette raced across the tarmac with its top down.

The car slammed to a stop next to the hangar, and Zavala waved. Austin shook his head. As if to balance out his soft-spoken manner, Zavala never simply arrived at a destination, he made a grand entrance. Austin waved back, then stepped into the jet’s plush cabin and dropped the pouch on a coffee table. While Austin went to talk to the pilot and copilot, Zavala raised his convertible’s top, grabbed his duffel, tossed it to the handler, and bolted aboard. As he stepped into the cabin, Austin was coming back from the cockpit.

“We’re right on schedule,” he informed Zavala.

The cabin seating was an arrangement of beige leather chairs and a sofa that all could be made into beds. Zavala stretched out in one of the comfortably padded chairs, yawned, and said, “Any idea where we’re going?”

Austin plunked himself down on the sofa and picked the pouch up off the table. He held it up so Zavala could read the TOP SECRET label affixed to the outside.

“Our marching orders,” he announced.

He broke the seal with his thumbnail and extracted the thick wad of paper from inside. He unfolded the first page, which was covered with diagrams, and then passed it over to Zavala. Zavala glanced at the diagrams, then read the words printed in large-block type:

U.S. NAVY UNDERSEA HABITAT AND OBSERVATORY

Zavala looked up from the diagrams.

“These are the blueprints for Davy Jones’s Locker,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

Austin nodded.

With loving care, Zavala spread the diagrams out on the table. He studied every detail of the spheres and connecting passageways the way some men might savor a naughty pinup. As the brilliant designer of dozens of NUMA submersibles, he paid particular attention to the plans for the cargo shuttle and the lab’s specimen-collection submersibles. After a few minutes, he passed judgment from the point of view of a marine engineer who had struggled many times with the thorny challenges posed by currents, depth, pressure, and salt water.

“Brilliant,” Zavala said with unabashed admiration. He crinkled his brow. “It’s hard to believe anything this size could vanish.”

“The lab’s design may have made the hijacking possible,” Austin said. “As you can see, it was designed as a mobile undersea observatory. Lieutenant Casey said that the Navy built the components on land, towed them out to sea on specially designed barges, then assembled the components and lowered the lab into place. They built in flotation capability, and the spheres and connectors were reinforced structurally so the lab could be moved without breaking apart. The lab also had a stabilization system to keep it level during movement.”

Zavala took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the diagrams.

“Imagine this pen is a submarine or large submersible,” he said. “They hook onto the lab, get it pumped up to neutral buoyancy, and tow it away.”

“Great minds think alike,” Austin said. “The Russian government has been trying to sell off its fleet of Typhoons for use as cargo carriers in the Arctic. Maybe they found a buyer.”

“That solves only part of the mystery,” Zavala said. “If this was such a big secret, how did the hijackers know Davy Jones’s Locker existed and where it was located?”

“The lab’s security was outsourced to a private contractor,” Austin said, “and that may have been the weak point. The Navy talked to the support-ship survivors. Lieutenant Casey said the crew got a request from their security company to shuttle a representative down to the lab a short while before the attack. They said he was a friendly guy with a Southern accent. Phelps, of course.

“Phelps admitted he hijacked the lab,” Austin continued. “What he didn’t say was that the company rep who authorized his visit was killed in a car crash. My guess is, he was coerced into getting Phelps an ID, then was eliminated.”

“A convenient coincidence,” Zavala said. “What was the lab’s last position?”

Austin dug a map out of the pouch and spread it on the coffee table. An area in the Pacific Ocean had been circled in black grease pencil near the island of Pohnpei in Micronesia.

Zavala sat back and laced his hands behind his head.

“Gee, that narrows it down,” he said with a sour expression on his face. “It could take months to find the lab.”

“Sandecker says we have to wrap it up in less than seventy-two hours,” Austin said.

“I’m surprised the old sea dog didn’t ask us to solve the problem of global hunger and the energy crisis in our spare time.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Austin said. “He’ll want us to clean up the oceans on our coffee break.”

The sound of approaching jet engines broke the early-morning stillness. Austin got up and went to the door. A NUMA jet was taxiing up to the hangar. The engines went silent, and three figures emerged and walked across the tarmac toward the Citation. Austin recognized Paul Trout’s tall, lanky form and Gamay’s red hair. The Asian woman walking by the Trouts’ side was a stranger to him.

Austin greeted the Trouts, and warned Paul to duck his head entering the cabin. He welcomed the Asian woman with a friendly smile.

“You must be Dr. Song Lee,” Austin said, offering his hand. “I’m Kurt Austin. This is Joe Zavala. We’re NUMA colleagues of the Trouts. Thank you for coming to Washington.”

“And thank you for sending Paul and Gamay to Bonefish Key, Mr. Austin,” Lee said. “I’d be dead if they hadn’t arrived when they did.”

Kurt’s eyes drank in Song’s flowerlike beauty.

“That would have been a shame, Dr. Lee,” he said. “Please have a seat. We don’t have much time. You must have many questions.”

Song Lee settled into the sofa and looked around in wonderment. With their imposing physical prowess, quiet competence, and easy banter in the face of danger, the Trouts had seemed larger than life. But this pale-haired man, with his broad shoulders and sculpted bronze profile, was even more intriguing. Austin’s courtly manner could not disguise the fearlessness and daring that she detected in his remarkable coral-blue eyes. And his dark-complexioned friend Zavala had the swashbuckling air of a pirate prince.

“The Trouts told me about the attack on the bathysphere,” Lee said. “Do you know where Dr. Kane is?”

“Safe in protective custody. I spoke to Kane last night, and he filled me in on the work at Bonefish Key and the undersea lab they called Davy Jones’s Locker.”

Lee’s jaw dropped.

“I was aware of the secret facility, of course,” she said, “but I had no idea it was under the sea!”

“The Pacific Ocean, to be exact. It was in Micronesian waters, three hundred feet below the surface.”

Lee had a dazed expression on her delicate features.

“I would expect Dr. Kane to be unconventional,” she said, “but I never dreamed it was anything like that.”

Austin went on.

“The lab’s work and location were tightly held secrets, but somehow it was hijacked along with the staff. Joe and I think that the lab’s disappearance, the bathysphere attack, and the attempt to kidnap you are all connected. Dr. Kane told me about the medusa project. What was the exact nature of your work at the Florida lab?”

“I’m a virologist trained in epidemiology,” Lee said. “I stayed on Bonefish Key to concentrate on the probable path an epidemic would take and how best to position our resources and the vaccine-production facilities.”

“That would make you an integral part of the project.”

“I like to think so. The vaccine would be useless without a strategy to deploy it. It would be as if a general sent his troops into battle without a plan.”

“What would have happened to the project if you had been kidnapped?”

“Not much,” she said with a shrug of the shoulders. “The plans are almost all in place, waiting for the cure to be synthesized into a viable vaccine. With the lab gone, there isn’t much chance of that happening.”

“Don’t give up hope, Dr. Lee. The lab is the object of a massive search. In fact, Joe and I are on our way to Micronesia to see if we can help the searchers.”

Lee dropped her gaze to the map lying on the table.

“You’re going to Pohnpei?” she asked.

“It looks that way,” Austin said. “Have you been there?”

“No, but the island was the epicenter of the deadly epidemic that struck the Pacific whaling fleet in the mid-1800s. This is extremely significant.”

“In what way, Dr. Lee?”

“At Harvard Medical School, I did a paper for a Professor Codman that was based on an article I came across in an old medical journal. The doctor who wrote the article had compiled statistics about a group of New Bedford whaling men who had been virtually disease-free for much of their very long lives.”

Austin tried to glance at his watch without being obvious. He had little interest in oddball medical phenomena. The whine of the Citation’s engines warming up provided a convenient out.

“It has been a great pleasure meeting you,” he said. “We’re going to be taking off soon . . .”

“Hear me out, Mr. Austin,” Lee said, raising her voice above the engines.

Austin smiled at the unexpected firmness.

“Go on, Dr. Lee, but please keep it brief.”

She nodded.

“The men in the study group had all crewed aboard the whaling ship Princess. They became ill after the ship stopped in Pohnpei.”

“I still don’t see the connection to the lab . . .”

It was Song Lee’s turn to be impatient.

“It’s right there in front of you, Mr. Austin. The crew all survived! If that doesn’t get your attention, maybe this will. The symptoms of the disease were almost identical to those of this latest epidemic. The crewmen should have died, but instead they enjoyed robust health for the rest of their lives. Somehow, they were cured.”

“Are you saying that what cured the whalers might work for the new virus?” Austin asked.

“Precisely.”

Austin’s mental machinery kicked into gear. A bunch of whalers lived disease-free to a ripe old age after a trip to Micronesia, the same neighborhood where the blue medusa lives. He connected that to what Kane told him about the toxin keeping its prey healthy until the medusa made a meal of it. He glanced around at his colleagues.

“The log of the Princess for that expedition would make interesting reading,” Paul Trout commented.

“I tried to track the 1848 logbook down through Harvard’s Widener Library,” Lee said. “My research led me to New Bedford. A dealer in antique books named Brimmer said he might be able to locate the book, but I was about to leave for home and had to put the whole thing aside.”

The pilot’s voice called back from the cockpit.

“We’ve been cleared for early takeoff. Anytime you’re ready . . .”

“Thank you, Dr. Lee,” Austin said. “I apologize for cutting you short, but we’re really about to leave.”

“I want to come with you,” she said without thinking.

The statement had leaped from her mouth on its own, but then she punctuated it with a firm set of jaw.

“That’s not possible,” Austin said. “We’ll be on the move, and things could get rough. Joe has uncovered information that suggests a Chinese Triad named Pyramid is involved in all this.”

“A Triad?” She got over her surprise quickly. “Why would a Triad be interested in the search for an antiviral vaccine?”

Zavala answered the question.

“The Triad developed the virus as part of a scheme to destabilize the Chinese government,” he said. “Your vaccine would have spoiled their plans. They had to take control of the lab to prevent the antiviral from being used by others.”

“This is overwhelming,” Song Lee said, “but it makes sense. My government is deathly afraid of social unrest, which is why it clamps down so hard at any sign of organized protest. All the more reason to take me with you. I should be part of any attempt to stop something started by my countrymen. I’m intimately acquainted with the entire research program, and there may be something relevant on Pohnpei.”

Austin eyed Lee’s smoky-smelling T-shirt and shorts, apparently the same clothes she had been wearing on Bonefish Key.

“You’d be traveling pretty light, Dr. Lee. We can give you a toothbrush but not much else.”

“I’ll take that toothbrush, and I can buy clothes when we get there.”

Austin sat back and folded his arms. Despite his body language, he was enjoying Song Lee’s display of pluckiness.

“Go ahead, Dr. Lee. You’ve got thirty seconds to make your case.”

She nodded.

“I believe that the blue medusa jellyfish the lab was using in its research was part of native medicine used to cure the crew of the Princess. And if we can find the place where it happened, it might lead us to the lab.”

“That’s a pretty slim premise, Dr. Lee.”

“I know that, Mr. Austin. But it’s something. Right now, we have nothing. Please don’t tell me it’s any more dangerous than the Florida mangroves where I was kidnapped and almost shot.”

Zavala chuckled softly.

“Lady’s got a point,” he said.

Austin turned to the Trouts.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I was thinking of having Dr. Lee stay with my aunt ’Lizbeth on Cuttyhunk Island until the danger passed,” Paul said.

Gamay chortled.

“I know your Aunt Lizzy. She’d drive this poor woman crazy with her incessant talk about beach-plum jelly.”

“Gamay’s right about Lizzy,” Paul said. “And Dr. Lee is right when she says her expertise in the lab’s work could come in handy. I know how you like insurance.”

Austin had a reputation around NUMA for daring that bordered on the reckless. Those he worked with, like the Trouts, knew that his risks were always calculated. He was like the high-stakes riverboat gambler who kept not one but two Derringers up his sleeves.

Austin threw his hands in the air.

“Looks like I’m outgunned, Dr. Lee.” He got on the intercom to the cockpit. “Ready to go in five minutes,” he told the pilot.

Gamay asked, “What would you like us to do while you’re in Micronesia?”

“Get in touch with Lieutenant Casey and tell him that Dr. Lee has joined us. Contact Joe’s FBI friend and fill her in.” He paused in thought, then said, “See what you can do about tracking down the Princess’s logbook.”

“We’ll start with Perlmutter and let you know,” Paul said.

The Trouts wished the others luck and descended to the tarmac. They watched as the Citation X taxied down the runway and leaped into the sky.

Paul gazed at the pink-tinged clouds of dawn.

“Red sky at morning,” he said, “sailor take warning.”

“That sort of stuff went out when weather satellites went into orbit, Captain Courageous,” Gamay said.

Paul was a third-generation fisherman, and weather lore had been passed down in his family from father to son. Gamay was annoyed whenever Paul reverted to his old-salt persona.

He smiled slightly, and said, “Storm is still a storm.”

She took him by the arm, and said, “Put on your foul-weather gear. You haven’t seen the storm that compares with getting Perlmutter out of bed.”