Poseidon's Arrow

“We’ve pulled the Habsburg’s company transit records and have found an odd pattern of canal crossings,” Madrid said.

“Their ships enter at one end,” Pitt said, “and don’t exit the other until days later.”

“Exactly correct.”

“They are delivering purchased or stolen raw ore at the facility and then shipping out the refined product.”

Madrid nodded with a pained look. “The passage of commercial ships through the canal is a tightly controlled operation. They apparently have assistance from the pilots, and perhaps our own locks personnel, to make such transits without attracting attention.”

“There’s a lot of money involved with their product,” Pitt said. “They can afford substantial bribes.”

“Mr. Pitt, can you show us where the facility is located?” Alvarez asked.

Pitt walked to the map and tracked the Panama Canal Railway line that ran near the canal’s eastern edge.

“I can only guess that I caught the rail line somewhere in this area.” He pointed to a remote area off Gatun Lake, about thirty miles from Panama City. “The facility would be somewhere between the canal and the rail line.”

Alvarez rifled through a folder and pulled out a packet of color aerial photographs.

“This would be the approximate region.” He examined each photo closely before passing it around the table. The photos showed swaths of dense jungle that occasionally bordered Gatun Lake. A few pictures showed the Panama Railway line cutting through the jungle, but none gave any sign of Bolcke’s facility. They pored through forty photos as skepticism grew on Madrid’s face.

“Wait a second,” Summer said. “Pass that last photo back.”

Dirk handed her the photograph and she lined it up against another on the table. “Take a look at the jungle in these two pictures.”

The four men craned their necks, seeing a uniform blanket of green jungle flowing across both photos.

Nobody said anything until Pitt slid over a third photograph. “It’s the color,” he said. “It changes.”

“Exactly.” Summer pointed to one of the photos. “There’s a linear seam here where the jungle color seems to turn a bit gray.”

“I see it,” Madrid said.

“It’s the artificial canopies over the facility,” Pitt said. “They’ve faded with age and no longer match the surrounding jungle.”

Alvarez pieced the images together with several contiguous photos until the composite showed a distinct peninsula that fingered into Gatun Lake. He took a marker and highlighted the discolored areas, revealing a large rectangle adjacent to a patchwork of smaller squares.

“The large rectangle would cover the dock and inlet,” Pitt said. “Some artificial mangroves block the entrance and are pulled aside when a ship enters or leaves.”

“What are the other squares?” Summer said.

“The other buildings in the compound.” He took Alvarez’s marker and noted Bolcke’s residence, the millhouse, the slave housing, and the multiple extraction buildings. He described the facility’s security forces to the extent he knew them, leaving out no detail.

“How many prisoners?” Madrid asked.

“Eighty.”

“Amazing,” Madrid said. “A slave camp hiding right under our noses.” He turned to Alvarez. “You’ve got it pinpointed?”

“Yes, sir. It’s right here.” He located the peninsula on the large wall map and marked it with a pushpin.

“Clearly within our jurisdiction. Suggested entry?”

“Short notice will dictate an approach from Gatun Lake. We can bring up the Coletta from Miraflores as our command ship and run three of our patrol boats off her as assault craft.”

He studied Pitt’s markings on the photos. “If we can enter past the barricade, we’ll send one boat into the inlet and land the other two outside, with those forces sweeping in. Once the facility is secure, we can bring the Coletta to the dock to evacuate the prisoners.”

“You best assemble the men and equipment at once,” Madrid said. “We’ll reconvene aboard the Coletta in two hours, and brief the assault team in transit.”

“Yes, sir.” Alvarez stood and scurried out of the office.

“You are welcome to join me on the Coletta during the operation,” Madrid said to Pitt and his children.

“We’ll be there,” Pitt replied. “I have an injured friend I was forced to leave behind.”

“I understand. As to the matter of the Salzburg, I have heeded your Vice President’s plea and ordered extra security at the Gatun Locks. If the ship should appear for a canal transit, we will be prepared to seize her.”

Pitt shrugged. “I suppose seizing Bolcke’s ship might answer a few more questions.”

Summer could see her father didn’t know the full picture. “Dad, didn’t Rudi tell you about your friend Ann Bennett?”

Pitt shook his head.

“She went missing about a week ago—about the same time some sort of propulsion motor was stolen from a Navy research lab truck. Rudi said there was a connection between the two.”

“The Sea Arrow,” Pitt muttered.

“Rudi thinks Ann was abducted with the motor. He and Hiram found a cryptic e-mail she sent you over the NUMA website indicating she was in Kentucky.”

“Then she’s still alive.”

“Rudi thinks so. They believe she was telling them the motor was hidden on a hay truck. Rudi speculated they were trying to avoid the eastern seaboard in their attempt to get it out of the country. He believes they shipped it down the Mississippi, and Hiram actually found video from the Horace Wilkinson Bridge in Baton Rouge that shows a barge passing by with a hay truck aboard.”

“Seems a bit tenuous,” Pitt said.

“Less so when it was discovered that Bolcke’s ship, the Salzburg, was in New Orleans at the same time—and departed a day later.”

“The Salzburg,” Pitt said. “So Bolcke has been behind the Sea Arrow thefts from the beginning.”

“But what does he plan to do with it?” Summer asked.

Pitt thought back to his encounter with Zhou and the response he gave when asked why he was there.

“Business,” Pitt said. “He plans to sell it to the Chinese, perhaps as part of a deal related to their combined rare earth holdings.” He looked at Summer. “How long ago did you say the Salzburg left New Orleans?”

“About four days.”

“Recon showed it heading south at the Mississippi Delta,” Dirk said.

“Why hasn’t the Coast Guard or Navy tracked her down and boarded her?” Pitt asked.

“They would have but for one thing,” Dirk said. “The ship has vanished.”

65

WITHIN CLEAR SIGHT OF THE CANAL AUTHORITY Administration Building, a rust-covered grain ship sat at anchor, absorbing the gentle waves of the Pacific. Named the Santa Rita, she was flagged in Guam, though the government of Guam would have been surprised to learn as much. Aside from never filing papers there, the Santa Rita had never once carried an ounce of grain.

She was in fact an aging resource of China’s Ministry of State Security. Originally configured as a spy ship to