Dark Watch

by Clive Cussler

  Juan scrambled to his feet as a drum arced high and began to fall straight at him like a meteor. It landed five yards from him and slightly higher on the hill, so when it split, a burning lake of gasoline roared over him. He fought the instinct to run down the hill. He ran at a diagonal instead, flames licking at his knees and the heat enough to sear his lungs, but in just moments he was through the conflagration with nothing more than singed hair.

  “Out of the frying pan…” he wheezed as he continued after Eddie Seng.

  A one-second burst from the Gatling was enough to shred the steel tow cables, and the timing couldn’t have been better, because the pirates on the tug had just bumped the engines to high idle, sending a thick plume of smoke from her funnel. The reaction on the beach was exactly as Juan had predicted.

  The pirates almost instantly disengaged the Russian holdouts and began running for the shore. Some kept their weapons, but most dropped them as they plunged into the frigid water and began to swim out to the tug. Watching them reminded Linc of rats deserting a sinking ship. He and the rest of the shore party swept down from their position. There were a few gunmen so intent on the fight that they didn’t know their ride was about to leave.

  Linc took out a pair of them with a grenade and had a bead on a third when what he thought was a corpse at his feet sprang to life. The pirate knocked away his M-4 and tried to ram a wickedly curved knife into his chest. Linc blocked the blade’s fatal thrust, but the knife sliced a long gash into his arm. He sank a fist into the pad of muscle under the fighter’s arm, paralyzing the limb for the second he needed to cross-draw his pistol and put a bullet between the man’s eyes. He ignored the torrent of blood streaming down his arm and continued his patrol.

  Eddie realized he was never going to catch Jan Paulus. The burst of energy that had gripped him so tightly had now flickered to nothing. He was nauseated by hunger, and he couldn’t draw enough oxygen into his lungs, but still he pressed on, driven by raw emotion. Paulus and his hostage were a minute away from reaching the MI-8 helicopter, and no matter how Eddie willed his legs to move faster, he knew he was slowing. Then from out on the Oregon came the distinct pop from the 40mm autocannon. Five rounds went sailing high over the beach, passing directly over Eddie and blasting the area around the chopper. When the dust settled, Eddie could see that the cockpit had taken a direct hit. Flames licked from around the shattered Plexiglas, and the ground around the craft was littered with mangled electronics.

  He looked back over his shoulder to give the ship a congratulatory salute and spotted a figure running toward him. There was no mistaking the distinctive silhouette: Cabrillo.

  Paulus summarily shot his hostage as soon as he realized the helicopter was ruined and started running back down the hill, maybe thinking he could reach the tug and broker some kind of deal or maybe just in blind panic.

  Knowing that Juan would have his back, Eddie started running after him, letting gravity do the work that his legs no longer could. They were thirty yards from the beach when Eddie skidded to a stop and threw the AK-47 to his shoulder. He was shaking so badly that he could barely see through the sight. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle recoiled into his shoulder, but only one round had fired. Paulus turned at the sound, then continued on as Eddie checked the weapon. At some point he’d unseated the banana magazine from the receiver. He jammed it home, cocked the gun, and sprayed the remaining clip at the fleeing miner.

  A feather of blood spurted from Paulus’s calf, and he staggered and fell. He was slow to get to his feet, giving Eddie the time to cover the distance. He crashed into the South African, sending them both sprawling across the rocks. Though injured, Paulus was a big man, used to the punishing life of mining, and could absorb a tremendous amount of pain.

  “You’re going pay for that, mate,” he said through gritted teeth, goading Eddie to hit him again.

  “Don’t bet on it.” Eddie used the moment of confusion at his American accent to whip the AK-47 at Paulus’s head. The miner ducked just in time but gave Eddie an opening for a brutal kick to the knee.

  Paulus took the hit without even wincing and wrapped his arms around Eddie’s chest, squeezing with machinelike strength. Eddie slammed his forehead into Paulus’s nose, feeling the bone crackle, but the miner only seemed to redouble the pressure. Eddie hit him again, and this time the South African roared in pain, loosening his grip enough for Eddie to get one hand free. He grabbed the man’s ear and gave it a savage yank. Paulus let go. Eddie got one leg behind Paulus’s and shoved him back. Paulus reached out as he fell, taking a handful of Eddie’s shirt.

  Hitting the ground with Eddie on top of him should have driven the air from Paulus’s lungs, but it didn’t. The impact had been cushioned. It reminded Eddie of falling on a waterbed. To his horror he realized they’d landed in a huge puddle of mercury.

  Before Paulus could recover, Eddie rammed his knee into the man’s crotch at the same time he forced his head below the surface. Paulus involuntarily gasped at the pain, sucking in a mouthful the toxic liquid metal. He started going into convulsions, but Eddie stayed on him like a cowboy riding a bull. Paulus managed to wrench his head above the surface. He coughed up great silvery globs of mercury before Eddie jammed his head back under. It took a minute more for him to stop struggling. When Eddie got off the body, it rose back to the top of the pond. Paulus’s mouth and nostrils were little glimmering pools of mercury, and his eyelids looked like someone had already laid coins over them.

  “That is definitely on my list of top ten ways not to die,” Juan said, placing a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

  “For a while there,” Eddie panted, “I thought I had to take on all these goons by myself.”

  Juan helped him to his feet. “What, and deny us a share of the glory?” He nodded at the corpse. “Anton Savich?”

  “No, a South African hired to oversee this nightmare named Paulus, Jan Paulus.”

  “Any idea where Savich is?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Last I knew, he was in that big cruise ship down the beach. Paulus had Savich’s pilot hostage, so I think he’s already dead.”

  “Damn.”

  “Why? Saves us the trouble.”

  Cabrillo went silent for a moment then said, “The fence.”

  “Fence?”

  “Like the guy who buys stolen goods from a thief,” Juan explained. “Until gold is properly assayed and stamped by an official mint, it’s worthless. No one legitimate will touch it. Savich had to know that before putting this caper together, which means he already has someone lined up to buy it from him. Someone who could get the gold authenticated and trickle it into the system. It has to be someone big to handle this much, a major banker with serious connections.”

  “Sorry, boss, I’ve got no idea who it is.”

  Juan smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll find the greedy bastard.”

  Linc called Juan over the radio. “Beach is secure, Chairman. The Russians saw the writing on the wall and surrendered in exchange for a ride out.”

  “It’s time for us to get out of here.” Cabrillo looked around. Hundreds of Chinese workers seemed to have materialized from the ground. They’d found cover among the boulders, and now that the fighting had stopped and the tug had motored a mile down the bay, they were milling around in shock. “All of us.”

  Once Juan issued his orders it took only a few minutes for the word to spread that the workers were to board the newest ship to arrive on the beach, but it would take an hour or more for them to climb the only ladder tall enough to reach the ship’s rail.

  Juan was waiting at the pier the trawlers used when Tory motored up in the assault boat. “Going my way, sailor?”

  He jumped down into the deck and impulsively kissed her mouth, but the kiss was interrupted by another booming explosion from the volcano that sent foot-high ripples dancing across the water.

  “My, my, you made the earth move.” Tory laughed huskily.

  For Juan the mood had already
passed. They were in a fight against the clock, and every second counted. Tory correctly read his expression and gunned the throttles.

  On Cabrillo’s orders, Max had swung the Oregon around so her stern pointed at the grounded cruise liner. Deckhands had run out the ship’s own towing cables from recessed hatches under her fantail. Using a pair of Jet Skis, thick ropes attached to the cables had been transferred to shore where a hundred of the most able-bodied Chinese immigrants were in position to haul the big hawsers to the cruise ship.

  “Max, you reading me?” Juan called over his radio.

  “I’m here.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “They’re about ready to haul the cable over to the cruise ship. Her name’s Selandria, by the way. Linda and Linc are over there directing everything. She says the bollards are nothing more than mushroom-shaped rust, so we’re going to thread the cable around her anchor capstans. They should be able to handle the strain.”

  “Okay. I’m almost back. As soon as they have the cable secure, I want all our people back on the Oregon.”

  “I’m going to have to sit on Doc Huxley. She wants to take a team over there right now and start helping the worst of the Chinese.”

  “Then sit on her,” Juan snapped. “If this doesn’t work, the grim truth is we’re going to leave those people behind and pray we can get some help up here before the volcano blows its top.”

  “On that front, once the fighting stopped I tried to raise the Russian Coast Guard, but the mountain’s pumping out a lot of electrical interference. All our communications are out except the short-range tactical net.”

  “We’re on our own.”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “I want you to stay in the op center. I’ll be up on the flying bridge. Have someone meet me there with some clean clothes.” He shot Tory a glance, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Some for Tory, too.”

  Juan stripped out of his filthy battle jacket as he made his way through the ship, feeling bad that the housekeeping staff was going to have a hard time getting his muddy boot prints out of the plush hallway carpets. He reached the flying bridge just as Maurice stepped off the elevator from the op center. He was pushing a silver mess trolley. He handed a bundle of clothes to Juan and another bundle to Tory. Tory stepped into the radio shack to change while Juan undressed where he stood.

  “That feels better,” Juan said.

  Maurice pushed back the trolley’s gleaming cover, and the aroma of hot food made Juan’s mouth swim. “Shredded jerked beef burritos and coffee.”

  Around a mouthful of the spicy, foot-long Mexican specialty Juan said, “Maurice, you just doubled your salary.”

  The elder waiter then tipped a flask into Juan’s coffee cup. “From my stock of brandy. Just enough to take the edge off.”

  “Tripled it.”

  The storm they had raced up the Sea of Okhotsk had caught up with them. Rain began to pound the windscreen, and lightning crackled overhead. From under the trolley Maurice pulled out a matching pair of rain suits, baseball caps, and Juan’s rubber sea boots. “I had a feeling, sir.”

  Juan slipped into the slicker as Tory came out of the radio room. She wolfed half a burrito in just a couple of bites. “God, I didn’t know how hungry I was.”

  “Chairman?” Max was calling through a walkie-talkie.

  “Go ahead.”

  “They have the cables across. Linda says she needs ten more minutes.”

  “Tell her she has five. This storm’s about to hit, making a tough job near impossible.” He stepped out onto the flying bridge and into the gale. The wind had picked up to force five, and volcanic ash mixed with the storm so clots of mud fell from the sky. He looked aft. The heavy cables had been fed through the Selandria’s fairleads, and all looked in order—except that the Oregon had drifted in the wind and wasn’t straight on to the cruise ship. He called a correction down to Eric Stone and looked to see the swirl of water at the bow thruster port.

  “That’s good. Stations keeping, Mr. Stone.”

  The assault boat roared off into the choppy sea to pick up the shore party, her rubber pontoon flexing as she crashed through the waves.

  “Think we can do it?” Tory asked, joining him out in the open.

  “We can generate the horsepower of a supercarrier with our engines, but if that hulk is stuck fast, we’ll have the classic dilemma of immutable force and immovable object.”

  “Would you really abandon them?”

  Juan didn’t answer, but that was answer enough. Despite what he’d said earlier, she could see the determination in his eyes and knew he’d tear the guts out of his beloved ship and risk his people for the chance of saving even one of the Chinese immigrants.

  A couple of minutes later the SEAL boat pulled away from the beach, loaded with the last of the Corporation people left behind. Juan waited until it was clear of the tow cables before bringing the walkie-talkie to his lips.

  “Okay, Eric, put some tension on those cables.”

  The Oregon crept forward, and the cables slowly rose out of the sea, sheeting water as the bundles of wire clamped tighter and tighter.

  “That’s it,” the helmsman reported. “Speed over the bottom is zero. We’re at full stretch.”

  “Dial us up slowly to thirty percent and hold it.”

  There came the distinctive whine as the magnetohydrodynamics spooled up. The angle of the tow and the power of the engines made the Oregon settle heavier into the sea so that waves split over her bow in raging sheets.

  “I’ve got movement,” Eric cried. “Gaining five feet a minute.”

  “Negative, we’re just stretching the cable a bit more.” Juan had spent a summer on a tugboat during college and knew how easily cable stretch could look like they were already under way. “In a minute you’ll find we’re sliding back. When that happens bring us up to fifty percent.”

  Juan watched waves slamming into the Selandria, trying to see if she was riding them or just being punished by them. There was some movement as walls of water passed under her bows, but each time the foreward section of the ship rose up on a wave meant her stern was being ground deeper and deeper into the beach.

  “Fifty percent,” Eric announced a moment later. “No movement.”

  “Bring us to eighty.”

  “I can’t recommend that,” Max Hanley warned. “You’ve beat my babies pretty bad already.”

  Theoretically there was no limit to the power output from the magnetohydrodynamics, but there was a weakness in the system: The high-speed pumps that kept the banks of magnets cooled to superconductive temperatures with liquid helium. The extreme cold played havoc on the impellors, and after the prolonged abuse they endured to reach Kamchatka, their failure weighed heavy on Max’s mind.

  “Those engines are maintained by the best engineer afloat. Bring us to eighty.”

  The Oregon dug in even deeper, allowing waves to wash over her railings. The water at her stern became a boiling caldron as the pump jets forced hundreds of tons a minute though the tubes.

  “Nothing,” Eric reported. “She’s stuck fast. We’re never going to haul that pig off the beach.”

  Juan ignored his pessimism. “Give me full starboard lock.”

  Eric complied, wrenching the controls so the Oregon sheered off a straight line like a dog straining at a leash, adding a couple more tons of pressure to the tow.

  “Port lock!”

  The ship swung around, straining the cables so they vibrated with tension. A haunted moan escaped from the Selandria as her hull pivoted on the rocks and then came a rending scream of metal as she shifted farther.

  “Come on, baby. Come on,” Juan urged. Tory had her hands to her mouth, her fist clenched so tightly her fingernails were a bloodless white. “Anything?”

  Eric sent the Oregon careening back to starboard before answering. “No. Speed over the bottom remains zero.”

  Max interrupted. “Juan, I’ve got temperature spikes showing in e
ngines three and four. The coolant pumps are starting to go. We’ve got to shut down and try to get as many of those poor souls aboard as we can.”

  Juan looked back. The Chinese had been warned to stay off the deck—a tow cable parting under tension would whip back with enough force to cut a man in two—however, the Selandria’s bow was a sea of pale, frightened faces, huddled and shivering in the cold rain. A rough count put the number of immigrants on the liner at over three thousand. The Oregon could take maybe a third of that number. “Okay.”

  Max must have had his hands on the engine controls because they wound down to low idle the instant the word left Juan’s mouth. Free of the strain, the Oregon bobbed up, shedding water like a spaniel.

  Tory gave Juan a sharp, disapproving look, a stinging rebuke at his giving up so easily, but she hadn’t let him finish speaking.

  “Take the tension off the cables and spool out another hundred yards. Creep us ahead and prepare to weigh both anchors.”

  “Juan, do you really think…”

  “Max, our anchor winches are powered by four-hundred-horsepower engines,” Cabrillo pointed out. “I’ll take every pony we can muster.”

  Down in the op center Max used computer keystrokes to disengage the clutch on both cable drums, allowing them to run free while Eric Stone engaged the engines again to move the ship farther out into the bay. When they reached the hundred-yard mark, Max let go the anchors. They sank quickly to the bottom, which was only eighty feet deep.

  “Now back us gently and set the flukes,” Juan ordered.

  The big Delta kedging anchors dragged along the rocky bottom, cutting deep furrows in the loose rock and boulders until their hardened steel flukes snagged bedrock. A computer control automatically adjusted the tension on the anchor chains to keep them from slipping.

  “We’re ready,” Max announced, but his tone was less than enthusiastic.