Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“Good,” Kurt said. “Now that we’ve got that straight, you’re getting on a plane and getting out of here. I appreciate the thought, but I’m not dragging you into this. This is my problem, not yours.”

“You can’t send me home,” Joe said.

“Why not? I’m your boss.”

“You’re on a leave of absence,” Joe reminded him. “Technically, you’re not anybody’s boss at the moment.”

“You’re still going home.”

Joe shook his head. “Sorry, amigo, no can do.”

He reached into a pocket, produced an envelope, and handed it over to Kurt with a hint of glee in his eyes.

As Kurt opened it, Joe flopped down on the couch, put his feet up, and placed his hands behind his head as if he were planning on staying a while.

Inside was a note in Dirk Pitt’s handwriting. It contained no orders, only a few brief words and a quote from Rudyard Kipling.

Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and as true as the sky;

And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back—

For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

We need you back in one piece, Kurt. And you need our help.

Dirk

“What’s it say?” Joe asked. “I’ve been dying to read it.” Kurt considered what Dirk was trying to tell him. “It says I’m stuck with you. And lucky to have such good friends.” “Muy bueno,” Joe said. “Anything in there about a raise and my request for hazard pay?”

“Afraid not,” Kurt said, folding up the note and sliding it into his pocket. He looked over at Joe.

Despite his gruff tone, Kurt was glad to see his best friend.

Joe was the kind of friend who never wavered, never hedged his bets. He was all in at all times. Always there for those he cared about. Even if the task was going to be difficult, Kurt could count on Joe to go the distance.

Just as important, Joe was a mechanical genius. He built and maintained most of NUMA’s advanced submersibles, ROVs, and other exotic mechanical equipment. His work on cars was legendary: he’d made one fly and another swim. He’d even turned a golf cart into a five-hundred-horsepower drag racer. “Maybe you can be of assistance after all,” Kurt said. “I need to figure a way onto a yacht called the Massif. It’s moored in the harbor, guarded by twenty-four-hour security and filled with armed thugs. And I almost forgot, I have to do this all without disturbing a posh gathering of people who may or may not be hardened criminals.”

Joe looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. A look Kurt had gotten used to over the last months. But no more than ten seconds passed before Joe perked up.

“I suppose you can’t sneak on with the catering crew.” “Not unless I learn to speak Arabic in record time,” Kurt said. “Nor can I approach her on the surface. Or expect to get aboard while she’s moored. I think our best bet is from below while she’s moving.”

“You’ll need a submarine.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Kind of short notice,” Joe said. “Can’t exactly build one from scratch.”

“What about something I can ride?”

“A diver propulsion vehicle?”

Kurt nodded. “Can you build me something that will catch a yacht?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “But where do we get the parts?” “Funny you should ask,” Kurt grinned. “I have an idea.”

An hour later, while El Din was securing a fishing boat that would not draw much attention, Kurt and Joe were at the airport looking over a sprawling parking lot of dusty cars.