Текст книги "The Silent Sea (2010)"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Actually

Get out! he snapped.

No. Seriously. Juan stooped to raise his jeans' cuff and lower his sock. This prosthetic leg was covered with flesh-colored plastic that still looked artificial under the uncertain light.

James Ronish lost some of his anger. Well, I'll be. A fellow peg leg. What happened?

Blown off by a Chinese gunboat during the reckless days of my youth.

You don't say. Well, there's irony for you. Can I get you boys a beer?

Before they could reply, the screen door outside squeaked open and someone knocked.

Cabrillo looked over to Max, concern etched on his face. He hadn't heard anyone drive up, but with the rain thundering against the house it was possible he missed it. And what were the odds an old curmudgeon like Jim Ronish getting two visitors on the same evening?

Then he told himself to relax. This wasn't a mission. They were just giving some information to a harmless old man living out in the middle of nowhere. Max had been right. Juan did need a little time off.

Damn. Now what? Ronish grumbled. He reached for the doorknob.

Juan's instincts went into overdrive. Something was very wrong. Before he could stop him, Ronish had the door open. A man stood out in the rain, his wet face shining in the light over the front door.

Both the man and Cabrillo recognized each other instantly, and while one spent a critical microsecond considering the implications, the other reacted.

Juan was grateful he was carrying a Glock. They didn't have safeties to slow him down. He whipped the pistol from the holster under his windbreaker and fired around Jim Ronish's shoulder. The bullet hit the frame, gouging out a sizable chunk of wood.

The Argentine Major who Cabrillo had talked his way past at the logging camp jumped from view. The automatic's report had been concussive in the foyer, but Juan could hear voices outside. The Major wasn't alone.

Cabrillo ignored his mind's desire to understand what had just happened. He leapt forward and slammed the door closed. The lock was about the cheapest made and yet he threw it anyway. Every second could count.

Max tackled a stunned James Ronish so that they hit the floor together, Hanley's arm over the older man's back. Cabrillo ducked through into the kitchen, found the light switch, and flicked it off. He then padded into the living room and simply knocked the floor lamp onto its side. The dim bulb went out with a pop. Next, he snapped off the television, plunging the old house into complete darkness.

What's going on? Ronish wailed.

More of my reckless youth coming back to haunt me, Cabrillo muttered, and flipped over a moth-eaten couch for additional cover.

Seconds ticked by. Max helped Ronish over to Juan's makeshift redoubt.

How many?

At least two, Juan said. The one at the door is an officer of the Ninth Brigade.

I figured since you shot at him that he wasn't selling Avon. The front picture window exploded under a murderous onslaught of gunfire. Glass rained on the men as they cowered behind the sofa. The house's thin walls didn't slow the high-powered rounds, so smoking holes appeared in the wallboard. The bullets passed through the living room, and probably didn't stop until they hit trees in Ronish's backyard.

Those are rifles, Max said. He had his pistol out now but looked at it dubiously. Judging by the rate of fire screaming overhead, they weren't just outgunned, they were outmanned as well.

Do you have any weapons? Juan asked.

To his credit, the old man answered quickly, Yeah. I got a .357 in my bedside table and a 30.06 in the closet. The rifle's empty, but the ammo's on the top shelf under a bunch of baseball caps. Last door on the left.

Before Cabrillo could retrieve the guns, an Argentine round slammed into one of the oxygen tanks Ronish kept for when he ran errands. The bullet blew through the tough steel skin and fortunately the oxygen didn't explode, but the twenty-pound bottle took off like a rocket. It crashed into the dining-room table, snapping a leg and sending it crashing under the weight of old magazines.

Next, it hit the couch hard enough to shove it into the men hiding behind it and then punched a hole in the Sheetrock wall, before dropping to the floor. It spun like a top until the last of the gas escaped.

Juan knew how lucky they had been. Depending on the type of ammunition they were facing, the tank could easily have exploded and started a chain reaction with the dozen or more bottles next to them. They were sitting in what amounted to a death trap.

Forget the guns, Juan shouted. We need to get out of here.

I can't make it, James wheezed. His lungs were working overtime but he wasn't getting enough air. I need the oxygen. I won't last five minutes.

We stay here, we won't last five seconds! Cabrillo said, even though he saw the truth. James Ronish couldn't be moved.

The firing subsided as the Argentines regrouped after the first frantic moments of the gun battle. The only thing that made sense was that they needed Ronish alive. Juan knew he and Max hadn't been trailed to Washington, so he assumed that the men outside had followed the same informational bread crumbs as he had. It meant they knew something about the Flying Dutchman's fateful voyage that he did not. Some piece of information that only James Ronish had. And he felt certain it had nothing to do with Pierre Devereaux's pirate loot.

Cabrillo pulled the Glock's trigger three times, laying down suppressing fire to keep the Argentines pinned. Their next tactic would be to encircle the house and come in from multiple angles. Juan still didn't know how he was going to get the three of them out of this.

Mr. Ronish, he said, they're here because of something your brothers found in the Treasure Pit. Something linked to the blimp we discovered. What did they find?

Another crackle of gunfire from outside drowned out Ronish's answer. Dust filled the air from the destroyed drywall, and sofa stuffing was falling like snow. Ronish suddenly stiffened and whimpered softly.

He'd been hit. In the darkness, Cabrillo put his hand on the older man's chest. Feeling nothing, he moved his hand lower. Ronish hadn't been hit in the stomach, so Juan moved to his legs. In just the few seconds since the round penetrated his body, the amount of blood pumping from his thigh told Juan that the bullet had severed Ronish's femoral artery. Without medical help, he'd bleed out in minutes. Juan transferred his pistol to his left hand and pressed into the wound as hard as he could, while Max fired out through the picture window. There were definitely fewer men on the front yard. One or two of the Argentines were flanking them.

What did they find? Juan asked desperately.

A way to the junk was the pained reply. The mantel. I kept a rub.

Juan vaguely recalled a framed piece of art above the faux-brick fireplace. Had it been some sort of rubbing? He didn't remember. It had made barely a passing impression. He looked through the darkness in the direction of the mantel and fired. The muzzle flash revealed the outline of the picture on the wall but no details. It was much too big to be easily portable.

Mr. Ronish, please. What do you mean 'ya way to the junk'?

I wish they'd never gone to the island, he replied. He was in shock, his body's response to his plummeting blood pressure. It all would have turned out different.

Max changed out an empty magazine. Both men had brought only two spares from the Houston safe house.

Juan could no longer feel Ronish's heart pumping blood against his hand over the wound. The old man was gone. He didn't feel responsible. At least not directly. The Argentines would have killed him with or without the Corporation's presence. But had Juan and his team not stumbled onto the wreckage of the Flying Dutchman, James Ronish would have lived out his final days in obscurity. And therein lay the indirect guilt.

A voice boomed from outside. He spoke English. I compliment you on your mastery of my language. My pilot thought you were from Buenos Aires.

And you sound like that Chihuahua from the taco ads. Juan couldn't resist. Adrenaline was seething in his veins like champagne bubbles.

The Argentine shouted a curse that brought into question the marital status of Juan's parents. I give you one chance. Leave the house through the back door and my men will not fire. Ronish stays.

A kitchen window shattered. A few seconds later, wavering light came from the archway connecting it to the dining room. They'd tossed a Molotov cocktail to hasten the decision.

Juan jumped from the floor, firing from the hip through the window, and swept the rubbing, or whatever it was, from the wall. He heaved it into the kitchen like a Frisbee. The frame caught on the jamb, breaking the glass, and it vanished from sight.

Max opened fire again, covering Cabrillo while he changed mags, and together the two men ran down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The house was a standard ranch, like millions of others built after World War II, like the one Juan had lived in until his father's accounting practice took off, like the ones all his friends lived in, like the one Max had grown up in. The two men could navigate it with their eyes closed.

The master bedroom was the last door on the left, just past the single bath. Juan even knew where the bed would be placed, as it was the only logical location, and he jumped on it, bending his knees to absorb some of the spring, and leapt again. He covered his head with his hands when he smashed through the window.

He hit the wet, needle-covered ground, shoulder-rolled, and came up with his gun ready. The muzzle flash from a snap shot fired from the far corner of the house gave away the gunman's location. Cabrillo put two rounds downrange. He didn't hear the meaty slap of a strike, but a low, mounting wail rose from the patch of darkness where the shooter had been.

Max came through the window a second later, having paused to let Juan clear the area. His exit wasn't as dramatic as Cabrillo's, but he made it nevertheless. They moved through the downpour as fast as they could, the wind and rain masking the sound of their escape. There was barely enough light to see but enough so they didn't run headlong into any trees. After five minutes, and several random turns, Juan slowed and dropped to his belly behind a fallen log.

Max's deep chest pumped like a bellows next to him. You mind telling me, he panted, what the hell they're doing here?

Cabrillo's breathing was far less labored, but he was twenty years younger than his friend and, unlike Max, knew what a workout routine was. That, dear Maxwell, is the million-dollar question. Are you okay?

Just a small cut on my hand from going through the window. You?

Nothing's hurt but my pride. I should have had that guy with my first shot.

Seriously, how did they get here?

Same as us. They followed the trail from the Flying Dutchman. What I really want to know is what they hoped to find.

Unless they're as nerdy as Mark and Eric, they're not looking for Devereaux's treasure.

And we'll never know. The rubbing burned up in the kitchen, and I'd already given the journal or log, or whatever it was, to Ronish.

Max fished around in his jacket pocket and tapped something on Juan's wrist. He felt the spongy mass of latex-sheathed papers. I nabbed this when I tackled him.

I could kiss you.

Let me shave first so you really get to enjoy the experience. Humor had always been their way of decompressing from a high-stress situation. So what's our play?

Where Max had always been the dogged one, the person who would bull through any challenge, it had always been Cabrillo who came up with the plan. Hanley really didn't see what to do next while Juan had figured it out the moment he leapt up and tossed the picture frame into the growing kitchen fire. If he was honest with himself, he'd known the instant the Argentine Major had shown up on James Ronish's doorstep.

It's simple really, he said, turning on his back so that the rain washed the taste of gunpowder from his mouth. You and I are going to solve the mystery of the Pine Island Treasure Pit.

The Silent Sea

Chapter THIRTEEN

A GROUP OF FIVE LATINOS, ONE OF WHOM WAS WOUNDED, would have stood out in a town as small as Forks or Port Angeles, so Espinoza and his men were forced to return to Seattle. Their injured comrade, shot through the side, suffered in silence for the hours it took to drive to the city. It wasn't until they were in the seedy hotel on the outskirts of the city that they were able to treat the wound properly. It had been a clean in and out and hadn't perforated the intestine, so unless he developed an infection he should be fine. They loaded him up with over-the-counter medications and half a bottle of brandy.

Once his men were settled, Espinoza returned to the room he shared with Raul Jimenez. He asked his friend to excuse himself and powered up a satellite phone. He wasn't sure how his father would react to the call. He was nervous nonetheless.

Report, his father said by way of greeting, no doubt recognizing the number.

Espinoza hesitated, well aware that the computers of the American NSA monitored nearly every wireless transmission in the world, trolling through the mountains of data for key words that would make the call of interest to the intelligence community.

We ran into competition. The same man I saw a couple of days ago.

I wasn't sure they would be interested, nor did I expect them to move so fast, the General said. What happened?

The target was collateralized, and one of my men was grazed.

I don't care about your men. Did you learn anything? Or have you failed me again?

I retrieved a document, Espinoza replied. I think the American tried to destroy it by throwing it into a fire before making his escape. However, we entered the target's house before it was damaged. You said it was possible we'd find evidence that the target knew something about China, so when I saw it on the kitchen floor I grabbed it.

It appears to be a rubbing of some kind, like when families make tracings of headstones. It shows the map of a bay, but no location is given. There are glyphs on it that almost look like some Asian language.

Chinese? The General's tone was eager.

It looks like it.

Excellent. If this leads where I think it might, we are going to change the world, Jorge. Were you able to speak to the target?

The elder Espinoza hadn't explained what it was he was after, but the words of praise made his son swell with pride. He was already gone when we got inside. We burned his house to the ground afterward. I doubt they will bother checking the body for any sign of foul play, so we're clear.

Where are you now?

Seattle. Do you want us to return home?

No. Not yet. Tomorrow, I want you to overnight the rubbing to me. The General paused. Jorge knew his father was considering angles and odds. He finally asked, What do you think the competition will do now?

It depends if they extracted any useful information from the target. I checked the hood of their truck when we reached the house. It was still warm, so they hadn't been there long.

They were interested enough to reach out to the target, General Espinoza said, more for his own benefit than his son's. Will they continue on or have they had enough?

If I may hazard a guess . . . The men were obviously soldiers. I think it's most likely they came here to tell the target about his brothers as a military courtesy. A Band of Brothers type thing.

You believe they will drop it?

I think they will tell their superiors what happened tonight, and it will be they who decide to drop it.

Yes, that's most likely how the military would act. There is no obvious threat to national security, so the soldiers will be told to stand down. Even if they want to pursue it, they will have their orders to let it go. This is good, Jorge, very good.

Thank you, sir. May I ask what this is all about?

General Espinoza chuckled. Even if we were alone together here at the house, I could not tell you. I am sorry. I can say that in a few days an alliance is going to be announced that will forever change the world's balance of power, and, if I am correct about your find, you will have contributed to its success. I sent you to hunt a wild goose and it may yet turn out to lay a golden egg.

His father wasn't one to use such a frivolous turn of phrase, so Jorge took it as a sign of his happiness. Like any good son, he was especially proud when he could bring his father joy.

See to your injured man, the General continued, and be ready to move at a moment's notice. I am not sure if you will come back home or if you will have another mission. It all depends what we learn from the rubbing. He paused to give weight to his following words. I am proud of you, son.

Thank you, Father. It's all I ever want you to be. Espinoza hung up. He had more on his mind than simply waiting for orders. He wasn't sure what the Americans had learned from the old man, but it wasn't unreasonable to guess they might show up at his private island.

CABRILLO HAD ALWAYS HELD the belief that if you threw enough money at a problem, it would go away, and he figured getting to the bottom of the Treasure Pit should be no different.

He and Max spent two hours in the woods watching the cheery glow of the fire as James Ronish's little ranch house burned to the ground. They waited that long to make sure the better-armed Argentines had left the area. Nothing remained of the house but a toppled chimney and smoldering ash piles that spat and hissed in the rain. As a parting gift, all four tires on their rented SUV had been shot out, forcing them to drive back to the motel on flats.

Before they could think about hot showers and beds, they had to cut up the tires to retrieve the bullets so when they brought the truck to a garage the mechanic wouldn't report the incident to the police. They also smashed a headlight and keyed dozens of random lines into the glossy paint. Coming on the heels of such a fatal fire, it wouldn't do to arouse any kind of suspicion in the sleepy little town. The truck looked like the victim of juvenile vandals.

It was this kind of attention to detail, no matter how minute, that made the Corporation such a success.

The next morning, while Max went to find a garage to get the truck repaired, muttering about 'ythose damned kids these days,' Juan set up a video conference with his brain trust. When he told Mark and Eric that he had no choice but to dive the Treasure Pit, they looked like they were ready to jump ship to join him.

My question to you is: How do I do it? How do I duplicate what only the Ronish brothers managed to accomplish on the eve of World War Two?

Have you gone over the information you recovered from the Flying Dutchman? Eric asked. Juan had caught them eating breakfast. Over Stone's shoulder, Mark Murphy was munching on a banana. They could have left a clue there.

I took a quick peek. Despite the protection, the paper is in pretty bad shape. I don't know if I'll be able to get anything off of it. Assume I can't, and tell me what you two think. The pit has thwarted a number of attempts. You mentioned one that used some pretty high-tech solutions and yet they failed. What do you think the brothers figured out?

Mark swallowed a mouthful of food, and said, We know their first attempt ended in disaster, so obviously one of them learned something during the war that gave him the answer.

Which one?

I doubt the pilot. He was an observer on a blimp. I can't imagine that kind of job giving him much inspiration.

So it's either the Marine or the Army Ranger, Juan said.

Mark leaned in toward the webcam. Look, this is an engineering problem, hydrodynamics, stuff like that. The Marines faced some pretty tricky booby traps as they fought their way to Japan. My bet is, he saw something the Japanese had done and thought Pierre Devereaux had come up with it first.

Eric looked at him crossways, and said what Cabrillo was about to. You still think this is about an old pirate? There's no way the Argentines would be this interested if the Treasure Pit turns out to be just that.

Murph looked a little defensive. What is it about, then?

Obviously, I can't answer that question. Eric turned back to Juan. Do you have any ideas, Chairman?

Nothing. Ronish died before he could talk. And Max and I weren't in any position to search his place. Come on, think. What did they figure out? How do we crack the Treasure Pit?

Mark tapped his chin. A device . . . a device . . . A booby trap . . . Something involving water . . . Hydrostatic pressure.

You have an idea?

Murph didn't answer because he didn't have one. Sorry, man. I've been so wrapped up in the history, I never really thought about the technology.

Juan blew out a breath. Okay. Don't sweat it. Max and I will think of something.

May I ask what? Eric said.

God, no. I'm winging it here.

For the next hour, they created a list of equipment the pair might need and went about filling it. What couldn't be purchased in Port Angeles would be delivered from Seattle. By the time they were done, a delivery van was headed to Forks from Washington's queen city and a small ferry was under way from Port Angeles and would pick up Max and Cabrillo at the fishing pier in the town of La Push. That coastal village was just a few miles north of Pine Island. The only problem was that they would lose another day because the sophisticated underwater communications equipment was coming in as airfreight from San Diego.

When it was all said and done, there was an additional forty thousand dollars' worth of charges on the Chairman's Amex, but, as he'd always believed, problem solved.

Hopefully.

He asked about the crew's morale, especially Mike Trono's. Eric said, He spent an hour or so after the service talking with Doc Huxley. She was the Oregon's de facto shrink. He says he's fit for active duty. Linda cleared it with Hux, so he's back working with the rest of the fire-breathers.

Probably for the best. Staying busy is a hell of a lot better than sitting still. Cabrillo knew that he was taking his own advice. We'll call you when we're set up on Pine Island. I assume you want video feed when we're there.

Hell yes, they said in unison.

Juan killed the connection and refolded his computer. Their deliveries from Seattle and Port Angeles arrived late in the afternoon, so it wasn't until the following morning that Max and Cabrillo headed for La Push. The ferry was a couple hours late because of wind, but they made the transfer quickly, driving the re-tired SUV onto the boat from the dock. With a capacity of only four vehicles and a relatively flat bottom, the ferry was at the mercy of the sea. The ride down to Pine Island was a battle between the boat's diesel engine and the waves that crashed over the bow. Fortunately, the captain knew these waters and handled his charge very well.

He was also being paid to forget this trip ever took place.

The approach to Pine Island went smoothly because its only beach was alee of the wind. They could only get about forty feet from shore before they had to lower the front ramp. Juan estimated they were in at least four feet of water.

He looked across to see that Max was strapped in before backing the Explorer to the very back of the ferry. Ready?

Hanley tightened his grip on the armrest. Hit it.

Juan mashed the gas pedal, and the Ford's tires chirped against the deck. The heavy truck shot across the ferry and raced down the ramp. It hit the ocean in a creaming wall of water that surged over the hood and then over the roof, but there was enough momentum to shoulder most of it aside. The weight of the engine dragged the nose down, allowing the front tires to find purchase on the shale seabed.

It wasn't elegant, and the motor was sputtering by the time the grille emerged from the water, but they made it. Juan bulled the SUV up onto the beach, shouting and cajoling the truck until all four tires were on solid ground.

You enjoyed that, didn't you? Max was a little paler. Juan shot him a grin. And have you considered how we're going to load this thing back on the ferry when we're done?

As you may recall, I got the full insurance package when I filled out the rental forms. Today is not Budget Rent A Car's lucky day.

Should have told me that, otherwise I would have bought retreads rather than new tires.

Juan blew out a breath like a long-suffering spouse. We never talk anymore.

He parked just above the tide line. They had discussed the possibility that the Argentines would anticipate them coming to Pine Island and lay a trap. While Max got some equipment together, Juan scanned the beach for any sign that someone had come ashore recently. The shale tiles looked undisturbed. There were no depressions like the ones his feet made with every step. He knew from talking with Mark and Eric that this was the only place where someone could gain access to the island, so he felt pretty confident that no one had set foot here in a long time.

They had brought battery-powered remote motion detectors that could send a wireless alert to Cabrillo's laptop. He hid several of them on the beach, facing inland so the motion of waves hitting shore wouldn't trigger them. It was the best they could do with only two people.

The tract leading to the pit was heavily overgrown, and it taxed the SUV's off-road capabilities to the limit. Small trees and shrubs vanished under the front bumper and scraped against the undercarriage. They saw evidence that people did continue to visit Pine Island despite the property being posted off-limits. There were several fire pits where local teens camped. Detritus of parties littered the clearings, and long-faded initials were carved in some trees.

This must be the local version of lovers' lane, Max remarked.

Just so long as you don't get any ideas, Juan grinned.

Your virtue is safe.

The area immediately around the pit was little changed from when the Ronish brothers came here that first time in December of 1941, with one notable exception. A steel plate had been bolted over the opening into the rock. It was badly rusted, having been exposed to the elements for the past thirty-plus years since it was installed at James Ronish's insistence, but still remained solid. Mark had warned them about this, and they had come prepared.

The real difference lay just offshore, where concrete pylons had been driven across the mouth of a narrow inlet. When Dewayne Sullivan tried to drain the pit, they had blocked off the bay because it was the most likely source of the water that defeated his pumps every day. The inlet had since refilled, but the water looked stagnant, meaning the cofferdam kept it from mixing with the ocean.

Juan started unloading equipment while Max lugged an oxyacetylene cutting torch to the large piece of steel. The plate itself was too thick to slice efficiently, so he attacked the bolt heads. With the torch burning at over six thousand degrees, the bolts didn't stand a chance. He cut off all eight, and silenced the hissing torch. The smell of scalded metal was quickly whipped away by the steady offshore breeze.

The tow hook on the winch attached to the SUV's bumper slipped over the metal plate, and when Hanley took up the slack the chunk of steel slid smoothly across the rocks and revealed the yawning opening into the earth that had intrigued people for generations.

I can't believe I'm about to dive the Treasure Pit, Juan said. When I was a kid, I followed Dewayne Sullivan's expedition in the papers, dreaming of being on his team.

Must be a West Coast thing, Max replied. I'd never heard of this place until Murph and Stoney's briefing.

Besides, you have no whimsy, Cabrillo teased, copying Eric Stone's earlier observation.

The dive gear they had ordered from Seattle was top-of-the-line. Juan would have a full-face dive helmet with a fiber-optic voice-and-data link to Max on the surface. A tiny camera mounted on the side of the helmet would allow Hanley to see everything the Chairman did. Diving alone, especially underground, was never a good idea, but if something happened to Juan when he was in the pit, Max would know about it and be able to haul him back up.

You ready, Max asked when Juan finished cinching a utility belt over his dry suit.

Cabrillo gave him the OK sign. Divers never give the thumbs-up unless they are about to surface. Keep watch on the computer for those motion sensors. If one goes off, get me up to the surface as fast as you can.

Max had his pistol secreted in the small of his back and Juan's on the seat next to him. I doubt they're coming, but we're ready.

Juan clipped the winch hook to his belt and slowly eased himself off the steel plate and into the Treasure Pit. There was no sense of how high he was over the bottom because the shaft was inky black. He had yet to put on his helmet. The air was layered with the thick stench of rotting kelp and the iodine tang of the sea.

His halogen light pushed only a few feet into the darkness before being swallowed up.

Ready? Max asked.

Lower away, Juan replied, and slipped his helmet over his head and locked it to the collar ring. The air from the tanks on his back was fresh and cool.

The winch paid out cable at a steady sixty feet a minute. Juan observed the rock walls below the thick wooden supports placed here some time in the past by person or persons unknown. Where the Ronish brothers had used oakum to block water seeps, the 1978 expedition had used fast-drying hydraulic grout to fill any crack or crevice, and from the look of them it was still doing the job. The walls were bone dry.

How are you doing? Max's question came down the fiber-optics.

Darkness sucked at Cabrillo's dangling feet. Oh, just hanging on. How far down am I?

About a hundred feet. See anything yet?

Murk. Lots and lots of murk.

At one hundred and forty feet, Juan saw the reflection of his dive light off the surface of the water below him. The water was perfectly still. As he got lower, he finally saw evidence that the pit was still connected to the sea. The rock was damp from high tide, and mussels clumped like black grapes clung to the stone, awaiting the tide's return. He could also tell that the ocean's access to the pit had to be limited. The tidal mark was only a few feet tall.