Текст книги "Poseidon's Arrow"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

24

THE MOTOR RUMBLED TO LIFE, NOT THE TINNY whine from a compact rental car but the throaty gurgle of a powerboat. Pitt took off toward the dock, admiring Ann’s plan to escape in Heiland’s boat. For her part, it was simply easier to navigate downhill on her tender ankle, and the boat represented a closer target. With the keys already in her pocket, she had just prayed that she could get it started.

Inside the lab, the gunman found himself stymied by the back door. The aluminum crutch had pinned it closed, at least momentarily. The angered man shoved violently at it, finally bending the crutch until it slid from beneath the door handle and fell to the ground. Charging out the door, he turned toward the sound of the boat. He spotted the shadowy blur of Pitt running amid the shoreline trees and took off in pursuit.

Pitt was breathing hard, and his left leg ached, as he reached a gravel footpath that led to the lakefront. He could faintly make out the figure of Ann standing in the boat’s cockpit, looking in his direction. Having heard the crash of the lab door opening, he didn’t have to look behind him to know the gunman had no plans to let them get away.

“Cast off, Ann!” he shouted. “Don’t wait.”

Ann crawled onto the dock and untied the stern line, then limped over and released the bowline. She was sliding back into the passenger seat when Pitt pounded onto the dock.

As Pitt approached, he was surprised to see the boat was an old dual cockpit runabout, built of mahogany. Had there been sufficient light, he would have recognized it as an early 1940s Chris-Craft.

Not losing a step, Pitt crossed the dock and leaped into the rear cockpit. He bounded off the cushion and vaulted into the front pilot’s seat, jamming down the boat’s throttle. As he fell into the seat, the old boat charged away from the dock with a bellow from its vintage six-cylinder Chrysler engine.

“This was fast thinking,” he told Ann as he guided the boat away from shore.

“I was afraid you’d never make it out of there.”

He looked back at the dock to see the dark figure of the lead gunman charge onto the platform.

“Better get down!” Pitt yelled, spinning the wheel hard over.

The cockpit floor was spacious enough for both of them and they ducked beneath the cowl as the boat jutted left. Pitt reached up and eased back the wheel, letting the boat run blindly ahead.

His move had turned the boat parallel to shore as it sped across the lake, its occupants hidden from view. The gunman ran to the end of the dock and aimed at the pilotless craft, firing until his clip was empty.

The roar of the engine drowned out the gunshots, but Pitt detected several faint thumps when a few rounds struck the hull. He waited a minute, then popped his head up for a quick look. The dock was lost from view among the trees as the boat skittered toward shore. Pitt slid into the seat and bumped the wheel over to keep them in deep water. Once on course, he pulled Ann up beside him. With all focus on their escape, he had ignored the throbbing pain in his leg, and the sticky wetness that told him he was now bleeding.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “That was a little too close for comfort.”

“It would have been even closer if I hadn’t had your crutch handy. Sorry to leave you off balance.”

“I was so scared, I didn’t even think about my ankle. I just saw it was downhill to the dock and remembered I had the house keys in my pocket. Fortunately, the boat keys were also attached.”

She unconsciously rubbed her ankle, now noticing the pain.

“Where to now?” she asked.

The wheels of justice had already been turning in Pitt’s mind. “Simple,” he said. “We head them off at the pass.”

There was only one road out from Heiland’s cabin. Pitt knew the thieves would have to pass through Bayview to escape with the stolen documents. They could be stopped, but only if he and Ann got there first. It was a race that would depend on a seventy-year-old boat.

Though long in the tooth, Heiland’s Chris-Craft was no turtle. The Custom Runabout was fitted with the company’s Model M engine, which churned out 130 horsepower. The old speedboat was as stylish as she was speedy, featuring a varnished mahogany finish, dual cockpits, and a rakish “barrelback” stern. A desirable boat when it had left the Algonac, Michigan, factory in 1942, it was now a prized collectible for classic boat lovers.

The elegant boat cut easily through the waves as Pitt kept the throttle down, mustering full speed from its inboard engine. Although they had a healthy head start, Pitt knew the gunmen would be desperate to escape and could travel the road back at nearly twice the boat’s speed.

A star-filled sky gave him ample light, and he nudged the boat near the shoreline to trim the distance. After a few minutes of hard running, a wide inlet appeared on Pitt’s left, and he angled the boat into it. The lights of Bayview appeared off the bow, twinkling at the far end of the aptly named Scenic Bay. Pitt glanced toward the shoreline road but didn’t spot any headlights.

“How do we stop them?” Ann shouted.

Pitt had been ruminating on that question since they had cleared the dock. Sitting weaponless in a seventy-year-old boat with a woman who could barely walk did not give rise to many options. The obvious course of action would be to storm into the Navy facility and request help. But such an assault would more likely get them shot or arrested than gain them immediate assistance. Peering ahead, he spotted a marina dock close to the lab’s fenced security entrance. The road from Heiland’s cabin intersected the town’s main street just a short distance away. He pointed out the dock to Ann.

“I’ll run us in there,” Pitt said. “See if you can make it up to the guard hut and convince them to call for some security to seal the road. I’ll see if I can find something to slow them down.”

“Okay, but be careful.” She reached into the rear seat for her lone crutch and braced herself to exit the boat.

The old speedboat roared through a no-wake zone and past the main marina. Angry houseboat residents ran to their windows, staring at the noisy source of their homes’ rocking. The shoreline dock was filled with small fishing boats, but Pitt spotted an empty berth and barreled toward it. Cutting power at the last second, he slid in with just a slight bump to the side of the boat. He popped from his seat and leaped to the dock, helping Ann up after him.

“I’m fine,” she said, tucking the crutch under her arm and hobbling down the dock.

Pitt sprinted ahead of her and ran toward the main road, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. Ann cringed when she realized the damp prints weren’t created from lake water.

The streets of Bayview were deserted and the town almost silent. In the distance, Pitt detected the sound of a speeding car, and he looked down the inlet. Sure enough, headlights glimmered through the trees on the road from Heiland’s cabin.

Pitt scanned the roadway where it entered town, searching for something he could use as a barricade. The road was lined by the Acoustic Lab’s tall security fence on one side and a sloping hill on the other. There were no rocks, logs, or even other cars within view that he might use as a blockade. The only vehicles in sight were for construction, parked up the hill, a gravel truck and a yellow earthmover.

He glanced again at the approaching lights; they’d arrive in less than a minute.

“Road crew it is,” he muttered, then ran up the hill as fast as he could.

25

ANN CHARGED INTO THE ACOUSTIC LAB’S GUARD station with all the subtlety of a Kansas tornado.

“The lab’s been robbed!” she shouted. “I need your help out front now!”

The duty guard had been seated behind a tall security glass, casually reading the sports page. He flew out of his chair as if stung by a cattle prod.

“Ma’am, I can’t leave my station,” he stuttered. “Now, calm down and tell me who are you and what this is about.”

Ann already had her identification pressed against the glass. “Call for your backup. I need all the roads out of this town closed off immediately.”

The guard noticed a general resemblance between the wild-eyed woman screaming at him and the neatly groomed female pictured on the NCIS badge. He nodded at Ann and picked up the telephone. He was still dialing when a loud screech resonated outside.

They both turned to see a speeding dark sedan swerve across the lakeshore road. From over the hill, the yellow earthmover suddenly appeared, sliding down the steep incline, apparently out of control. Ann could see it was on a collision course with the car, which the car’s driver had realized too late. In the glow from a nearby streetlight, Ann caught sight of a black-haired man in the cab of the earthmover—Pitt.

As he had staggered up the hill with a sharp pain in his left leg, Pitt had seen no other options. The gravel truck had been parked too close to the earthmover to maneuver around it, leaving the yellow mover his only option. The construction workers in this quiet town hadn’t bothered to lock either vehicle. Pitt climbed behind the controls, looked down the hill, and saw the headlights of the fleeing car already skirting the naval center. In seconds, it would pass directly below him.

Pitt depressed the clutch and slapped the gearshift lever into neutral, releasing the parking brake with his other hand. The big machine lurched forward downhill, prompting Pitt to tap the unassisted brakes. He gripped the rubberized steering wheel and tested the play. The well-used earthmover didn’t have a locking steering column, so Pitt had some maneuverability as long as he could muscle the wheel.

Glancing again down the hill, he saw the car emerge from the trees a short distance away. He had no time to waste.

Releasing the brake pedal, he let the earthmover roll forward a few feet to gain momentum, then bulled the steering wheel sharply to his right. The two front wheels turned easily, slicing through the earth at the foot of the hillside. The big steel blade scraped into the berm, slowing the mover momentarily before lurching ahead.

The ungainly machine nearly jackknifed as it tumbled over the ledge, managing to right itself with a heavy bounce. The steep hill dropped almost fifty feet, causing the mover to accelerate quickly. Pitt straightened the wheels, hoping to keep it upright. The glare of oncoming headlights filled his right windshield.

Had the car’s driver not been speeding, he might have been able to brake to a stop ahead of the runaway earthmover. But his rate of speed, combined with the shock of seeing the big piece of construction equipment bounding down the hill, caused him to overreact. Rather than brake first, he instinctively flicked the steering wheel to the side to escape the mover. He then stood on the brakes.

It was the worst choice. The car skidded twenty feet before the right front fender slammed into a telephone pole. Sitting unbuckled in the passenger seat, the man who had played guard in Heiland’s house flew into the windshield. His neck snapped, and he died instantly.

The driver suffered only a crushed leg, but his reprieve was temporary. He looked up over a now deflating air bag to see the charging yellow monster only inches away.

The prow of the earthmover struck the driver’s door square, knocking the car clear of the telephone pole and driving it sideways. Pitt dropped the mover’s steel blade, slowing the mover as a shower of sparks erupted from the asphalt. It was just enough to halt the momentum of both vehicles. When the passenger side of the car smacked against the Navy Lab’s fence, both jarred to a halt.

Ann was already hobbling toward the scene, followed by a siren-blaring security car racing through the lab’s main gate. She made her way alongside the earthmover as Pitt climbed out of the cab. His left leg was bloody, and he looked pale.

“Your leg,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“It’s not serious,” he said, moving gingerly.

They walked to the mangled car and peered inside. The body of the driver was flung forward, his eyes locked in a lifeless gaze. His bloodied partner, equally frozen in death, sprawled across the passenger-side dashboard.

“You cut them off, all right,” Ann whispered. She took a closer look at their features, noticing details that had gone unseen in the darkness of Heiland’s lab. “Associates of our friends in Tijuana?”

“They might have accessed Heiland’s office in Del Mar and tracked down his cabin here,” Pitt said. He looked again at the gruesome scene in the car as the Navy security car pulled up. “I hope it was worth it.”

Ann limped to the rear of the car and pried open the crash-damaged trunk. Inside was the bin containing Heiland’s documents. She gazed at Pitt with look of grim satisfaction.

“It was.”

PART II

RARE EARTH

26

THE GULFSTREAM’S WHEELS TOUCHED DOWN WITH a thump, jarring Ann awake. The excitement of the past few days had finally caught up with her, and she had slept since the plane left the ground in Idaho. She yawned and glanced across the aisle at Pitt, who sat engrossed reading a Jeff Edwards novel.

“Home at last,” she said.

Pitt looked up and smiled, then gazed out at the gray gloom hanging over Reagan National Airport as evening fell. “I was beginning to have my doubts we’d ever make it back.”

He had spent the better part of the morning being interrogated by Navy, FBI, and local Idaho law enforcement authorities about the previous night’s fatal accident. Ann redirected the questioning as best she could and ultimately gained his release, along with Heiland’s plans salvaged from the wrecked car.

The Gulfstream rolled off the runway, bypassing the commercial terminals for a private hangar reserved for government aircraft. A blue Ford Taurus shot onto the tarmac and pulled alongside as the jet’s wheels were chocked. Dan Fowler climbed out of the car and stood by, tapping his foot and checking his watch, until the jet’s door opened. He rushed over to Ann, took her hand, and helped her down the steps.

“Ann, are you okay?”

“Dan, I wasn’t expecting to see you here. We’re both a little tired, but holding up fine.”

“I thought you could use a lift home.”

Pitt followed her out of the plane and handed her a new pair of crutches.

“Good to see you, Dirk.” Fowler reached out to shake Pitt’s hand.

“After the last two days, I’m not sure I’m so happy to see you,” Pitt said, returning his handshake.

Fowler noticed Pitt was moving with his own limp. “Were you hurt, too?”

“A bullet grazed my calf. I got off easier than Ann.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Fowler said. “We obviously had no idea of the danger you both were walking into. We had only speculated that someone might be trying to obtain Heiland’s research when he disappeared. We certainly had no idea of the seriousness of the threat.”

“You mean threats,” Ann said. “At least they ended up as failed threats.”

Fowler gave Ann an anxious look. “Do you have Heiland’s plans?”

Pitt ducked into the Gulfstream and returned with the bin containing Heiland’s laptops and research journals. “It’s all here,” Pitt said.

Fowler looked relieved. He stepped to the rear of his car and opened the trunk. Pitt followed, shooting the security director a sharp glance as he dropped the bin in.

“You may not know it,” Fowler said, “but that represents a priceless bit of naval technology.”

“Then why didn’t you arrange an armed security escort to keep it safe? Someone is willing to kill for that data.”

“Don’t worry. It’s headed to a secure room in the bowels of the DARPA headquarters building—just as soon as I take Ann home.”

Pitt retrieved Ann’s bag from the Gulfstream and placed it in the trunk beside the bin.

“Can I give you a lift, too?” Fowler asked.

“No, thanks,” Pitt said. “I actually live within walking distance of here. After being cooped up the last few hours, I could use a good stretch of the legs.” He turned to say good-bye to Ann.

“Good luck with the investigation.”

Ann threw her arms around Pitt and gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“You take care of that leg.” He helped her into the car, and waved as they drove off into the gloom.

Pitt’s left leg ached from the bullet wound, while his right shin was still tender from his boat collision in Chile. He paused and sucked in a deep breath of the night air, cool and crisp from a recent rain shower. Hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, he ambled across the tarmac, his tight limbs slowly loosening as he moved.

The whine of engines sounded from across the tarmac as he made his way past a row of private jet hangars toward a little-used section of the airport. He crossed an empty field and approached a lone hangar that looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in fifty years. High weeds surrounded the structure, which was coated in equal parts of rust and dust. A bank of windows beneath the roof’s eaves showed a continuous web of cracks, with shards of glass scattered on the ground near a battered trash can. Only an expert eye examining the building up close could discern that the derelict appearance was in fact a façade designed to deter attention.

Pitt stepped to a side door illuminated by a dim yellow bulb and reached for an industrial-grade light switch. The switch assembly flipped open on a hinge, revealing a concealed keypad. Pitt entered a code that deactivated the alarm system and opened the door’s lock.

He stepped inside, turned on the lights—and was greeted by a fleet of gleaming antique cars parked in rows across the hangar floor, their polished chrome glistening under the overhead illumination. The culmination of a lifelong passion for the fast and the beautiful in automotive design, he had assembled an eclectic collection that spanned the dawn of the twentieth century through the 1950s. The museum-like appearance was augmented by a Ford Trimotor aircraft parked to one side near a beautifully restored Pullman railroad car that his adult kids occasionally used as a temporary apartment.

Pitt drifted across the hangar, patting the fender of a 1930 Packard Speedster 8 Runabout that was parked next to a workbench, the right side of its hood raised. He reached a cast-iron circular staircase and climbed to his second-floor living quarters, which he shared with Loren.

Dropping his duffel on a chair, he pulled a Shiner Bock beer from the refrigerator, then read a note taped to the freezer door.

Dirk,

I’m staying at my Georgetown condo until you get back. Too many automotive ghosts around here! Extended committee hearings will probably keep me on the Hill working late. Missed you.

XXXX,

Loren

Pitt downed the beer and returned to the hangar floor. Something was gnawing at him about the Heiland case, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Replaying the recent events had failed to spark a clue, so he slipped on a worn mechanic’s jumpsuit and made his way over to the old Packard. With a careful devotion, he began disassembling its updraft carburetor. By the time he had the mechanism overhauled an hour or so later, he knew exactly what was troubling him.

27

I GUESS IT WAS A GOOD CALL, ENLISTING PITT ON THE case,” Fowler said as he drove away from the airport.

“He’s quite a resourceful man.” Ann stared out the window and considered her impressions of Pitt. “He saved my life twice.”

“He evidently has quite a track record for averting disaster,” Fowler said. “I’m sure he can be trusted, but, just for the record, did he become aware of Heiland’s work and its capabilities?”

“He has the basic idea, but he didn’t press for more. He seemed primarily concerned about the safety of his ship and crew.” Ann reached down and rubbed her ankle. “We really should have told him all the facts in the beginning.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Tom Cerny was firm that discussion of the technology was off-limits. I think we were all surprised by the tenacity of those chasing after it.”

Fowler cleared the gates of the airport and stopped at a red light. “You live in Alexandria, right?”

“Yes, I’m near Old Town, right off King Street. Just take the Jefferson Davis Highway into town.”

Fowler nodded and turned south.

“Any updates from the FBI while we were in the air?” Ann asked.

“Nothing yet. It will probably be several days before we learn anything from the Mexican agencies. And you probably know more than me about the two guys in black from Idaho.”

“They were Latin in appearance. If they are in fact connected to the men in Tijuana, I suspect they may be operatives from Central or South America.”

“Venezuelan rogues?”

“Possibly. There is certainly no shortage of world powers that would like to use that technology. China or Russia probably head the list. Maybe they’ve got a surrogate working for them.”

“Don’t forget the Iranians.” Fowler gunned the car to clear a yellow light. He turned onto King Street, a main drag that bisected Alexandria.

“The attackers were pretty brazen,” Ann said, “and well informed.”

“Yes, it sounds like they were fearless.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ann asked.

“What’s that?” Fowler said, turning down a side street.

“Inside help. There must be a security leak, possibly at a high level.”

“Possibly, but you know how much classified information winds up in the press. It may not have been that difficult for someone to figure out that Heiland was working on something important. Since he wasn’t working in a secure environment, he made an easy target.”

“You may be right.” Ann pointed down the street. “I’m up ahead on the right, just past the big oak.”

Fowler spotted an empty space at the curb and pulled in behind a car that was idling with its lights off. Ann recognized it as a Chrysler 300 sedan.

“Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow?” Fowler said. “You’ve been through the wringer the last forty-eight hours. You could probably use some rest.”

“Thanks, but I’d go crazy just sitting around. I need to find out who these people are.”

Fowler turned off the car’s engine, and Ann climbed out. As she turned to retrieve her crutches, she was grabbed from behind. She just caught a glimpse of her assailant, a tall black male, who wrapped his hands around her and hurled her onto a small patch of lawn. The heavy man was on her instantly, jamming his knee into the small of her back while mashing her face into the grass with a plate-sized hand. She struggled to break free, then relented when she felt a gun barrel press against her temple.

“Don’t even breathe,” the big man said.

She heard Fowler cry out, followed by the dull thumping of a body being pummeled. A few seconds later, car keys jingled, and the Ford’s trunk was popped open. From the corner of her eye, Ann saw a second man carry something to the backseat of the Chrysler, then jump into the driver’s seat. The thug on her back leaned down and whispered into her face with foul breath. “Now, you lay nice and still for five minutes or else old Clarence will have to come back and hurt you.”

He eased himself off her, loped over to the Chrysler, and climbed casually into the passenger seat. The car shot forward with a chirp of its rear tires and sped down the street. Ann looked up to scan the car’s rear license plate, but it had been temporarily covered with a few strips of duct tape. Pros, she thought. They’d rip the tape off a block away, then meld into traffic, driving safely under the speed limit.

Ann jumped up and limped to the far side of the Taurus, where she found Fowler lying facedown next to the front wheel.

“Dan,” she cried, kneeling beside him.

He pried his eyes open and eased himself to a sitting position.

“I’m okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “Never saw that coming.” His eyes gradually focused on Ann. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. But that was no random stickup.” She tilted her head toward the open trunk.

“Not the files!” blurted Fowler, struggling to his feet. Holding each other for support, they stepped to the rear of the car and peered into the open trunk.

Inside sat Ann’s travel bag. And nothing else.