Sea of Greed

by Clive Cussler

  He hit no one, but not for lack of trying. There was no one inside.

  The sound of a two-stroke engine roared from the barn side of the structure.

  Bricks got off the floor and ran toward the sound, reaching the back door just in time to see an ATV racing out of the building and charging across the grass. Right between his men.

  They reacted too slowly, turning and firing at the four-wheeler, but the vehicle sped on and the men charged after it.

  Bricks paused. There was something odd about the ATV. It had a blanket trailing from it, something wrapped up inside, but . . .

  A thud sounded behind him. Bricks froze as something jabbed him in the back. “This shotgun might not work that well anymore,” a male voice said, “but it’ll blow your guts out if I pull the trigger.”

  Bricks raised his hands instinctively. The dark-haired man they’d labeled Target 1 took the pistol from his hand and gave it to the woman who lived there. Relieved of his weapon, Bricks was forced to the ground.

  In a minute, he was tied up and gagged. The two men who’d come inside with him were in the same condition. The other three hadn’t stopped chasing the ATV. He knew at that moment, it was a job he should never have taken.

  18

  WITH THREE of the attackers subdued and their weapons now in friendly hands, Kurt sensed they’d improved their position greatly. “We’ve evened the odds,” he said, “but we’re not in the clear yet.”

  As if to prove his point, the drone buzzed back, turned and made a strafing run, unleashing a quick hail of bullets as it passed.

  Kurt glanced down at the leader of the group. “You don’t look like the type to own an armed, high-performance drone. Who are you working for? Who hired you?”

  The man shook his head and Kurt noticed the tiny bud stuffed into the man’s ear. He yanked it free. “This is highly unsanitary, but . . .”

  Putting the earbud in his own ear, Kurt picked up the chatter from whoever was directing the operation.

  “You idiots, they’re still in the main building,” an electronically distorted voice said. “The four-wheeler was just a diversion.”

  Another voice chimed in. “Any sign of the old man? He’s not in the main house.”

  “They haven’t found your dad,” Kurt whispered to Misty.

  “I told Bricks to forget about him. Get back to the main building and burn it down.”

  “They’re going to burn us out,” Kurt said. “We need to hide. Woods or the water?”

  “Can’t burn water,” Joe said.

  “We can hide in the reeds, near the estuary,” Misty said. “That’s where Dad fishes when he’s not on the dock.”

  Kurt glanced out the door, waited for the drone to make another pass and then took off running.

  They’d passed the animal pens and the piles of computer hardware before they were spotted.

  “Targets running to the northwest. Away from the buildings.”

  Kurt listened to every word. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, but there was a pattern to the words, short sentences, clipped delivery. He would remember that pattern for the future.

  “We’ll cut them off,” an unmodified voice replied.

  The sound of the ATV was growing louder as they ran.

  “They have the ATV,” Kurt said. “How far do we have to go?”

  “Just over the hill,” Misty said.

  By now, the drone was turning toward them and setting up for another attack run. It locked in and accelerated, the propeller buzzing feverishly as it approached.

  Kurt, Joe and Misty sprinted down the hill toward a shallow, reed-filled glade. But even as they ran, the drone bore down on them, opening fire.

  Kurt dove to the side as the dirt kicked up at his feet. Joe and Misty darted in the other direction and the trail of bullets passed between them.

  The drone raced by, leveled off at ten feet and then flew out over the water. Just as it tilted upward to climb and turn, a figure appeared out of the marsh and fired several shots with a rifle.

  The drone jerked to one side with the first hit, lost part of a wing with the second and then burst into flames with the third. It fell in a corkscrew motion, spinning out of control and slamming into the placid water with a large splash.

  “Dad,” Misty shouted.

  Redfish stood in the reeds, soaking wet and holding the thirty-aught-six. He hugged Misty with one arm as she ran up to him.

  “Be glad he chased you with a bat,” Kurt said.

  “Believe me,” Joe said, “I am.”

  The ATV and the men on foot were the next danger.

  “Over here,” Redfish said. “They’ll never see us.”

  Kurt and Joe dropped into the shallow water with Misty and her father. Crouching and waiting, they watched as the ATV came over the ridge.

  At first, it traveled on a diagonal, coming down toward the water but not directly for them. The rider slowed and looked around as he drove.

  The other men came over the ridge behind it. They’d rescued their leader and were now back to full strength. One of them held a scope to his eyes.

  Kurt and the others were crouched down in the water and hidden behind a layer of reeds. They would be difficult to see, but they were not invisible.

  “If they spot us,” Kurt said, “open fire.”

  He gripped the pistol firmly, in both hands, set the hammer and rested his finger on the trigger.

  When the man with the scope turned toward them, Kurt pulled the trigger. The spotter went down in a heap and at the same instant Redfish fired and knocked the rider off the ATV.

  The other men scattered. Instead of pressing their attack, they grabbed their injured comrades and took off, heading for the cars they’d come in.

  With two vehicles racing away, Kurt and Joe emerged from the water.

  “Do you think they’ll come back?” Misty asked.

  “Unlikely,” Kurt said. “These men had nothing personal against you. They were hired to stop us. Still, you might want to put in a call to the sheriff and find another place to stay for a while.”

  “The sheriff is Dad’s fishing buddy,” Misty said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind staying over for a few days.”

  Knowing that Misty and Redfish would be safe, Kurt and Joe said their good-byes. Misty gave Joe one more bone-crunching hug and then let him get into the car.

  “You come back, if you want to,” Redfish said. “But no funny business.”

  Joe promised and then climbed into the car. “Home, James,” he said to Kurt.

  “Only if home is Hamilton, Bermuda.”

  19

  NUMA VESSEL RALEIGH, ON STATION IN THE GULF OF MEXICO

  PAUL TROUT found himself thankful that the Raleigh carried several ROVs. He’d been underwater in plenty of NUMA’s submersibles. Not one of them had enough head- or legroom for him. He was much more comfortable sitting in the air-conditioned confines of OSLO.

  Gamay sat beside him. “Take a sediment sample outside the impact zone for a baseline. We can take a few more as we get closer to ground zero.”

  Paul did as requested, directing the ROV to hover over the bottom, where it extended a tube into the silt and vacuumed up a small quantity.

  “Sample one secured,” he said.

  Sitting behind Paul and Gamay, the FEMA observer yawned. “What’s the point of all this?”

  To make you believe we’re doing something other than what we’re doing, Paul thought.

  Gamay offered a better answer. “Sediment samples will allow us to test the damage to the aquatic ecosystem more accurately than water samples.” She spoke in her most cheery scientific voice. “For example, certain types of microbes that are abundant in the water might be settling down into the sediment with significantly affected genetic structures. You could see DN
A intersplicing errors, mutations. And, of course, any contamination in the aquatic microbe community affects the fish and then the larger predators, including humans. Best way to search for a problem is starting at the bottom of the food chain.”

  Reynolds looked at them blankly. “But there’s nothing living down there,” he said. “It’s all inert mud.”

  “That’s exactly why we have to check it,” Gamay insisted.

  “How many samples do you think we’ll need?” Paul asked.

  “At least a hundred, spread out over various parts of the disaster zone,” Gamay said.

  “That could take hours,” Reynolds said.

  “Five or six at least,” Gamay added, laying it on as thick as she could.

  That was enough for Reynolds. He stood up. “Well, I have to report in anyway. I’ll check back with you in a few hours. When you’re halfway done . . . Good luck with all this.”

  He gathered up a few belongings and left.

  With the door shut tight, Paul looked over at Gamay. “Think he’ll be back?”

  “Not unless someone forces him,” Gamay said. “Looked like he might physically die of boredom if he had to watch us for six hours.”

  “I would, too,” Paul said, “if we really had to get a hundred samples of barren sediment. Let’s get the fun part done first in case he does come back.”

  Gamay turned the 3-D system on and began directing Paul based on the sonar readings. “Head due east. You should find the smallest of the fires about half a mile out.”

  Paul guided the ROV on a heading of 090. It took a few minutes to cover the distance, but soon the glow of the nearest fire began to appear on the ROV’s cameras.

  “That’s smaller and less intense than it was this morning,” Paul said. “Whatever gas is causing this must be dwindling.”

  “That’s good and bad,” Gamay said. “Let’s get our samples before the candle burns out.”

  Paul maneuvered the ROV into position.

  “If you get the probe into the broken pipe, you can capture the gas before it ignites,” Gamay suggested.

  “That’s the plan,” Paul said. He directed the ROV right down onto the pipe itself. The fire burned only sixteen inches from the camera.

  “Be careful,” Gamay said. “That fire is over a thousand degrees.”

  Paul nodded, held the ROV steady and extended the probe. The interior of the probe was lined with tempered glass, the exterior was made of titanium. The chamber they would suck the gas into was currently vacuum-sealed, containing no air, water or other contaminants that the gas might react with.

  Once Paul had the probe in place, he would break the seal and the volatile, hydrophoric gas would be sucked into the chamber and held in its inert form.

  “Let’s hope this works,” Paul said. The probe inched forward, banging against both sides of the broken pipe.

  “Careful,” Gamay said.

  “I’m being careful,” he replied.

  Finally, the probe was in the pipeline.

  “Here goes nothing,” Paul said. He pressed a button and broke the vacuum seal. A liter of gas was sucked in through the probe and stored, with the system automatically resealing itself once the container pressure rose to a certain level.

  “We have it,” Paul said. “And without blowing ourselves up.”

  “All right, now get out of there.”

  Paul retracted the probe, pulled the ROV back and turned it away from the fire. He’d come through one hundred and eighty degrees and was moving the ROV away when the door to the OSLO opened and Reynolds popped his head back in.

  Gamay acted quickly, flicking off the holographic display.

  Paul sat tall and rigidly. He realized the fire was plainly visible in the ROV’s aft camera. Switching it off would be too obvious, but Reynolds might not be able to see past him if he sat up straight.

  “I forgot to ask,” Reynolds said, paying no attention to the screens. “Can you forward me a copy of your report when you’re done examining the sediment samples? I just want to send it up to Washington with everything else.”

  As Reynolds spoke, Paul brought the ROV down to the sediment layer once more, turning it so that the fires weren’t visible on camera.

  “Sure thing,” Gamay said. “It’ll take a while, but I’ll send you a copy as soon as it’s done.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “How many samples have you collected?”

  Paul knew better than to blurt out an answer—in case Gamay was about to voice a different lie. He looked down at a paper with scribbled notes on it as if he’d been keeping track. “This is, umm . . .”

  “We’re up to sixteen,” Gamay said.

  To maintain the illusion, Paul vacuumed up another sample of sediment, which would be stored in a separate container. “Sixteen going on seventeen,” he said.

  Reynolds sighed. “I admire your dedication. See you later.” With that, he backed out and shut the door once again.

  “That was close,” Paul said. “At least the hard part is over.”

  “For you,” Gamay said. “I have to write up a fake report detailing a hundred sediment samples. None of which will have anything in them because all of this takes place below the photic zone.”

  Paul had to laugh. He knew Gamay would want his help, but, thankfully, he’d be too busy studying the gas.

  He glanced at the instruments, checking on the sample. The gas was steady and holding stable at forty degrees. The sediment samples were . . .

  “There’s a slight pressure build in the sediment tank,” he said.

  Gamay leaned closer. “Only in the sediment sample you just collected. Did you suck in some of the gas?”

  “No,” Paul said. “There was no cross-contamination.”

  “The pressure is rising ever so slightly in the sealed chamber,” Gamay said, fine-tuning the instrument. “If I didn’t know better, I’d tell you there was bacteria in that barren soil.”

  A system check told them the instruments were working perfectly. “It’s not a false reading,” Gamay said.

  Paul grinned at her. “Looks like you’re going to have something to put in your report after all.”

  20

  HAMILTON, BERMUDA, BRITISH OVERSEAS TERRITORY

  THE ISLAND OF BERMUDA runs diagonally from the airport in the northeast, down to a fishhook curve in the southwest. Situated within that curve is one of the finest natural harbors in the world, home for centuries to ships of the Royal Navy and now a favored port of call for cruise ships and the yachting crowd.

  With a mild climate, British traditions and excellence in banking, Bermuda had become one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Its banks and financial institutions were filled with cash, bearer bonds, jewels and precious metals. Its hills were dotted with multimillion-dollar villas, many of which were bought just for investment purposes and often sat empty for months, or even years, at a time.

  The arrival of the R3 Conference had changed that. This week the villas were full, the five-star hotels overflowing and the harbor crowded with yachts—each one larger and more ostentatious than the last. But none of them compared to the presence of the Monarch.

  The hulking amphibious aircraft was the center of attention in Bermuda, making front-page news upon its return, even knocking the cricket championship to a spot below the fold.

  Its majestic landing in the Great Sound had been attended like the arrival of a king or queen. The fact that the aircraft was based on the island was of little consequence. For one thing, it was rarely here. For another, there were thousands of tourists present who’d never seen the aircraft. They lined the docks as it taxied across the water toward a small island called Baker’s Rock, which sat in a sheltered section of the Great Sound.

  Tessa Franco owned Baker’s Rock and had built a large estate on the high ground. To protect t
he aircraft, a stone wall had been added to the naturally curved bay, which acted as a berth for the great plane.

  Pleasure boats passed by during the day, onlookers snapping photos. Cruise ships saluted the aircraft with blasts from their horns usually reserved for other ships, while a constant security presence was posted to keep the curious from getting too close or setting foot on the island.

  For the most part, Tessa enjoyed the attention. It was publicity. Publicity meant money. And money was becoming a critical factor at this point in her operation. With Buran and the Consortium withholding her payments, Tessa was in desperate need of cash.

  For a year, she’d been talking about an initial public offering, but for reasons she kept to herself she hadn’t moved forward with it yet. R3 gave a different opportunity, private money, the kind that came without attention and often without many strings attached.

  But before she could go looking for cash, she had a more pressing problem to deal with.

  “What do you mean they escaped?” she said, glaring at Woods from behind her desk.

  “They got away from the men I hired,” Woods said.

  “It was a simple task,” she said. “Find out what they knew and eliminate them. You said they were heading out into the middle of nowhere. That it would be an easy job.”

  Standing behind Woods, Volke grinned, obviously glad he hadn’t had any part in this particular operation.

  “You gave me an hour to find someone who could take them down,” Woods stammered. “I went to the only people we could reach that quickly.”

  “They were obviously incompetent.”

  “It was the best we could do on short notice.”

  That much was probably true. “Did they get our equipment back?”

  “They retrieved the power pack and the other items the NUMA agents were carrying,” Woods said. “All traces of it have been destroyed.”

  “I suppose that’s something,” she said. “All right, we have work to do. The freighter is going to be here tonight. Millard and his people keep complaining about the danger they’re in. You two go talk to him and make sure he understands that now is not the time to panic.”