Текст книги "Devil's Gate"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Graham Brown,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

37

IF JOE HAD SAID ANYTHING ELSE, Kurt didn’t hear him. He dropped down out of the Barracudalike a man swimming from the mouth of a cave and began kicking forward with powerful strokes.

The fins weren’t full-sized, but they helped immensely, and with the mask on he could see clearly. But he still had to make a guess as to his whereabouts. He took out a piece of equipment he’d grabbed from the dash of the Barracuda: the magnetic compass.

It was just a dial in a sealed ball half filled with kerosene. As long as it hadn’t cracked or broken, it would still perform its only function. And that was to point toward the most powerful magnetic source around. Normally, that would be the north magnetic pole. But in this case Kurt guessed it would point toward the magnetic tower of rock.

Though he was quite certain the whole thing was a fraud of some kind, the magnetism emanating from the tower was real. Whether it was being generated by some type of device implanted within the rock that sent out an electromagnetic current or was just a result of highly charged minerals being positioned in the right place, he couldn’t say.

He lit one of the flares and held the compass out. It spun and dipped and slowly came onto a heading. The speed with which it centered told him it was reacting to something very strong, and he felt certain that it was pointing toward the tower.

Knowing he and Joe had been traveling basically to the east before they’d been caught, he triangulated in his head a direction to swim and lit out for the Constellation.

Five minutes later he came upon one of the ships in the graveyard. Two minutes after that he spotted the triple tails of the old aircraft. He pumped his legs hard, knowing both that time was running short and that he needed to keep as active as possible to delay the onset of hypothermia.

He ducked through the gaping hole in the aircraft’s side, swam forward surrounded by the bubbles he was exhaling, and made it to the cockpit.

A skeletal form sat in the copilot’s seat, still strapped in and stripped of everything organic. Only the plastic of the life vest, a pair of rusted dog tags, and the nylon-and-metal seat belt holding him in remained. Another few years and even the bones would be gone.

As he looked at the form for the second time, he realized that this plane’s presence had been part of what threw him. Part of what blinded him to the hoax.

The skeleton in the copilot’s seat, the CIA records of its secret mission, its departure from Santa Maria and its subsequent crash nine minutes later, all these things had lent some official credence to the mystery.

Putting the thought out of his mind, he reached down and released the clasp holding the oxygen tank to the floor. Picking it up, he studied the valve for signs of corrosion or decay. While there was some growth on the ring around the bottle’s neck, there didn’t appear to be much damage. He only hoped the thick steel tank still contained its pure cargo.

JOE ZAVALA REMAINED TRAPPED in the inverted hull of the Barracuda. His head and shoulders protruded into the cockpit and its lifesaving air pocket. His arms remained drawn awkwardly across his body, bent at the elbows and protruding out from under the cockpit’s rim. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. But he could still think, and he realized that running the air full blast was a mistake.

The excess was merely pumping itself out over the side before it could be used.

He managed to stretch his leg once again and use his toes, numb as they were, to jab at the switch.

The jet of air bubbles ceased. The cabin of the cockpit grew deathly quiet, and Joe continued to breathe slowly and count the seconds until Kurt returned with whatever he had in mind.

It was only a question of time, he told himself. Kurt would return no matter what. Joe knew his friend would never give him up until there was literally no other way. He just hoped that whatever Kurt had in mind worked and worked quickly.

As he waited in the silence, Joe found counting to be utterly tedious as a method of passing time. In fact, he’d honestly begun to believe it actually slowed time down somehow.

He decided to sing instead, both as a way to fight the silence to keep himself alert and as a way to take his mind off the fear and freezing sensation that was creeping through his body.

At first he considered singing something related to warmth, but somehow belting out the Supremes’ version of “Heat Wave,” or a similar tune, seemed like it would make things worse in this frigid environment.

Instead he settled on another song, one that seemed more appropriate. It took a second to bring the words together, but then he was ready.

“We all live in a yellow submarine…”he began.

Even Joe would have admitted it was more talking than singing at this point, but it was something to do. And it gave him some ideas.

“Note to self,” he said. “Paint next submarine yellow. And include a heater that works underwater, even if the whole cockpit floods. And missiles, definitely missiles.”

With that note filed away, Joe continued, singing louder with each chorus. He was on the third chorus, really beginning to get the hang of it, finding the acoustics of the inverted Barracudato be most pleasing to the ear, when he realized he was getting delirious. The air was growing stale.

He stretched out his leg and banged it against the control panel. His feet were so numb, he could only feel the impact higher up on his calf, but he knew he was in the right area. He tapped and tapped again, continuing his awkward attempts, until the air jets came back on.

At the sound of the bubbles racing through, pouring into the cockpit, he rejoiced and began singing once again.

And then, mid-verse, Kurt Austin surfaced through the foam and bubbles, rudely interrupting his performance.

Kurt spat his own regulator out and lifted his mask. “Well, you’re having a lot more fun than I expected.”

“Practicing for American Idol,” Joe managed. His teeth had begun chattering. “What do you think?”

“You may not be going to Hollywood, but I think we can get you out of this sub.”

Kurt held up a green tank of some kind. “One hundred percent oxygen,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose.”

Joe tried to smile. The sooner, the better,was all he could think.

Kurt was already working, jabbing at the barnacles on the tank’s valve with a screwdriver. He managed to get it partially cleared, then stopped.

He showed the pinhole to Joe. “You think that’s enough?”

“Test it.”

Kurt worked the valve handle for a good minute, even banging it on the frame of the cockpit, until it would move. Finally, it gave. A few bits of debris blasted out of the valve’s opening. Kurt held it underwater. Bubbles poured out in a narrow jet.

Kurt grabbed another flare from the survival kit and ripped a length of aluminum trim off the control panel. The thin strip of metal would be needed in his project. He looked at Joe. “It’s gonna be hot,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Joe said. Unlike Kurt, he hadn’t moved for a good twenty minutes, and sitting still in 60-degree waters without a wet suit was enough to bring on hypothermia. He was getting close to that point.

“I’ll be careful,” Kurt said, pulling his mask back down.

“Kurt,” Joe said very seriously. “I’m not dying down here. If you have to take my hand off, do it. I can’t feel it anyway.”

“And deprive the boxing world of your pugilistic skills?” he said. “Perish the thought.”

“Kurt, I’m just saying—”

“Why don’t you go back to singing,” Kurt said. He held up the bottle, “I’m making a little request: ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors.”

With that, Kurt put his regulator back into his mouth and submerged.

Joe knew Kurt would do his best, but he also knew Kurt would do as he’d asked if necessary. And to save Joe from thinking about it, he wouldn’t tell him in advance.

To take his mind off it, he did as Kurt had suggested… almost. This time, he’d give it everything he had, really belting it out.

“We all live in a yellow submarine…”

OUTSIDE THE BARRACUDA, Kurt heard Joe’s warbling voice and was secretly glad to be out beyond the confines of the sub. Still, it made him smile.

He got up beside the lift bar. Joe’s hands were curled up into balls from the cold. He pulled Joe’s right hand as far from the left as he could. He then lit the new flare and held up the strip of aluminum.

He pressed the pointed end of the strip into the narrow links of the hardened steel chain that held Joe’s hands together. Then he brought the oxygen bottle awkwardly to bear and turned the valve.

The jet of bubbles burst forth once again. He directed it toward the aluminum strip and Joe’s chains and the burning tip of the flare. Immediately, what looked like a jet of fire burst forth.

It was awkward work. Kurt felt like he needed three hands, but by holding the flare and the aluminum strip in one hand and the oxygen bottle in the other he was able to keep his little torch operation working.

While it seemed like the oxygen was burning, Kurt knew it was actually an oxidizer. It didn’t burn. It caused other things to burn hot and fast – in this case, the aluminum and, once a little cut appeared in Joe’s chain, the steel in the chain links.

The jury-rigged setup smoked and bubbled and snapped unevenly. For a moment it looked as if it would go out, but it stayed lit. After thirty seconds he pulled the torch away. The links were glowing red but not yet melted. He brought the torch to bear once again. After another fifteen seconds, Joe’s hands suddenly snapped apart.

He was free.

Kurt shut off the oxygen, thinking they might need it, and moved back into the sub.

Joe was all smiles. “I’d hug you,” he said, holding up his balled fists, “but I’m too damn cold.”

“How long we been down here?” Kurt asked.

“Thirty minutes,” Joe said.

That sounded right to Kurt. Thirty minutes at one hundred feet. They’d need at least one decompression stop. With Joe’s survival bottle largely untouched and what was left in his own, along with the green oxygen tank, Kurt was certain they could make it without any problem.

He slid Joe’s mask over his face and forced the swim fins on his feet. With the life raft and the ELT beacon under his arm, Kurt led Joe out of the sub.

Outside, he twisted the beacon until it began to flash, released it, and watched it shimmy toward the surface.

He looked to Joe and pointed upward. Joe nodded and began to swim, kicking slowly for the surface.

Kurt took one last look at the Barracudaand noticed something shiny on the ocean floor beneath the lights. The knife. The same knife once again. Another taunt from Andras.

Angrily, he reached out and grabbed it, and then he began to swim after Joe and the distant flashing light from the ELT.

THEY BROKE OUT INTO THE DAYLIGHT ten minutes later. Kurt tried to keep their ascent to one foot per second, as per the old Navy standard rules. But just to be sure, he and Joe stopped at forty feet for two minutes and then at twenty feet for three more.

Finally breaking into the sunlight was a glorious feeling. Kurt pulled the inflation cord on the raft. The CO ₂charge filled and expanded the small raft in a matter of seconds. It unfolded and stiffened with full inflation.

“Ready for passengers,” Kurt said.

He helped Joe climb aboard and then pulled himself in.

Once they’d made it into the raft, lying still and flat was highly recommended. Kurt was pretty certain he could do nothing else.

He lay there breathing, aching and exhausted. He was surprised at how cold and numb he felt now compared to their time down below.

After several minutes with no sound but the slap of the water against the side of the raft, Joe spoke. “Where’s the driest place on earth?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt said, thinking. “The Atacama Desert maybe.”

“Next adventure we’re going there,” Joe said. “Or somewhere hot and dry.”

“I’m not sure the National Underwater and Marine Agency has a lot going on where it’s hot and dry,” Kurt said.

Joe shook his head. “Dirk and Al spent some time in the Sahara once.”

“True,” Kurt said. “I’m not sure they would recommend it though.”

“Hot and dry,” Joe said firmly. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Kurt laughed. It really didn’t sound too bad right now.

He was painfully aware how close they’d come to dying. It wouldn’t have taken much to tilt the scales from life to death for either of them. Kurt knew his overconfidence about what their foes were doing was half the reason for that.

He looked over at Joe, who was finally beginning to show some color in his face.

“I was wrong,” he said to Joe.

Joe turned his head awkwardly. “What?”

“I was wrong about St. Julien,” Kurt added. “He’s a gourmet. He would never chow down at some all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Joe stared at him for a moment and then started laughing and coughing all at the same time. Kurt laughed too. He knew Joe understood what he was trying to say.

“We all screw up, Kurt,” he said. “You just do it bigger than the rest of us.”

Kurt nodded. It sure seemed that way.

He looked out over the surface of the water. Thirty yards away he saw the emergency locator beacon, riding the swells and flashing. He hoped rescue would come soon because there was still work to be done.

The way he saw it, Andras had screwed up even bigger than he had. He’d left Kurt alive and stirred the bitter embers of vengeance in his heart.

38

Off the coast of Sierra Leone, June 26

DJEMMA GARAND STOOD near the edge of the helipad on the false oil platform given the number 4. This platform contained the control center of his weapon and would be his command post if he ever needed to use it.

The control center sat three stories above the helipad, the glass enclosure of its main room jutting out like the bridge on a ship. At the moment Djemma’s attention lay elsewhere.

He stood, leaning up against a rail, in the shadows, his eyes hidden behind the ever-present green shield of the Ray-Bans he wore. Out in the center of the helipad, wilting under the blazing equatorial sun, stood the captured scientists from the various teams who had flocked to the lure he’d offered. The Azorean magnetic anomaly.

Djemma smiled at his own cunning. So far, all things were falling in line with his plan.

With the scientists forced to line up as if for inspection, he waited. Each time one of them tried to sit or get out of line, Andras or one of his men would march out and threaten them with reprisals far worse than standing in the sun. At all times a few men roamed the perimeter with machine guns in their hands.

Finally, when the moaning and complaining began to lessen, Andras came over to where Djemma rested in the shade.

“Leave them out there any longer and you’re going to fry their brains,” Andras said. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t what you brought them here for.”

Djemma turned to Andras. He would not respond to the man’s questions.

“There were thirty-eight experts in superconduction, particle physics, and electromagnetic energy on Santa Maria,” he said. “I count only thirty-three prisoners. Explain the discrepancy.”

Andras turned his head, spit over the side of the rig, and looked back at Djemma. “The French team took a core sample of the tower. It could have blown the whole operation before we made our move. I had to eliminate them. The Russian expert turned out to be a spy. She tried to escape twice. I killed her as well.”

Andras did not blink as he spoke, but he did not seem to like explaining himself.

“And Mathias?” Djemma asked.

“Your little key master forgot his place,” Andras said. “He questioned me in front of the others. I couldn’t allow that.”

For a moment Djemma was angry. He’d placed Mathias with Andras to watch him, perhaps to keep him under control. No doubt that was half the reason Andras had killed him.

Still, Djemma could not show his anger. Instead he began to laugh. “What leader could afford such insolence?”

He pushed off the rail and stepped away from Andras, walking out into the hot sun to address the assembled group.

By the time he’d reached a spot in front of them a trickle of sweat was running down the side of his face. The scientists looked as if they might soon pass out. Most were from cooler climates, America, Europe, Japan. Seeing their weakness, he took his sunglasses off. He wanted them to see his strength and the fire in his eyes.

“Welcome to Africa,” he said. “You are all intelligent people, so I will dispense with the games and secrecy. I am Djemma Garand, the president of Sierra Leone. You will be working for me.”

“Working on what?” one of the scientists asked. Apparently, they hadn’t steamed the starch out of everyone yet.

“You will be provided with the specifications and requirements of a particle accelerator I have built,” Djemma said. “You will have a single job: to make it more powerful. You will of course be paid for your work, much as I was once paid for working in the mines. For your efforts you will each receive three dollars a day.”

To his right one of the scientists, a man with short gray hair and uneven teeth, scoffed.

“I’m not working for you,” he said. “Not for three dollars a day or three million.”

Djemma paused. An American of course. No people of the world were less used to being powerless than Americans.

“That of course is your option,” he said, nodding to Andras.

Andras stepped forward and slammed a rifle butt into the man’s gut. The scientist crumpled to the deck, was dragged away toward the edge of the platform, and summarily thrown off.

His scream echoed as he fell and then stopped suddenly. The water was a hundred twenty feet below.

“Check on him,” Djemma said. “If he lived, renew our offer of employment.”

Andras motioned to a pair of his men and they double-timed it over to the stairwell. Meanwhile, the rest of the scientists stared at the edge over which their associate had just been thrown. A few covered their mouths; one of them went to her knees.

“In the meantime,” Djemma said, quite pleased that someone had been stupid enough to resist right off the bat, “I will explain our incentive program. One I know you will find most generous. You will be divided into four groups and given the same information to work with. The group that comes up with the best answer, the best way to boost the power of my system, that group will get to live.”

Their eyes snapped his way.

“One member from each of the remaining groups will die,” he finished.

With that, Djemma’s men moved in and began to separate them.

“One more thing,” Djemma said loudly enough to stop the proceedings. “You have seventy-two hours for your initial proposal. In the event I have no satisfactory answer by then, one member of each group will die, and we shall start again.”

As the now thirty-two members of the world’s scientific community were separated and hustled toward the waiting elevators in the center of the rig, Djemma Garand smiled. He could see the shock and fear in their faces. He knew that most, if not all, would comply.

He turned to Andras and another African man in uniform, a general in his armed forces.

“Get back to the Onyx,” he said. “Get her into position.”

Andras nodded and moved off. The general stepped up.

“It is time, old friend,” Djemma said. “You may begin to take back what is rightfully ours.”

The general saluted and then turned and was gone.

39

Washington, D.C., June 27

KURT AUSTIN STEPPED OFF the elevator on the eleventh floor of the NUMA headquarters building on the shore of the Potomac River in Washington, D.C. He moved slowly, his body battered, his ego suffering from the badly missed call that had taken them out to the tower of rock in the dark of night.

He was walking with noticeable pain. His face and arms were peeling from saltwater sores and eight hours waiting for rescue in the burning sun. His ribs were sore from the pipe attack, and his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, and his lips were creased with healing scabs where Andras and his thugs had pounded him and split the skin.

Adding insult to injury were the hours sitting in the Argo’s tiny conference room, answering questions from the Spanish and Portuguese authorities with Joe and Captain Haynes, and then a fourteen-hour trip by plane from Santa Maria to Lisbon and over to D.C.

The least someone could have done was spring for business class.

Now fighting jet lag, exhaustion, and his wounded pride, Kurt pressed forward toward another conference room, where he and Joe would discuss with Dirk Pitt and members of the U.S. Navy and the National Security Agency everything they’d already explained a half a dozen times. All the while, whatever trail Andras had left grew colder and faded away.

He neared the end of the hall and despite the pain and fatigue spotted a reason to smile and keep going. At the door to the conference room he saw Gamay Trout. It troubled him that she was alone.

They hugged, and he could feel that much of her usual self-assurance was missing.

“You don’t look so good, Kurt. How do you feel?”

“Never better,” he said.

She smiled.

“Paul?” he asked.

“He’s still unconscious,” she managed.

“I’m sorry.”

“His EEG is improving, and a CAT scan showed no damage, but I’m scared, Kurt.”

“He’ll come back,” Kurt said hopefully. “After all, look what he’s got waiting for him.”

She tried to smile, and then grabbed the door handle and pushed through.

Kurt followed her in and sat protectively beside her. Joe arrived a moment later and sat on her other side. Dirk Pitt, Hiram Yaeger, and some brass from the Navy held positions down the table from them. At the head of the table, a suit from the NSA took center stage.

Dirk Pitt stood and explained. “I know you’ve all been through a lot, but we’re here because the situation has gone from bad to worse.”

He waved toward the man in the suit. “This is Cameron Brinks from the NSA. He and Rear Admiral Farnsworth are spearheading the response to what we believe is a very present threat to international peace.”

Cameron Brinks stood up. “We have to thank you men for discovering and bringing this threat to our attention. Like you, we believe a well-financed or even nationally backed group has developed a directed-energy weapon of incredible power. If the extrapolations from the data are correct, this weapon could undermine the current world socio-military balance.”

Kurt wasn’t sure what exactly the term socio-military balancemeant, but it sounded like a politician’s made-up parlance, and he guessed Brinks was more a politician than a man of action. That meant they were in for a long speech. Great.

Brinks continued. “After consulting with Mr. Yaeger, and also running our own studies, we’ve concluded that this weapon uses a system of particle acceleration similar to one suggested years back for the Strategic Defense Initiative’s anti-missile shield.”

Kurt considered what Brinks was saying, and he allowed some of his aggravation to dissipate. At least these men seemed to grasp the danger.

“To make matters worse,” Brinks said, “the kidnapped scientists are precisely the kind of people one would need to improve on whatever these terrorists are already in possession of.”

“Do we have any idea who they are?” Kurt asked.

Brinks nodded. “In addition to the individual you identified, we’ve two pieces of credible evidence suggesting their base of operations is in Africa.”

“Africa?” Gamay said.

“Yes, Mrs. Trout,” Brinks replied. “Early this morning a body was recovered two miles south of the spot where Kurt and Joe were rescued.”

Brinks nodded to an aide, who brought photos out that were passed to Kurt and Joe.

“Recognize him?” Brinks asked.

The water had bloated the man’s face, but it wasn’t enough to hide his identity.

“Key master,” Joe whispered.

Kurt nodded. “This guy was with Andras,” he said. “What happened to him?”

“Twenty-two, Old West style,” Brinks said. “Right between the eyes. Any idea why?”

“He was alive when we went down,” Kurt said. He put the photo away. “Who is he?”

“He’s been identified as a citizen of Sierra Leone,” Brinks said. “A former major in their armed forces, perhaps even a bodyguard for the president, Djemma Garand.”

“Sierra Leone,” Kurt said. This was the second time that nation’s name had popped up.

Brinks nodded. “As odd as it sounds, the links are starting to point to a connection with that country. We know the superconducting ore was transferred in Freetown, but until now we thought it was the work of a group of mercenaries manning the docks. Your friend Andras may have been one of them.”

Kurt didn’t like hearing Andras referred to as his friend, however facetiously. Beyond that, something sounded odd about this assessment. “Sierra Leone is one of the poorest countries in the world. They can barely feed and clothe their people. You’re telling me they have the wherewithal to create a particle accelerator using advanced superconductors?”

“We have this man’s body to prove a link,” Brinks said, not looking particularly thrilled to have questions coming at him. “We have other intelligence suggesting there may be a connection, including some odd military mobilizations of late.”

“Okay, so what are we doing about it?” Kurt asked, unable to take any more preamble.

Brinks retrained his gaze on Kurt. “To begin with, greater surveillance of the nation is beginning. Until now we haven’t much reason to keep a close eye upon them. But we’re starting to.”

“What else?”

“Believe it or not,” Brinks said, “we still think your initial guess is correct. These people undoubtedly have to be operating from a submarine. Portuguese divers have been all over that rock tower and they’ve found hidden tunnels designed to funnel the current through turbines, banks of batteries, and powerful electromagnetic coils. All designed to create the appearance of a magnetic anomaly. The construction would have required extensive use of submersibles.”

Kurt felt a small amount of vindication, but he’d still been wrong in a highly costly manner.

“And?” he asked.

“And the three of you are to be assigned to a Navy task force charged with finding this submarine,” Brinks said. “Mrs. Trout will work with the Navy acoustics team in trying to refine the signature left on the sonar tapes from the attack on the Grouper.”

“And what are we going to do?” Kurt asked, growing aggravated at what looked like a giant detour.

“Because of your experience in salvage operations and construction of submersibles, you two will be assigned to ASW teams that will be sent out looking for this sub.”

Kurt wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Looking for it?” Kurt said. “You mean wandering around the ocean, listening to hydrophones and hoping to pick up something more than whales making out?”

Neither Brinks nor Admiral Farnsworth reacted.

“Are you kidding me?” Kurt continued. “There’s forty million square miles of ocean out there. And that’s if these idiots are still sailing around, waiting to get caught. More likely they’ve parked that thing under a shed somewhere and are on to the next step in their plan.”

“Our ASW teams are the best in the world, Mr. Austin,” the admiral said.

“I know they are, Admiral, but how many are you going to spare?”

“Seven frigates and twenty aircraft,” he said. “We’ll also be using both the SOSUS line and other listening stations in the South Atlantic.”

That was better than Kurt had expected, but paltry in comparison to the need. And unless Kurt had missed something, they didn’t even know what they were looking for yet.

“Did we pick up anything on the SOSUS during any of the incidents?” he asked.

“No,” the admiral admitted. “Nothing but the sounds of the Kinjara Marubreaking up on her way down and the explosions of the torpedoes during the attack on the Grouper.”

“So all we have is the garbled tape from the Matador,” Kurt said.

“Do you have a better idea, Mr. Austin?” Brinks asked pointedly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to track down Andras. And when I find him, that’ll lead us to whoever he’s working for.”

“CIA’s been looking for him for years,” Brinks said dismissively. “He never stays in one place long enough for anyone to get a line on him. What makes you think you’re going to succeed where they failed?”

“Because there are certain rocks they don’t like to turn over,” he said bluntly. “I have no such qualms.”

Brinks pursed his lips, looking disgusted. He turned back to NUMA’s Director. “Mr. Pitt, would you do something, please?”

Dirk leaned back in his chair, looking as casual as could be. “Sure,” he said to Brinks and then turned to Kurt. “Are you serious about this plan?”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “I know someone who Andras used as a contact years ago. I believe he’s still active.”

“Then what are you doing wasting your time with us? Get your butt moving.”

Kurt smiled and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“This is ridiculous,” Brinks said.

“And take Joe with you,” Pitt added, “if he wants to go.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Joe said.

Brinks ground his teeth and leaned over the table, looking at Dirk Pitt.

“One call and I’ll override this,” he said.

“No you won’t,” Pitt said confidently. “For one, Kurt’s right. Sticking him and Joe on a destroyer is a waste of resources. For another, it puts all our eggs in one basket: your basket. Which I realize, having spent so much time in Washington lately, is half the point. You get the credit if we succeed and you blame them and NUMA if you fail. Simple math. But you forgot a very important variable and that is: I don’t work for you and neither do these men. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you put the country or maritime community at risk for your own personal political agenda.”

Brinks looked about like a man who’d been gored in a bullfight. Even Admiral Farnsworth seemed pleased with the outcome, no doubt wondering what he needed a couple of NUMA civilians on his boats for anyway.

The admiral chuckled and then looked over at Gamay. “We could still use you, Mrs. Trout. Our sonar teams are very friendly.”

“I’ll do my best to help,” she said.

Kurt stepped to the door.

“One thing, Kurt,” Dirk said.

Kurt looked back.

“Stay on the narrow road. This is a mission for us,” Pitt reminded him, “not a sortie of revenge.”