Nighthawk

by Clive Cussler

  Holding his breath, Kurt reached for his own knife, but Vargas kicked his wrist and knocked it free.

  In desperation, Kurt fired a punch upward, hoping to catch Vargas in the neck, but the blow was deflected by one of the man’s large forearms. A second punch hit Vargas in the solar plexus but did nothing to make him back off.

  As Kurt fought, the struggle took on a surreal appearance: sediment swirled around them; the light strapped to Kurt’s wrist flicked this way and that. Kurt sensed his muscles growing weary from lack of oxygen. He saw Vargas pull out his own knife and raise it for a lethal blow. It came plunging down hard. At the very same moment, Kurt thrust his knee upward, slamming it into the man’s groin.

  Both impacts occurred simultaneously.

  Vargas spit out his regulator and doubled over in agony. Kurt felt the impact of the blade and watched the water around them churn red in the light.

  With a last desperate grab, Kurt reached upward and grabbed Vargas’s mouthpiece and snapped it off with a twist.

  Vargas reacted with instinctive panic. He pushed off the bottom with both feet, launching himself toward the surface and leaving Kurt behind in a swirling haze of crimson water.

  42

  Urco stood in the clearing in complete control. Everything was proceeding as he’d designed it.

  The Nighthawk had been freed from its watery pen and laid at his feet, while agents from each of the competing nations had become his prisoners: the American men and women; the surviving Chinese agent at La Jalca, where she remained in chains until he chose to summon her; and the Russian bomber pilots, in a high cave behind the waterfall.

  They were captives now but would soon become his servants—though they didn’t know that just yet.

  Glancing across the water, he could see his divers in the Zodiac. “Give me the radio,” he said to one of his men.

  A walkie-talkie was handed to him. “Vargas,” he said, pressing the talk switch down. “Do you read?”

  It didn’t take long for a voice to answer. “I’m here,” Vargas grunted.

  He sounded like he was in pain.

  “What happened?”

  “We have the woman,” Vargas said. “But I had to kill Austin. He fought too hard. I gutted him and left him on the bottom. I had no choice.”

  Urco received that news with a trace of disappointment. He’d come to respect Austin in the brief time they’d known each other. The man had offered him the truth about the Nighthawk instead of insulting his intelligence with a lie; he’d reacted with introspection instead of arrogance when Urco pointed out the devastation caused by the European viruses to the indigenous population.

  “Very well,” Urco said. “Bring Ms. Townsend to me. I require her services.”

  “On our way,” Vargas replied.

  Urco clipped the radio to his belt and turned his attention to the survivors. They were on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Urco’s men stood behind them with various weapons drawn.

  “Kurt is dead,” he announced.

  Neither of the men batted an eye.

  “He didn’t have to die, but he chose to fight. I hope you take it as a lesson.”

  He walked back and forth, listening to the sound of the Zodiac approach. When he noticed that Zavala was eyeing him every step of the way, he approached the helicopter pilot, crouching down in front of him for a better look.

  Zavala had a quiet intensity about him. From his features, hair and skin color, Urco could tell he had a large amount of Central American DNA in him.

  “Where are you from?” Urco asked.

  “New Mexico,” Zavala replied.

  “And your parents?”

  Zavala was not the hostile sort; his confidence came from within and he appeared less than threatened even in this situation. “Why would you want to know?”

  “Call it hereditary curiosity,” Urco said. “I find many people in this world don’t know who they really are. Just by looking at you, I can tell you have European blood in your veins—like I do—and while you’re at ease here, your soul is of the Americas. We are cousins. I would suspect to find that much of your blood is from the Olmec and the Maya.”

  Zavala did not look away or argue. He was a master of his own emotions. “My blood is red,” he replied. “Like everyone else’s.”

  Urco pursed his lips and stood. “We shall see.”

  By now, the Zodiac had reached the shore. Emma was marched up through the weeds and out into the clearing. She still wore her wet suit. Her mouth was taped.

  “Remove that,” Urco said.

  “She spits,” Vargas said angrily.

  Urco expected she would be trouble. He knew how fiery she could be. He looked her up and down. She was . . . different. Age and time had changed her, of course, but there was something more. The weight of knowledge; the invisible burden? He bore it, too. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage, but first he needed her to understand how truly powerless she was.

  He turned to Vargas. “Go get the other boat and begin phase two.”

  As Vargas left, Urco reached out and gently removed the tape from her mouth. “My apologies for such harsh treatment.”

  She stood, defiant, casting a challenge at him with her eyes, not seeing but posturing. He accepted that. It was to his benefit that she be blind with rage. At least a little while longer.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Emma demanded. “Who are you working for? The Russians? The Chinese?”

  “Of course you’re confused,” Urco told her. “Why wouldn’t you be? Right now you’re wondering which of your great enemies has corrupted the little servant you found at La Jalca? It must be one of them, musn’t it? Since the rest of the world is filled only with pawns to be moved by the players of the great game. Isn’t that what your time at the NSA has taught you?”

  She pulled back, no doubt because none of them had ever mentioned the National Security Agency.

  “To answer your question,” he continued, “I work for neither the Russians nor the Chinese but for all of humanity.”

  Her gaze tightened and the fine lines around her eyes deepened, enough to suggest he had her thinking. That was good.

  “And at this juncture,” he added, “humanity requires your help.”

  “I won’t help you do anything.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, waving an indifferent hand. “You’re required to say that. Duly noted, but I assure you, you will help me. In fact, you’ll literally spring to your feet to do it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the Nighthawk. The craft was still dripping muddy water from the landing gear. It appeared larger in the clearing but low to the ground, thanks to those stubby legs.

  Arriving beside the nose, Urco found the touch screen panel he was looking for. He tapped it until it came to life and then entered an alphanumeric code. A green indicator flickered and a small door opened just aft of the touch screen panel.

  Reaching in, he grasped a recessed handle.

  “Don’t,” Emma said.

  He ignored her and pulled the handle, first to the side and then down. As he released it, the sound of hydraulic actuators powering up became audible. A pressure seal between the cargo bay doors released with a hiss and they slowly began to open.

  As the doors locked in place, Urco stepped up on the wing and gazed into the interior. In contrast to the black outer hull, the cargo bay was done in a gleaming, sterile white.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Emma insisted. “If you’re not careful, you’ll kill us all.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to show me, then? Prevent me from tinkering?”

  Emma was led up beside him. They stood together gazing down into the interior of the payload bay. A maze of power packs, wires and cylindrical tubes were lined up front to back. The arrangement was per
fectly symmetrical.

  “Two by two,” Urco said, pointing out matching components with the words Cryogenic Containment Unit stenciled on top.

  “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “Don’t fool yourself more than you already have,” he replied. “We both understand exactly what we’re looking at. Mixed-state matter. The most powerful reactant known to exist, gathered for the first time in vast quantities.”

  Emma turned toward him. “And I suggest you leave it alone.”

  “I suggested the same thing a decade ago,” he shot back. “But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?”

  She stared at him looking confused. He hoped the little riddles were getting to her. He needed her to be off balance.

  “Disconnect the first containment unit and hook it up to one of the fuel cells you’ve brought along,” he said. “That was the next step, wasn’t it? Search for the plane, but take the cargo and blow the rest to scrap metal.”

  “We never intended to blow anything up, just to—”

  “Come now,” he said. “You were never going to carry an eight-ton load over the mountains and all the way back to Cajamarca. The strain that would place on the helicopter would have been dangerously high, not to mention the strain on credibility when the Peruvian officials got wind of it. They’d want to know what it was, why it was here and why they hadn’t been informed in the first place.”

  He turned and whistled to another group of his men. They went into the Air-Crane and came out carrying a suitcase-sized device; it was one of the fuel cells Joe and Paul had been given in Cajamarca.

  Emma looked crestfallen. The exact look he was hoping for. “We would have come back for the rest of the craft,” she said.

  “You may still get that chance,” he replied. “In the meantime, you will detach the first containment unit, hook it to that fuel cell and make certain it’s safe enough to be transported.”

  “Transported where?”

  “Stop asking questions,” he said. “You can easily guess where.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t do that. It’s too dangerous. All of this is too dangerous.”

  He could have chosen to threaten her friends at that moment, but he had no intention of wasting time. Most likely, they would all be willing to die rather than cooperate. How dreadfully boring, he thought. No, there was a much easier way.

  He turned back to the cargo bay, looking for a piece of equipment with a shape he knew by heart. “Power converter,” he said. “Connects the battery pack to the containment unit. Steps up and intensifies the current in order to run the cryogenic pump. Each of the units has one of its own. Thankfully, they’re still operating.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Ignoring her, he pulled out a pistol, extended his arm and fired a single shot. The power converter connected to Containment Unit 1 was punctured instantly.

  “No!” she shouted.

  It was too late. The damage was done. Warning lights started to flash in the cargo bay and on the exterior panel.

  “Release me,” she shouted.

  He cut the tape from her wrists and she climbed over the low sill and into the cargo bay. She crouched beside Unit 1, scraping frost from the outer edge of the panel. Despite a layer of thick insulation, the surface temperature was still forty degrees below zero. The lights showed a complete power disconnect. They had sixty seconds to get the unit hooked up to the replacement pack.

  “Bring me one of the fuel cells!” she called out.

  “No,” he said. “Disconnect the unit and remove it. We’ll hook up the power cell out here.”

  She looked at him, terror in her eyes. There was no arguing. She turned back to the unit and went right to work. He could see her running through a mental checklist. One he knew well.

  Switch to internal power.

  Remove the voltage regulator.

  Disconnect power delivery cord.

  Shut off cryogenic exchanger and wait five seconds for the fluid to cycle.

  He could see her counting. When she got to 5, she reached beneath the unit. Four latches held it in place. Three of which were easy to access. The fourth, Urco knew, lay in an awkward spot.

  He cocked his head to watch as she stretched and winced, trying to pull the latch free with her fingers. With a snap, it came loose. When she brought her hand out, it was bleeding.

  She ignored the blood, stood quickly and moved to one side of the unit.

  “Help me,” she called out. Each unit weighed a hundred and forty pounds. Powerful magnets and cryogenic tubes filled with slush helium accounted for most of the weight. But inside the tubes and magnetic bottles lay the supply of exotic and deadly matter. Twenty-five pounds of it in each of the eight units.

  At her request, Urco climbed into the cargo bay himself. He donned a pair of gloves and grabbed the frame of Unit 1. They lifted together, heaving it upward and carrying it over the lip. Two of his men took it from there and set it down on the wing.

  “Please reconnect the device,” Urco asked calmly.

  Emma climbed out of the cargo bay, hopped off the edge of the wing and rushed to the fuel cell that had been brought out to them.

  Urco imagined a clock was ticking in her head: But there was plenty of time.

  She flicked through a series of switches on the side of the fuel cell and watched as it came to life, making energy instantly.

  She grabbed the power cord and rushed to the containment unit but ran out of cord a foot shy of the connecter.

  Urco stood absolutely still; neither did any of his people move. But Joe Zavala did. He jumped to his feet, dashing past the man who was guarding him, grabbing the fuel cell and carrying it closer. Urco grinned at the cooperation.

  Emma connected the cord. In quick succession the amber lights blinked out and the entire panel went green. The power was back on. The frozen slush began to circulate again. The antimatter would remain suspended in the magnetic bottles, held safely at a temperature near absolute zero.

  Urco smiled and clapped loudly at their efforts. “Excellent work. I trust we won’t have to go through this again.”

  Emma’s chest heaved as the effort and the adrenaline had sent her heart pounding. She looked up at him and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’d rather not.”

  He grinned. Another battle won. The pretense that they could resist him was gone. Wiped from their thoughts. It no longer mattered what he intended to do with the antimatter. Whether he planned to sell it to the Russians or to the Chinese or to auction it off to the highest bidder in a worldwide contest.

  It didn’t matter whether he promised to free them, kill them, or keep them prisoners until the end of time. None of that mattered. Any and all outcomes were preferable to a world of darkness brought on by the mixed-state matter escaping its magnetic prison and exploding all at once.

  He owned them now. He owned them all.

  43

  Daiyu sat in darkness. She’d been placed in the back of the same truck that she’d hijacked on the mountain road. Her hands and feet were bound with cord, cinched tight by men used to tying off knots that climbers’ lives depended on. Despite hours of trying, she could neither loosen the bond nor pull free.

  She’d chafed her wrists bloody from the effort before switching tactics. Sliding herself across the wooden floor of the trailer, she’d gone back and forth until she found a rough spot where a nailhead had worked loose from the planks.

  Flipping over, she’d positioned her hands near it, writhing in the dark and rubbing the cord across the nail until her muscles cramped from the effort. Collapsing onto her side, she felt for the edge of the rope. It was damaged and fraying, but she couldn’t tell if it was enough.

  She relaxed, waiting for the painful spasms in her back to pass, so she could begin again.

  She would get out. They would not stop
her. She would complete her mission. And if she got the chance, she’d kill every one of the Americans and their new Peruvian friends in the process.

  Breathing deeply but otherwise still, she caught the sound of voices approaching outside. Heavy boots were scuffing against the dry soil of the mountain road.

  She instantly redoubled her efforts, grinding the rope across the exposed nail with maniacal intensity.

  It had to snap. It had to.

  She heard the key hit the padlock and then the handle being thrown over. An instant later, the door slid upward and the white light of day poured in, blinding her.

  As she shut her eyes against it, two men climbed into the vehicle, grabbed her by the feet and pulled.

  “No,” she grunted, kicking at them. She was so close to freedom.

  The men hauled her out and set her on the ground. With a pull and twist, the knot on her legs came undone. Thoughts of running vanished when she tried to stand and fell to the ground on numb legs that couldn’t even support her weight.

  She looked upward at the men, squinting in the light. They were only silhouettes. Two standing above her, a third off to the side. A forth shadow just beyond.

  The fourth man spoke English to them. “What happened to her? Where did the bruises come from?”

  To her surprise, there was a familiar tone to the voice.

  “She fought with the American,” one of the Peruvians replied.

  “Pick her up.”

  They grabbed her arms, lifted her and allowed her to lean against the bumper of the truck. The man who sounded familiar came into view. It was Lieutenant Wu, General Zhang’s aide.

  “Black Jade,” he said quietly. “The General is astounded to hear that you have been . . . subdued so easily.”

  Embarrassment flooded through her, the sense of failure peaking so strongly that she could not look at him.

  “Untie her,” Wu ordered.