Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    "I'm certain the treasure is worth double what the experts estimated," said Shannon.

    Giordino looked at her. "That would be as high as three hundred million dollars?"

    Shannon nodded. "Maybe even more."

    "It isn't worth a good baseball card," remarked Pitt, "until it's brought to the surface. Not an easy job to barge the larger pieces, including the chain, off an island surrounded by a rushing flow of water, and then haul them up a narrow passageway to the top of the mountain. From there, you'll need a heavy transport helicopter just to carry the golden chain."

    "You're talking a major operation," said Rodgers.

    Pitt held his light on the great coiled chain. "Nobody said it was going to be easy. Besides, bringing out the treasure isn't our problem."

    Shannon gave him a questioning stare. "Oh, no? Then who do you expect to do it?"

    Pitt stared back. "Have you forgotten? We're supposed to stand aside and hand it over to our old pals from the Solpemachaco."

    The repulsive thought had slipped her mind after gazing enthralled at the wealth of golden artifacts. "An outrage," Shannon said furiously, her self-esteem blossoming once more, "a damned outrage. The archaeological discovery of the century, and I can't direct the recovery program."

    "Why don't you lodge a complaint?" said Pitt.

    She glared at him, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

    "Let the competition know how you feel."

    "How?"

    "Leave them a message."

    "You're crazy."

    "That observation has been cropping up quite a bit lately," said Giordino.

    Pitt took the rope slung over Giordino's shoulder and made a loop. Then he twirled the rope like a lariat and threw the loop across the water, smiling triumphantly as it settled over the head of a small golden monkey on a pedestal.

    "Ah, ha!" he uttered proudly. "Will Rogers had nothing on me."

    Pitt's worst fears were confirmed when he hovered the helicopter above the Alhambra. No one stood on the deck to greet the craft and its passengers. The ferry looked deserted. The auto deck was empty, as was the wheelhouse. The boat was not riding at anchor, nor was she drifting. Her hull was resting lightly in the water only two meters above the silt of the shallow bottom. To all appearances, she looked like a ship that had been abandoned by her crew.

    The sea was calm and there was no pitch or roll. Pitt lowered the helicopter onto the wood deck and shut down the engines as soon as the tires touched down. He sat there as the sound of the turbine and rotor blades slowly died into a morbid silence. He waited a full minute but no one appeared. He opened the entry door and dropped to the deck. Then he stood there waiting for something to happen.

    Finally, a man stepped from behind a stairwell and approached, coming to a halt about 5 meters (16 feet) from the chopper. Even without the phony white hair and beard, Pitt easily recognized the man who had impersonated Dr. Steven Miller in Peru. He was smiling as if he'd caught a record fish.

    "A little off your beat, aren't you?" said Pitt, unruffled.

    "You seem to be my never-ending nemesis, Mr. Pitt."

    "A quality that thrills me no end. What name are you going under today?"

    "Not that it's of use to you, but I am Cyrus Samson."

    "I can't say I'm pleased to see you again."

    Sarason moved closer, peering over Pitt's shoulder at the interior of the helicopter. His face lost the gloating smile and twisted into tense concern. "You are alone? Where are the others?"

    "What others?" Pitt asked innocently.

    "Dr. Kelsey, Miles Rodgers, and your friend, Albert Giordino."

    "Since you have the passenger list memorized, you tell me."

    Please, Mr. Pitt, you would do well not to toy with me," Sarason warned him.

    "They were hungry, so I dropped them off at a seafood restaurant in San Felipe."

    "You're lying."

    Pitt didn't take his gaze off Sarason to scan the decks of the ferry. Guns were trained on him. That was a certainty he knew without question. He stood his ground and faced Miller's killer as if he didn't have a care in the world.

    "So sue me," Pitt retorted, and laughed.

    "You're hardly in a position to be contemptuous," Sarason said coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize the seriousness of your situation."

    "I think I do," said Pitt, still smiling. "You want Huascar's treasure, and you'd murder half the good citizens of Mexico to get it."

    "Fortunately, that won't be necessary. I do admit, however, two-thirds of a billion dollars makes an enticing incentive."

    "Aren't you interested in knowing how and why we were conducting our search at the same time as yours?" asked Pitt.

    It was Sarason's turn to laugh. "After a little persuasion, Mr. Gunn and Congresswoman Smith were most cooperative in telling me about Drake's quipu."

    "Not very smart, torturing a United States legislator and the deputy director of a national science agency."

    "But effective, nonetheless."

    "Where are my friends and the ferry's crew?"

    "I wondered when you'd get around to that question."

    "Do you want to work out a deal?" Pitt didn't miss the predator's eyes staring unblinkingly in an attempt to intimidate. He stared back piercingly. "Or do you want to strike up the music and dance?"

    Sarason shook his head. "I see no reason why I should bargain. You have nothing to trade. You're obviously not a man I can trust. And I have all the chips. In short, Mr. Pitt, you have lost the game before you draw your cards."

    "Then you can afford to be a magnanimous winner and produce my friends."

    Sarason made a thoughtful shrug, raised his hand, and made a beckoning gesture. "The least I can do before I hang some heavy weights on you and drop you over the side."

    Four burly dark-skinned men, who looked like bouncers hired from local cantinas, prodded the captives from the passageway with automatic rifles, and lined them up on the deck behind Sarason.

    Gordo Padilla came first, followed by Jesus, Gato, and the assistant engineer whose name Pitt could not recall ever hearing. The bruises and dried blood on their faces showed that they had been knocked around but were not hurt seriously. Gunn had not gotten off so lightly. He had to be half dragged from the passageway. He had been badly beaten, and Pitt could see the blotches of blood on his shirt and the crude rags wrapped around his hands. Then Loren was standing there, her face drawn and her lips and cheeks swollen and puffed up as though stung by bees. Her hair was disheveled and purplish bruises showed on her arms and legs. Yet she still held her head proudly and shook off the guards' hands as they roughly pushed her forward. Her expression was one of defiance until she saw Pitt standing there. Then it turned to cruel disappointment, and she moaned in despair.

    "Oh, no, Dirk!" she exclaimed. "They've got you too."

    Gunn painfully raised his head and muttered through lips that were split and bleeding. "I tried to warn you, but. . ." His voice went too soft to be understood.

    Sarason smiled, unfeeling. "I think what Mr. Gunn means to say is that he and your crew were overpowered by my men after they kindly allowed us to board your ferry from a chartered fishing boat after begging to borrow your radio."

    Pitt's anger came within a millimeter of driving him to inflict pain on those who had brutalized his friends. He took a deep breath to regain control. He swore under his breath that the man standing in front of him would pay. Not now. But the time would surely come if he didn't try anything foolish.

    He glanced casually toward the nearest railing, gauging its distance and height. Then he turned back to Sarason.

    "I don't like big, tough men who beat up defenseless women," he said conversationally. "And for what purpose? The location of the treasure is no secret to you."

    "Then it's true," Sarason said with a pleased expression. "You found the beast that guards the gold on the top of Cerro el Capirote."

    "If you had dropped for a closer look instead of playing peekaboo in the clouds, you'd have seen the beast for yourself."

    Pitt's last words brought a flicker of curiosity to the beady eyes.

    "You were aware you were being followed?" asked Sarason.

    ` It goes without saying that you would have searched for our helicopter after our chance meeting in the air yesterday. My guess is you checked out landing fields on both sides of the Gulf last night and asked questions until someone it San Felipe innocently pointed the way to our ferry.'

    "You're very astute."

    "Not really. I made the mistake of overestimating you. I didn't think you'd act like a reckless amateur and begin mutilating the competition. An act that was completely unwarranted."

    Puzzlement filled Sarason's eyes. "What goes on here, Pitt?"

    "All part of the plan," answered Pitt almost jovially. "I purposely led you to the jackpot."

    "A barefaced lie."

    "You've been set up, pal. Get wise. Why do you think I let off Dr. Kelsey, Rodgers, and Giordino before I returned to the ferry? To keep them out of your dirty hands, that's why."

    Sarason said slowly. "You couldn't have known we were going to capture your boat before you came back."

    "Not with any certainty. Let's say my intuition was working overtime. That and the fact my radio calls to the ferry went unanswered."

    A shrewd hyenalike look slowly spread across Sarason's face. "Nice try, Pitt. You'd make an excellent writer of children's stories."

    "You don't believe me?" Pitt asked, as if surprised.

    "Not a word."

    "What are you going to do with us?"

    Sarason looked disgustingly cheerful. "You're more naive than I gave you credit for. You know full well what's going to happen to you."

    "Crowding your luck, aren't you, Sarason? Murdering Congresswoman Smith will bring half the United States law enforcement officers down around your neck."

    "Nobody will know she was murdered," he said impassively. "Your ferryboat will simply go to the bottom with all hands. An unfortunate accident that is never fully solved."

    "There is still Kelsey, Giordino, and Rodgers. They're safe and sound in California, ready to spill the story to Customs and FBI agents."

    "We're not in the United States. We're in the sovereign nation of Mexico. The local authorities will conduct an extensive investigation but will turn up no evidence of foul play despite unfounded accusations from your friends."

    "With close to a billion dollars at stake, I should have known you'd be generous in buying the cooperation of local officials."

    "They couldn't wait to sign on board after we promised them a share of the treasure," Sarason boasted.

    "Considering how much there is to go around," said Pitt, "you could afford to play Santa Claus."

    Sarason looked at the setting sun. "It's getting late in the day. I think we've chatted long enough." He turned and spoke a name that sent a shiver through Pitt. "Tupac, come and say hello to the man who made you impotent."

    Tupac Amaru stepped from behind one of the guards and stood in front of Pitt, his teeth set and grinning like a skull on a pirate's Jolly Roger flag. He had the joyful but clinical look of a butcher sizing up a slab of prime, specially aged beef.

    "I told you I would make you suffer as you made me," Amaru said ominously.

    Pitt studied the evil face with a strangely paralyzed intensity. He didn't need a football coach to diagram what was in store for him. He braced his body to begin the scheme he had formed in the back of his mind right after he had stepped out of the helicopter. He moved toward Loren, but stepped slightly sideways and inconspicuously began to hyperventilate.

    "If you are the one who harmed Congresswoman Smith, you will die as surely as you stand there with that stupid look on your face."

    Sarason laughed. "No, no. You, Mr. Pitt, are not going to kill anybody."

    "Neither are you. Even in Mexico you'd hang if there was a witness to your executions."

    "I'd be the first to admit it." Sarason surveyed Pitt inquiringly. "But what witness are you talking about?" He paused to sweep an arm around the empty sea. "As you can see, the nearest land is empty desert almost twenty kilometers away, and the only vessel in sight is our fishing boat standing off the starboard bow."

    Pitt tilted his head up and stared at the wheelhouse. "What about the ferryboat's pilot?"

    All the heads turned as one, all that is except Gunn's. He nodded unobserved at Pitt and then raised a hand, pointing at the empty pilothouse. "Hide, Pedro!" he cried loudly. "Run and hide."

    Three seconds were all Pitt needed. Three seconds to run four steps and leap over the railing into the sea.

    Two of the guards caught the sudden movement from the edge of their vision, whirled and fired one quick burst from their automatic rifles on reflex. But they fired high, and they fired late. Pitt had struck the water and vanished into the murky depths.

    Pitt hit the water stroking and kicking with the fervor of a possessed demon. An Olympic committee of judges would have been impressed, he must have set a new world record for the underwater dash. The water was warm but the visibility below the surface was less than a meter due to the murk caused by silt flowing in from the Colorado River. The blast of the gunfire was magnified by the density of the water and sounded like an artillery barrage to Pitt's ears.

    The bullets struck and penetrated the sea with the unlikely sound of a zipper being closed. Pitt leveled out when his hands scoured the bottom, causing an eruption of fine silt. He recalled learning during his U.S. Air Force days that a bullet's velocity was spent after traveling a meter and a half (5 feet) through water. Beyond that depth, it sank harmlessly to the seafloor.

    When the light above the surface went dark, he knew he had passed under the port side of the Alhambra's hull. His timing was lucky. It was approaching high tide and the ferryboat was now riding two meters off the bottom. He swam slowly and steadily, exhaling a small amount of air from his lungs, angling on a course astern that he hoped would bring him up on the starboard side near the big paddlewheels. His oxygen intake was nearly exhausted, and he began to see a darkening fuzziness creeping around the borders of his vision, when the shadow of the ferry abruptly ended and he could see a bright surface again.

    He broke into air 2 meters (6.5 feet) abaft of the sheltered interior of the starboard paddlewheel. There was no question of his risking exposure. It was that or drown. The question was whether Sarason's goons had predicted what his game plan would be and run over from the opposite side of the vessel. He could still hear sporadic gunfire striking the water on the port side, and his hopes rose. They weren't on to him, at least not yet.

    Pitt sucked in hurried breaths of pure air while getting his bearings. And then he was diving under the temporary safety of the ferry's huge paddlewheels. After gauging the distance, he raised a hand above his head and slowly kicked upward. His hand made contact with an unyielding wood beam. He clutched it and lifted his head above the water. He felt as if he had entered a vast barn with support beams running every which way.

    He looked up at the great circular power train that drove the big ferry through the water. It was a radial type similar in construction and action to the old picturesque waterwheels used to power flour and sawmills. Strong cast-iron hubs mounted on the drive shaft had sockets attached to wooden arms that extended outward to a diameter of 10 meters (33 feet). The ends of the arms were then bolted into long horizontal planks called floats that swung around and around, dipping into the water, pushing backward while driving the ferry forward. The entire unit and its mate on the opposite side were housed in giant hoods set inside the ferry's hull.

    Pitt hung on to one of the floats and waited as a small school of nosy spotted sand bass circled around his legs. He was not completely out of the woods yet. There was an access door for crewmen to perform maintenance on the paddlewheel. He decided to remain in the water. A sane mind dictated that it would be a big mistake to be caught in the act of climbing up the wooden arms by some tough customer who burst through the access door with an itchy trigger finger. Better to be in a position to duck under the water at the first sound of entry.

    He could hear footsteps running on the auto deck above, accented by an occasional burst of gunfire. Pitt couldn't see anything, but he didn't need a lecture to know what Sarason's men were doing. They were roving around the open decks above, shooting at anything that vaguely resembled a body under the water. He could hear voices shouting, but the words came muffled. No large fish within a radius of 50 meters (164 feet) survived the bombardment.

    The click of the lock on the access door came as he had expected. He slipped deeper into the water until only half his head was exposed but he was still hidden to anyone above by one of the huge floats.

    He could not see the unshaven face that peered downward through the paddlewheel at the water, but this time he heard a voice loud and clear from behind the intruder at the door, a voice he had come to know too well. He could feel the hairs stiffen on the nape of his neck at hearing the words spoken by Amaru.

    "See any sign of him?"

    "Nothing down here but fish," grunted the searcher in the access door, catching sight of the spotted sand bass.

    "He didn't surface away from the ship. If he's not dead, he must be hiding somewhere underneath the ship."

    "Nobody hiding down here. A waste of energy to bother looking. We put enough lead into him to use his corpse for an anchor."

    "I won't feel satisfied until I see the body," said Amaru in a businesslike tone.

    "You want a body," said the gunman, pulling back through the access door, "then drag a grappling hook h rough the silt. That's the only way you'll ever see him again."

    "Back to the forward boarding ramp," Amaru ordered. "The fishing boat is returning."

    Pitt could hear the diesel throb and feel the beat of the fishing boat's propellers through the water as it pulled alongside to take off Samson and his mercenary scum. Pitt wondered vaguely what his friends would say to him for running out on them even though it was a desperate measure to save their lives.

    Nothing was going according to plan. Sarason was two steps ahead of Pitt.

    Already Pitt had allowed Loren and Gunn to suffer at the hands of the art thieves. Already he'd stupidly done nothing while the crew and ferryboat were captured. Already he'd given away the secret to Huascar's treasure. The way he was handling events, Pitt wouldn't have been surprised if Sarason and his cronies elected him chairman of the board of Solpemachaco.

    Nearly an hour passed before he sensed the sounds of the fishing boat die in the distance. This was followed by the beating rotor of a helicopter lifting off the ferry, indisputably the NUMA helicopter. Pitt cursed. Another gift to the criminals.

    Darkness had fallen and no lights reflected on the water. Pitt wondered why the men on the upper decks had taken so long to evacuate the vessel. His absolute conviction was that one or more would be left behind to take care of him in the event the dead came back to life. Amaru and Samson could not kill the others unless they knew with cold certainty that Pitt was dead and could tell no tales to the authorities, especially the news media.

    Pitt could feel apprehension in his chest like a stone tied to his heart. He was at a distinct disadvantage. If Loren and Rudi had been removed from the Alhambra, he had to get ashore somehow and inform Giordino and the Customs officials in the U.S. border town of Calexico of the situation. And what of the crew? Caution dictated that he must be certain Amaru and his friends were no longer on board. If one of them stayed behind to see if he was only playing dead, they could wait him out. They had all the time in the world. He had practically none.

    He pushed away from the float, curled over and dived under the hull. The bottom silt seemed closer to the keel than he remembered from his earlier dive. It didn't seem logical until he passed under a bilge exhaust pipe and felt a strong pull of suction. Pitt didn't have to be told that the seacocks in the bilge had been opened. Amaru was scuttling the Alhambra.

    He turned and swam slowly toward the end of the ferryboat where he had left the helicopter. He took the risk of being seen by surfacing briefly alongside the hull beneath the deck overhang to take another breath. After nearly an hour and a half's immersion, he felt waterlogged. His skin looked like that of a shriveled old man of ninety-five. He did not feel overly fatigued, but he sensed his strength was reduced by a good 20 percent. He slipped under the hull again and made for the shallow rudders fitted on the end. They soon loomed out of the murky water. He reached out and gripped one and slowly raised his face out of the water.

    No leering face stared back, no guns aimed between his eyes. He hung on to the rudder and floated, relaxing and building back his strength. He listened, but no sound came from the auto deck above.

    Finally, he pulled himself up far enough to lift his eyes over the raised edge of the entry/exit ramp. The Alhambra was in complete darkness with neither interior nor exterior lights showing. Her decks appeared still and lifeless. As he suspected, the NUMA helicopter was gone. The tingling fear of the unknown traveled up his spine. Like an old fort on the western frontier before a surprise attack by the Apaches, it was far too quiet.

    This wasn't one of his better days, Pitt thought. His friends were captured and held hostage. They might be dead. A thought he refused to dwell on. He'd lost another NUMA aircraft. Stolen by the very criminals he was supposed to entice into a trap. The ferryboat was sinking beneath him and he was dead certain one or more killers were lurking somewhere on board to exact a terrible revenge. All in all he'd rather have been in East St. Louis.

    How long he hung on the rudder he couldn't be sure. Maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, but all he could see inside the big auto deck was the dim reflection of the chrome bumpers and radiator grill of the Pierce Arrow. He hung there waiting to see a movement or hear the faint sound of stealth. The deck that stretched into the gaping cavern looked frightening. But he had to enter it if he wanted a weapon, he thought nervously, any weapon to protect himself from men who intended to turn him into sushi.

    Unless Amaru's men had made a professional search of the old Travelodge, they wouldn't have found inventor John Browning's dependable Colt .45 automatic where Pitt kept it in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator.

    He gripped the deck overhang and heaved himself on board. It took Pitt all of five seconds to run across the deck, sweep the door of the trailer against its stops, and leap inside. In a clockwork motion, he tore open the door to the refrigerator and pulled open the vegetable drawer. The Colt automatic lay where he'd left it. For a brief instant relief washed over him like a waterfall as he gripped the trusty weapon in his hand.

    His feeling of deliverance was short-lived. The Colt felt light in his hand, too light. He pulled back the slide and ejected the magazine. It and the firing chamber were empty. With mushrooming despair and desperation he checked the drawer beside the stove that held the kitchen knives. They were gone, along with all the silverware. The only weapon in the trailer was the seemingly useless Colt automatic.

    Cat and mouse.

    They were out there all right. Pitt now knew Amaru was going to take his time and toy with his prey before dismembering him and throwing the pieces over the side. Pitt treated himself to a few moments for strategy. He sat down in the dark on the trailer's bed and calmly began planning his next moves.

    If any of the killers were haunting the auto deck, they could easily have shot, knifed, or bashed Pitt with a club during his dash to the trailer. For that matter, there was nothing stopping them from breaking in and ending it here. Amaru was a sly hombre, Pitt grudgingly admitted to himself. The South American had guessed Pitt was still alive and would head for any available weapon at the first opportunity. Searching the trailer and finding the gun was shrewd. Removing the bullets but leaving the gun in its place was downright sadistic. That was merely the first step in a game of torment and misery before the final deathblow. Amaru intended to make Pitt twist in the wind before he killed him.

    First things first, Pitt decided. Ghouls were lurking in the dark all right, ghouls who wanted to murder him. They thought he was as defenseless as a baby, and he was on a sinking ship with nowhere to go. And that was precisely what he wanted them to think.

    If Amaru was in no rush, neither was he.

    Pitt leisurely removed his wet clothes and soggy shoes and toweled himself dry. Next he donned a dark gray pair of pants, a black cotton sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers. Then he made and calmly ate a peanut butter sandwich and drank two glasses of Crystal Light. Feeling rejuvenated, he pulled open a small drawer beneath the bed and checked the contents of a leather gun pouch. The spare magazine was gone, just as he knew it would be. But a small flashlight was there, and in one corner of the drawer he found a small plastic bottle with a label advertising its contents as vitamin supplement A, C, and beta carotene. He shook the bottle and grinned like a happy camper when it rattled.

    He unscrewed the lid and poured eight .45-caliber bullets into his hand. Things are looking up, he thought. Amaru's cunning fell a notch below perfection. Pitt fed seven bullets into the magazine and one in the firing chamber. Now Pitt could shoot back, and the good old Alhambra was not about to sink above her lower deck overhang once her keel settled into the shallow bottom.

    Just one more manifestation of Pitt's law, he thought "Every villain has a plan with at least one flaw."

    Pitt glanced at his watch. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since he entered the trailer. He rummaged through a clothing drawer until he found a dark blue ski mask and slipped it over his head. Next he found his Swiss army knife in the pocket of a pair of pants thrown over a chair.

    He pulled a 'small ring in the floor and raised a trapdoor he'd built into the trailer for additional storage space. He lifted out the storage box, set it aside and squirmed through the narrow opening left in the floor. Lying on the deck beneath the trailer, he peered into the darkness and listened. Not a sound. His unseen hunters were patient men.

    Coldly and deliberately, like a methodical man with a decisive purpose, who was in no doubt as to the outcome of his intended actions, Pitt rolled from under the trailer and moved like a phantom through a nearby open hatch down a companion ladder into the engine room.

    He moved cautiously, careful not to make sudden movements or undue sound.

    Amaru would not cut him any slack.

    With no one to tend them, the boilers that created heat to make the steam that powered the walking beam engines had cooled to such a degree that Pitt could lay the palm of his bare hand against their thick riveted sides without blistering his skin. He leveled the gun with his right hand and held the flashlight as far to his left as his outstretched arm could allow. Only the unwary aim a beam in front of them. If a cornered man is going to shoot at the person shining a light into his eyes, he unerringly points his weapon where the body is expected to be, directly behind the light.

    The engine room looked deserted, but then he tensed. There was a soft mumbling sound like somebody trying to talk through a gag. Pitt swung the beam of the flashlight up into the giant A-frames that supported the walking beam. Someone was up there. Four of them were up there.

    Gordo Padilla, his assistant engineer, a man whose name Pitt had not learned, and the two deckhands, Jesus and Gato, all hung upside down, tightly bound and gagged with duct tape, their eyes pleading. Pitt pried open the largest blade of the Swiss army knife and quickly cut them down, freeing their hands and allowing them to pull the tape from their mouths.

    "Muchas gracias, amigo," Padilla gasped as the tape tore out a dozen hairs of his moustache. "Blessed be the Virgin Mary you came when you did. They were going to cut our throats like sheep."

    "When did you see them last?" asked Pitt softly.

    "No more than ten minutes ago. They could return at any second."

    "You've got to get away from the boat."

    "I can't remember when we dropped the lifeboats." Padilla shrugged with a manana display of indifference. "The davits and motors are probably rusted solid and the boats are rotted."

    "Can't you swim?" Pitt asked desperately.

    Padilla shook his head. "Not very well. Jesus can't swim at all. Sailors do not like to go in the water," Then his face lit up under the beam of the flashlight. "There is a small six-man raft tied to the railing near the galley."

    "You'd better hope it still floats." He handed Padilla his knife. "Take this to cut away the raft."

    "What about you? Aren't you coming with us?"

    "Give me ten minutes to conduct a quick search of the ship for the others. If I've found no sign of them by then, you and your crew get free in the raft while I create a diversion."