Текст книги "The Storm"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 44

FROM JOE’S PERSPECTIVE EITHER THE DOCKING PROCEDURE for the ferry was overly complicated or the boat and its captain were ill suited to the task. A full hour after the bay doors had been opened and the ship had been shunted back and forth a dozen times, they finally bumped against a pier.

Joe remained huddled in the rear of the flatbed. The drivers and crewmen had clambered into their rigs long before the ship stopped and now began firing up the big trucks. For another few minutes they idled their engines, and despite the open doors Joe was sure he would pass out from the diesel fumes before they left.

At last, with a headache pounding inside his skull like a jackhammer, the trucks began to roll. One by one they pulled out of the cargo hold and onto the pier. Joe didn’t risk a peek until he felt they were away from the waterfront. But he was surprised at how quickly they were moving only minutes after leaving the ferry.

He crept past the barrels to the back end of the truck. Since his truck had been the first into the hold, it became the last one out. They were now the tail-end Charlie of the convoy, which meant he could look out without fear of being spotted.

He lifted the tarp a few inches, saw gray-weathered macadam flying out behind them as the trucks flew along a road at speeds they’d never come close to in Yemen.

It was almost night yet again after twenty hours on the boat. Joe saw desert terrain in all directions. It looked remarkably like he’d arrived back in Yemen.

“Didn’t we just leave all this?” he mumbled.

There were differences of course, primarily the paved road. There was more vegetation and the occasional road sign. There had been none out in the deserts of Yemen. As signs whipped past, Joe tried to read them, but he could see only the back side of those on his side of the road, and those meant for drivers heading the opposite way were lit only by the big trailer’s taillights. The dim red glow was not bright enough for Joe to see much before the sign went out of range.

All he noticed was the lettering. It was done in the swirling calligraphy of Arabic and also the block letters of English, the mere presence of which meant he was much closer to civilization than he’d been in days.

As Joe waited for more signs, the night grew darker and the landscape became monotonous. The only thing that changed was the scent. Joe began to smell dust and moisture and the desert wet with rain. It reminded him of Santa Fe, where he’d grown up, when the dry season ended. Looking up, he realized the sky was a curtain of starless black.

Moments later, rain began splattering the truck and the road around him. Joe heard thunder in the distance. As the trucks drove on, the shower intensified and the air grew cool and damp. To Joe’s surprise it wasn’t a passing shower but a steady soaking rain that continued to fall as the convoy pounded out the miles. Before long the tarp above him was soaked and dripping.

“Rain in the desert,” Joe whispered to himself. “I wonder if this is good news or bad.”

As the rain fell, they passed another group of signs. As luck would have it, a car was traveling in the opposite direction at almost the same instant. Its high beams cut through the rain and lit up a sign on the far side of the road long enough for Joe to read it.

The weathered blue placard was sandblasted and bent, but the words were clear enough.

“Marsa Alam,” Joe said as he read the sign. “Fifty kilometers.”

The name was familiar. Marsa Alam was the name of an Egyptian port on the Red Sea. It lay behind them. It must have been where the ferry tied up and the trucks disembarked. That meant they were three-quarters of the way from Cairo to the Sudanese border and only a couple of hours from Luxor.

“I’m in Egypt,” Joe whispered, quickly realizing what that meant. “These guys are headed for the Aswan Dam.”

CHAPTER 45

RAIN CONTINUED TO PELT THE CONVOY OF JINN’S TRUCKS as they rumbled west on the highway from Marsa Alam. With the moisture, the natural cooling of the desert at night and the wind swirling around the back of the truck as it raced along, Joe began to shiver.

At first he welcomed it as a relief from his time in Yemen and in the hot box of the ferry, but as the night wore on, the cold began to seep into his bones, and Joe pulled the flap shut to keep the wind and the mist from the truckbed.

It was four hours overland from Marsa Alam to Aswan, but after three hours the convoy began to slow as they came out of the open desert and into the swath of civilization that bordered the Nile.

The trucks crossed the Nile on a modern bridge and entered the town of Edfu on the west bank of the river. As Joe looked around, he saw multistory apartment blocks and storefronts and government buildings. It wasn’t exactly the Beltway, more like a dusty version of East Berlin in the desert, but it was civilization.

The truck slowed further, and Joe hoped they’d come to a red light, but they found a roundabout instead, turning a three-quarter circle before heading north in a straight line once again.

“It had to be a roundabout,” Joe mumbled.

He figured they might end up back on another highway at any moment and that he’d be in Aswan before he could get free. As the engine growled in low gear and the truck picked up speed, Joe decided the time to abandon ship had arrived.

He climbed under the flap and out onto the rear bumper. He glanced around the edge of the tarp, straining to see what was coming. No telephone poles or lights or signs. The coast was clear, and Joe leapt off the truck.

He hit the wet macadam, rolled and slid through an expansive puddle of muck where the rain had gathered as it soaked the street. He stayed down in it for a moment, watching the trucks for any sign the drivers had witnessed his stunt.

They rumbled north in the dark, never changing speed or even tapping the brakes.

Soaking and filthy, Joe pulled himself from the muck and looked around. He’d landed in an open area. Through the rain he could see a huge structure to the left lit by spotlights.

Ignoring new pains in his shoulder and hip and doing the best he could not to notice how badly his ankle hurt once again, he limped toward the lit-up area. It looked like a construction site and an ancient temple cross-pollinated, and only as Joe got close did he realize he was standing in front of the Temple of Horus, one of the best preserved ancient sites in all of Egypt.

The front wall had two huge wings that rose a hundred feet into the night sky. Human figures carved into the wall were sixty feet tall, and gaps that allowed the light into its interior were spaced evenly up, down and across.

During the day the site would have been filled with tourists. But at night, in the pouring rain, it was empty. Except, Joe noticed, for a pair of security guards in a lit booth.

He ran toward it and rapped on the window. The guards just about died from shock, one of them literally jumping from his seat.

Joe pounded on the window again and eventually one of the guards opened it.

“I need your help,” Joe said.

The still-startled guard appeared confused, but he recovered quickly. “Ah … of course,” he said, “come in. Yes, come inside.”

Joe moved to the door. Fortunately for him, guards at the site were picked partly for their ability to speak English, as many of the tourists were Americans and Europeans.

Joe stepped into the lighted booth as soon as the door opened. He was soaking wet, dripping muddy water all over the floor. One of the guards handed him a towel, which Joe used to dry his face.

“Thank you,” Joe said.

“What are you doing out in the rain?” one guard asked.

“It’s a long story,” Joe replied. “I’m an American. I was a prisoner of sorts until I jumped out of a moving truck, and I really need to use your phone.”

“An American,” the guard repeated. “A tourist? Do you want us to call your hotel?”

“No,” Joe said, “I’m not a tourist. I need to speak to the police. Actually, I need to speak to the military. We’re in danger here. We’re all in danger.”

“What kind of danger?” the guard asked suspiciously.

Joe looked him in the eye. “Terrorists are going to destroy the dam.”

CHAPTER 46

THE FIVE TRUCKS IN JINN’S CONVOY RUMBLED NORTH, eventually pulling off the main road and onto a dirt track. They passed the dam and continued on, traveling a perimeter road that wound along the jagged shore of Lake Nasser.

A half mile up from the dam, they came to a gate left conspicuously open and went through it. Traveling in the cab of the lead truck, Sabah ordered the lights doused and had the drivers use night vision goggles.

Blacked out in this manner, the convoy reached a boat ramp at the edge of the lake.

“Turn the trucks around,” Sabah ordered. “Back them in.”

Sabah climbed out of the lead truck and directed traffic. The big rigs lined up side by side, the wide ramp large enough to accommodate all five at once like great crocodiles basking on the shore.

Because the lake was so high from all the rain, most of the ramp was submerged. Sabah estimated a hundred feet of concrete lay hidden beneath the water before the ramp intersected the natural lake bed.

On his signal, the trucks began to ease down the ramp. The drivers took it slow, checking their progress in mirrors and through open windows.

As the flatbeds began backing into the water, Sabah took a radio controller from his pocket. He extended the antenna, pressed the power switch and pressed the first of four red buttons.

In the back of the five trailers, magnetic seals around the yellow drums popped open. The pressurized lids popped up and slid off to the side.

A green light told Sabah the activation had been successful.

Unseen by anyone, the silver sand of the microbots came alive, stirring and swirling, as if there were snakes hidden beneath the top layer, and beginning to climb over the edges of the barrels.

Unaware of what was happening in the flatbeds behind them, the drivers continued backing down the ramp, allowing gravity to do the work. None of them had done this before and most felt like they were being pulled in.

Sabah judged their progress. Their caution pleased him. It meant they weren’t paying attention to him.

“Good,” he whispered as he pressed the second of the four red buttons.

Inside the cabs, the door locks slammed down, the windows slid up into a ninety-percent-closed position and froze. The noise and movement startled the drivers.

An instant later chloroform gas began pumping from tiny canisters and filling the cabins. The men lasted only a second or two, none managed to pry open a door. One got a window half down before passing out and slumping onto the seat.

Without waiting, Sabah pressed the third button. The truck engines revved. They began to accelerate backward, crashing through the water like a herd of thundering hippos.

The engines had been modified to include a secondary air intake, disguised as an exhaust stack rising high above the roof of the truck. When Sabah activated the chloroform, the primary intake had been sealed shut and this secondary intake had opened. In effect, it acted like a snorkel, allowing the engine to breathe and continue to rev even after the entire truck was submerged.

Because of that, the motors continued to run and the wheels continued to spin in reverse, pushing the trucks down the ramp and out across the submerged rocks and gravel beyond it.

The charging trucks fanned out like the fingers of a hand, burrowing beneath the water and vanishing from view.

Momentum and the slope of the stony lake bed allowed them to continue even after their engines were finally swamped. When the trucks finally settled, they were thirty feet below the surface, one hundred and fifty feet from shore.

The unconscious drivers soon drowned. If and when they were discovered, they would be identified as Egyptian radicals. Sabah and Jinn’s connection to the incident would remain unknown, except to General Aziz, who would do well to keep silent and most likely have no choice but to return to the bargaining table.

As the waters settled, Sabah pressed the final button on his controller. A half mile away, on the wall of the dam, two separate devices began to issue homing signals.

The size of an average carry-on suitcase, but shaped something like mechanical crabs, the two devices had been placed there by a scuba diver forty-eight hours before. One was just below the waterline while the other clung to a spot on the sloping wall of the dam seventy feet below.

If the divers had done their jobs properly, ten-foot starter holes had already been bored through the outer wall and into the aggregate behind it. A batch of dedicated microbots from each crab would already be hard at work expanding those holes.

The large force now escaping from the trucks would home in on the signal and accelerate the process rapidly. In six hours a trickle of water would appear on the far side of the dam near the top. That trickle would scour out a channel, and the erosion that followed would quickly turn the flow into a torrent.

The first stage of the disaster would follow as the waters of Lake Nasser flooded over the top, widening the channel in an unstoppable flow, wreaking havoc on the Nile Valley below, but that was just the prelude.

The second tunnel, far deeper in the dam, would destabilize the core, scouring out a tunnel in the heart of the structure. Eventually it would give way and a huge V-shaped section would collapse backward all at once. The flood would become a tsunami.

In a way, General Aziz had done them a favor. Between the message about to be sent at Aswan and the actions Jinn was taking in the Indian Ocean, Sabah doubted any nation of the world would refuse their demands or dare to threaten them.

Would the Americans be willing to see the Hoover Dam crumble, Las Vegas flooded off the map and their southwestern states deprived of power and water at the same time? Would China allow the Three Gorges Dam a similar fate? Sabah thought not.

He flung the remote into the lake and began walking away. A half mile off, a camel waited for him. He would climb on, pull the kaffiyeh around his face and disappear into the desert like the Bedouin had done for a thousand years or more.

CHAPTER 47

KURT AUSTIN AWOKE IN A QUONSET HUT SEVERAL HOURS after being made a prisoner on Pickett’s Island. Imprisoned, exhausted and thinking he would need the rest later, Kurt had lain down on the floor almost as soon as they’d been locked up. He’d fallen asleep in moments. Upon waking, he was upset to find the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.

The men in fatigues dragged him from the hut to another hidden beneath the trees. Inside he found a distinctly military setting that seemed like a tribunal of some kind. Leilani and Ishmael stood beside him.

From behind a desk at the end of the hut another islander of Aboriginal and Polynesian appearance stood and was presiding over the hearing as one of the judges. He was taller and leaner than the man who’d found them on the beach and a fair bit older, Kurt thought. He had a tousle of gray in his black hair.

“I am the eighteenth Roosevelt of Pickett’s Island,” the man said.

“The eighteenth Roosevelt?” Kurt repeated.

“That is correct,” the judge said. “And who am I addressing? You will state your names for the record.”

“I’m the first Kurt Austin of the United States of America,” Kurt said. “At least the first one I know of.”

The judges and the others around them took a collective breath, and Kurt tried to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.

On the march from the beach to the huts hidden in the trees they’d encountered fortifications, trenches, emplacements of heavy machine guns and then an area of ramshackle buildings, including the old Quonset huts with roofs patched and repaired with thatch and woven palm fronds.

Men in green Army fatigues stood around them. Their uniforms were in no better shape than the huts. In fact, some of them looked like badly sewn replicas. The M1 rifles they carried looked authentic enough, Kurt had several in his collection at home, but they hadn’t been used by any soldiers he knew of since the Korean War.

Beside him, Leilani gave her name, as did Ishmael. Neither did so in the manner Kurt had. Nor did they list their countries of origin.

The eighteenth Roosevelt spoke again. “You are charged with trespassing, possession of weapons and espionage. You will be held as enemy combatants and prisoners of war. Tell us how you plead.”

“Plead?” Leilani blurted out.

“Yes,” the judge said. “Are you members of the Axis forces or not?”

Leilani tugged on Kurt’s sleeve. “What’s going on? What are they talking about?”

Kurt felt like he was playing catch-up. An idea began to form in his head.

“I think this is a cargo cult,” he whispered.

“A what?”

“In the Pacific, during World War Two, islands with tribal societies were suddenly caught in the middle of the largest war ever fought. Any island of strategic value was claimed and used for one purpose or another, often times for storage of supplies that came off ships in endless quantities. Stuff the soldiers and sailors called cargo.”

He nodded at the soldiers surrounding them. “For the people in the tribal societies the sudden appearance of men from the sky or out of great ships from the sea, bringing what seemed like endless amounts of food and manufactured goods, it was like the arrival of minor gods.”

“You have to be kidding me,” she said.

“I’m not. To garner the support of those on the islands, a great deal of stuff got handed over to the islanders like manna from heaven. But when the war ended and the soldiers left, it was a huge shock. No more stuff. No more cargo coming off the ships and planes. No more big silver birds dropping out of the sky.

“In most places life went back to normal, but on some islands the tribes started looking for ways to encourage the return of the soldiers and their cargo. They became known as cargo cults.”

A second judge, who seemed lower in the pecking order than the eighteenth Roosevelt, grew impatient with Kurt’s whispering.

“The defendants will answer!” he demanded.

“We’re discussing our plea,” Kurt replied.

Kurt finished his explanation. “One common practice was mimicking what they’d seen on the American bases. Some of the cults were known to drill like soldiers in boot camp. Dressing like these guys. Carrying fake guns carved from wood. They did morning reveille, had flag-raising ceremonies, they even had ranks and medals and military-style burials. The most famous group I can recall was the John Frum cult on Vanuatu. Rumor had it, the cult got its name because the Americans would introduce themselves by saying, ‘ Hi, I’m John from so-and-so.’ So the cult named themselves the John Frummers.”

“That’s just great,” Leilani said sarcastically, “but we’re not in the Pacific. And these guys aren’t carrying fake wooden guns.”

“No,” Kurt said. “Something’s different here.”

He noticed other items around the room. Charts lay spread across a desk, a compass, a barometer and a sextant were nearby. He spotted an antique gray life vest and a pair of dog tags in a spot of honor on the eighteenth Roosevelt’s desk. A faded Yankees baseball cap that had to be seventy years old sat nearby.

“The time for discussion is ended,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said. “You will make your plea or we will enter one for you.”

“Not guilty,” Kurt said. “We’re Americans like you. Well, at least two of us are.”

The judges looked them over. “How can you prove it?” one of them said. “She could be a Japanese spy.”

The statement riled Leilani. “How dare you call me a spy! Even if I was part Japanese, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m an American, from the state of Hawaii.”

“She means the territory of Hawaii,” Kurt interjected.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Kurt insisted. “It didn’t become a state until ’fifty-nine!”

Leilani gazed at him with big chestnut-colored eyes. There was trust in that gaze, along with hope and confusion.

“Just let me do the talking,” Kurt whispered, and then turned back to the first judge. “What she means is, she grew up near Pearl Harbor. She’s been there many times to visit the Arizona memorial and pay respects to those who died on December seventh.”

The judge seemed to accept this. “And what about you?” he asked Kurt.

“I work for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Which is an ocean research section of the U.S. government. It was founded by Admiral James Sandecker.”

“Sandecker?” the second judge said.

“Never heard of him,” a third judge said.

“He’s a real admiral,” Kurt insisted. “He’s a good friend of mine. I’ve been to his house many times. He’s now the Vice President of the United States.”

The judges’ collective eyebrows went up. “The Vice President is a good friend of yours?” one of them asked.

The others started to laugh.

The eighteenth Roosevelt shook his head. “It does not seem possible that the new Harry Truman would be a friend of such a dirty-looking man.”

Kurt considered his appearance. He was battered and bruised with four days of stubble on his face. The stolen uniform fit a little large and was torn in places. At the moment he was just thankful not to be sparkling.

“You’re not exactly seeing me at my best,” he said.

Leilani leaned close. “The new Harry Truman?”

“I have a feeling they’ve mixed up names and titles,” Kurt said. “Whoever came here must have told them the leader of the country was Roosevelt, the Vice President was Truman.”

“Is that why this guy is the eighteenth Roosevelt of Pickett’s Island?”

“I think so.”

“I feel like I’m in the twilight zone,” Leilani said.

So did Kurt. But he figured there were some advantages to the setup, and with his friend’s lives still hanging in the balance, he had no choice but to take advantage of them.

“What I’ve said is true,” Kurt insisted. “And I’m here on Pickett’s Island, looking as I do, because I’ve just escaped the grasp of some enemies of the United States.”

The men seemed impressed and began to whisper among themselves.

“How can we be sure he’s an American?” the second judge said.

“He looks a lot like Pickett,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said.

“He could be German. His name is Kurt.”

The eighteenth Roosevelt seemed to take this as a fair question, he turned to Austin. “You must prove it to us.”

“Tell me how?”

“I will ask you some questions,” he said. “If you answer as an American would, we will believe your story. If you speak wrongly, you will be held guilty.”

“Go ahead,” Kurt said confidently, “ask away.”

“What is the capital of New York State?” the judge asked.

“Albany,” Kurt said.

“Very good. But that was an easy one.”

“So ask a harder one.”

The judge knitted his dark brows together, squinting at Kurt, before asking the next question. “What is meant by the term the pitcher balked?”

Kurt was surprised. He’d expected another geography question or a history question, but in retrospect it made sense. History and geography were easy to learn, obscure rules of national sports were not. As it happened, Kurt had played baseball all his young life.

“A balk occurs many different ways,” he said, “but usually it’s when the pitcher doesn’t come to a complete stop before throwing the pitch to home base.”

The judges nodded in unison.

“Correct,” one said.

“Yes, yes,” another said, still nodding.

“Third question: Who was the sixteenth Roosevelt of the United States?”

Kurt assumed he meant the sixteenth President. “Abraham Lincoln.”

“And where was he born?”

Another good question, Lincoln so widely known as being from Illinois that most assumed he was born there. “Lincoln was born in Kentucky,” Kurt replied. “In a cabin made of logs.”

The judges nodded to one another. It seemed he was making progress.

“I feel like we’re on a bad game show,” Leilani mumbled.

“Too bad we don’t get any lifelines,” Kurt said, “I’d love to make a call right about now.”

“One more question,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said. “Tell us what is meant by The House That Ruth Built?”

Kurt smiled. His eyes fell on the old-style Yankees cap. Someone who’d influenced these men had loved baseball and had obviously been from New York.

“The House That Ruth Built is Yankee Stadium. It’s in the Bronx,” he said, and then added, to the judges hearty approval, “It was named for Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player of all time.”

“He is correct,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said excitedly. “Only a true American would know these things.”

“Yes, yes,” the others agreed. “Now, what about the woman?”

“She’s with me,” Kurt said.

“And the man?”

Kurt hesitated. “He’s my prisoner.”

“Then he will be our prisoner,” one of the judges said.

“Our first prisoner,” the eighteenth Roosevelt proclaimed to the great excitement of those around the room. “Take him away.”

Ishmael looked shocked as two men with carbines rushed forward and grabbed him.

“He must be treated according to the Geneva convention,” Kurt said sternly.

“Yes, of course. He will be cared for. But he will be guarded night and day. We have never lost a prisoner on Pickett’s Island. Then again, we have never had one before. He will not escape.”

Without a chance to defend himself, Ishmael was dragged off. Kurt figured he would be okay. As the room emptied around him, he approached the bench.

The eighteenth Roosevelt extended a hand. “My apologies for your treatment,” he said. “I had to be sure.”

Kurt shook the hand. “Understandable,” he said. “May I ask your name?”

“I’m Tautog,” the judge said.

“And you’re the eighteenth Roosevelt of the island,” Kurt confirmed.

“Yes,” Tautog said. “Every four years, a new leader is chosen. I am the eighteenth. I have served for two years, defending the island and the Constitution of the United States of America.”

Kurt calculated backward. If each term lasted four years and Tautog had only served for two, that meant the first Roosevelt was chosen seventy years ago, in 1942.

World War Two. These islanders had come into contact with someone during World War Two and been turned into a small fighting force. It seemed like no one had bothered to tell them the war was over.

Kurt’s eyes traveled over the nautical equipment and the life vest. A faded name on it was impossible to read. “A ship landed here?” he said.

“Yes,” Tautog said. “A great ship of fire and steel. The S.S. John Bury.”

“What happened to it?” Kurt asked.

“The keel is buried in the sand on the east side of the island. The rest we took apart and used to build shelters and defenses.”

“Defenses?” Leilani asked. “Against what?”

“Against the Imperial Japanese Navy and the banzai charge,” Tautog said as if it were obvious.

Kurt caught her before she spoke. Tautog and his fellow islanders were extremely isolated and not just geographically. He didn’t know how they would respond to hearing that the war they and their fathers and their grandfathers had been hunkering down to fight had been over for six and a half decades.

“Who trained you?” Kurt asked.

“Captain Pickett and Sergeant First Class Arthur Watkins of the United States Marine Corps. They taught us the drills, how to fight, how to hide, how to spot the enemy.”

“Who was the Yankees fan?” Kurt asked.

“Captain Pickett loved the Yankees. He called them the Bronx Bombers.”

Kurt nodded. “And what happened when they left?”

Tautog looked as if he didn’t understand the question. “They did not leave,” he said. “Both men are buried here along with their crew.”

“They died here?”

“Captain Pickett died from his injuries eight months after the John Buryran aground. The sergeant was badly injured as well. He could not walk, but he survived for eleven months and taught us how to fight.”

Kurt found the story amazing and intriguing. He’d never heard of a cargo cult where the Americans had stayed behind. He only wished he could reach St. Julien Perlmutter and access his extensive history of naval warfare. The cargo ship had to be listed somewhere, probably labeled missing and presumed sunk, just another footnote to the huge war.

“I don’t understand,” Leilani said. “Why would you need to fight? I understand about the war and the Japanese, but this island is so small. It’s so far out of the way. I don’t think the Japanese were—I mean are—interested in taking it over.”

“It is not the island itself that we protect,” Tautog said. “It is the machine Captain Pickett entrusted to us.”

Kurt’s eyebrows went up. “The machine?”

“Yes,” Tautog said. “The great machine. The Pain Maker.”