Black wind

tastefully decorated stateroom.
    “There’s towels in the bath and dry clothes in the closet. And here, this will warm you up.” He grabbed a bottle sitting on a side table and poured them each a glass of the clear fluid. Dirk downed a shot quickly, tasting a bitter flavor from the smooth liquor that clearly packed a high alcohol content.
    “Soju,” the man said. “A local rice brew. Help yourself while I try to get us past your friends in the cat.”
    “Thank you for helping us,” Summer replied appreciatively. “By the way, my name is Summer Pitt, and this is my brother, Dirk.”
    “Pleased to meet you. My name is Clive Cussler.”
    Cussler returned to the junk’s exposed wheel and slipped the engine into gear, tweaking the throttle slightly higher while nosing the bow farther toward midriver It took only a few minutes before the catamaran approached from downstream, pulling alongside and washing the junk in a flood of spotlights. Cussler slipped on a conical straw peasant’s hat and hunched his tall frame low at the wheel.
    Through the glare of the lights, he could see several men pointing automatic weapons at him. As the catamaran crept to within inches of the port beam, an unseen man on the bridge barked a question across through the boat’s PA system. Cussler replied by shaking his head. Another command echoed across from the catamaran as the spotlights bounced about the junk. Cussler again shook his head, wondering whether the waterlogged coil of rope and wet pairs of footprints across the deck would be detected. For several long minutes, the catamaran held steady at the junk’s side as if waiting to board. Then, with a sudden blast of its engines, the catamaran roared away, resuming its river search closer to shore.
    Cussler guided the junk down the last vestiges of the Han River until its waters were swallowed by the Yellow Sea. As the sea-lanes opened and the potential for nearby water traffic fell away, Cussler punched a handful of electronic controls at the helm. Hydraulic winches began to whir as lines were pulled and yards were raised, pulling the traditional red, square-shaped lug sails of a classic junk to the peak of the main-and mizzenmasts. Cussler manually tied off the out haul lines and then powered off the small diesel motor. The old junk now leaped through the waves under the graceful power of its sails.
    “You’ve got a beautiful vessel,” Dirk said, emerging from belowdecks dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Summer followed him onto the deck, clad in an oversized pair of coveralls and a man’s work shirt.
    “The standard Chinese merchant ship that dates back almost two thousand years,” Cussler replied. “This one was built in Shanghai in 1907 for a wealthy tea trader. She’s made entirely from a hard teakwood called “Takien Tong.” She’s extremely durable and surprisingly seaworthy.”
    “Where did you find her?” Summer asked.
    “A friend of mine found her abandoned in a Malaysian boatyard and decided to refurbish her. Took him six years to complete the job. After he grew bored with sailing, I traded him a few antique cars for her. Plan to cruise the Asian Pacific in her. Started in Japan and am going to work my way down to Wellington.”
    “You sail her by yourself?” Summer asked.
    “She’s been modified with a strong diesel engine and hydraulic lifts for the lug sails which are linked to a computerized automatic pilot. She’s a breeze to manage, and can, in fact, sail herself.”
    “Do you have a satellite phone aboard?” Dirk asked.
    “Afraid not. A ship-to-shore radio is the best I can offer you. I didn’t want any phone calls or Internet messages bothering me on this cruise.”
    “Understandable. Where are you headed, and, for that matter, where are we located now?” he asked.
    Cussler pulled out a marine navigation chart and held it under the weak light of the helm console. “We’re entering the Yellow Sea about forty miles northwest of Seoul. I take it you aren’t interested in staying aboard till Wellington?” he grinned, running an index finger across the chart. “How about Inchon?” he continued, tapping the map. “I can drop you there in about eight hours. I believe there’s a U.S. Air Force base located somewhere near there.”
    “That would be great. Anywhere we can find a phone and get ahold of someone at NUMA headquarters.”
    “NUMA,” Cussler said, mulling over the word. “You’re not from that NUMA ship that sank