Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“If it’s any consolation, I feel like it,” Dirk said.

“You don’t want to park that ATV on dry land?”

“No, the owner was rather troublesome about me borrowing it. I suggest we get to the Alexandria as soon as possible.”

Dahlgren gunned the outboard motor and steered toward the research ship. Dirk gazed across the horizon, spotting the patrol boat speeding in their direction. A moment later, a deep rumble drowned out the whine of the outboard, and a shadow darted over the Zodiac. Dirk looked up to see a low-flying C-130 lumber over. It was painted gray, with the multicolored flag of South Africa displayed on its tail. Dahlgren waved at the plane, slowing the Zodiac to be heard over its motor.

“Search-and-rescue plane we dialed up out of Pretoria. About time they showed up. I guess we better let them know you’re safe.” He retrieved a handheld radio and informed the Alexandria of Dirk and Summer’s appearance.

While they waited for the message to be relayed to the airplane, Dirk tapped Dahlgren’s shoulder and pointed to the approaching patrol boat. “Call back and ask the plane if they would buzz those guys. Tell them we suspect they’re part of a local piracy ring.”

“I reckon the FAA doesn’t extend to these waters,” Dahlgren said, and relayed the message.

The C-130 had already receded to a speck on the horizon. Then it turned and grew larger. The pilot brought it down low, barely fifty feet above the waves. Approaching the patrol craft off its stern, it caught the crew by surprise. Several gunmen threw themselves to the deck as the roar of the four 4,200-horsepower turboprop motors engulfed the patrol boat.

The plane flew past, made a lazy turn, and came back for a second run across the patrol boat’s beam. This time, a few of the braver crewmen waved their weapons, but nobody fired a round. Undaunted, the C-130’s pilot made three more passes, each one lower than the last. The patrol boat accepted the message, reluctantly veering off and motoring back to shore. Tracking it for good measure, the C-130 hung around at low altitude for almost an hour, before dipping its wings and heading home.

Dirk looked to Dahlgren. “Remind me to send a case of beer to the South African Air Force.”

“Those boys don’t mess around, do they?”

A few minutes later, they pulled alongside the Alexandria. Dirk and Summer were surprised to see their mangled submersible on the stern deck as they were hoisted aboard.

“We found her promptly with the sonar and were able to rig her for lifting with an ROV,” Dahlgren said. “We renewed our shore search when we didn’t find you inside.”

The siblings were greeted warmly as they boarded, but Summer sensed a nervousness, even from Dahlgren, as she was helped onto a gurney. The ship’s doctor rushed them to the decompression chamber, which was already prepped with food and medical supplies.

Dirk tried to duck out, but the doctor ordered him in as a precaution. Before the hatch closed, Dahlgren poked his head inside to ensure they were comfortable.

“Might not be a good idea to linger around the area,” Dirk said. “We were able to plant all the seismic sensors before our run-in with the patrol boat. We can deal with the thugs another time.”

“The captain’s already winding us up for a run to Durban at flank speed.” Dahlgren’s face was taught and serious.

“Why Durban? I thought we were headed up to Mozambique from here?”

The doctor yelled from behind the chamber to seal the hatch.

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Dahlgren said. “Your dad and Al have gone missing in the Pacific.”

Before the words could sink in, the heavy metal hatch closed, and the chamber’s occupants were pressurized back into the depths.

50

PITT FELT LIKE HE WAS IN A CHAMBER OF HIS OWN, only his was a chamber of horrors.

By the hour, the dank prison he shared on the Adelaide felt more and more claustrophobic. A daily rise in the outside temperature had turned the bay into a stifling-hot oven. Making matters worse, the heat intensified the foul odors generated by the confined men and two dead bodies.

Pitt felt constant hunger, but was thankful they were given plenty of drinking water. Periodically the hatch door would be thrown open, and two

armed men would toss in boxes of bread and other dried stores from the galley. The prisoners valued the brief gusts of fresh air nearly as much as the food.

Pitt and the SWAT team had tried formulating an escape plan, but their options were nonexistent. The storage bay had been stripped of any tools or equipment to force another exit. The locked hatch, they found, was guarded around the clock. Multiple attempts at testing the handle or hinges were instantly met by a rapping from a gun barrel on the opposite side. Whenever the hatch was opened to deliver food and water, at least two men stood ready with assault rifles.

Noticing the stale rolls they had been given to eat had hardened to the consistency of granite, Giordino suggested using those to attack the guards.

Pitt’s friend rebounded swiftly from his wound, which somehow showed no signs of infection. After sleeping nearly three straight days, Giordino had awoken with an irritable vigor, and he quickly regained his strength despite the sparse diet.

While most of the men grew resigned to their captivity, a few began losing control. Fights broke out among the crew of the Adelaide, while another man gave in to fits of hysterical yelling. Pitt felt an uneasy gratitude when he noticed a reduction in the ship’s engine revolutions, signaling their arrival in protected waters.