“Where are you taking them?” the major asked.
“Luxor. It’s the nearest hospital that has power.”
“Take him with you,” the major said.
“Who is he?” the private asked.
“His name is Joseph Zavala. He is a hero of the Egyptian people.”
CHAPTER 62
ONE WEEK LATER PAUL AND GAMAY TROUT WERE SITTING around a large circular table in the luxurious Citronelle restaurant in Washington, D.C. They were joined by Rudi Gunn and Elwood Marchetti. They ordered cocktails and traded stories while waiting for the other guests to arrive.
“What’s going to become of your island?” Paul asked Marchetti.
The inventive genius shrugged. “It’s ruined beyond repair. And no one can step aboard until we’re sure all the bots are cleaned out. It may take years. By then the Indian Ocean will have battered Aqua-Terra until it sinks down to the seabed.”
“That’s dreadful,” Gamay said. “All those years of effort gone forever.”
Marchetti smiled slyly. “That’s what the insurance company is going to say when I put in a claim for irreversible infestation.”
Paul glanced over at two empty chairs. “Where are our honored friends?”
“Not to mention our dinner benefactors,” added Rudi Gunn.
Kurt and Joe’s bet had been ruled a tie. They were glad to agree to split the tab and just thankful they were alive to host the party. Though no one had heard from them yet this evening.
“What’s the latest on the Pickett’s Islander’s Pain Machine?” Gamay asked.
“Our computer division scoured it out of long-missing files,” Gunn answered. “It was described as a secret World War Two project created to stop Japanese banzai missions. In those days, the Japanese believed it was a glorious thing to die for the Emperor. When they couldn’t attack using normal flanking maneuvers, they would make suicidal charges in human waves, shouting, ‘Banzai!’ or ‘Tenno Heika Banzai!’ which meant ‘Ten thousand years of rule to the Emperor!’
“The Pain Maker was designed to incapacitate the attacking force and allow the Americans to capture and interrogate valuable prisoners while stopping wholesale slaughter the Japanese were intent on causing themselves.”
“Why wasn’t the machine used during the war?” asked Paul.
“Soon after the John Bury went missing, the War Department determined that the machine was too easy to replicate if captured and could be used against our island assault forces.”
“And now the machines from Pickett’s Island sit in some obscure military warehouse, gathering dust,” added Gamay.
“That’s the size of it,” replied Gunn.
At that moment their attention became focused on a tall, craggy figure with dark hair and sharp green eyes who entered the private dining room.
“Please don’t get up,” Dirk Pitt said with a broad smile. He held up a small card in his hand. “One of the Agency’s credit cards. This one is on Uncle Sam.”
Gamay laughed. “Kurt and Joe will be happy.”
“Where are they?” asked Paul.
“Right behind me,” Dirk said, motioning toward the arched doorway.
They all turned toward the doorway as Kurt walked in with Joe, and Leilani a step behind. The women embraced. The men shook hands, hugged one another and kissed the ladies on the cheek.
“We have a head start on you,” Paul said, motioning a waiter to the table. “What will be your pleasure?”
Dirk ordered a Don Julio Blanco Tequila on the rocks with lime and salt. Joe took a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Leilani preferred a Kettle One Cosmopolitan while Kurt asked for a Bombay Sapphire Gin Gibson straight up—a martini with onions instead of olives.
“Well, now,” Dirk said to Joe. “Since you’re the man of the hour, with a gold star on your chart, show us your Egyptian medal.”