Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Between the three of them they overcame the force of the rushing water. The door clanged shut, and Paul wrenched the wheel over to lock it tight.

The seal was less than perfect, after all these years, and water sprayed through around the edges in several places, but it could be measured in gallons per minute. Pumps could handle that, at least as long as the door held.

Paul collapsed onto the floor and looked at the chief, who was smiling from ear to ear. “Just another day at the office,”

the chief said.

“Think I’m ready for a day off,” Paul replied. He turned to thank the crewman for coming to their aid but there was no one there. He looked around in all directions, but even after grabbing the flashlight from the chief he saw nothing but the dark hall. They were alone.

“Did you bring anyone else down here?” Paul asked. The chief shook his head. “Everyone else went topside before the attack. Why?”

Paul gazed down the hall to the stairwell. He now realized that in the dark it would have been impossible for him to see someone standing there. But he distinctly remembered a broadshouldered man with a mustache.

He decided his mind was playing tricks on him. “No reason,” he said finally. “Just making sure. Let’s get up top in case this door gives way.”

Paul grabbed the picker bar, climbed to his feet, and helped the chief up off the deck. Wearily, they slogged their way toward the stairwell and climbed up into the daylight. In the hour that followed, pumps from the Condor and one of the tugs were brought in. The watertight doors were braced and reinforced inside the ship, while the salvage divers quickly found the ruptured seam and welded a patch job over it. The ship was still leaking, and it was anyone’s guess if the hull would hold out, but as the tow got under way and the ships began to move they did so under the watchful eye of the South African Air Force, which sent fighter aircraft and armed helicopters overhead in a series of revolving sweeps.

As evening came on, the small flotilla met the first ship in what would prove to be a substantial honor guard. Within the hour, two additional warships joined it, followed by a dedicated repair vessel ready to lend a hand.

It seemed that having endured the Waratah’s loss once already, the South African government was determined not to let anything happen to her again.

With a protective force around them, Paul began to feel more at ease. He found Gamay on deck, placing samples of many different things into plastic baggies, labeling them, and zipping them shut.

She had her hair tied back, a pencil behind one ear, and her most studious look firmly in place.

Paul sat down beside her. “Almost done?”

“With the collection part,” she said, placing the samples into a plastic cooler. “I’m flying back to Durban to meet with a biologist regarding these samples. Want to come?”

“I’d love to,” Paul said, “but I want to make sure this ship reaches port.”

“I’d say you’ve done enough,” Gamay replied, “but I’ve seen that look before.”

“The job is not done until it’s done,” he said.

“I’ll be there to see you arrive,” she said, placing the lid on the container and locking it down.

He smiled, thinking back to all the times one of them had waited onshore for the other to come home. It was always an enjoyable reunion.

She stood and picked up the cooler. Paul grabbed a second cooler and they began walking to the stern, where a launch waited to whisk her over to the Condor and the military helicopter waiting to fly her to Durban.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

She laughed at the question. “Not really. Why?”

“No reason,” he said. “Just checking.”

They’d reached the ladder, where a crewman helped lower down the containers.

“I’ll be ready for that candlelight dinner by the time I make port,” Paul said.

“I’ll make us a reservation,” she said.

Paul hugged and kissed her and then stood back as she climbed down the rope ladder to a waiting boat.

As the launch peeled off and made for the Condor, Paul decided he was a man with a lot to look forward to over the next few days—dinner with Gamay, bringing the Waratah into port after a hundred and five years, and, if Gamay was right, some new insight into where the ship had been hiding all these years. At the Brèvard lair, the family mourned the passing of Egan with a somber ceremony, counterbalanced by the fact that Acosta the traitor had been killed and the hackers returned to their rightful owners.

Without delay, Sebastian put them to work. Using their own skills and the offensive capabilities of Phalanx, they were soon hacking into the American Department of Defense, the European air traffic control system, and various other entities, with the intention of wreaking havoc.