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"Not a trace."
"So we still don't know where the Deep Encounter is, but now we know where she's not."
Sandecker pulled at his neatly trimmed beard. "I know where you're going, but your theory won't fly."
"I must side with the admiral," said Gunn. "The top speed of Deep Encounter is no more than fifteen knots. There is no way she could have sailed out of the original satellite camera range."
"Chief Engineer House got twenty knots out of her during our dash toward the burning cruise ship," Pitt informed him. "I admit it's a stretch, but if the hijackers had a fast ship, they might have taken our vessel in tow and increased her speed by another four to six knots."
Sandecker's voice was skeptical. "Makes no difference. Once we increased the range and path of the satellite cameras, there was still no sign of Deep Encounter."
Pitt played his wild card. "True, but you were looking on the water."
"Where were we supposed to look?" asked Sandecker, becoming intrigued.
"Dirk has a point," said Gunn thoughtfully. "We didn't consider focusing the cameras on land."
"Forgive me for asking," Giordino spoke up, "but what land? The nearest landmass from where the cruise liner sank is the northern tip of New Zealand."
"No," said Pitt quietly, for effect, "there are the Kermadec Islands no more than two hundred nautical miles to the south, an easy eight-hour sail at a speed of twenty-five knots." He turned and looked at Cussler.
"Are you familiar with the Kermadec Islands?"
"I've cruised around them," answered Cussler. "Not much to look at. Three small islands and L'Esperance Rock. Raoul Island is the largest, but it's only a pile of rock thirteen miles square with lava rock cliffs that rise steeply up to Mount Mumukai."
"Any inhabitants or settlement?"
"There's a small meteorological and communications station, but it's automated. Scientists only visit it every six months to check and repair the equipment. The only permanent residents are goats and rats."
"Is there a harbor large enough to anchor a small ship?"
"More like a lagoon," replied Cussler, "but it's a safe anchorage for two, maybe three small ships."
"How about foliage for camouflage?"
"Raoul is lush and heavily wooded. They could cover a pair of small ships well enough for someone who wasn't looking real carefully."
Pitt said into the phone, "You heard?"
"I heard," said Sandecker. "I'll ask that the next satellite that passes over that part of the Pacific aim its cameras on the Kermadecs. How do I contact you?"
Pitt was about to ask Cussler for his communications code, but the old man had already written the numbers down and handed them to him on a slip of paper. Pitt informed Sandecker and punched off the connection.
"Is there any possibility you could make a detour by the Kermadecs?" Pitt asked.
The blue-green eyes glistened. "You have something devious in mind?"
"You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of tequila on board?"
Cussler nodded solemnly. "I do. A case of the best. A little touch of the blue agave now and then keeps me quick and nimble."
After the glasses were filled with Porfirio tequila-Misty preferred a margarita-Pitt told the old man what he had in mind, but only as much as he thought was advisable under the circumstances. After all, he thought as he looked around the elegant yacht, no one in his right mind would risk destroying such a beautiful vessel in a desperate scheme.
18
The malachite green sea merged with the peridot green water flowing through the channel of the large lagoon that nestled between the volcanic lava cliffs of Raoul Island. Once inside the narrow channel, the lagoon widened into a small but respectable anchorage. Beyond was the tributary mouth of a stream that ran down the rugged slopes of Mount Mumukai and into the waters of the lagoon. The sandy, horseshoe-shaped beach was interspersed with sea-worn black lava rock and framed by a marching army of coco palms.
From the sea, only a tiny section of the lagoon could be seen through the chasm whose cliffs rose on each side of the channel. It was like peering through a telescope into a distant narrow slit. High atop the west side of the entrance, more than three hundred feet above the surf crashing against the shore, a small shack built of palm fronds perched dangerously close to the edge. The native look was a facade. Beneath the palm fronds were walls built of concrete blocks. The interior was air-conditioned, and the windows were tinted. A security guard sat inside a comfortable little house, studying the vast expanse of ocean with a large pair of binoculars mounted on a stand for any sign of a ship. He sat in a soft executive chair before a computer, radio and a VCR with a monitor. A chain smoker, he had heaped an ashtray with dead butts. Across from him, neatly stacked in a rack against one wall, were four missile launchers and two automatic rifles. With this arsenal, he could have held off a small navy trying to force its way into the lagoon.
