“Mathias,” Andras ordered, speaking to the African man, “chain him to the lift bar.”
Kurt stared at the bar. It
resembled a towel rack, mounted on the Barracuda’s hull just outside the cockpit. It was a hard point on the hull, the strongest spot on the entire submersible. Welded directly to the frame and made of carbon steel, the lift bar was designed to hold the entire submarine’s weight when she was pulled from the water by the Argo’s crane.
It was not a spot Kurt wanted to be handcuffed to.
Mathias took a key from around his neck and undid Kurt’s handcuffs. Immediately, Kurt swung an elbow, catching one of the white men in the mouth. Almost instantly the other white man slammed Kurt in the back of the head, crashing his skull against the frame of the cockpit.
Kurt felt a moment of dizziness. When his head cleared, he felt his arms draped over the outside of the Barracuda’s hull, even though his body was mostly in the cockpit. His cuffs had been undone and recuffed around the lift bar.
“And the other one,” Andras said.
Joe was thrown in next to Kurt and given the same treatment. And while they sat there helpless, Andras grabbed a shotgun.
“Slugs,” he demanded.
A box was handed to him, and he began filling the weapon with the solid projectiles. When it was fully loaded, he pumped it and walked around to the rear of the submarine. He fired two quick blasts into the impeller and then a third into the starboard wing.
The Barracuda’s hollow wing began to take on water. Andras raised the weapon and blew a hole in the port wing.
Kurt could not remember feeling so desperate. He knew they were about to go under, a horrible death awaiting them, and his mind grasped for a way to cheat it.
“You think drowning us ends this?” he shouted. “We know about you. Our whole organization knows.”
Joe said nothing. Kurt could hear him breathing fast and deep, trying to pump his lungs full of air. Kurt knew he should be doing the same, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t going out quietly.
As the water filled the Barracuda’s wings, Kurt frantically tried to shout something that might make Andras call a halt to the proceedings. If he could just convince him they were valuable enough to spare, even if it was just for a while, it would give them a chance.
“We know about your submarine,” he shouted.
Andras raised an eyebrow. “Do you, now?” he said. “That’s more than I thought you knew. But, at any rate, it’s not mine.”
Feeling the slightest bit of traction, Kurt pressed. “We know what you’re up to. We know about the energy weapon.”
This seemed to hit closer to the mark. Something in Andras seemed to stir, and his eyes began to light up. He stepped closer.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the spirit. I knew you wouldn’t give up.”
It seemed as if he’d realized Kurt’s desperate gambit and was taking great delight in being part of it.
“Come on, what else?” he shouted
Kurt didn’t respond right away, and Andras grabbed Mathias and yanked the key and its rope from around the man’s neck.
“Come on, now,” he shouted sarcastically, “You’re Kurt Austin of NUMA! Surely you can do better than that. Give me some more. Give me something that will make you matter.”
Katarina stood and rushed forward as best she could. What she had in mind, Kurt didn’t know — and most likely she didn’t either — but she didn’t get far. One of the armed men grabbed her and yanked her back, flinging her to the deck, and Kurt’s blood burned even hotter.
“Time’s running out, Austin,” their tormentor said. He brought out the knife that he and Austin had already traded twice and flipped open the titanium blade. He locked it into place and tied the key’s lanyard through one of the holes on the handle.
The Barracuda’s wings were awash now; any second the cockpit would start filling. There were precious few seconds left.
“We know about the superconductor,” Kurt said, hating himself for being led along. “We know who sold it to you,” he lied. “We know it was loaded on the Kinjara Maru in Freetown.”
Andras looked down as if thinking. He glanced briefly at Mathias and then turned back to Kurt, smiling maniacally.
“Good enough,” he said, moving forward with the knife in his hand. “Good enough for half anyway.”