The Emperor's Revenge

by Clive Cussler

  It had to be the Libyans. Nazari hadn’t been hightailing it back just because of the gunfire. He had seen the competing terrorists coming their way.

  “We’ve got more company,” Juan said, and pointed at the plume of dust only a few miles to their right.

  “Well, that’s just great,” Linc said.

  “It is. Eddie, bring us in closer to them.”

  Eddie turned to look at Juan, confusion in his eyes turning to understanding. “You want to start a fight?”

  “Exactly.”

  Over the next dune, Eddie yanked the wheel to the right, heading directly for the Libyans.

  “You’re going to have to time this just right,” Juan said.

  “I’m all about trajectories and timing.”

  “If there’s going to be a math quiz on this,” Linc said, “count me out.”

  Nazari and his men continued to pound away with machine gun and grenade fire. A few shots splashed them with sand, but, so far, they’d been lucky.

  Over the next crest, Juan could see ten pickup trucks on huge tires. Men in the back of each were carrying assault rifles and RPGs. Two of them had mounted machine guns like the ones on the Scorpions.

  “How are the odds looking now?” Linc said with a rueful chuckle.

  “I’ll bet on Eddie’s driving any day,” Juan said.

  “Good,” Eddie said. “Because you need to hang on.”

  Just before he got to the top of the next dune, Eddie wrenched the wheel around ninety degrees. Juan brought the grenade launcher to bear on Nazari’s Scorpion as it came over the dune behind them.

  Juan pulled the trigger on the launcher, sending a stream of inert grenades flying. Since he’d anticipated where the Scorpion would appear, several of the grenades hit the driver, knocking him back in his seat. He slumped down, and the dune buggy nearly tipped over before Nazari could grab the wheel and right it.

  Eddie accelerated away as Nazari shoved the unconscious driver out of the vehicle and took his place.

  Juan waved to him, goading Nazari to follow. This distracted him from the impending danger. Nazari gave chase as his machine gunner sprayed bullets.

  “Anybody hit?” Juan asked.

  “Not me,” Eddie replied.

  “I’m fine,” Linc said, “but our ride isn’t. They plugged the fuel tank.”

  Eddie glanced down at the gauge. “We’re losing gas fast.”

  Juan looked at the looming cliffs ahead. “How long?”

  “It’s going to be close.”

  Juan swiveled in his seat. Nazari was so intent on closing the distance that he didn’t notice one of the pickups come over the dune right next to him. His machine gunner turned the weapon on the new enemy, slicing the truck apart with the .50 caliber rounds at point-blank range. The driver turned too quickly on the slope and the truck rolled, sending the surviving men tumbling.

  The rest of the Libyan assault force hurtled over the dune. Nazari had to make a choice to flee or face his enemy. Seeing that he had little chance of escaping, he flashed one last sneer at Juan and chose to turn and fight.

  Juan watched as Nazari leaped into the seat with the grenade launcher. He put up a good battle, blowing away three more of the pickups in rapid succession. But the numbers weren’t in his favor.

  The pickups had him surrounded. One of the four RPGs shot toward the Scorpion and made contact. Nazari disappeared in a massive explosion as the grenades detonated.

  “Scratch a whole bunch more terrorists,” Linc said.

  “That still leaves six truckfuls of them,” Eddie said.

  Juan turned back to the front. “And they’re not waiting around to see who they killed. All of them are headed our way.”

  The cliffs rising before them went on for miles in either direction. Even if they had gas, they’d be hemmed in by the natural barrier.

  To punctuate the problem, an RPG blew up about a quarter mile behind them.

  “If they’re trying to convince us to slow down,” Linc said, “it’s having the opposite effect.”

  A roar slowly grew louder and overcame the engine noise of the Scorpion. It was approaching fast from the rear. Juan turned his head to see the IL-76 coming in low over the pursuing Libyans.

  “Tiny got my message,” Juan said.

  Tiny had been circling out of visual range as a backup in case Juan called him in an emergency. A radio transmitter had been secreted in Scorpion 1, which Nazari had commandeered. But Juan never put all his eggs in one basket and had a microtransmitter inserted into his combat leg prosthesis. It was so small that the only information it could transmit was their location. When Juan activated it, Tiny understood his services were needed and homed in on them.

  As the cargo jet overflew them, one of the Libyans took a potshot with his RPG. The rocket tore through the sky, and only Tiny’s quick reflexes prevented it from hitting one of the engines. He rolled right and the unguided rocket sailed past within a few feet of the wing.

  “You think he got that message?” Eddie asked.

  “I hope so,” Juan said.

  The jet made a wide turn and then flew in a straight line perpendicular to their path about a mile ahead, far out of range of the RPGs. The rear cargo ramp lowered. When the IL-76 got to a point almost dead ahead, a pallet slid out the back. The chute opened immediately, and the object floated to the ground in front of them.

  “That man can fly!” Linc yelled, and waved at the departing plane. Without a landing strip, there wasn’t anything more Tiny could do besides radio their position back to the Oregon.

  Not that it would make a difference. Further help would arrive far too late.

  Eddie aimed for the pallet, its chute ruffling in the breeze like a flag that beckoned them to a safe haven.

  A hundred yards from the pallet, the Scorpion’s engine sputtered.

  “Told you it would be close,” Eddie said.

  The engine finally died fifty yards from their destination. They all jumped out and sliced through the cargo bungees with knives to free the cases holding the nuclear weapon cores. As before, Eddie ran ahead to unpack their gear while Juan and Linc lugged the heavy containers.

  The growl of the pickups grew ominously close, but Juan didn’t dare take a second to look. The cliffs towered over them, and Juan was concentrating on calculating how much distance they’d need.

  By now, Eddie had the cover off the pallet, exposing another dune buggy. But this one was different from the Scorpions.

  It had a large, four-bladed propeller on the back, like one found on an Everglades airboat. The vehicle was based on a French design called the Pegasus. Max Hanley, the Corporation’s chief engineer, had enlarged it to carry three people instead of two, saving weight by building the frame out of carbon fiber tubing. He dubbed it the Daedalus after the mythical father of Icarus.

  They heaved the cases in the storage area and got in. This time, Juan took the driver’s seat.

  “I don’t think there’s enough room between here and the cliff,” Eddie said.

  “I agree,” Juan said, and gunned the engine. He raced forward, turning the vehicle toward the Libyans.

  As he accelerated, Linc and Eddie fired at the approaching convoy, hoping to slow them at least a little.

  Juan spun the Daedalus in a U-turn and floored it. When it hit sixty miles an hour, he flipped the safety switch on the dashboard and punched the red button underneath.

  A parasail was released from the rear of the Daedalus and unfurled behind them. It caught air and began to rise. When it was nearly overhead, Juan felt the vehicle’s wheels leave the ground, and they were airborne.

  The Daedalus rose briskly. Three RPGs detonated on the cliffs as they flew past, the operators unwisely aiming at the small dune buggy instead of the enormous blue parasail above them. Juan glanced up and saw a few
rifle rounds perforate the sail, but it didn’t rip, and there was no effect on its performance.

  Juan was more concerned with getting over the looming cliffs. He pulled back on the steering column without stalling the craft. It didn’t exactly have the agility of a hummingbird. The Daedalus could fly about as well as a seaplane could swim.

  Circling around for another pass would bring them in range of the RPGs again, but if they slammed into the cliff face at the vehicle’s top speed of seventy miles per hour, this would be a very short trip.

  “Chairman . . .” Eddie said, the worry in his voice obvious.

  The rocks were at eye level. Eddie was right to be worried. The lead cases weighed them down more than they’d expected. They weren’t going to make it.

  Juan pulled back even farther, risking the stall. The Daedalus nosed up and the wheels cleared the cliff with no more than a foot to spare.

  He eased the wheel forward and the tires kissed the ground momentarily as the Daedalus stalled and then took to the air again as the parasail refilled.

  The Libyans disappeared from view.

  “I think I’ll leave the flying to Tiny next time,” Juan said with a sigh of relief.

  “Would it sound bad if I agreed with you, Chairman?” Linc asked.

  “I second that,” Eddie said. He activated the onboard radio.

  “You out there, Tiny?” Juan said.

  “Loud and clear, Chairman,” he replied. “Glad to see you sailed over the cliffs. Looked like a close one. Everyone all right?”

  “No injuries, thanks to you. Your aim was impeccable.”

  “I nearly didn’t make it out myself.”

  “We saw that. We’re on our way to a town called El Menia. We’ll land there and gas up. We should be back to the Oregon late this evening. Have Max let the Algerian Army know that they’ve got some Libyan intruders at the coordinates where you made the last drop.”

  “Did you make any recoveries?”

  “We found the packages we were looking for. Tell Max that Langston Overholt should get ready to make a deposit to Credit Condamine with a lot of fluffy zeroes.”

  “There may be a problem with that,” Tiny said, all humor gone from his voice.

  “Why?”

  “Because Credit Condamine was robbed today during the Monaco Grand Prix. Max said it’s a big mess.”

  The Corporation held its assets in several banks around the world, but Credit Condamine was one of its biggest deposits, mainly because of Monaco’s status as a tax haven.

  Eddie and Linc knew just as well as Juan did what the implications were.

  “You’re kidding,” Linc said.

  Eddie looked at Juan with a raised eyebrow. “This doesn’t sound good.”

  Juan shook his head in disgust. “How much did they get?”

  “All of it,” Tiny said. “All our money in that account is gone.”

  EIGHT

  ALGIERS

  Curious stares from dockworkers greeted the odd-looking Daedalus when it arrived at the port, with the evening sun nearing the horizon. Juan was too concerned about the theft of Corporation funds to care. The old rust bucket tied to the dock may have been the ugliest ship in the harbor, but Juan was happy to see the Oregon again.

  To say the 560-foot-long cargo freighter had seen better days was like saying Chernobyl had had a slight accident. The ship looked as if it might sink within minutes of setting sail. The peeling green paint was the color of something a seasick sailor might produce in heavy swells. Rust patches that dotted the hull were so pronounced, they seemed to be mere days from becoming holes.

  The upper segment was even worse. Gaps in the bent railing were spanned by chains and bailing wire. The ship was equipped with five cranes, but three of them were in such disrepair that they were obviously useless. The single funnel was caked with soot. Barrels, both upright and overturned, and piles of trash littered the deck. The filthy white superstructure aft of amidships sported windows that were so etched, they looked as if they’d been cleaned with steel wool. One pane of glass was missing and replaced by a moldy piece of plywood.

  “Home sweet home,” Linc said, echoing Juan’s thoughts.

  The Daedalus was hauled up by one of the operational cranes and lowered into the hold.

  They made their way up the gangplank and separated once they were on board. Eddie and Linc went to secure the Daedalus and its radioactive cargo, and Juan entered a companionway toward the crew area.

  Buzzing fluorescent lights blinked overhead, providing dim illumination for the grimy bare metal walls and chipped linoleum floor. He passed the captain’s quarters, the pungent odor coming from it as overwhelming as ever. The interior was so sparsely furnished and dingy that it would have made a Third World interrogation chamber seem like a palace by comparison.

  Juan reached a utility closet and opened it to find mops, brooms, and other cleaning supplies that had gathered dust from disuse. He closed the door behind him and turned the knobs on the slop sink in a practiced pattern, and, with a click, the back wall slid open, revealing lush carpeting and mahogany walls in a hallway lit by recessed lighting befitting a five-star hotel.

  Juan went inside and the wall closed behind him, the buzzing of the fluorescents and the foul smell vanishing instantly. Paintings by impressionist masters lined the halls, which safeguarded some of the Corporation’s resources in assets that were stowed aboard the Oregon.

  Selling them would be a last resort, but he was glad he had them as a backup, especially after hearing that a major portion of the Corporation’s cash reserve was now gone.

  The biggest asset the Corporation owned was the Oregon itself. When Juan had created his brainchild for carrying out U.S. government operations off the books, his first task had been to find a ship appropriate for the job. After a long search, he found photos of an 11,000-ton lumber carrier destined for the scrapyard. The old freighter had performed well over a couple of decades hauling timber to Asia from the Pacific Northwest, but she had become too slow and obsolete to be profitable. She was so plain and unassuming that Juan knew she would be perfect for his purposes.

  Although three breaker yards had bid against him, she was still far cheaper than a new ship. He took the junker to a covered dry dock in Vladivostok, where she spent six months getting a radical keel-to-deck overhaul, care of a friendly and corrupt Russian admiral who knew a good business opportunity when he saw it.

  When the Oregon emerged from her refit, she actually looked worse than she had when she went in. But that only served the anonymity that Juan had desired.

  It was underneath the skin where all the real work had been done. Stabilizing fins were added, and the frame was stiffened and fortified to withstand the stresses that would be placed on it by its cutting-edge power plant.

  Her old diesels were gone, replaced by revolutionary new magnetohydrodynamic engines. Only a few vessels had ever been equipped with them. Four pulse jets were powered by supercooled magnets that stripped free electrons from seawater to produce practically unlimited electricity. Two thrust-vectored drive tubes focused the power, making the Oregon the fastest and most maneuverable ship in the world for her size.

  Fiber optics and wiring throughout the ship allowed it to be upgraded on a regular basis with all of the latest technology and electronics, including high-definition closed-circuit cameras, encrypted satellite communications, centralized ship operations, and military-grade radar and sonar. A mighty IBM Vulcan supercomputer powered the Oregon’s network.

  Her defensive and offensive capabilities were equally potent. Attacks could be carried out using Exocet antiship missiles and twin tubes that launched Russian-made Type 53-65 torpedoes, which had recently replaced its TEST-71s.

  The ship’s vast array of guns were cleverly hidden by retractable hull plates. At the bow was a 120mm cannon like the one on an M1A1 Abrams
main battle tank. For defense against small vessels, missiles, and aircraft, the Oregon was armed with three General Electric 20mm Gatling guns, a Metal Storm electronically fired multibarreled-salvo array, and vertical launchers for surface-to-air missiles. A batch of remote-controlled .30 caliber machine guns could pop out of the deck oil barrels to repel boarders.

  An MD 520N helicopter stored in the aft-most hold could be raised into position for takeoff on a hydraulic platform, while her two submarines could conduct covert missions by launching from the keel, where two huge underwater panels opened into a cavernous space in the center of the ship called the moon pool. At the waterline were the concealed doors of a boat garage that housed small craft, such as Zodiacs and a SEAL assault boat.

  Should the need arise, as it sometimes did, the Oregon had a fully staffed medical bay with a sterile operating theater. The Magic Shop was the onboard facility where all of their made-to-order equipment, uniforms, disguises, and false identifications were created.

  To attract a crew of the best and brightest in their fields, the accommodations were some of the most luxurious afloat. Chefs trained at the Cordon Bleu prepared gourmet meals made from the freshest ingredients. One of the ballast tanks doubled as a Carrara marble–lined Olympic-length swimming pool, in addition to the full-sized Jacuzzi and sauna.

  Juan entered his cabin and office. Crew members were given generous allowances to decorate their quarters as they liked. Juan had recently updated his to a more sleek modern style. The feature he enjoyed most was the wall-mounted, 4K super-high-def LED screen that stretched the length of the cabin. Most of the time, like now, it showed the feed from an external camera. With the ships and harbor defined in crisp detail under the beautiful sunset, the illusion of a window was uncanny.

  He called Max and Linda to come to his cabin in twenty minutes. After removing the fake nose and taking a quick shower to wash the grit off and the dye out of his hair, he changed into jeans and a linen shirt. As soon as he was dressed, there was a light knock on his door. He opened it to see Maurice, the chief steward, dressed in his impeccable suit and tie as usual. His left arm had a white linen napkin draped over it and held a covered silver tray. His timing was so spot-on that Juan sometimes wondered whether the dour Englishman had a camera in Juan’s cabin.