clusters to fire through the armored ports of the domed turret above the engine room that looked to the casual eye like a skylight. The seemingly innocent superstructure protruded a good meter above the aft deck and could swivel on a 220-degree arc. After assembling the launcher and guidance units, and then inserting the missiles in their tubes, Giordino began concentrating on cleaning and loading a small arsenal of automatic rifles and handguns. Next, he unloaded a crate of incendiary/concussion grenades and carefully loaded four of them in a bulky clip that hung from a stubby automatic grenade launcher.
They all went about their respective jobs with cold efficiency and an unerring sense of dedication that would ensure the success of their mission and their individual survival. Admiral Sandecker had handpicked the best. He couldn't have found a better crew to tackle the near impossible if he'd canvassed the entire country. His faith in them bordered on fanatical.
The kilometers flowed under the hull. The Cameroon Highlands and the Yoruba Hills bounding the southern part of the river rose in a haze flattened by dense humidity. Rain forests alternated with groves of acacias and mangroves along the shore. Villages and small towns appeared and slipped past as the bow of the Calliope cut the water in a great V of foam.
The traffic on the river consisted of every known vessel from dugout canoes to old chugging ferryboats dangerously overloaded with waving passengers to small cargo ships stained with rust that plodded from one port to the next, their funnel smoke fanned by a gentle northern breeze. It was a scene of peaceful contentment that Pitt knew couldn't last. Around each bend in the river, an unknown threat might be waiting to send them to meet the devil.
About noon they passed under the great 1404-meter bridge that spanned the river from the port and market city of Onitsha to the agricultural town of Asaba. Roman Catholic cathedrals stood sentinel over the bustling Onitsha streets that were bounded by industrial plants. Docks along the water were heavy with ships and boats that transported food and trade goods downstream and imported commodities upstream from the Niger Delta.
Pitt concentrated on skirting the river traffic, smiling to himself at the shaking fists and angry curses thrown at the Calliope as she roared perilously close to small boats that rolled wickedly from the wash of her churning wake. Once free of the port, he relaxed and released his hands from the wheel and flexed his fingers. He had been at the helm for nearly six hours, but suffered little stiffness or fatigue. His chair at the controls was as comfortable as any enjoyed by a corporate executive and the steering as light as that of an expensive, luxury automobile.
Giordino appeared with a bottle of Coors beer and a tuna sandwich. 'Thought you might need a little nutrition. You haven't eaten since we left the Sounder.'
'Thanks, I couldn't hear my stomach grumbling above the noise of the engines.' Pitt turned over the helm to his friend and nodded past the bow. 'Be wary of that tug towing those barges as you come abeam to pass. He's fishtailing all over the channel.'
'I'll keep a wide passage to port,' Giordino acknowledged.
'Are we in shape to repel boarders?' Pitt grinned.
'As ready as we'll ever be. Any suspicious characters lurking about?'
Pitt shook his head. 'A couple of flybys by the Nigerian air force, and friendly waves from passing patrol boats. Otherwise, a lazy, hazy day cruising up the river.'
'The local bureaucrats must have bought the Admiral's scam.'
'Let's hope the countries further upriver are as gullible.'
Giordino tossed a thumb at the French tricolor flapping on the stern. 'I'd feel a whole lot better if we had the Stars and Stripes, the State Department, Ralph Nader, the Denver Broncos, and a company of Marines behind us.'
'The battleship Iowa would be nice too.'
'Is the beer cold? I put a case in the galley fridge only an hour ago.'
'Cold enough,' Pitt answered between bites of the sandwich. 'Any startling revelations from Rudi?'
Giordino gave a negative dip of his head. 'He's wrapped up in a chemical never, never land. I tried to make conversation but he waved me off.'
'I think I'll pay him a visit.'
Giordino yawned. 'Careful he doesn't bite your knee off.'
Pitt laughed and went down the stairway into Gunn's lab. The little NUMA scientist was studying a computer printout, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. Giordino had misread Gunn's disposition. He was actually in a good mood.
'Having any luck?' asked Pitt.
'This damn river has every pollutant in it known to man and then some,' replied Gunn. 'It's far more contaminated than the bad old days on the Hudson, the James, and the Cuyahoga.'
'Looks complicated,' said Pitt as he stepped around the cabin, studying the sophisticated equipment that was packed together from deck to ceiling. 'What function do these instruments serve?'
'Where did you get the brew?'
'Want one?'
'Sure.'
'Giordino's got a case crammed in the galley refrigerator. Hold on a minute.'
Pitt ducked through a cabin door to the galley and returned, handing Gunn a cold bottle of beer.
Gunn took several swallows and sighed. Then he said, 'Okay, to answer your question. There are three key elements to our search approach. The first requires an automated micro-incubator. I use this unit to expose a tiny sample of river water into vials containing red tide samples we obtained off the coast. The micro-incubator then optically monitors the growth of the dinoflagellates. After a few hours the computer gives me an indication of how potent the concoction and how rapid the growth of the little buggers. A little play with numbers and I have a reasonable estimate of how close we're coming to the source of our problem.'
'So the red tide stimulator isn't coming from Nigeria.'
'The numbers suggest the source is further up the river.'
Gunn moved around Pitt to a pair of square, box-like units about the size of small television sets but with doors where the screens would have been. 'These two instruments are for identifying the nasty glob, as I call it, or a combination of globs that's behind our problem. The first is a gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. To put it concisely, I merely take vials of river water samples and place them inside. The system then automatically extracts and analyzes the contents. The results are interpreted by our on-board computers.'
'What exactly does it tell you?' asked Pitt.
'It identifies synthetic organic pollutants, including solvents, pesticides, PCBs, dioxins, and a host of other drugs and chemical compounds. This baby, I hope, will home in on the chemistry of the compound that's mutating and stimulating the red tide.'
'What if the contaminant is a metal?'
'That's where the inductively coupled plasma/mass spectrometer comes in,' said Gunn, gesturing at the second instrument. 'Its purpose is to automatically identify all metals and other elements which might be present in the water.'
'Looks similar to the other one,' observed Pitt.
'Basically the same principle, but different technology. Again, I merely load the sample vials of water taken from the river, punch the start buttons, and check the performance every 2 kilometers.'
'What has it told you?'
Gunn paused to rub a pair of red-rimmed eyes. 'That the Niger River is carrying half the metals known to man, from copper to mercury to gold and silver, even uranium. All in concentrations above their natural background levels.'
'Sifting through the scatter won't be easy,' murmured Pitt.
'Finally,' added Gunn, 'the data is telemetered to our researchers at NUMA who review my results in their own laboratories and look for something I might have missed.'
Pitt, for the life of him, couldn't see Gunn missing anything. It was plain that his friend for many years was more than just a competent scientist and analyst; he was a man who thought coldly, clearly, and as constructively as possible. He was a dedicated hard driver who didn't know the meaning of the word quit.
'Any hint yet of the toxic compound that might be our evil-doer?' Pitt asked.
