Zero Hour

by Clive Cussler

  • • •

  NEWS REACHING WASHINGTON in the dead of night was seldom good. Dirk Pitt was alone in his office as the clock neared midnight when the latest blow hit.

  “. . . so far, we’ve located eight bodies in the wreckage,” Paul Trout’s voice said from the speakerphone. The signal was scratchy and distorted from the continuing solar activity. “Almost all of them trapped at or near their posts. Considering the size of the hull breach, it seems like those belowdecks didn’t have a chance.”

  Pitt rubbed his temples. “Can you tell what caused the breach?”

  “The plating is twisted and badly deformed,” Paul said. “But we’ve found no burn marks or signs of explosive impact. It does seem like the hull was bent outward in places. But I can’t give you a definitive answer.”

  Pitt was back to square one. He’d hoped to find evidence of a missile or torpedo attack, even an internal explosion if they could prove the presence of explosives. Something that would have told him Ms. Anderson’s sensor array was not at fault. Without it, he couldn’t order the Gemini to power up their system and risk the same fate.

  “We’ve taken a vote,” Paul volunteered. “Everyone on board is willing to risk using the sensor array if it means we might find the people who did this.”

  A thin smile creased Pitt’s face. He was proud of the bravery displayed by the Gemini’s crew. “Too bad NUMA’s not a democracy,” he said. “Keep that thing off until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Will do.”

  “Report in immediately if you learn anything new,” Pitt said.

  “It’s the middle of the night back there.”

  “We have seventeen hours until the clock hits zero,” Pitt said. “No one here is going home before then.”

  “Understood,” Paul replied.

  Pitt waited for him to sign off, but he didn’t. “Anything else Paul?”

  Static buzzed for a moment. “You didn’t ask. But I thought I should tell you we haven’t found Kurt or Joe.”

  “Keep looking,” Pitt said.

  “We will. Gemini out.”

  The line went quiet, and Pitt leaned back in his chair. He glanced through the window at the lights twinkling in the dark on the other side of the Potomac. He could not in good conscience order the Gemini to risk the same fate as the Orion, but how else could they hope to find Thero and stop him?

  He jabbed at the intercom switch, pressing in the number for Hiram Yaeger’s floor.

  “Yaeger here,” a tired voice said.

  “Tell me you have something new, Hiram.”

  “I have something,” Yaeger said sheepishly. “But I don’t think it’s going to help.”

  “I’ll take anything at this point,” Pitt said.

  “I have the computer on an autosearch mode,” Yaeger said. “It’s looking for anything of significance. The same way it found connections between the obituary notices of Cortland and Watterson.”

  “And what has it found this time?”

  “It’s discovered another odd coincidence,” Yaeger said, “regarding the handwritten notes sent to the ASIO.”

  “Go on.”

  “By comparing the samples, the computer determined with a ninety percent probability that both the handwritten threat sent to Australia and the documents sent to the ASIO by the informant were penned by the same person.”

  Pitt sat back. “I thought the ASIO had ruled that out. One written by a lefty and the other by someone who was right-handed.”

  “The handwriting is disguised to make it seem different,” Yaeger said, “but the word choices, pressure points, and stroke lengths are similar.”

  Pitt’s mind raced to the conclusion. “But the threat letter has already been matched to Thero’s handwriting sample.”

  “I realize that,” Yaeger said. “So either the computer is wrong or this man Thero is acting as both the perpetrator of the crime and the informant.”

  Pitt had no idea what this latest bombshell might mean, but he guessed there was some sinister reason behind it. Certainly he knew better than to second-guess Yaeger’s computer.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall as the minute hand ticked over to the wrong side of midnight. Whatever the significance of this latest twist, it would have to wait till later.

  “I don’t care how you do it, Hiram, but you have two hours to figure out another way for us to find Thero. After that, I have to order Gemini to power up their sensor array.”

  Yaeger grumbled something that Pitt couldn’t make out and then said, “I’m on it.”

  Pitt cut the line and turned back toward the window. It was the dead of night in Washington, D.C., but broad daylight over Australia. If they didn’t find Thero and stop him, it might be the last peaceful day that nation experienced for a very long time.

  The Russian helicopters had launched from the pitching deck of the MV Rama in the middle of a snow flurry. Loaded down with maximum fuel, they lumbered westward into an oncoming weather front. Turbulence shook them almost constantly. The visibility dropped to less than a mile. And, soon enough, the temperature had fallen so far that ice was forming on the inside of the unheated cabin.

  Hayley scratched some of it off and it fluttered down like snow. “Reminds me of my freezer back home.”

  “Condensation,” Kurt said. “From our breath.”

  “Never thought I’d know what a box of frozen peas felt like,” she replied.

  A new wave of turbulence buffeted them, and Hayley gripped the arm of the seat.

  “You’re holding up pretty well,” Kurt said.

  “I’m kind of numb to it all now.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Kurt said. “If we survive, your fear of flying might be cured.”

  He smiled, but she just stared blankly. He knew the look of someone falling into despondency. She was going forward now without much hope, emotions drained, doing what she was supposed to do.

  Kurt let his smile fade. “Once we get on the ground, who knows what’s going to happen. I need to know if I can trust you.”

  “You can,” she insisted.

  “Then tell me what you’re hiding,” he said. “You’ve kept some secret locked away since the very start. Time to come clean.”

  She stared up at him, her brown eyes quivering. “I think I know who the informant is,” she said. “It’s Thero’s son, George.”

  “Thero’s son?”

  She nodded.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The handwriting looked like his,” she said. “And in the first letter the informant wrote that he was acting out of his better conscience. Most people say they’re acting in good conscience, but George always used that other term instead. There were times he even insisted he was his father’s conscience. Times he persuaded Thero not to take some risk or fly off the handle at some random event.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “So did I,” she said. “But, then again, we all thought Thero was dead too, didn’t we?”

  Kurt nodded.

  “There wasn’t much left after the explosion,” she said. “There were funerals but with empty caskets, you know?”

  “So if Thero survived, it’s possible his children did as well,” Kurt said. “So why keep this to yourself?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first,” she said. “By the time I convinced myself that it could be George, we’d already seen the first two couriers intercepted and killed. At that point, it became pretty clear there was a leak inside the ASIO. I figured any information I passed to Bradshaw might have wound up making its way back to Thero as well, so I kept it to myself. Assuming I was right and George did survive the Yagishiri explosion, I didn’t want to get him killed for trying to stop us.”

  “I think you probably made a wise choice,” Kurt said. “Do you really think it could
be him?”

  “He was a good person,” she insisted. “He didn’t want to go to Japan. He didn’t want to continue the experiments. But he figured if he didn’t go, there would be no one to rein his father in.”

  “That’s why you’re plowing forward? You think you owe him?”

  “Don’t I?”

  “I’m not the one to answer that,” Kurt said.

  “If we can get inside and find him,” she said, “he may be able to help us.”

  Kurt nodded. “Maybe,” he said guardedly.

  A new series of downdrafts hit the copter, and Hayley grabbed Kurt’s arm. He patted her hand, and then took the opportunity to get up and make his way toward the cockpit. Poking his head in, he found Gregorovich and the pilot staring through helmet-mounted goggles. He sensed the craft slowing.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Almost,” Gregorovich said.

  Kurt glanced through the windshield. He saw nothing but white clouds and the snow streaking past them. He guessed the view through the goggles was better, probably enhanced by the laser range-finding and infrared pods he’d seen attached to the helicopter’s nose.

  “I hope you have our deicing equipment on,” he added.

  The helicopter was being buffeted sideways and descending. A radio altimeter was calling out distances to the ground in Russian. Kurt spotted the other helicopter up ahead for a second before it disappeared into the swirling clouds and snow once again.

  More turbulence hit, threatening to spill the copter over sideways.

  “Downdrafts coming off Big Ben,” the pilot said as he fought against it.

  They finally dropped below the clouds, and Kurt could see they were only forty feet above the terrain. The other helicopter was ahead and to the right, cruising across the snowy ground. Without goggles, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the ground began. Everything was white. But both helicopters slowed further and finally began maneuvering to land.

  A man-made blizzard kicked up around them from the downwash of the rotors, and they were pushed sideways once again before the wheels finally touched the ground and sank into the snow.

  Rarely had Kurt been so glad to be on the ground.

  Five minutes later, after a quick recon of the area to make sure they hadn’t been spotted, the helicopters were empty. Six snowmobiles, the climbing equipment, and the suitcase bomb were unloaded and ready to roll.

  They assembled in the shelter of the huge mountain, but the wind still whipped down off it, blowing the snow sideways. Kurt wondered how bad the weather would get. Most of Big Ben was already hidden in the clouds.

  As Gregorovich whistled for the pilots to assemble, Kurt found Joe attaching a rope to his pack and what looked like a spearhead of some kind. He trudged toward him through the buffeting wind. “You get your frequent-flier miles on this trip?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “What about yours?”

  “I didn’t sign up,” Kurt said. “I’m hoping never to fly this airline again, so I figured there was no point.” He gestured to the spear. “What’s that?”

  “RPH,” Joe said. “Rocket-propelled harpoon. You can fire it into the face of the ice and avoid having to make a free climb.”

  “Why’d they give it to you?”

  “No one wants to carry it,” Joe said. “The head is made of tungsten and lead. It weighs a ton.”

  “At least that’ll save us some time if we have to go up.”

  “What’d you get to carry?” Joe asked.

  “C-4 charges and some detonators,” Kurt said. “In case we have to blast our way in.”

  “Try not to blow yourself up,” Joe said. “Like that Fourth of July when you bought all those Roman candles from the discount store and—”

  The sound of a Kalashnikov firing cut Joe off.

  Kurt dove into the snow and pulled out the Makarov pistol. He whipped around, brandishing the weapon, as Joe dove down beside him, using the snowmobile as a shield.

  Scanning the landing zone, Kurt saw no attackers, only the other Russians aiming their weapons and likewise looking for a target.

  Finally, Gregorovich marched forward. A thin trail of smoke drifted from the rifle in his hands. “The pilots are dead,” he announced.

  “What?!” Kirov yelled. “Are you insane?”

  “Just cautious,” Gregorovich replied. “I overheard them talking. They were planning to leave without us. To leave us behind and get back to the freighter before the weather made it impossible. That won’t be happening now.”

  The soldiers stirred nervously. Gregorovich stared at Kirov.

  “Perhaps you were going to leave with them,” he said to his rival. “To put a bullet in my back and then run home like a coward.”

  “No,” Kirov insisted.

  “But you do know how to fly?” Gregorovich clarified. “It’s on your dossier.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Gregorovich blasted him down before he could finish his sentence. Kirov fell backward, red blood staining the white snow beneath him.

  “Wrong answer,” Kurt muttered to Joe.

  “I know what to say if he asks me,” Joe replied.

  The Russian commandos looked on in shock. “How are we supposed to get out of here when the job is done?” one of them asked.

  “I will fly you out myself,” Gregorovich said. “I spent three years piloting attack craft in Afghanistan. Mi-17s and Mi-24s. These are not so different.”

  “And somehow we’re all going to fit on just one?” another soldier asked.

  Gregorovich nodded. “Without the equipment, there will be plenty of room. But no one is going anywhere until we find Thero’s lair and set the bomb.”

  The tension between the Russians felt like a pile of gunpowder just waiting to be lit. But Gregorovich had so completely seized the upper hand that the men could do nothing. Not if they ever wanted to see home again. In fact, they might need to guard Gregorovich with their lives.

  They began to stow their weapons.

  “Lucky for us,” Joe muttered. “Caught in the middle of a Bolshevik revolution.”

  “More like Cortés burning his ships in the harbor at Veracruz,” Kurt replied, “to prevent his men from leaving Mexico.”

  “This guy doesn’t miss a trick,” Joe said.

  “At some point, he will,” Kurt said. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him you’re a pilot.”

  Joe nodded, and Kurt began to hike back through the swirling snow to where Hayley stood.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No,” she replied harshly. “It’s not okay. I’m pretty sure nothing will ever be okay again.”

  He climbed on the snowmobile and felt Hayley climb on behind him. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, he could feel her shaking. It wasn’t from the cold.

  There was nothing he could say to erase what she’d just seen. What’s more, he was pretty certain it wouldn’t be the last bloodshed they’d witness in the hours ahead.

  Gregorovich waved his arm, and the lead commando gunned his throttle and moved off. Kurt strapped on a pair of orange-tinted goggles as Joe followed the lead sled.

  A moment later, it was Kurt’s turn. With a twist of the throttle, he accelerated and tucked in behind the Russians, gliding in their tracks. Gregorovich brought up the rear, unwilling to let anyone out of his sight.

  The terrain map showed a seven-mile ride in the shadow of Big Ben, then a two-hundred-foot climb down a ridge. From there, it was a two-mile hike over the crevasse-infested field. Once across the far side, they’d reach the edge of the Winston Glacier, look for the hatches, and blast their way into Thero’s stronghold.

  It was a simple plan, Kurt thought, only about a million things could go wrong. But with a little luck, they’d be inside the lion’s den by dusk with at least ten hours to spare
.

  NUMA Headquarters

  Half the world away, Dirk Pitt had been forced to make a painful decision. With no answers from Hiram Yaeger, he had to risk the Gemini.

  “You have the ship battened down?” he asked over the speakerphone.

  “All watertight doors are sealed,” Paul Trout replied. “The crew have donned survival suits and moved to the upper decks. The boats are ready. If this thing blows a hole in the bottom, or if Thero locks onto us and sends some kind of discharge our way that batters the ship, we’ll be off the Gemini in sixty seconds.”

  Full precautions, Pitt thought. There was nothing more he could do. “Let’s hope we’re just overreacting.”

  “How’s the telemetry link?” Paul asked.

  Pitt glanced at the computer screen. “We’re receiving your data without any hiccups,” he said. “The solar activity has faded a bit.”

  “Good,” a female voice said. “If we blow ourselves up, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I thought you were ordered topside,” Pitt said to Gamay.

  “She was,” Paul replied. “But she suddenly came down with a case of hearing impairment and missed that order.”

  “I understand,” Pitt said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  A few seconds of silence came next, and then Paul’s voice. “Initiating power-up sequence in five . . . four . . .”

  “Wait!” a voice shouted from Pitt’s outer office. “Wait!”

  Hiram Yaeger rushed in with a set of papers in his hands. “I’ve found something.”

  “Stand by,” Pitt said into the phone. “What do you have, Hiram? Tell me it’s Thero.”

  “Not exactly.” He handed over a printed page with a blue background and a jagged line crisscrossing it. It looked like a game of connect the dots.

  “What is this?” Pitt asked.

  “It’s a ship’s course over the last forty-eight hours,” Yaeger said.

  “What ship?”

  Hiram was panting. He’d run all the way up from the tenth floor when the elevator didn’t respond fast enough. “I don’t know what ship exactly,” he said. “But it’s important—I’m sure of it.”