Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Don’t worry. Saving you is on my honey do list for today.

“It’s Paul,” she said with a sigh of relief.

He continued to tap. Get ready to be reeled in. You first, then Duke.

Thank you, she tapped out. You are my knight in shining armor.

Paul flashed his lights a few times and moved to the side. Only now did she see the ROV beside Paul, a high-strength cable gripped in one claw. Showing surprising dexterity for a man with giant metal pincers for hands, Paul hooked the cable to the Scarab’s pic

kup bar and stepped away.

The cable went taut and the Scarab began to rise once again. This time it continued upward, hauled by the winch for thirty solid minutes, until it broke the surface at the aft end of the Condor. Thrilled to be on the surface, Gamay and Elena were both surprised not to be lifted aboard and instead only secured to the side of the ship.

“What’s going on?” Gamay asked as she climbed out of the hatch.

“Technical difficulties,” the chief replied. “Sorry it took us so long to get you but we’ve had our own problems.”

Gamay smelled smoke and noticed that portable generators were rumbling beside the winch that had just hauled them from the seafloor. The cable was spooling out so that it could be hooked to Duke’s stricken sub.

“We’ve had to jerry-rig everything,” the chief said. “We’re operating on one engine, and the men are controlling it by hand. If it gets any worse, we’ll be sewing the bedsheets into a sail.”

Something told Gamay it wouldn’t get that far, but she wouldn’t leave the deck until Paul surfaced with Duke’s Scarab beside him. As he came up, smoke began pouring from the vents to the engine room, and two of the crew came stumbling out through the smoke.

“That’s it, Chief,” one of them said. “The bearings have gone out on the starboard gearing.”

“Fire?” the chief asked.

“No,” the crewman said, “just smoke.”

The chief nodded. “Keep an eye on it.”

Paul was lifted aboard moments later. As he was extricated from the ADS, he was given the bad news.

“Get on the radio,” he said. “Call for a tow.”

“Right away,” the chief said.

“And, Chief,” Paul added. “Tell them not to send anything fancy. We want the oldest, least automated rust bucket of a tug they can scrounge up.”

With a plan that went no further than getting themselves to Korea, Kurt and Joe had packed quickly. Their host, Mohammed El Din, gave them a lift to the airport in his armored limousine, bidding them farewell in the traditional Arab style: with a hug and a kiss on each cheek and parting gifts.

To Joe he gave a small hourglass.

“The hourglass is to help you learn patience,” El Din said. “It didn’t seem to help you,” Joe noted.

“Why do you think I’m getting rid of it?”

Joe laughed, and El Din’s beaming smile came out again. El Din turned to Kurt next and handed him a small case.

Opening it, Kurt found an antique revolver, known as a Colt Single Action Army. It was in excellent condition, chambered for Colt’s .45 caliber rounds, six of which were lined up in a neat row beneath the barrel. It was the type of weapon a gunfighter might carry—in fact, the Single Action Army was often called the Gun that Won the West. It was the standard U.S. sidearm from 1873 until 1892.

“Dirk told me you collect dueling pistols,” El Din explained.

“This is not exactly of that era, but I thought you would like it. It was given to my great-great-grandfather by an American who helped my family escape from Barbary pirates.”

“I can’t accept this,” Kurt said. “I should be giving you a gift.”

“You must take it,” El Din said, “or I shall be offended.”