Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“Jackpot,” Pitt said.

Ann limped her way across the room, where a large executive desk was positioned next to two easy chairs. A pair of laptop computers sat open beside several bound journals and stacks of schematic diagrams. Ann picked up a journal and read a few lines of the handwritten notes.

“This is dated just a few days ago,” she said. “He describes a series of successful tests of ‘SM’ in the lake and his plans for a final saltwater proof run in San Diego.”

“SM. That would be Slippery Mumm.”

“Thank goodness. His notes and data look to be all here. The plans haven’t been lost.”

The words had barely left her mouth when the lights to the house went off, leaving them in a sea of blackness.

23

THE TWO MEN HAD PULLED UP SHORT OF THE CABIN upon seeing a car parked in the drive. The driver opened the trunk, and each man retrieved a Glock semiautomatic pistol and a pair of night vision goggles. Darkness had enveloped the mountain lake by then, and a moonless night offered little illumination.

With trained stealth, they surveyed the cabin’s perimeter and located the electrical panel box. Prying open the cover, one of them found the main breaker and flipped it off.

Inside the windowless lab, it turned as black as a mine shaft at midnight. Ann let out a faint gasp. “What a place to be when the power goes out,” she said, a nervous uptick in her voice.

“May be just a power surge,” Pitt said. “Stay still for a moment so you don’t trip and fall.”

As they waited, an uneasy apprehension bedeviled Pitt’s thoughts. “Try turning on the laptop computer for light,” he said. “It should have some battery power.”

“Good idea.” Ann set down the journal and felt on the desk for one of the laptops. She located one and pressed a variety of keys, hoping to locate the power button.

From inside the house, Pitt heard the hall floorboards creak. They weren’t alone. He reached toward the workbench beside him and ran his hand across its surface, probing for a weapon. Ignoring some strands of loose wire, he felt a tool—a tiny pair of needle-nose pliers—and he palmed it in his hand.

“There, I think I got it,” Ann said. The computer began to boot up, and she spun the screen toward Pitt, casting the room in a turquoise glow. The faint light reached the house door just as it burst open. Two intruders charged in, then froze as they surveyed the interior.

Pitt saw they were both short but muscular, dressed in dark clothes and wearing night vision goggles. They held Glocks at arm’s length and swept the room mechanically until locking sights on Ann and Pitt.

“Do not move!” the lead assailant shouted with a slight Spanish accent.

He produced a flashlight and aimed its beam at them. Ann had to squint when the light lingered on her face.

The gunman strode forward, keeping his weapon trained on Pitt. “Back against the wall,” he said, illuminating the path with his flashlight.

Ann eased up her crutches and hobbled over to Pitt, then they both stepped to the side wall. A door in the wall led to the backyard, and Pitt gently nudged Ann closer to it as the gunman called to his partner. The second man approached and took up a guard position in front of Ann and Pitt, his gun fixed on them. The other man holstered his weapon, raised his goggles, and used his flashlight to begin searching the lab.

He was thorough, Pitt noted, and he knew what he was looking for. He started by examining the laptops and desk journals Ann had found, then methodically searched the lab itself. It took nearly ten minutes before he returned to the desk and organized the items he wanted. Locating an empty plastic bin, he stuffed it with Heiland’s notes and journals.

Ann huddled close to Pitt, stunned that she was staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time in two days. Anger began to push aside her fear as she saw Heiland’s work being stolen right in front of her. Emptying the desk drawers, the burglar stuffed the contents into the bin, finishing it off with the two laptops.

“Are you done?” the man standing guard asked.

“Almost.” The other man glanced at Ann and Pitt with annoyance. “Stay here with them until I get back.”

He hoisted the bin onto his shoulder and crossed the lab, guided by his flashlight.

A few seconds after he left the room, the guard called out to him, but he received no reply.

Pitt could hear the intruder as he lumbered through the house and exited the front door. He didn’t have to be a psychic to know nothing good would come from his return.

Without the lights from the flashlight and computer, the garage had again turned inky black. Too black, Pitt realized with a sudden flicker of hope. The guard’s night vision goggles required some form of ambient light to function, be it only faint starlight. But the only source of ambient light in the garage was the laptop computer and it had been removed. That’s why the guard had called to his partner—because he could no longer see anything.

Pitt’s theory was confirmed when he heard a zipper being pulled open on the guard’s jacket. He was fishing for his own flashlight. Pitt didn’t let him make the catch.

Pulling one of Ann’s crutches from her grasp, he spun it into a battering ram and charged forward. He could only hope that the guard remained where he was when his partner had left, five feet directly in front of Pitt.