The Storm nf-10

by Clive Cussler

  While Joe brushed away the tire tracks, Kurt pulled out a tarp. He peeled a thin film off the topside of the tarp, exposing an adhesive layer. Laying the tarp facedown and dragging it across the ground caused the adhesive to pick up a fine layer of sand as grains stuck to its surface.

  Satisfied, Kurt flung the tarp over the top of the VW, staked it in the ground and dumped several small bucket loads of sand on the top.

  Joe returned just as Kurt finished. Joe blinked as if his eyes were deceiving him.

  “What happened to the VV?”

  “I made it invisible,” Kurt said, heaving a small backpack over his shoulders. “No one’s going to spot it.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said, “probably not even us. I lose my car in the parking lot, this I might never find.”

  Kurt hadn’t really considered that. He looked around for landmarks, but the desert offered only endless dunes in every direction. He pulled out a GPS receiver and dropped a pin, marking the location of the hiding spot. He hoped that would help.

  As Joe pulled on his own backpack, Kurt slid a pair of snowshoes on his feet. They were modern carbon fiber design, not the tennis rackets of old, but they would do the same thing: spread his weight out over a wider area and allow him to walk on top of the sand instead of sinking in and trudging through it with every step.

  Joe donned a similar pair, and the two men began hiking.

  Ninety minutes later they crested the latest in a series of endless dunes. As they reached the top, they caught wind of a helicopter approaching from the south.

  Scanning around for the source of the noise, Kurt spotted a flashing red beacon in the sky. It looked to be no more than two or three miles away, cruising at five hundred feet and headed straight for them.

  “Get down,” Kurt said, dropping flat to the ground and trying to burrow in the sand like a sidewinder.

  Joe did the same, and in a moment they were just about covered up to their necks. Despite this camouflage, the helicopter continued toward them, never deviating or changing course.

  “This looks bad,” Joe whispered.

  Kurt’s hand found the holster on his hip and the .50 caliber Bowen revolver inside it. The gun was a cannon, though it wouldn’t do much good against a helicopter unless he made a couple of perfectly lucky shots.

  He locked onto the red light. A dimmer green light glowed on the other side. If it came to it, Kurt would aim right between the two and empty the cylinder in hopes of hitting something vital.

  He heard Joe unlatch his own pistol, likely planning to do the same, when a thought occurred to him: if they’d been spotted and the copter sent out to hunt them down, why wasn’t it blacked out?

  “Nice of them to leave their nav lights on for us to aim at,” he said.

  “You think they made a mistake?”

  The helicopter continued toward them, now only a quarter mile away and still descending but also changing course.

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  The helicopter thundered past, two hundred feet above them and a couple hundred yards to the west.

  Kurt watched it pass and tracked its course. Seeing no other aircraft trailing it, he pulled out of the sand and raced after it. He made it to the bottom of the dune and clambered up the top of the next one, throwing himself flat against the sand as he reached the peak.

  Joe hit the ground next to him. Ahead of them the helicopter slowed to a hover, descending toward a dark shape that rose from the desert floor like a ship on the sea.

  A band of low-intensity lights came on, marking a circle on the top of the “ship.” The helicopter adjusted, pivoting slowly and then settling onto the rocky bluff.

  “Looks like we’ve found the compound,” Kurt said.

  “We’re not the only ones,” Joe replied.

  Lights could be seen approaching from the southwest. It looked like a small convoy, maybe eight or nine vehicles. It was hard to count the headlights with all the dust they were kicking up.

  “I thought Dirk said this place didn’t get much traffic?”

  “Apparently it’s rush hour,” Kurt replied. “Let’s hope they’re not here on our account.”

  As the vehicles pulled up in front of the bluff, the quiet desert filled with commotion. The headlights blazed and the dust swirled and voices rose through it, not arguing but discussing something tersely in Arabic. Armed men appeared from the mouth of a cave and walked out to greet the newcomers.

  On the bluff above, the helicopter was shutting down. Two men climbed out and made their way toward the side of the cliff, disappearing into what looked like a hole cut out of the rock. Kurt guessed it was some kind of tunnel or hidden entrance.

  “Come on,” he said, “while the valet’s busy with all those cars.”

  Kurt backed down the sand dune for a few paces and began to scamper along it. Joe followed, trying to catch up.

  “What are we going to do?” Joe asked. “Walk right in and pretend we’re with the band?”

  “No,” Kurt said. “We make our way around the back by that landing pad. I saw the passengers from that chopper disappear without climbing down. Somewhere on top there must be a way in. All we have to do is find it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  OUT OVER THE INDIAN OCEAN, MARCHETTI HAD PUT THE airship into a slight climb, brought it up to an altitude of a hundred feet and slowed it considerably. To make the design as sleek as it was required some compromises, one of which meant the craft didn’t have quite enough buoyancy to float without some forward motion providing lift.

  As the engine cut out and they started drifting, the passengers grew nervous.

  “We’re still sinking,” Gamay said. Seventy feet below the sea was calm and dark. If she was right and that darkness was related to the microbots swarming beneath the surface, she had no desire to land on it.

  “Just a second,” Marchetti said.

  He threw a lever, and compartments at either end of the airship sprang open like he’d popped the trunk and hood of his car at the same moment. The hissing of high-pressure gas followed, and two additional balloons sprang forth from the hatches. They floated upward, quickly filling to capacity with helium and snapping their tether lines taut. As they inflated, the sinking slowed and then stopped.

  “I call them air anchors,” Marchetti said proudly. “We’ll deflate them once we get moving again. But in the meantime, they keep us from ending up in the drink.”

  Gamay was relieved to hear that. Around her, Leilani and Paul both exhaled.

  “I guess we should break out the sampling kit,” Paul said.

  The airship stabilized at forty feet. By releasing small amounts of helium, Marchetti coaxed it down to five feet and then set its buoyancy at neutral.

  “Close enough?” he asked.

  Paul nodded as he climbed toward the aft platform with the telescoping sample collector.

  “Be careful,” Leilani said, looking as if she didn’t want to go anywhere near the edge.

  “I second that,” Gamay added. “It’s taken me years to train you. I’d hate to start over with a new husband.”

  Paul chuckled. “And chances are, you’d never find one as handsome and debonair as me.”

  Gamay smiled. She’d never find one she loved as much as him, that was for sure.

  As Paul reached the edge, Gamay moved up beside him. Knowing what lay below, she wanted to strap him in like a lookout at the top of the crow’s nest, but there was no way to do it, and no real need.

  They were in the gyre of the Indian Ocean, near its center, a spot sort of like the eye of a hurricane. Under normal conditions it was “the doldrums,” with no wind or waves to speak of.

  The sea below looked oily and flat, the sun blazed down from behind them. It was remarkably calm. Only the slightest of breezes could even be felt, not enough to worry about as they drifted a few feet above the water.

  Paul extended the pole and dipped the vial in the water, scooping up a sample. He pulled the vial free
and held it over the water, allowing the excess to drip off before reeling it in.

  Wearing thick plastic gloves, Gamay took the sample and wiped the outside of the vial with a specially charged microfiber towel that Marchetti said would attract and trap any microbots that might be present.

  She didn’t see any residue, but the little suckers were small. A hundred could fit on the head of a pin.

  She glanced at the water in the vial.

  “It looks clear,” she said.

  She capped the vial and placed it in a stainless steel box with a rubber seal, which she wrenched down tight. She put the towel in a matching container.

  Gamay and Paul gazed into the waters down below the way people might look over the edge of a dock. A few feet out the water looked normal. But they’d flown over two miles of discolored ocean since the dolphins scattered. It made no sense.

  “They’re not on the surface,” Gamay said, realizing the truth. “We can see them, looking straight down, but at any kind of an angle all we can make out is seawater.”

  From the cockpit Marchetti agreed. “They’re floating just below. You’ll have to get a deeper sample. If you want, I can take us right down to the—”

  “Let’s not do that,” Leilani said. “Please. What if we hit the water or something goes wrong?”

  She was in the main part of the cabin, watching over the side but protected by the wall. She looked rather green.

  “I’m pretty sure I can get them from here,” Paul said, being his usual accommodating self.

  He laid down flat on the deck, his head and shoulders over the edge. He stretched out, using his long arms to great advantage and dipping a second sample vial in as far as he could.

  Marchetti edged closer. Gamay did the same.

  Paul pulled the sample out. It also looked clear. He dumped it out and tried to stretch even farther.

  Leilani began protesting. “I don’t know about this,” she mumbled, sounding terrified. “Do we really want to bring those things on board?”

  Kurt had said she was unstable. Now Gamay saw why. Gung ho to come with them and suddenly filled with fear.

  “Somebody’s got to do it,” Gamay said.

  “Maybe we could just call the Navy or the Coast Guard or something.”

  “Hold my legs down,” Paul asked, “I have to take a deeper sample.”

  Gamay crouched down and put her hands on the back of Paul’s legs, pressing down with all her weight. She heard Leilani muttering something and backing farther away as if the bots were going to leap out of the water like a crocodile and snatch Paul up.

  Paul extended the pole and stretched as far as he could. He dipped it in maybe seven or eight feet. As he raised it above the surface, Gamay could feel the strain on his body. The sample looked dark.

  “I think you got some.”

  As Paul started to reel in the pole, Leilani started to tremble. She backed up another step.

  “It’s okay,” Marchetti said, trying to comfort her.

  Just then a loud bang shook the craft. It tilted to the side, and the back end dropped like a covered wagon that had lost a wheel.

  Paul slid, hit the sidewall of the deck and almost went overboard. Gamay slid with him, grabbed his belt and wrapped her arm around a strut protruding from the deck.

  Leilani screamed and fell but held on to the door of the cabin while Marchetti clung to the steering console.

  “Hang on!” Gamay shouted.

  “You hang on,” Paul called back. “I have nothing to grab.”

  Another bang, and the airship leveled out, but with the back end down even farther, like a dump truck spilling its contents. Gamay held on with all her might. She was physically strong, but keeping Paul’s six-foot-eight, two-hundred-and-forty-pound body from sliding off the platform and dropping into the water was quickly taking its toll. She felt his belt cutting into her fingers.

  Behind her, Leilani and Marchetti were trying to help.

  “The balloon,” Leilani shouted, pointing to the sky.

  Gamay glanced upward. The rear air anchor had come loose and was drifting up toward the heavens like a kid’s balloon lost at the fair. As a result, the airship was sinking toward the water tail first.

  “Get us moving!” Gamay shouted.

  “On it,” Marchetti said, rushing to the cockpit.

  “Leilani, I need help.”

  As Marchetti scrambled into the cabin, Leilani crouched beside Gamay and grabbed onto Paul’s leg. The ducted fans up front began to spin, and the airship began to crawl forward. As it did, the strain of holding on to Paul increased.

  Gamay felt as if she were going to be ripped loose. She saw Leilani trying to get a better grip.

  The airship began to pick up speed, but it was still dropping, the tail end only a foot or so from the water. Paul arched his body in a reverse sit-up to keep his face from hitting the sea.

  As the speed picked up, the airship began to level off.

  “Now!” Gamay shouted. She pulled with all her might, and, with Leilani’s help, they managed to slide Paul back up to where he’d begun, head and shoulders over the edge. She realized he was still holding the sample pole.

  “Drop that thing!” she yelled.

  “After going through all this?” Paul said. “I don’t think so.”

  By now the speed of the craft was coming on, providing enough lift that Marchetti could level off completely.

  As the ship climbed and then flattened, Gamay reeled Paul in and held him tight.

  “Paul Trout, if you ever do something like that again, it will be the death of me,” she said.

  “And me,” he replied.

  “What happened?” he said, looking to Marchetti.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “The anchor released somehow. It must have been a glitch or a malfunction of some kind.”

  Gamay looked at Paul, thankful to have him with her instead of in the water with those things. It seemed they’d found a horrible bit of bad luck. Or had they?

  She began to wonder about Marchetti’s crew. Otero and Matson had been bought. What was to stop any of the others from selling out? She kept the thought to herself, looked at the dark sample they’d recovered and tried to remind herself that aside from Paul there was no one she could trust implicitly.

  CHAPTER 20

  JINN AL-KHALIF STRODE THROUGH THE HALLS OF HIS CAVE in a state of fury. He kicked the door to his sprawling office open and threw a chair aside that blocked the path to his desk. Sabah entered behind him, shutting the door with more care.

  “I will not be summoned like a schoolboy!” Jinn bellowed.

  “You have not been summoned,” Sabah insisted.

  “They contact you unannounced, tell you they’re coming here, and that they expect to see me!” Jinn shouted. “How is that not being summoned?”

  Jinn stood beside an impressively large desk. Behind him, visible through a glass partition that acted as the rear wall to the office, the production floor of his factory could be seen twenty feet below.

  Here and there in the “clean room,” men in protective hazmat-like suits were calibrating the machines, preparing to produce the next version of Jinn’s microbots. The lethally redesigned batch was destined for Egypt and the dam.

  “They made a request,” Sabah said. “Considering their tone and actions of late, I thought it necessary to promise your presence.”

  “That is an act of insolence!” Jinn shouted. “You do not promise for me.”

  Many times in his life had Jinn felt the type of rage that filled him now, never before had it been directed at Sabah.

  “Why, as we get closer and closer to the goal, do all my servants seem to be losing their minds and forgetting their places?”

  Sabah seemed on the verge of speaking but held back.

  “You’ve already said enough,” Jinn told him with a dismissive wave. “Leave me.”

  Instead of bowing and departing, Sabah stood taller.

  “No,” he s
aid plainly. “I have taught you from a young age, ever since your father died. And I have sworn to protect you, even from yourself. So I will speak and you will listen and then you decide what to do when I am through.”

  Jinn looked up in shock, enough so that his instinct to kill Sabah for disobeying him was checked.

  “This consortium,” Sabah began, “they’ve given billions of dollars to your effort. And they are powerful men in their own right, bound to flex their muscle every now and then.”

  Jinn gazed at Sabah as if mesmerized, listening as he often had during the years.

  “The fact that they come as one suggests danger,” Sabah continued. “They’re unified.”

  Jinn looked around his office. There was little in the way of decor. But weapons of the past were displayed on one wall, a curved scimitar caught his eye.

  “Then I will kill them all,” Jinn said. “I will cut them to pieces with my own two hands.”

  “And what would that get us?” Sabah asked. “They have not come alone. Each brings a squad of armed men. In total numbers they are almost equal to our own. It would bring only war. And even if we won, others would undoubtedly investigate, perhaps even seek revenge.”

  For the first time in a great while, Jinn felt vulnerable, cornered. If they had known what they were stirring in him, they would not have pressed the issue.

  “This could not have come at a worse time,” he said. “We have other guests to prepare for.”

  “They will be dealt with,” Sabah insisted.

  “Fine,” Jinn said. “What do you suggest?”

  “We must send a message that does not start a war. I suggest we show them what they want to see. One to see it closely, the other to observe from a distance.”

  A sinister look came over Sabah’s face, and Jinn began to understand. He had to discount Sabah as old and out of touch, but no more.

  “Order the test bay flooded,” Jinn said.

  “It has been configured to simulate the attack on Aswan.”

  A smile crept onto Jinn’s face. “Perfect. Proceed with the demonstration. Give them a front-row seat. It would make me very happy for them to see more than they bargained for.”