Arctic Drift (Dirk Pitt 20)

“Or the lives that it is about to cost?” Zak added with a twisted grin.

Beyond the thick timbers of the ship’s hull, the sound of automatic gunfire suddenly erupted. But the noise was oddly distant. It was clearly too far away to be directed at the ship, and there was no return fire from Giordino above deck. There were also two distinct tones of fire, representing different types of weaponry. Somewhere out on the ice, a pitched battle was going on between unknown parties.

Under the dim light of the cabin, Pitt could detect a subtle look of concern cross Zak’s face. There was no sign of Giordino, but the wheels of determination in Pitt’s head had finally devised an alternative game plan. Though he felt faint from loss of blood, he knew the time to act was now. He might not get another chance.

He stood back a bit and lowered the glass plate, as if he was done studying it. Then he casually flipped it back toward Zak, or at least attempted to make it look casual. But instead of sliding it across the table, he flung it sharply a few inches above the surface. And rather than aiming for Zak, he whipped it toward the candle lantern in the center of the table.

The heavy glass plate easily smashed through the side of the lantern, scattering glass shards across the table. But of more importance to Pitt, the plate knocked debris across the candlewick, extinguishing the short flame that burned inside. In an instant, the Great Cabin plunged into total darkness.

As the plate struck the lantern, Pitt was already on the move. He immediately dropped to the deck, falling to one knee behind the end of the table. Zak was not a fool, however. The professional assassin had his hand on the gun even before the candle flickered out. He quickly raised the gun and fired at the opposite end of the table.

The bullet flew harmlessly over Pitt’s head. Ignoring the shot, he placed his hands on the two stubby table legs beside him and started shoving the table toward Zak. The assassin fired two more shots, using the muzzle flash to try to locate Pitt in the black room. Realizing Pitt was shoving the table forward, he fired at the far tabletop while trying to rise from his seat. His aim was dead-on, but his move to stand was too slow.

A short seam of bullets struck the tabletop inches from Pitt’s head, but the thick mahogany surface devoured the lead slugs. Protected by the hard wood, Pitt propelled the table with rising momentum. Driving against the wooden legs, he bulled forward with every ounce of energy he could muster, ignoring the ache in his arm and the dizziness in his head.

The far edge of the table caught Zak in his midsection, throwing him back into his chair before he could get to his feet. The pile of glass plates dumped on top of him, disrupting his attempts to keep firing. Pitt continued to drive his rectangular battering ram, which now took Zak with it, sliding him backward in his chair. Both bits of furniture slid several feet until the rear legs of the chair struck an uneven deck plank. The legs held while the table kept coming, knocking Zak over and backward, where he fell to the deck with a crash. In his hand, the Glock still barked, firing harmlessly into the tabletop even as Zak tumbled over.

Pitt heard the crash, but it was only through the brief muzzle flash that he knew Zak was knocked down. He was now exposed to Zak’s fire from under the table, but he didn’t hesitate, even as he heard the gun discharge again. Digging his shoulder into the underside of the table, Pitt drove his legs into the deck and pushed upright with his last burst of strength, tilting the burly table up on its end, until it landed on Zak’s legs. Pitt nearly had the table turned over when he felt his left leg buckle from under him. Lying on his back, Zak had fired three blind shots under the table, then slid his legs free. Two rounds whizzed by harmlessly but the third found Pitt’s leg, burying the bullet into his thigh. Losing his balance, Pitt quickly shifted his weight onto his right leg and leaned into the table.

He was a second too late. Zak had got to his knees and deflected the table to the side, shifting Pitt’s momentum. As the massive table began to totter, Zak rose and used his superior strength to twist it aside.

Suddenly lacking in leverage, Pitt was thrown sideways with the table, crashing into the bookshelves in the stern. The sound of shattering glass filled the darkened bay as Pitt was flung into the paned shelf doors. He then dropped to the deck, followed by the hefty table that collapsed onto him with a dull thud. The table ripped through a half dozen bookshelves along the way, releasing a cascade of books and wooden shelves and glass that tumbled on top of the overturned table.

Zak stood nearby, breathing heavily as he caught his wind, while keeping the gun pointed at the table. But straining his ears, he heard not a sound. There were no groans, no shuffles or movements at all from Pitt’s buried body. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Zak could faintly detect Pitt’s lifeless legs protruding from beneath the table. Scouring the floor around his own feet, he put his hands on the heavy ship’s logbook. Pulling it to his chest, he stepped cautiously toward the lighted passageway, then moved slowly down the corridor without looking back.

86

ABOVE DECK, GIORDINO WAS HAVING HIS OWN troubles. After a lengthy break in the action, he spotted three new gunmen broaching the base of the ravine undercover. While he crouched at the rail waiting to get a clear shot, additional gunfire broke out somewhere on the ice. Blocked by the ravine and misting fog, Giordino had no clue what the firing was about but noted that it had no effect on the three men advancing toward the ship. He let them draw closer before popping up with the musket and firing at the nearest gunman. The man dropped to the ground at the sight of the defender, and Giordino’s shot just barely missed, the bullet ripping harmlessly through the man’s parka. The gunmen learned their lesson and began to provide covering fire alternately, allowing the others to advanc

e. Giordino moved along the ship’s rail, sprouting up and firing from different locations before having to duck the return fire. He wounded one of the gunmen in the leg before the other two closed on the ship under combined fire. Emptying the last of his loaded muskets, Giordino was forced to fall back to the ladder well, wondering what was taking Pitt so long. Focused on his own firefight, he had not noticed the gunshots fired below in the Great Cabin.

“Dirk, I need a reload on the muskets,” he shouted down the ladderway, but there was no answer. He aimed the shotgun at the side rail, then readied two percussion-cap pistols in his lap. Just a few more shots and he’d be helpless, unless Pitt arrived quickly.

Near the base of the ladderway, a tall figure slowly waded through a mass of antique armament lying on the deck and peered up. Giordino sat ten feet above, perched on the top two steps with his eyes fixated on the side rail. Had he looked down, he probably wouldn’t have even spotted Zak staring at him from the dimly lit lower deck. Zak contemplated letting his security team finish the job but figured it would be more expedient to kill Giordino himself. Shifting the ship’s logbook into his left arm, he steadied his feet and raised his automatic pistol at Giordino.

He failed to detect the sound of pained steps shuffling down the passageway somewhere behind him. But he flinched when a loud warning cry suddenly echoed down the corridor just as he was about to squeeze the trigger.

“Al! ”

Zak turned and gazed down the passageway in disbelief. Standing beneath a candle lantern twenty feet away and looking like death personified was Dirk Pitt. His face was a bloody mess from a dozen glass cuts while an ugly purple knot glistened on his forehead. His right sleeve was wet with crimson, matching his left leg, and a bloody trail followed him down the corridor. He held no weapons and leaned on his good leg with a grimace of agony on his face. But battered and shot, he stared at Zak with complete defiance.

“You’re next,” Zak hissed, then turned his focus back up to Giordino, who had returned Pitt’s call but was still unaware of the situation below. Zak aimed the Glock at Giordino a second time but was distracted by a bright blur that flashed toward him. Turning to Pitt, he saw that the wounded man had hurled the candle lantern at him. A weak throw, Zak thought to himself, as the lantern fell short of the mark. He gazed at Pitt and snickered with a shake of his head as the lantern shattered near his feet.

Only the throw wasn’t weak. The lantern struck the deck exactly where Pitt had aimed it, a few inches shy of the black powder cask they were using to reload the muskets. Awash with powder spilt from their rapid reloadings, the deck beneath the ladderway was an inferno-in-waiting. The shattered lantern immediately ignited the loose powder in a flash of smoke and sparks that flared at Zak’s feet. The assassin instinctively recoiled, backing away from the flare-up while unknowingly moving closer to the black powder cask. An instant later, a trail of black powder burned up to the cask and it detonated in a deafening explosion.

The blast rocked the ship, shooting smoke and flames up and out the ladder well. Pitt was knocked to the deck and showered with flying debris, most of which was absorbed by his heavy wool jacket. With his ears ringing, he waited several minutes for the smoke to clear before limping over to the ladderway, coughing from the acrid residue in the air. The side bulkheads were blown out and a large hole in the deck now opened through to the orlop deck, but the remaining damage was relatively limited.

Pitt saw a boot lying near the hole and realized grimly that a detached foot was still inside. Looking up, he saw the boot’s owner a few feet away.

Clay Zak had been blown partially up the ladder well, and his mangled body was now embedded in the steps. He hung upside down, his open eyes staring vacantly off into space. Pitt stepped closer and stared at the dead assassin without pity.

“I think you were due for a blast,” he said to the corpse, then turned and peered up the smoky ladder well.

87

THE FORCE OF THE BLACK POWDER EXPLOSION had launched Giordino up and off the top steps of the ladderway, throwing him onto the deck eight feet away. His clothes singed, his lungs burning, and his body nicked by a bounty of splinters and bruises, he had nonetheless survived the blast in one piece. As the explosion’s thick cloud of black smoke drifted away from the ship, he struggled to shake off the daze. He fought a pounding in his head and a symphony of bells ringing in his ears as he painfully rolled to his side. Wiping some grit from his eyes, he stiffened as one of the black-clad gunmen poked his head over the rail.

Giordino had lost his weapons in the explosion and the gunman quickly realized it. Rising without fear, he stood at the rail and calmly swung his machine gun to bear on Giordino.