Poseidon's Arrow

monitor the Taiwan Strait, she later carried missiles to Iran in her grain-hauling configuration. Retired to less clandestine duty, she had been under contract to haul a shipment of Mexican pharmaceuticals to Shanghai when Zhou took her over off Costa Rica.

The tired agent was resting on the bridge, just a short time after returning from his nighttime foray into Bolcke’s camp, when his cell phone rang. As he checked the number, his stoic face registered a hint of surprise.

“Zhou,” he answered bluntly.

“Zhou, this is Edward Bolcke. I have to inform you we will be making a slight change in the rendezvous plans.”

“I was expecting the transfer to occur within the hour.”

“There’s been a minor security delay, but there’s no cause for alarm. The shipment is safe. We will, however, need to postpone the rendezvous for another six hours.”

Zhou grew silent. His explosives would detonate at Bolcke’s compound in approximately four hours. He had timed them to go off after he received the Sea Arrow’s motor and plans. The entire transfer was now in jeopardy.

“That is unacceptable,” Zhou said calmly. “I have a strict timetable to adhere to.”

“My apologies, but you can understand the sensitivities at play. My vessel is nearing the Gatun Locks and will still require the complete canal passage. If you wish, you might consider entering the canal at your end. If you head north through the Miraflores Locks, we could make the transfer in Miraflores Lake. That would reduce the time of our delivery by an hour or two. I can make a call and move you up for immediate passage through the lock.”

The last place Zhou wanted to be was trapped in the middle of the Panama Canal. But if that was the only opportunity to acquire the Sea Arrow’s secrets, so be it. With luck, Bolcke might not know his facility was a smoldering ruin when he passed over the technology.

“Very well,” Zhou said. “Make the transit arrangements, and I will proceed to Miraflores Lake. Please expedite your vessel, as we will be waiting.”

Hanging up, he stared out the bridge window, feeling like he was about to dance on the edge of a razor.

66

NEARLY FORTY SHIPS WERE MOORED IN LIMON BAY, congesting like a swarm of bees around a hive. Each awaited its turn to be funneled from the Atlantic Ocean into the Panama Canal. A small containership arrived and cut past the long line of freighters, tankers, and other carriers to take its place at the front of the line.

The century-old Big Ditch was handling more ships than ever, but its capacity was soon to swell. A major expansion was under way, adding two new sets of locks capable of handling the world’s largest containerships. While expensive to cross, the Panama Canal shaved thousands of miles off the alternative of traveling around Cape Horn.

Watching the containership sail past, the captains waiting their turn in Limon Bay knew that jumping to the head of the line required paying a steep premium.

The containership slowed as a pilot boat drew alongside, delivering a Panama Canal Authority boarding officer and a canal pilot. The ship’s captain escorted them to the bridge, where he relinquished command to the pilot, a requirement of all ships transiting the canal. The boarding officer confirmed the ship’s tonnage and dimensions to determine the vessel’s fare.

“Manifest, please,” he asked the captain.

The officer thumbed through the document, noting a short list of equipment parts.

“Most of those containers empty?” he asked.

“Yes, taking them to Balboa,” the captain said.

“I noticed you were riding high in the water.” He computed the fee, with a steep kicker for moving up in line. “Your account will be charged accordingly.” Then he turned to the pilot. “The Portobelo is cleared to proceed.” He left the bridge and reboarded the pilot boat, which whisked him to the next ship waiting in line.

The pilot sailed the Portobelo down a long channel to the Gatun Locks, the canal’s Atlantic entry point. The locks consisted of a parallel set of three huge sequential chambers, which enabled southbound vessels to be lifted eighty-five feet above sea level to begin crossing the isthmus.

The Panama Canal itself was built like a liquid wedding cake. Its highest point was at its center, the large, man-made reservoir of Gatun Lake. The lake cascaded down three levels at either end. Due to a geographic quirk, the canal’s fresh water flowed to the Atlantic Ocean in the north and to the Pacific in the south. The elevated lake allowed for gravity to fill and drain the locks, raising or lowering ships, depending on their direction of travel.

But the Panama Canal was an uneven wedding cake, due to a separation between locks on the Pacific side. While the three chambers of the Atlantic’s Gatun were sequential, the Pacific’s were far apart, with a single- chamber lock called Pedro Miguel at the lake and a dual-chamber lock called Miraflores a mile beyond. It took a typical ship about eight hours to complete the fifty-mile journey from ocean to ocean.

The pilot inched the Portobelo close to the first chamber at Gatun, stopping just short of its huge open doors, which were called gates. Messenger lines attached to steel tow cables were hoisted aboard and secured, their opposite ends attached to tiny locomotives, called mules, which ran along the lock’s edge. Under the pilot’s guidance, the mules gently towed the freighter into the chamber and held it in place as the gates astern were closed. Once sealed, additional water was released into the mammoth chamber until the ship had been raised nearly thirty feet.

Armed guards, not usually seen around the locks, patrolled the area, giving the ship a careful once-over. When the water level matched the next chamber’s, the front gates were opened and the ship was pulled forward by the mules. The process was repeated twice more, until the Portobelo motored out of the last chamber and into Gatun Lake—eighty-five feet higher than when she started. Clearing the locks, the pilot ordered the helm to increase speed.

“Helm, belay that order,” the captain said. “All stop.”

The pilot’s face turned red. “I command the vessel through the canal!” His demeanor softened when he detected another presence on the bridge. He turned to find Pablo approaching him. “Pablo! I thought this tub was eerily familiar to the old Salzburg. When did you boys get into the container business?”

“About thirty-six hours ago,” Pablo said. “We’ll be taking her from here.”

“Sure, sure.” The pilot spotted the bag in Pablo’s hand that contained the usual cash bribe and a bottle of Chivas Regal.

“There’s an extra thousand for you,” Pablo said, handing him the bag. “No more mention of the Salzburg.”

“Whatever you say. The monkeys on the dock were looking for you, but I guess you fooled them. See you on the next run.”

The ship’s crew lowered a rubber boat and ran the pilot to shore, where he could hop in a taxi to the nearest bar. When the inflatable returned, the disguised Salzburg got under way.

“You sure he can be trusted?” the captain asked.

Pablo nodded. “We’ll have completed the transfer before he’s halfway through that bottle of scotch.”

Pablo allowed himself his own notion of relief. Since receiving the warning call from Bolcke two days earlier, he had feared every call on the radio and every passing ship. But the rush transformation of the Salzburg into the Portobelo, aided by a paint respray of the bridge and funnel, and a large load of empty containers, had fooled the canal authorities at the Gatun Locks. That meant one thing.

They were home free.