Текст книги "The Storm"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 34

THE FLOATING ISLAND OF AQUA-TERRA WAS UNDER NEW management. As Zarrina gave orders on the bridge, even Otero and Matson were feeling the heat.

Many decks below, Paul Trout walked the confines of Marchetti’s five-star brig, taking inventory of the surroundings. It came with floor-to-ceiling windows, soft recessed lighting and comfortable pillow-top mattresses. It even had a massage chair and a juice dispenser.

“A juice dispenser,” Paul said incredulously.

“Good idea,” Marchetti said, calling to him from the massage chair. “I’ll take a guava-pineapple while you’re up.”

Paul looked over at their host. He was arching his back like a cat rubbing on the furniture as the chair’s shiatsu tumblers moved up and down his spine.

“Oh, that feels good,” he mumbled. “Yeah, right there.”

On the one hand, it struck Paul as the height of absurdity; on the other hand, he couldn’t wait for Marchetti to get done so he could have a turn. Fighting the fire had knotted up his back something fierce.

He poured three cups of the guava-pineapple mixture and brought them back to the other side of the room. He placed them down between Marchetti, who was still making strange sounds of pleasure, and Gamay, who was scowling like an assistant principal ready to put everyone in detention.

Paul offered her one of the cups. She shook her head in disgust.

“When you two are done enjoying your spa day, maybe we could try and figure out a way to escape?”

“I tried the windows,” Paul said.

“Oh, you’ll never get through those,” Marchetti promised. “They’re designed to withstand a Force 10 gale.”

“What about doors?”

“Key-coded from the outside,” he said, shifting his position in the chair. “No way to access the control box from in here. If you notice, we don’t even have a handle.”

“I noticed,” Gamay said.

Marchetti pushed back into the seat a little farther, and the tumblers began to vibrate, shaking him and giving his voice a strange staccato sound like someone pounding on his own chest as he spoke. “I … think … we … should … just … sit … tight …” he said. “Conserve … our … energy …”

Paul saw the fires of fury rise up in Gamay’s eyes. He got out of the way quickly as she lunged toward Marchetti and his chair. She grabbed the plug and yanked it out of the wall. The massage ended abruptly.

Marchetti looked stunned. Paul guessed his own session was now on permanent hold.

“You’d better get serious,” she growled. “These people aren’t playing a game. That wench Zarrina killed one of your crewmen, and who knows how many others in her time. And if we don’t get ourselves out of here, they’re going to kill us before this is over.”

Marchetti looked to Paul for help, got none and turned back to Gamay.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “Denial is my favorite coping mechanism. When you have a billion dollars, problems have a way of disappearing if you ignore them long enough.”

“This one isn’t going away,” Gamay said.

Marchetti nodded.

“Do you have any security protocols?” Paul asked. “Any emergency codes or scheduled check-ins that will cause you to be missed?”

Marchetti scratched his head. “Not really,” he said, sounding as if he hated to disappoint them. “Being too accessible kind of messes up the whole reclusive billionaire persona I’ve been trying to cultivate.”

“How do you run your companies?” Paul asked.

“They kind of run themselves.”

“What if you need to give an order?” Gamay said. “What if one of them has to make a big purchase or close a deal or a merger that only you can sign off on?”

“I’d have Matson do it.”

That was a problem.

“So,” Paul said, summing things up, “as long as Matson keeps communicating with the outside world, no one will ever know you’re missing.”

Marchetti nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Gamay looked as glum as Paul felt. “At least until they come up with a nice story about your disappearance during some expedition or other stunt.”

“Yes,” Marchetti said. “I’m starting to realize there are drawbacks to being a recluse.”

“All kinds,” Gamay insisted. “There were rumors that Howard Hughes died years before his official date of death. Probably false, but the thing is he became so isolated no one knew for sure. You’re in the same boat. And if you call it an island, I’ll slap you.”

“Boat,” he agreed. “And assuming we survive, I promise to be far more public from here on out.”

That’s great, Paul thought, but it wasn’t going to help them now. “What do you think they’ve done with the rest of the crew?”

“A couple of them seemed to be on Zarrina’s side,” Gamay said.

“The others are probably locked up like we are,” Marchetti added. “There are five cells down here.”

“Keeping us spread out,” Paul said, “prevents us from plotting against them.”

“What about your people?” Marchetti asked. “The ones back in Washington. You’re expected to report and check in. Surely you’ll be missed.”

Paul exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, after years together their minds melding in some way. “Not quickly enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Paul explained. “We send them data every twenty-four hours. But it won’t be too hard for Zarrina and Otero to fake it. She knows what we’ve been sending and what we’re after. I imagine it’ll be quite some time before anyone becomes suspicious.”

“Maybe Dirk will call us,” Gamay said hopefully. “They can’t fake a video linkup.”

“No,” Paul said. “But they can threaten all kinds of dire consequences should we try to broadcast the truth. Which we shall of course attempt to do regardless of their threats.”

Gamay looked at him. “How do we tell Dirk, or anyone else who calls in, that we’re in trouble without our captors knowing about it?”

“We’re hostages,” Paul said. “Dirk has been in this situation a few times. Maybe we slip in the name of one of those places or one of the thugs who held him. That ought to get his wheels turning.”

“That’s brilliant, Mr. Trout,” Marchetti said. “A secret code.”

“The Lady Flamborough,” Gamay said.

“The what?”

“The Lady Flamborough,” she repeated. “It was a cruise ship. Dirk’s father, the Senator, was held hostage on it in Antarctica. Dirk had to rescue him. If any of us get a chance to talk to Dirk, we play our part and keep up appearances for Zarrina and her thugs. We say what they want us to say. At some point Dirk will fire off a general question about our well-being or what the weather’s like or something along those lines. We just have to smile nonchalantly and say things are going great, like taking a cruise on the Lady Flamborough.”

“That’s a bit vague,” Marchetti said. “What if he doesn’t get it?”

“You don’t know Dirk Pitt,” Paul insisted. “He’ll get it.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Marchetti said excitedly. “So we have a plan, assuming they cooperate and ask you to speak with him. What if they don’t?”

Marchetti looked Paul’s way. All Paul could offer in return was a blank stare. He flicked his eyes toward Gamay and got nothing from her either. It seemed none of them had a plan B yet.

With frowns settling deeper on their faces, Gamay reached over and plugged the chair back in. The massage began anew.

Marchetti looked surprised.

Gamay threw up her hands. “Maybe it’ll help you think.”

CHAPTER 35

KURT AUSTIN HAD SPENT SEVERAL MINUTES RUMMAGING around in the cargo bay of the plane. He’d bypassed guns and ammunition and the rockets he’d spotted earlier, much to Leilani Tanner’s bewilderment.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“A wise general forages from his enemy,” Kurt said.

“Again,” she said. “I really have trouble following you.”

“Sun Tzu,” Kurt explained. “The Art of War.”

“Oh,” she said. “Him, I’ve heard of.”

He pulled a set of zip ties from one crate, the kind used to bind the hands of prisoners.

Leilani stared at the thick plastic loops. “Seen those before.”

“Our friends are planning on taking more hostages,” he said, wondering once again where they were headed.

He slid a handful of the ties into his pocket and dug into the next crates.

“So what else are we looking for?”

“There are probably two or three guys on the flight deck. Two pilots and an engineer, if they have one. Maybe even a fourth in the bunk up top.”

“But we can’t shoot them,” she said. “So how do we fight them?”

“We don’t,” he said.

She pointed. “See, that’s what I mean, the confusion thing. I was with you and then … poof.”

Kurt couldn’t help but smile. He held up a single finger, the way he remembered the master doing it on old reruns of the show Kung Fu.

“To fight and conquer is not excellence,” he said. “But breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting is supreme.”

“Sun Tzu again?”

He nodded.

“Can you translate for me?”

“Make them too afraid to move and they won’t do anything stupid,” he said. “But to do that, we need something more deadly than a knife and more lethal than a gun, something so scary the pilots will do what we tell them to do and not even think about resisting.”

He pulled the lid off another crate and smiled. A look of fear came across Leilani’s face.

“I don’t know about this,” she said.

“Trust me,” he said, “this is exactly what we’re looking for.”

They heard the flaps extending, and the turbulent air began to buffet the plane.

“We’re coming in for a landing,” Leilani said.

Kurt looked out the window. The horizon was beginning to glow, the sky changing hue. He saw no sign of land. “Depends on your definition of landing.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a seaplane,” he said, “more accurately called a flying boat. It lands on the water.”

Kurt was torn. One part of him was anxious to make his move before they got too close to whatever rendezvous they were heading for, the rest of him was curious as to where they were headed.

He remembered Jinn saying he needed to move to a more secure location. It would be grand if Kurt could report back and give that location to the powers that be.

But then he thought about the water tanks in the belly of the plane and the load of microbots he suspected they were carrying. He decided it would be better to move sooner rather than later.

He went to the seating area, pulled out his knife and began working on the item he’d liberated from the crate.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Leilani said, looking away.

When he was finished, he slid the knife back into his boot and covered it with the leg of his pants. Next he took one of the 9mm Lugers and popped the clip out. He quickly unloaded all the shells, including the one in the chamber, and then jammed the clip back in.

He handed it to Leilani with the safety off.

“I don’t like guns,” she said.

“Don’t think of it as a gun.”

“But it isa gun,” she insisted.

He was already moving toward the front of the plane. “Not without the bullets, it’s not. It’s just a big, crazy bluff, and you better wield it like Dirty Harry”—he saw the blank look appearing on her young face and changed references—“like Angelina Jolie, if you want them to believe you’re going to shoot it.”

“But I’m not going to shoot,” she said.

As he approached the ladder that led up to the flight deck, Kurt hoped his own bluff would be sufficient because he didn’t think Leilani quite had the concept down.

“Just stay behind me and to my right, and point the gun at them,” he said.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Try to look mean.”

Kurt climbed the ladder, which was canted sideways to the flight deck.

The pilots snapped their heads around at the commotion and saw Kurt. The captain shouted. The copilot reached for his seat belt release. And Kurt showed them what he was carrying.

They stopped in their tracks, staring at a pineapple grenade in Kurt’s hand. He pulled the pin in an exaggerated manner and held the safety lever, or spoon, down tight.

Leilani came up beside him, aiming the empty gun nicely. “Everybody freeze!” she growled.

The pilots had already frozen, but he appreciated the effort.

“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s just assume that the seat belt sign is on and you’re notfree to move about the cabin.”

The captain turned back to the controls, the copilot stared. “What are you talking about?”

“Hands on the yoke,” Kurt ordered. “Eyes forward.”

The copilot complied, but also mumbled something in Arabic to the captain.

“Are you trying to take her?” the captain asked. “To rescue her? You’re a fool to throw your life away for this puny woman.”

“Shut up, jerk!” Leilani growled. “Or, so help me, I’ll fill you full of lead!”

She looked at Kurt, smiling proudly. “How’s that?”

“We need to work on your dialogue a bit, but not bad.”

Kurt glanced out the window. The horizon to the east was starting to sharpen, but the sky was still inky purple, and for the most part it was hard to tell where it ended and the sea began.

He could see the other two jets ahead of them, but only because of their navigation lights. The closest plane looked to be a mile away and maybe a thousand feet lower. The lead plane might have been three miles out and a thousand feet below the other one. The whole squadron was descending. He heard no transmissions and assumed they were operating under radio silence.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked.

“Don’t say anything,” the captain ordered.

Kurt figured that was a dead end, he could hardly threaten to blow up the plane if they didn’t tell him. He checked the altimeter and saw they were dropping through eight thousand feet. Another ten minutes like that and they’d be in the drink. He strained his eyes forward but still couldn’t see a speck of land.

He decided they’d waited long enough. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “If you two want to live, you’re going to do what I say.”

“What if we don’t?” the copilot spat.

“Then I’ll blow up the plane,” Kurt said.

“It’s a bluff,” the copilot said. “He’s a weak American. He’ll never have the—”

Before the man finished his sentence, Kurt backhanded him across the temple. The man’s head snapped sideways, and he put a hand to the fuselage wall to steady himself.

“You think I want to end up back in Jinn’s hands,” Kurt said, “would you?”

The guy held the side of his face and looked back at Kurt like a scolded animal. The two pilots exchanged a look. Kurt was counting on the fact that both men knew what kind of a lunatic Jinn was. He guessed the bodies at the bottom of the well weren’t the only employees he had dispensed of in his day.

An argument broke out between them in Arabic.

Kurt backhanded the copilot again. “English!”

The man glared at him and slowly began to reach for his seat belt lock once again. “You’re right,” he said. “Jinn will make you beg for death if he catches you. But if we let you go, it will be worse for us.”

The seat belt clicked loose, and the man turned in his seat and stood, looming taller in the small cockpit.

“So blow us up,” he said. “Take us all to paradise.”

Kurt looked at the man, trying to stare him down. The man didn’t blink, and while Kurt didn’t blink either it was a standoff he couldn’t win.

“So be it,” Kurt said.

He let go of the spoon and flung the grenade at the copilot. It hit him in the center of his suddenly shocked face. He grabbed for it like a man in a shower trying to catch a wet bar of soap. He knocked it toward the captain.

With eyes as wide as saucers, he lunged for it, only to be intercepted by a mighty right cross from Kurt.

Kurt had put his whole body into the swing, pivoting from the hip and shoulder, pushing off with his right foot and firing his arm forward with every ounce of muscle fiber in his body.

The man went limp and fell backward on the captain and the control yoke he held, sending the aircraft into a steep dive.

Weightless for a second, Kurt collided with the ceiling. When he crashed to the floor, he lunged forward, grabbing the unconscious copilot by the belt and yanking him backward. As he pulled the dead weight off of the captain, the dive flattened out a bit, but a small pistol appeared in the captain’s hand.

With a swing of his left arm, Kurt knocked the captain’s hand sideways and the gun discharged. The bullet plugged the copilot in the side. A second shot hit the seat.

Kurt tried to hold the captain’s arm away, but the leverage wasn’t with him. The captain yanked his arm back, pulling it free and aiming at Kurt again.

Kurt ducked and shoved the yoke with his palm, pushing it over. The aircraft rolled hard as the captain fired again.

The shot missed, hitting the panel above them. It exploded in a shower of sparks. A group of warning lights came on accompanied by alarms sounding.

The plane went into a rolling dive, dropping toward the sea. It became difficult to do anything but hold on. Kurt managed to slug the captain once before being thrown back by the centrifugal force of the turning aircraft.

Kurt reached for his boot. The pistol swung his way as the captain lined up the kill shot.

Kurt thrust his arm forward and the captain stopped in midmotion with Kurt’s knife in his heart. His face went blank, the small gun dropped and his eyes drifted backward.

The plane began to roll over once again, and Kurt grabbed the control stick, fighting to counter the spin. Slowly the aircraft wings leveled. But by now the ground-proximity warning was going off and the computer voice was chirping, Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.

Kurt was pulling up, but he didn’t want to rip the wings off. The nose came up slowly even as the altimeter continued to unwind. Finally Kurt saw the horizon again, and a second or two later the nose of the aircraft pointed above it.

As the speed bled off and they began to climb, some of the warning lights and alarms shut down. As they passed a thousand feet on the way back up, the computer stopped telling Kurt what to do.

With the plane stable and level, Kurt looked around the cockpit. He was sharing a seat with the dead captain. The copilot lay on the floor between the two seats, looking just as dead. Someone else was missing.

“Leilani?” Kurt shouted.

“I’m here,” she said, poking her head back into the flight deck from below.

“What happened to you?”

“I fell down the ladder,” she said, coming forward and looking a little groggy. She bent and picked something up off the floor. It was the grenade. “Why didn’t we blow up?”

“I took the fuse out,” Kurt said. “It’s still got explosives inside, but they can’t go off without the fuse.”

She placed it gently in a cup holder.

“Should I tie these guys up?”

“It’s a little late for that,” he said. “Let’s get this one out of my seat.”

He stood, and Leilani unbelted the dead captain and pulled him loose while Kurt held the controls.

“You’re flying the plane,” she said as if she’d just realized it.

“Kind of.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to do that?”

“I should have been more precise,” he said. “I can make it go side to side, up and down, fast and slow. I can probably point it in the right direction. What’s going to be tougher is landing this thing without leaving a smoking crater in the ground or having it break into little pieces when it hits the water.”

“Oh,” she said, looking suddenly pale.

“But I’m a quick study,” he said, trying to boost her confidence. “And with those two dead I don’t really have a choice.”

Kurt had flown small planes before, never long enough to get any licenses or ratings, but he knew the basics. Most of it was instinct. Other than high-performance military aircraft, planes tended to fly themselves. They were designed to be stable and forgiving, although he found this Russian flying boat to be nose-heavy like a ship with a ballast problem.

“What about the LAPES thing?” she said. “Couldn’t we drop out the back?”

“We might just try that when we get where we’re going,” he said.

He studied the instrument panel, spotting the controls for the rear door and tail ramp. He marked their location in his mind.

By now they’d climbed back up to five thousand feet and were back on the original course. Several miles ahead of them he saw the other two jets silhouetted against the brightening sky. They were still descending, but the nosedive and spin had brought Kurt and Leilani well below their altitude.

“They don’t know what happened,” Leilani said.

“No,” Kurt replied. “Traveling on radio silence with no rearview mirrors or aft radar coverage means they can’t have seen a thing. More important, they won’t see us turn away and head for the Seychelles.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

Kurt had found a navigation readout on a small computer screen. They were almost dead center of the Indian Ocean. The Seychelles were four hundred miles to the southwest, about an hour’s flight away.

Kurt smiled. “Closest bit of civilization around,” he said. “And by civilization, I mean somewhere that has a phone and a Coke machine and where people aren’t trying to kill us.”

Leilani smiled. “That sounds good to me.”

Kurt found the smile endearing. It was kind and simple and uncomplicated. Somehow, uncomplicated seemed utterly perfect at the moment.

He began to turn the Russian jet to the west, figuring he’d be a hundred miles away by the time anyone even bothered to look around. But before he got too far off course, something caught his eye. A black dot on the silver sea.

Apparently Leilani saw it as well. “You think they’re headed for that island?”

“We’re a long way from the closest island,” he said.

“Well, that’s too big to be a ship,” Leilani replied.

Kurt stared. The truth hit him as the light from the rising sun glinted off a series of tall triangular structures dotted around the perimeter of the floating monstrosity.

“That’s because it’s not a ship,” he said. “It’s a floating hulk of metal called Aqua-Terra.”

A spike of adrenaline shot through Kurt’s weary body. Three amphibious aircraft, filled with weapons, inflatable speedboats and Jinn’s goons, did not qualify for the benefit of the doubt. They weren’t coming for a tour of the facilities. They were an attack force, operating under radio silence, planning to hit and take over the island at the break of dawn.

“Strap yourself in,” he said.

“Why?” Leilani asked. “What are we doing?”

Kurt reached over and shoved the throttles to the stops. “We’re about to make our presence known.”