“Her life is in danger from an outside threat,” Pitt said. “Please call security and post a guard with her.”
He bolted for the door with Giordino right behind. Pitt motioned toward the clinic entrance. “You try the front, I’ll check the back.”
He sprinted down the corridor, peering into each side room for the woman in the green smock. He reached the s
toreroom at the back of the clinic, ducked inside, and saw an open door to the parking lot. Outside, a car’s engine revved.
He stepped into a cloud of dust as the black Jeep roared out of the lot.
Giordino ran up to him a minute later. “Got away?” he asked between heavy breaths.
Pitt motioned down the road. “A black Jeep.”
“I think I saw it by the waterfront.”
“Guess she decided to leave her bomb-throwing friend behind,” Pitt said.
“They were certainly serious about putting Elise and the aid team out of business. I wonder why?”
“Maybe the water specimens. Did they survive the glassworks ordeal?”
Giordino smiled. “You dare doubt Al the Magnificent?”
He pulled open his windbreaker, revealing the four test tubes Elise had given him, intact in his shirt pocket.
Pitt grinned. “Better than pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”
They waited at the hospital another hour until a NUMA helicopter arrived, summoned by Pitt from a research vessel working off the coast. A now conscious Elise was whisked aboard for a short ride to Comalapa International Airport near San Salvador, then onto a U.S. military transport bound for the States.
Pitt and Giordino remained there to brief police and embassy officials before they hopped their own commercial flight to Washington the next morning, leaving behind the unanswered mystery of who destroyed Cerrón Grande Dam—and why.
8
The city lights of Detroit glistened off the black river like crystalline stars in the night. Bounding waterfront skyscrapers of illuminated glass and steel showed a vibrant defiance to the recent economic struggles of the old industrial city. Captain Ron Posey glanced from Detroit’s shining aura off the starboard bow of his ship to a similar, smaller radiance off the vessel’s port side. In the midnight hour, Windsor, Canada, countered with an equally warm glow of buildings and homes. Posey rubbed his eyes and refocused on the black ribbon of water between the cities that funneled into the narrows of the Detroit River.
“Sir, why don’t you get some shut-eye?” said his second officer, a cheerful young man named Gauge. “Traffic looks light on the radar.”
Posey had stood on the bridge for the better part of the past two days, ever since the Mayweather departed Thunder Bay on Lake Superior’s west coast. The 12,000-ton tanker was laden with Alberta tar sands crude oil, bound for a refinery in Quebec.
Posey hated to give up command, yet he knew he wasn’t superhuman. He’d been officially relieved by the second officer hours ago, but continued to pace the bridge. He stopped and gazed out the window. “I’ll turn in once we kiss the waters of Lake Erie.”
The entrance to Lake Erie was just twenty-five miles away. The remaining path wound through the narrow confines of the Detroit River. The waterway often bustled with traffic, even at this hour. Posey knew there’d be no sleep for him until the tanker reached the safe expanse of the lake.
The second officer ordered the helm to reduce speed as the ship approached Grosse Pointe. The tanker eased closer to the Michigan shore as it approached Peche Island and the onset of the Detroit River. Near the turn of the last century, this short stretch of water had been the world’s busiest commercial riverway. Times and industry had changed dramatically, but the river still held economic prominence for the upper Great Lakes.
A flashing light dead ahead signaled the approach of Windmill Point. Beyond it, the river split in two around Belle Isle, a picturesque state park. With the main shipping channel along the island’s eastern border, the helmsman prepared to ease the tanker to port.
“You’ve got a large vessel incoming,” Posey said.
Gauge followed Posey’s gaze to the radarscope, which showed a white linear shape moving off the center of Belle Isle. A notation on the screen indicated the vessel as the MV Duluth, traveling north at ten knots. The second officer looked out the bridge window, saw only a dark shadow.
Captain Posey had already reached for a pair of binoculars and was scanning the route ahead. “The fool has his running lights turned off and is steaming up the west side of Fleming.”
Fleming Channel was the dredged passage east of Belle Isle designated for commercial traffic.
Gauge reached for the radio and hailed the Duluth. There was no reply.
“Looks to be a bulk freighter, nice-sized one at that.” Posey lowered the binoculars and shifted his gaze to an overhead monitor that displayed a digital chart of the river. A moving white rectangle represented the Mayweather as it approached the northern tip of Belle Isle. The Duluth appeared as a yellow triangle approaching at an angle from Fleming Channel.