Zero Hour

by Clive Cussler

  “Give me a flare,” Kurt said.

  Joe handed the flare gun to Kurt. By now, the thrum of heavy diesel engines could be heard clearly. There was a ship out there, running dark for whatever reason and moving closer.

  Kurt aimed the gun skyward and pulled the trigger. The flare rocketed straight up, casting a white light down on the sea around them. A half mile off, Kurt spotted the prow of a freighter. It was heading roughly in their direction, though it would miss them to the east.

  “It’s not one of ours,” Captain Winslow said.

  “Nor is it a yacht with a band and a bar,” Joe replied. “But I’ll take it.”

  The flare had a forty-second life, and the darkness returned once it dropped into the sea.

  They waited.

  “There’s no way they didn’t spot that,” Joe insisted.

  Kurt loaded another flare into the firing chamber. “Let’s hope they’re not sleeping or watching TV.”

  He was about to fire the second flare when the sound of the big engines and the reduction gearing changed.

  “She’s cut her throttles,” Winslow said gleefully.

  Kurt held off on firing the precious flare. Waiting. Hoping.

  A spotlight came on near the aft of the big ship. It played across the water until it locked onto the orange raft. It went dark for a second and then began to flash a message.

  “Use the flashlight,” Kurt said.

  Joe moved to the edge, snapped on the light, and began to signal an SOS in Morse code.

  More flashes followed from the ship.

  “They’re coming around,” the captain replied, reading the message before Kurt could speak. “They’re going to pick us up.”

  A cheer went through the boat.

  With the spotlight blazing down on them, the survivors watched as the freighter heaved to. It slowed appreciably and then came around, settling a hundred yards to the west of the lifeboat, blocking the swells to some extent.

  Kurt and Joe rowed with great enthusiasm to close the gap. Their efforts were rewarded when the orange inflatable bumped into the side of the blue-painted hull.

  Thirty feet above, a wide cargo hatch opened in the side of the ship and a few faces appeared. A basket was lowered to haul up the injured crewmen. After they’d been secured, a cargo net was draped against the hull like a ladder for the rest of the survivors to climb.

  One by one, they went up until only Kurt and the captain remained.

  “After you,” Kurt said.

  The captain shook his head. “My ship went down without me,” Winslow insisted. “The least I can do is be the last man off the lifeboat.”

  Kurt nodded, secured the flare gun to his belt, and climbed onto the cargo net.

  He glanced down to see Winslow latching onto the net and the orange lifeboat drifting away. Truth was, they’d been lucky. Lucky to have survived the sinking, lucky to have avoided hypothermia, lucky to have been picked up.

  In fact, they’d been extremely lucky. Their rescuers weren’t from NUMA or any navy or coast guard. The ship was a merchant vessel. Forty feet above him, Kurt could just make out the boxy outline of shipping containers stacked three high.

  A thought began to form in his mind, a spark of insight that struggled to flare brightly in his weary, half-frozen brain. They were a thousand miles from the nearest trade route, he told himself. So what on earth was a containership doing there?

  He got part of the answer as he was pulled into the hatchway. It came in the form of a black pistol pressed up against the side of his head.

  He looked around. The other survivors were down on their knees. Stern-looking men wielding AK-47s stood around them.

  Captain Winslow climbed in and received the same treatment.

  Kurt received the rest of the answer a moment later as one of the gun-toting men got on the ship’s phone.

  “Da,” he said, holding the phone to his ear and turning back toward the captives. “We have been most fortunate. The woman is among them.”

  “Russians,” Kurt muttered.

  The man hung up the phone as the sound of the ship’s propellers reengaging shuddered throughout the vessel. He came toward Kurt. He was tall, but a little on the thin side. Half of his face was covered with scabs. Despite that, Kurt recognized him.

  “So we meet again,” Kirov said, slamming the barrel of his AK-47 across the back of Kurt’s legs.

  Kurt dropped to his knees. For a moment, he was thankful that his legs were almost numb.

  He resisted the urge to fight back or fire off a snarky comment. And since Kirov refrained from shooting him, it seemed Kurt had made a wise choice. Or so he thought until Kirov stepped toward the open hatch, through which a bitter air was beginning to flow as the ship picked up speed.

  “You made me jump from a moving train,” Kirov said, peering down at the cold sea below. “It seems Karma wishes me to return the favor.”

  Kirov nodded to his men. “Throw him out.”

  Two men grabbed Kurt and tried to drag him to the door. Kurt pulled free of one and slugged the other, but a third man jumped into the melee.

  With all eyes on Kurt, Joe spun and batted away the AK-47 aimed in his direction. From his knees, he threw an uppercut into the guard’s groin, and the man fell, dropping the weapon and releasing a grunt of agonizing pain.

  Captain Winslow joined the fray, lunging at one of the guards and tackling him before he could fire.

  This second commotion distracted Kirov. As it did, Kurt managed to kick free of the remaining guard. He lunged at Kirov, grasping him in a headlock before the others could regroup.

  “Enough!”

  Kurt’s voice boomed off the metal walls of the small compartment. Everyone looked his way. He was all but choking the life out of Kirov with one arm. He was also holding the flare gun to Kirov’s cheek with his other.

  An uneasy stalemate settled over the room. Joe went for a rifle that was lying on the ground, but the guard closest to him raised his weapon.

  “Tell your men to lower their guns,” Kurt growled, “or I’m gonna give you a chemical peel you won’t ever recover from.”

  Kirov gulped hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down against the crushing force of Kurt’s forearm.

  “Lower your guns,” Kirov said, “but do not discard them.”

  Half a win, Kurt thought. It was better than nothing.

  He was pondering what to do next when the sound of the bulkhead door being unlatched caught his ear.

  Kurt turned as the door swung wide and an oak tree of a man stepped through the hatch. Despite his size, he moved fluidly. He wore dark khaki pants and a black sweater. His cheekbones were high on his face and angular, almost like the mirrors on a sports car.

  The Russian commandos immediately stood a little taller in his presence. Kurt guessed this was Kirov’s superior. He seemed it in every way. He was armed with two black pistols, though for now they sat in shoulder holsters, one on each side of his chest.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  “A small disagreement,” Kurt said. “Your slug here wanted to toss me into the ocean. I didn’t feel like being part of any catch-and-release program.”

  “So it would appear,” the man said.

  “Who are you?” Kurt asked. “You weren’t on the train.”

  “My name is Gregorovich,” the man said. “And you’re right, I avoided that pitiful episode.”

  Gregorovich glanced around. “You seem to have made the best of your situation,” he said to Kurt. “However, you’re outnumbered and outgunned. The woman is the only one of you with any value. And Kirov is not much of a bargaining chip to me.”

  He turned to one of the commandos. “Shoot them both.”

  As the commando raised his rifle and took aim, Kurt prepared to fling Kirov forward as a
human shield and fire the flare into Gregorovich’s face.

  “Wait!” a voice cried.

  Of all people, it was Hayley.

  “He’s the only one who knows,” she exclaimed.

  Once again, all activity stopped just short of a bloodbath.

  “The only one who knows what?” Gregorovich asked.

  “I know about the threat,” Hayley said. “First, my country will be punished, then Russia, then the United States. You guys are Russian. You must be after Thero just like we are. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you tried to pull me off the train. You must think I can help you find him, but you’re wrong. Kurt’s the only one who knows where Thero is.”

  Kurt felt a glimmer of hope. It was quick thinking.

  “You really expect me to believe that?” the muscle-bound Russian said. “You’re the scientist. They brought you along for a reason. The same reason we tried to kidnap you. Because you are the only one who understands what Thero is doing. Therefore, it stands to reason that you, not him, have discerned Thero’s whereabouts.”

  “The computer determined Thero’s location,” Hayley said desperately. “It gave me a printout. I ran to Kurt to show him. It had numbers and lines on it, but I don’t know anything about azimuths and ranges and coordinates. For God sakes, I don’t even like being away from Sydney. I showed it to Kurt, he saw it. He read it. He told me we were going in the wrong direction. And then the wave hit, and it broke our ship and sank us in thirty seconds.”

  The commandos exchanged glances.

  “We were wondering what happened,” Gregorovich said. “We came across a lot of debris and some of your crewmen. I’m afraid they were all dead.”

  “Thero’s weapon is operational,” Hayley said. “He found us because we sent out a pulse. Which means even if I build you a detector, you’re just signing your own death warrant by turning it on. He’ll destroy you like he did us.”

  Gregorovich turned to Kurt. “She makes a good case, but it only changes things momentarily. You will give me what I want or I will kill your friends one by one.”

  Kurt was pretty sure that would happen anyway. “No,” he said, “that isn’t how this is going to go.”

  The Russian’s eyebrow went up. “It will go how I say it goes,” Gregorovich insisted.

  “You don’t seem like a fool,” Kurt began, “so don’t treat me like one. If I give you what you want, then you don’t need us anymore. And we all end up dead. I’m not dumb enough to think I’m saving any lives by handing you our only bargaining chip.”

  “Then I’ll torture it out of you,” Gregorovich insisted. “I will make you talk.”

  Kurt stared the Russian killer in the eye. “Go ahead and try. Maybe I’ll talk. Maybe I’ll give you a location. Maybe I’ll give you a dozen different locations, and you’ll spend forever bouncing around Antarctica looking for your prize. Or maybe I’ll put you right in front of him so he can tee you up and crush this ship the way he crushed ours. You want to chance that? Then go ahead, try to force it out of me. You never know what you’ll get.”

  Gregorovich seemed impressed with Kurt’s challenge. He actually began to chuckle. “An inspired response,” he said. “And, what’s more, I believe you. Not because I must, but because I would do exactly that in your position. However, I have my orders and I will fulfill them . . . to perfection.”

  “Then let me help you,” Kurt said.

  Gregorovich narrowed his gaze.

  “We’re after the same thing,” Kurt explained. “To stop Thero. You may not care about the timing, but in our case we’d like to do it before he lays waste to Australia.”

  “We have the power to stop him,” Gregorovich insisted. “Tell me where to find him and I’ll destroy his lair. I give you my word, you and your crew will be released when we’re finished.”

  “I have a better idea,” Kurt said. “I’ll lead you to him and we can destroy him together.”

  Gregorovich inhaled deeply. He seemed angered by having to negotiate or consider any form of compromise. If he didn’t like the first offer, Kurt thought, he really wasn’t going to like the fine print.

  “And,” Kurt said, “you’ll be giving us guns. Rifles and spare clips for myself, Joe, the captain, and any other member of our crew who wants one.”

  “Count me in,” Hayley said.

  “And one for me,” the XO added.

  Gregorovich raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to arm you? Here on this ship?”

  “I do,” Kurt said. “And I’m not giving you a thing until you do.”

  Gregorovich was fuming. His eyes narrowed, and he ground his teeth with a clenched jaw. He was trapped and he knew it. But he didn’t reject the offer outright. That meant he was at least considering it.

  “A countryman of mine used the term peace through strength,” Kurt said, quoting Ronald Reagan. “Your nation and ours held nuclear weapons to each other’s head for half a century. It made for a stable—if somewhat tense—relationship. But no one ever pulled the trigger, so it obviously worked. I figure we can make it through a few days with a similar setup and a common goal.”

  “This is madness,” Kirov said.

  Kurt choked his words off and kept his eyes on Gregorovich.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Gregorovich leaned against the bulkhead. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Kurt could almost hear the gears turning in his mind.

  “I will give you one pistol,” he said finally. “And to a friend of your choosing, I will give exactly one rifle. You will get nothing more from me except death.”

  “Until we achieve our common goal,” Kurt added.

  Gregorovich did not comment on that statement. He only looked to Joe. “You. Arm yourself.”

  Joe was allowed to pick up a rifle. He checked it quickly and pointed it at Gregorovich. Two of the commandos pointed their own weapons at him in response.

  “See?” Kurt said. “Nice and stable.”

  He released Kirov. He then handed the flare gun to Captain Winslow and grabbed one of the Makarov pistols from the deck. He pulled the slide back an inch to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber and then eased the hammer back down.

  “You have your weapons,” Gregorovich said. “Now you will accompany me to the bridge and tell the navigator which direction to go.”

  Kurt glanced at the others and received a smattering of I hope you know what you’re doing looks. He nodded confidently. “Lead on.”

  The Russian stepped through the hatch. Kurt followed, with Kirov and all the others trailing behind.

  It would take no more than a minute or so to reach the bridge, a time frame Kurt could expand by dragging his feet. But that was it, all the time he had in which to come up with a plan. A plan that would somehow point the freighter in the right direction and satisfy the Russians without simultaneously making himself and the rest of the NUMA survivors expendable once again.

  Two minutes at most, Kurt thought. And the clock was ticking.

  Bridge of the MV Rama, 2340 hours, five miles southeast of where the Orion went down

  “We’re waiting, Mr. Austin.”

  The words came from Gregorovich, but they might as well have been spoken by any of the commandos, or the Vietnamese crewmen who ran the freighter, or even from the NUMA survivors, all of whom were standing around looking at Kurt expectantly.

  Twenty people, half of them with guns, crowded into a room more fit for eight or ten. If ever there was a recipe for disaster . . .

  “Give us a heading,” Gregorovich added, raising a pistol of his own and setting the hammer.

  Kurt kept his eyes forward. He stood over a surprisingly modern chart table. In reality, it was a giant touchscreen monitor laid flat. The screen was white with black demarcation lines. The display was almost identical to how the old charts used to look when lit up
from below. The difference was, this screen could pan or zoom. It could indicate currents and wind and tides. It could bring up information in dozens of different ways.

  None of which helped Kurt at the moment.

  Right now, it was centered on the MV Rama’s location, with nothing but deep sea around it right out to the chart’s edge.

  “Zoom out,” Kurt said.

  The Vietnamese navigator glanced at Gregorovich, who nodded his approval.

  The navigator touched the screen, tapping a magnifying glass icon with a little minus sign inside it. The screen adjusted its resolution and settled at the new level of magnification, displaying four hundred miles from corner to corner.

  “Zoom out,” Kurt said.

  This went on for several more rounds until the chart covered most of the southern hemisphere.

  “If it’s not on the map now, we’re going to need more fuel,” Gregorovich said.

  His men laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

  “Zoom in twice,” Kurt said.

  This time, the map refocused with Perth and the southwestern edge of Australia in the top right corner. Along the bottom of the screen, the jagged edge of the Antarctic coast could be seen. At the far left, the tip of Madagascar poked into the picture.

  Kurt stared at the very center of the map, locking his eyes on the dot that marked the MV Rama. He tried to see with his peripheral vision, not willing to even glance in the slightest in any direction lest he give away what he was looking for. His mind was racing. There had to be a way.

  He knew where the ship needed to go, but how could he get the Rama pointed toward the target without letting the Russians know the location?

  Gregorovich stepped closer, he pressed the cold muzzle of the gun to the back of Kurt’s head. “I won’t ask you again,” he said.

  The answer came to Kurt in a flash, a memory derived from years of studying warfare at sea. They would zigzag, changing course almost randomly every few hours like the allied convoys dodging the U-boats during World War Two.