The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “Glad to have the help. Keep in touch.”

  Max did a quick survey of the ocean floor for any trace of Juan.

  “If any of his lights were working, we would have seen them by now,” Linda said.

  “And with the umbilical cut,” Max said, “we have no way to contact him. He could be unconscious.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Linda said. “If he’s not capable of activating any of his emergency devices, either he was knocked out, which means his suit took extensive damage . . .”

  “Or his suit is bleeding air, which caused him to black out,” Max finished. “The longer we can’t find him, the more likely that his life support gives out.”

  Linda checked Nomad’s air and battery gauges. “Batteries look good. We’ve got four more hours before we have to surface to refill the O2 tanks.”

  “Good. We’re not going up a second earlier.”

  They spent tedious hours in the pitch-black water sweeping Nomad’s lights inch by inch over the ocean floor around the Narwhal, looking for any sign of the Jim suit, but the search was fruitless. Not even a glint of the pumpkin-orange suit to give them hope, although if they found any pieces of Jim, it would be an awful sign that Juan had probably not lived through the accident.

  “We’re getting close to Bingo! on our air,” Linda said as they did one more pass on the opposite side of the Narwhal. Her voice was weary with regret. “We’re going to have to head for the surface in a few minutes.”

  “Tell the moon pool to be ready. I want to come back down as soon as we’re able.” With a set jaw, he looked at Linda. “In the meantime, have Hali contact our salvage firm.”

  While Linda radioed to the surface, Max kept his eyes glued outside, hoping that the salvage team would be unnecessary. The Oregon didn’t have the capability to raise the Narwhal, so they’d need to hire specialized contractors to raise the ship if this became a mission to recover Juan’s body.

  As Linda made preparations to ascend, Max stopped Nomad one last time and looked at the wreck that might have taken his best friend. He was about to order Linda to empty the ballast tanks when he heard the distant clang of metal. At first, he thought it was a mechanical problem with the sub, so he removed his headset to listen. The sound had an odd cadence to it, arrhythmic and intermittent, and it definitely wasn’t coming from Nomad.

  Linda, who was still on her headset, said, “The moon pool’s ready for us. They—”

  Max put his finger up to quiet her, and she slid down her headset. The weak clanging continued.

  Max edged Nomad closer to the sunken ship, then shut down the thrusters and every other nonessential system. The sub became deathly silent.

  The clanging returned. Max was sure of it now. It was distant and tinny, but unmistakable.

  “Do you hear that?” Max said with a growing smile.

  Linda slowly nodded, her eyes widening in shock when she understood what she was listening to.

  “That’s Morse code.”

  Max pointed at the Narwhal. “Juan’s in there somewhere and he’s still alive.”

  FORTY-TWO

  With the Achilles on a course away from the mainland of Spain toward the island of Ibiza, Golov went in search of Ivana, since she wasn’t answering his texts and she wasn’t in her cabin. He was proud of her work ethic, but her immersion in her coding was infuriating when it led to her ignoring him.

  He finally found her sitting on a sofa in the luxurious main drawing room where he’d first met with Henri Munier. A half-eaten plate of pita and assorted dips had been pushed out of the way of the twin laptops that were arranged on the table in front of her.

  He was about to say her name when he realized that she wouldn’t be able to hear him. She wore a pair of virtual reality goggles and headphones that covered her ears. She made minute movements with the mouse as her lips silently formed the words to some song that Golov couldn’t hear.

  He walked over and sat heavily on the sofa next to her.

  She tugged the goggles off in a surprised motion, ready to swear at the idiot who had interrupted her. When she saw it was her father, her expression changed to one of exasperation.

  “I hate it when you do that,” she said, pulling the headphones down around her neck. Before she hit the MUTE button, Golov heard the thumping beat of electronic dance music popular in Europe.

  “If you answered my texts, I wouldn’t have to.”

  “I was working on that research you wanted me to do. I think I’ve found a spot.”

  She handed him the goggles. Golov wasn’t a fan of these 3-D gadgets, so when he looked at it in distaste, she said, “Go on. It won’t kill you.”

  He put them on, and instead of nighttime, it was suddenly a sunny daytime on the French Riviera. The pebbled beach stretched for miles ahead of him along a road lined with hotels, apartments, and restaurants.

  “Go ahead and turn around,” Ivana said.

  Golov did, and the scenery rotated with the motion of his head. He could see in every direction as if he were standing on the shore.

  “Do you see that gray and white building?”

  He swiveled his head until he saw the structure she was talking about. It was an eight-story building with balconies.

  “I see it,” he said.

  “That’s the Radisson Blu Hotel.”

  “Why do you think this is the perfect location?”

  “I haven’t shown you the rooftop deck yet,” she said with obvious delight.

  Golov experienced a moment of disorientation as the view instantly switched. He was now standing atop the hotel. On one side was a restaurant with tables shaded by umbrellas. In the other direction was a pool surrounded on all sides by deck chairs.

  He then focused on the surrounding buildings and saw why Ivana had chosen this location. A tall apartment building to the northeast was framed by the distant mountains.

  “You’re right,” he said, taking off the goggles. “It’s perfect.”

  “Did you find out the information you were looking for from Zakharin?” she asked as she nibbled on a triangle of pita.

  “Yes. I got it all on a voice recording before the admiral tragically came to his end. The ship is called the Oregon.”

  “Then he did modify another ship with weapons like ours.”

  “Several others, but only the Oregon comes close to our capabilities. His predecessor did the work, but he knew enough of the specifications to be useful.”

  He played the recording for her. Zakharin went into excruciating detail about the Oregon’s armaments, defensive capabilities, and special features, such as the moon pool from which she could launch submarines.

  When the recording ended, Ivana said, “They’ve certainly disabled their own disarming code by now, if they hadn’t already.”

  “If their captain is as good as Zakharin implied, he probably removed it years ago.” The image of his counterpart from the museum party in Malta came to mind. Golov had described him to Zakharin, who confirmed that he was the commander of the Oregon.

  “Do you think they could raise the column from where the Narwhal sank?”

  “Clever girl,” Golov replied. “That was my first thought as well. I’d say it’s easily within the realm of possibility, which means they could be there right now.”

  “If they find the column, they could decipher the clues Napoleon left and find the treasure before we’re able to complete Dynamo, putting the whole operation in jeopardy.”

  “Which is why we need to make sure they don’t find it before we can get to it.”

  “Do you really think it’s still there? The treasure?”

  “It has to be. We know Napoleon didn’t lead his abductors to it.”

  “Then we should go back to the shipwreck and intercept—”

  Golov shook his head. “They could be go
ne by the time we arrive. Or we might wait there for days before they return, and we don’t have time for that in our schedule. No, the best plan is to make them come to us.”

  Antonovich’s private jet would meet them in Ibiza. The Achilles would only be in port long enough for the transfer to the plane.

  “What lure do we have?” Ivana asked.

  “Money. They showed up in Monaco claiming to be insurance investigators. That means they care about what happened to the deposits, and I don’t think it was because they were hired to look into the heist. Assuming they operate as mercenaries, like the admiral thinks they do, then I’d say we made a big hit on their finances.”

  Ivana nodded. “Then they’ll want it back.”

  “I know I would. This is yet another occasion when having someone on the Monaco police force has been useful.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  After Golov was done outlining the plan for her, he said, “We need to get a message to the captain of the Oregon. One that he can’t ignore.”

  Ivana smiled. “I think I can take care of that.”

  “Send him a pleasant invitation.”

  “Do you think he’ll come?” she asked as her fingers danced across the keyboard. “He’ll suspect it’s a trap.”

  Golov kissed his daughter on the forehead and stood to go back to his cabin and get a good night’s sleep. “That, my dear, is exactly what I’m hoping.”

  FORTY-THREE

  When the Narwhal had collapsed, Juan’s only option had been to head for the biggest railgun hole in the deck that he could see close by, which was below him. He’d made it just before the ship slammed into the seabed, but the jagged edge caught his thruster pack, pinning him to the bottom. It took him a couple of hours to wriggle free enough to jettison the pack. He could now move freely, but he was limited to the hobbling walk similar to the ones seen in the films of moonwalking astronauts.

  His light was strong enough to show the jumble of metal and equipment that lay on what was now the floor of the upside-down ship. The cracked visor seemed to be holding, and since there was nothing he could do about it, he tried to ignore the star pattern staring him in the face. He explored the interior of the expansive open hold, hoping to find a hole big enough for him to squeeze through, but he couldn’t even locate an opening big enough to see through.

  His acoustic backup communication system was useless because it would be blocked by the steel hull. He chose a spot closest to the outer hull and began tapping out the famous • • • — — — • • • , representing the universal call for help, SOS. Several times during the hour that he’d clinked the mechanical claw against the steel frame of the ship he’d heard the faint whirr of Nomad passing close by. He’d tapped as hard as he could, but the sub kept on going without stopping.

  He had lost track of time when he heard the sound that he’d expected to come many hours later. It was a warning beep, signaling that his battery power was fading fast, another casualty of one of the impacts the suit had withstood. Not only did the battery power his light but also the carbon dioxide scrubber that was keeping him alive. If it failed, there was only enough oxygen in the suit to last for five minutes before he passed out.

  The beep indicated that it would fail in twenty minutes.

  He kept tapping the monotonous rhythm of the SOS. Nomad passed by yet again, and he amped up the volume as much as he could. The whine of the impellers stopped for a minute, giving Juan hope that he’d been heard. Then they started up again, and Juan was prepared to hear the motors fade into the distance.

  But this time, the sound came toward him.

  He clanged away with both claws so they could home in on his location. The motors came to a stop again, quite close.

  He stopped tapping and listened.

  A slow, methodical set of bangs against the outer hull gave him a renewed hope. It had to be Nomad’s less responsive robotic manipulator, tapping its own message on the ship. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  We are here, Juan, Linda tapped with Nomad’s arm.

  Thought you left, Juan replied.

  Not a chance. We will get you out. Are you hurt?

  No. 15 min of air left.

  There was a pause, probably because they realized there wasn’t enough time to bring down a cutting torch to get him out.

  Got one explosive left, Linda finally tapped. Will blow you out.

  Won’t work. Too small.

  Linda replied, Can’t cut you out in 15 min.

  Much as Juan didn’t like to admit it, there was only one way to make a big enough hole for him to go through in the time he had remaining.

  Juan tapped, Use torp.

  Another pause, this one even longer as they contemplated the notion of firing a torpedo at the Narwhal.

  Finally, Linda tapped, Max sez you crazy.

  Got a better idea?

  No.

  Then do it. Pick a spot toward the bow. I have a clear path. This part of the cargo hold was a huge open space that had likely been used to transport vehicles. He was at least half the length of the ship away from the bow, a hundred and fifty feet. The water hammer effect would be powerful, but being blown up trying to get out was better than suffocating inside a dead ship. If he wasn’t crushed in the explosion, he could shuffle his way to the hole and inflate his emergency buoyancy device to get back to the surface.

  Linda responded, Okay. Try to find cover. Countdown is 2 min.

  Juan tapped, Roger that.

  He retreated behind a thick bulkhead that was the farthest from the anticipated impact point and waited. He now had less than ten minutes of power. Walking through the ship without a light would be virtually impossible. If Juan didn’t make it out before his battery died, so would he.

  Crouching was impossible in the ungainly suit, so he stood three feet from the bulkhead. Trying to stand next to it and steady himself by grasping the frame might rip the arms from the suit during the explosion.

  Except for his breathing, there was total silence. Then he heard the high-pitched whine of the torpedo propeller revving up to top speed. It grew quieter as the torpedo sped away to get the proper angle before turning and whizzing back toward the Narwhal.

  The ocean seemed to erupt like a volcano, pummeling him with a giant shock wave that threw him backward against the next bulkhead. His head slammed against the padding inside the helmet, and his vision tunneled, threatening to black out completely. His organs felt as if they’d been pureed.

  He teetered on the edge of consciousness before coming back to his senses.

  That’s when he noticed the battery warning chirping at him insistently. His battery life was almost gone.

  He pushed himself past the bulkhead and focused his light ahead of him. In the gloom, he thought he could make out a hole in the bow.

  Juan stumbled ahead, clumsily clambering over piles of metal when he had to. He was three-quarters of the way to the bow when his battery died. There was a complicated pile of destroyed equipment he had to navigate around and he didn’t know if he could do it with the five minutes of air he had left in the suit.

  He pictured what he’d seen in his memory and began to pick his way across. The laborious process seemed to pay dividends and he thought he was in the clear, when his arm snagged on something. Without tactile feedback and visual cues, it was impossible to tell what had caught him.

  He knew he was close to the hole blown in the side of the ship. But until he got out, he couldn’t inflate his buoyancy device. If he did that inside the hull, he’d simply pin himself up against the keel of the ship.

  A faint ray of light pierced the darkness. It grew stronger by the moment until an intense beam of white shot through the opening in the ship and illuminated the hold.

  It was Nomad. Max was showing him the way home.

  He was st
arting to get light-headed from the excess carbon dioxide in his suit. His extremities growing cold and numb, and he began to get dizzy and lose his concentration.

  With the light, he could see that the claw had become lodged in a jagged piece of metal. He wrenched it free and started a slow-motion dash to the beckoning glow.

  Juan seemed to be on autopilot as he struggled to put one leg in front of the other as if he were making a final ascent of Everest. The light grew so strong that it was blinding, and he could no longer tell if he was inside the Narwhal.

  But it didn’t matter. He was about to pass out. There wouldn’t be time to send in Little Geek to pull him out before he asphyxiated. He had to activate the emergency float and either he’d rush to the surface or he’d die inside the shipwreck.

  With his final ounce of strength, he flipped the switch and heard the CO2 cartridge inflate the buoy.

  It was the last thing he sensed before darkness enveloped him.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The ascent to the surface seemed to take an eternity. Gretchen kept looking from her watch to the water outside the Oregon’s boat garage, where she was waiting for Nomad to surface. According to Max, the sub and Jim suit would be topside in two minutes.

  On Max’s orders, the Oregon had moved away from the dive site so that it wouldn’t be directly above the torpedo explosion, which also meant there was no way they could surface in the moon pool. Gretchen, who had been watching the search from the op center, dashed down to the boat garage as soon as Hali told her that’s where they’d be pulling Juan in.

  Julia Huxley stood ready next to her with her medical crash kit.

  “Is he breathing?” Gretchen asked her.

  “I think so,” Julia replied without conviction. “Max says he doesn’t think the suit’s leaking.”

  Suddenly, a balloon broke the surface, followed by the Jim suit. Half of the pack holding the environmental systems was crushed.