Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“And a patrol boat with a bent nose?”

“No patrol boat. I can hike there in under an hour and call the Alexandria. We’ll have you napping in the ship’s decompression chamber in no time.”

“Plan A it is.”

Dirk placed a hand on her shoulder. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”

“Yes, as long as he doesn’t get any ideas about sharing burrows.” She pointed to the old tortoise. The big reptile had traveled less than twenty yards since they awoke, lying on the beach, tossing sand with his flippers.

“He’ll never make it back here in time.”

Dirk turned and moved off down the beach. The morning sun was already baking the sandy terrain, so he followed the shoreline, where the ocean breeze kept it cooler. The growing heat and a dry throat made him crave a drink of water. He knew he was dehydrated, which only added to his lethargy. But Dirk put the thought out of his mind and focused on walking as quickly as his weak legs and shoeless feet permitted.

The narrow beach ended abruptly at a steep crag of limestone that jutted into the sea. He had to turn inland until the rock face shrank and he could climb up a short incline. The top of the rock was flat, and it melded into a series of low hills that continued to the inlet two miles beyond. The white superstructure of the docked freighter peeked like a mirage above a distant sandy ridge.

Summer’s condition gripped Dirk’s mind, compelling him to hike fast. It had been less than twelve hours since they had escaped the submersible, so her chances for a full recovery were still good—if she could make it to the chamber soon. His concern kept him moving until he reached a small rise forty minutes later. Just below was the small lagoon, encircled by low hills that neatly concealed the ship and dock facility.

As he descended the western hill, he could see it was a bare-bones complex. There were just two permanent structures. A small dorm-like building rose near the inland side, while a warehouse stood at the opposite end of the dock. Between them was a high metal awning that he’d mistaken for a third building. The awning stretched the length of the dock, providing shade to several large mounds of granular sediment. Dirk first thought it was salt from some nearby flats, then noticed it was gray in color.

The freighter, a midsized bulk carrier, sat opposite, occupying every inch of the dock facing. Dirk couldn’t make out the name but noticed its yellow funnel sported the image of a white flower. A handful of men were moving one of the mineral piles onto the ship with front loaders and a conveyor belt.

The heavy equipment, combined with a nearby generator, filled the air with clamor. No one noticed Dirk as he climbed down the hill and approached the open warehouse. Inside, he could see a mechanic overhauling a small motor. Dirk started to walk into the building, then froze in his tracks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he had caught sight of another vessel in the lagoon. With the freighter occupying the length of the dock, the second craft had been forced to tie up on the freighter’s outboard side. It had been obscured from view as he descended the hill, but the lagoon’s swirling waters had shifted its mooring so its bow was now visible—including the freshly scraped gouge on its prow streaked with yellow paint. The patrol boat.

Inside the warehouse, the mechanic looked up and saw Dirk. He gave him an odd look and let out a shout. From the back of the warehouse, a young man in green fatigues rushed out, carrying an AK-47, which he aimed at Dirk’s chest. A flood of words spewed from his mouth in a dialect that Dirk didn’t understand, but the intent was clear.

Dirk stared at the gunman in disbelief, then opened his palms and slowly raised his arms into the air.

48

RATHER THAN CONTEMPLATE HER PARALYZED LEG, Summer focused her thoughts elsewhere. She stared at the radiated tortoise plodding across the beach, then gazed wistfully at the empty sea. Finally, she considered the object buried in the mound she had slept against.

The material that Dirk had exposed was thick and rubberized. By daylight, she could see that the mound was in a distinct oblong shape, formed by the object buried within. Summer studied the material, rubbing her hand across the faded letters that had been stenciled in black.

Barbarigo. It sounded Italian, which piqued her curiosity. Using her driftwood shovel, she scraped away the sand above the word, revealing a compressed roll of the rubber material. She could tell it had once been inflated. Digging some more, she saw that it was a rubber raft. It was old, but well preserved by the layers of beach sand built over it.

She dug down on the opposite side of the layered rubber and soon struck a hard, flat object. Scooping away the sand, she saw it was a hardwood bench, presumably one of several in the large raft, offering another hint of its age. She continued digging and exposed another section of rubber, the raft’s flooring. A small ribbon of blue material poked through the sand, catching her eye. Using her hands, she carefully brushed away the sand, exposing more of the material. It was round in shape, and she saw it was a sailor’s cap. Tugging gently, she freed it from the sand, but then suddenly gasped, dropping it from her fingers.

Underneath the hat, she had exposed the grinning skull of its owner.

THE WAREHOUSE CONTAINED a small machine shop, along with several workbenches stacked with carpenters’ stores. Banks of lube oil and diesel fuel lined one wall, near a large humming generator. A small forklift and two all-terrain vehicles were parked near an open tool bin by the door. The bay was dimly lit, but warmed by the sounds of an African percussion band blaring from a CD player.

Dirk absorbed all this as he was marched into the warehouse and ordered to stand against a corrugated tin wall. The mechanic and the gunman conversed for a moment in what Dirk guessed was Malagasy, then the mechanic ran to report the presence of the intruder.

The gunman stood next to the workbench with the disassembled motor, rocking on his heels as he held his weapon on Dirk. He was young, no more than seventeen. His hair was worn long, and he stood with a sulking hunch. It was easy to see he had no formal military training. Grease stains covered his military-style fatigues and his fingers. Dirk guessed he was primarily employed as a mechanic’s assistant, with secondary duty as a guard.

In a relaxed manner, Dirk brought an open hand to his mouth and tilted it up as if drinking. “Water?” he asked in a raspy voice. “L’eau?”

The gunman eyed Dirk closely. The NUMA marine engineer carried no visible weapons, his hair was full of sand, and his jumpsuit was caked with dust. He wore no shoes, only dirty, frayed socks. Emerging from the desert in such a condition, he seemed anything but a threat.

The gunman relaxed slightly and slowly turned to the workbench, where a khaki daypack sat on a stool. He pulled a canteen from the pack’s side pocket and tossed it to Dirk.

Dirk unscrewed the cap and gulped down several swallows of the water. It was warm and somewhat foul, but he would have gladly consumed a gallon of the stuff. He smiled at the gunman, then savored a few more gulps.

“Thank you,” he said, and replaced the cap.

He took a cautious step forward and reached out with a long arm to return the canteen. The gunman hesitated before stepping forward and extending his free hand. Dirk waited for the young man?