Nighthawk
Page 35
“Nowhere near as bad as it could have been,” Rudi said. “Hawaii and the Aleutians fared the worst, but physical damage was minimal. A sixteen-foot tsunami hit Waikiki, but the larger wave went to the west. Ironically, Japan shielded the Chinese coast, but since they’ve been preparing for this since the Tohoku tsunami a few years back, they were ready.”
She’d been hearing the reports for days. She was thankful.
“Surprised the NSA let you come up for air,” Hiram said. “Figured they’d have you working round the clock on the mixed-state matter you brought home.”
“It’s a huge controversy,” she said. “I think they plan to send it all back into space.”
“The irony,” Rudi said.
“Anyway, they have no more claim over my time,” she said. “I’ve resigned. As of an hour ago, I’m officially unemployed.”
“Really?” Rudi said. “Want to help us?”
He pointed to an open spot at the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching for Kurt, Joe and the Russians,” Priya said.
She looked at the map: it was the eastern Caribbean.
“The Navy and the Coast Guard are a little busy running emergency supplies to the Pacific Rim, so we figured we’d jump-start the effort on our own,” Rudi explained. “We’ve got NUMA assets, private aircraft and chartered boats on the search. These are areas we’ve checked. And these are other possible search zones.”
“But nothing yet,” she said.
Rudi shook his head.
Emma sat down. “I’ll help any way I can,” she said. “I hate to think of them out there—suffering, fighting off sharks and dying of thirst.”
“They’re tough and well trained,” Rudi said. “I’m sure none of that will be a problem.”
69
Kurt narrowed his gaze against the blinding glare of the high-noon sun. “Sharks,” he said grimly. “The whole lot of you.”
He threw down a hand of cards in disgust, tossing them onto a flat section of wood that was serving as a makeshift poker table.
Across from him, Davidov grinned as he collected a literal pot of gold from the center. “I assure you, I played honestly,” he said.
“A spymaster who played fairly,” Joe said from the other side of the table. “I doubt it.”
“Scrupulously,” Davidov insisted. “Is it my fault you have squandered all your chips?”
Kurt leaned back. They were sitting on a pristine white sand beach with the turquoise Caribbean waters lapping at the shore just beyond. Among their few possessions were a rubber raft, a deck of cards, a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch that was nearly empty and a million dollars in Russian gold coins that Davidov had brought along in case the Falconer tried to gouge him further on the price.
They’d survived ejecting from the bomber because, unlike a fighter aircraft, the Blackjack ejected the entire cockpit in an enclosed ballistic capsule. They’d landed in the sea, floating down on three large parachutes and then transferred to the rubber life raft. After a day at sea, they’d rowed ashore on the island and set up a small camp.
Two fires burned. The first, a signal fire; the second, to heat water as part of a jury-rigged desalinization system that Joe had designed. It provided several cups of water each hour. Plenty to keep them going. Though none of them wanted a drop until the scotch was used up.
Using a long, jagged stick as a spear, Kurt had caught several fish, which they’d deboned, cooked and eaten with gusto.
Since then, there had been nothing to do but drink and play cards and wait for someone to rescue them. The gold coins were their chips, but after starting with even amounts, Kurt was down to his last ten chips.
“Deal again,” Kurt said. “And, this time, from the top of the deck.”
Davidov laughed and shuffled.
As Kurt waited for the cards to be dealt, he grabbed the bottle of scotch, brought it up toward his mouth and then put it back down again. “I think I hear a boat,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Timonovski said. “You’re just trying to get out of the game.”
Despite the Russian’s doubts, the sound grew louder until a twenty-foot fiberglass powerboat rounded the point and cruised into the empty cove. It came straight toward them and the signal fire, beaching on the sand a few yards from the poker table.
A young man in a red polo shirt and white shorts was at the wheel. He jumped down onto the shore. “What are you people doing here?” His official tone clashed with the outfit and the soft lilt of his Caribbean accent.
“Losing at poker,” Kurt said.
The others laughed. The young man seemed baffled.
“You can’t be here,” he said. “This is private property.”
“We didn’t have much of a choice,” Joe said. “Our plane crashed. We bailed out. This is where we ended up.”
“But why did you stay on this side of the island?” the man asked.
Kurt, Joe and the Russians looked at one another, confused by the strange conversation.
“Is the other side of the island more hospitable?” Davidov asked.
“I should hope so,” the man said. “They have a Ritz-Carlton over there.”
Kurt looked at Joe and burst into laughter. The island was several miles across; the center was all hills and sand dunes; it had appeared completely deserted. It was pitch black at night, without the slightest hint of civilization.
“Don’t they have lights at the Ritz-Carlton?” Kurt asked.
“All lights are out since the big flash in the sky.”
“Ahh,” Kurt said. “That’s kind of our fault.”
Joe and the Russians laughed at that, but the man in the red polo shirt did not seem amused.
Kurt held out the last of his gold coins. “I offer ten thousand dollars for a ride to the Ritz.”
Joe held up a hand as if he were bidding at an auction. “And another ten thousand if you tell everyone you found us at sea.”
“Good thinking,” Kurt said. “Well worth it.”
The man looked at them as if they were crazy. Sunburned, scruffy, ripped clothing and a near-empty bottle of scotch confirmed it for him, but he couldn’t leave them there.
He ignored what he must have believed was fake gold and walked back to his boat. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you. But rooms are expensive. They may want you to pay up front.”
As they climbed into the boat, Kurt offered a sly grin. He had the scotch. Joe, Davidov, Timonovski and the flight engineer carried the gold. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Clive Cussler is the author or coauthor of over fifty previous books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt®, NUMA® Files, Oregon® Files, Isaac Bell, and Sam and Remi Fargo. His nonfiction works include Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt and Built to Thrill: More Classic Automobiles from Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt, plus The Sea Hunters and The Sea Hunters II; these describe the true adventures of the real NUMA, which, led by Cussler, searches for lost ships of historic significance. With his crew of volunteers, Cussler has discovered more than sixty ships, including the long-lost Confederate ship Hunley. He lives in Colorado and Arizona.
Graham Brown is the author of Black Rain and Black Sun, and the coauthor with Cussler of Devil’s Gate, The Storm, Zero Hour, Ghost Ship, and The Pharaoh’s Secret. A pilot and an attorney, he lives in Arizona.
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Clive Cussler, Nighthawk