Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

Pitt needled his way through the brush, using its cover to move well clear of the millhouse. The pursuing guard exited the building too late to see him and was forced to sweep the area slowly as he called in support.

Pitt angled through the bush until he reached the cart path. Then he sprinted toward the dock as fast as his weakened legs would carry him. The path soon opened onto the dock and the remaining pile of ore. Plugrad and a few of his men were shoveling their way through the pile.

As he came off the path, Pitt held his breath, knowing he had only one means of escape. As he caught sight of the men, he saw what he was looking for. With renewed urgency, he stepped up his pace, pushing aside the thought that if his assumption was wrong, he would soon be dead.

58

PLUGRAD LOOKED UP FROM A SHOVELFUL OF ORE IN his hands when Pitt came charging down the path, pointing past him.

“I need one of those,” Pitt yelled.

Plugrad looked behind him and saw a trio of ore carts. The men around him stepped out of the way as Pitt approached. Without slowing, he ran to a lightly filled cart and shoved it toward the dock.

“The white lines!” Plugrad said, but Pitt shook him off, driving the cart forward with all the force he could muster.

On the dock, a lone guard assigned to Plugrad’s work detail had been on his radio and didn’t react until he saw Pitt thrusting the cart toward the electric lines. He swung his AK-47 toward Pitt and fired a burst.

The poorly aimed shot chewed up the dust by Pitt’s feet, inciting him to push harder. The cart’s front tires crossed the first white line, and he began to feel a tingle in his neck. The cart was now rolling freely. As the pain began to amplify around his throat, he leaped and dove inside.

He tumbled onto a small mound of ore as the cart’s rear tires crossed the line. Fifty thousand volts should have surged through his collar, killing him instantly. But the electrical charge had to find a path from the buried line to the collar. The fat rubber tires of the ore cart failed to conduct the charge, and the shocking sensation vanished from Pitt’s neck.

Fortunately for Pitt, the ground was level and the cart continued rolling, crossing the second white line onto the dock. Another burst of gunfire sounded, and Pitt burrowed into the ore at the bottom of the cart. A spray of holes punctured the sides just above his head as the guard took better aim. Pitt caught some shrapnel from an exploding chunk of ore but otherwise escaped injury.

The cart bounded across the dock, then smashed into the raised lip at the water’s edge. Pitt looked up to see the Adelaide moored above him. Ejecting himself like a jack-in-the-box, he dove out of the cart and over the side of the dock, splashing into the water below.

Caught by surprise, the dock guard didn’t fire until after Pitt disappeared. He ran to the edge and aimed his rifle at the concentric circles created by Pitt’s splash—and waited for him to surface.

Pitt struck the water near the aft end of the Adelaide, which had been backed into the inlet. He dove deep before turning and swimming hard toward the stern. The murky water offered a few feet of visibility, and he easily followed the hull’s dark contour until it tapered back and a large bronze propeller appeared.

An expert diver, Pitt was comfortable in the water and could easily hold his breath for more than a minute. He took a few more strokes past the ship and angled away from the dock. Though he was good for some additional strokes, he stopped and eased toward the surface, giving a sudden kick just before he broke for air.

His head burst from the water, and he took an easy stroke toward the far shore before grabbing another fresh breath of air, then pulled himself under. He spun and kicked down as fast as he could, swimming back toward the ship, as a spray of bullets struck the water above him.

While Pitt was in fact backtracking, the guard had bought his feigned motion to shore and aimed his shots accordingly. The gunman stopped firing long enough to yell to two approaching guards. “Cover the far shore. He’s headed over there.”

The two men ran to the head of the inlet, scanning the water for Pitt to surface.

But Pitt had already returned to the Adelaide and was swimming along her outboard hull. It was a demanding swim down the length of the big ship, which Pitt conducted underwater, surfacing quickly a few times for air. When he reached the relative concealment of the bow, he scanned both sides of the ship.

Teams of guards with dogs were beating through the jungle on the far side of the inlet. On the dock, the guard who had fired at him was speaking with another gunman while pointing at the water. Pitt saw few safe places to hide, and his position off the Adelaide was too exposed for him to remain there long.

A short distance ahead of the freighter, a small crew boat had been docked. The boat was secured with a thick chain, however, which was locked to a dock cleat. Between the two vessels a rusty ladder led up to the dock. That gave Pitt an idea. Ducking underwater, he swam to the base of the ladder in one breath. Pulling himself up a few rungs at a time, he peered over the edge of the dock—and saw the two guards running toward him.

He dropped down the ladder, surprised he’d been detected. As he was about to dive underwater, he hesitated at the sound of boots clanging on metal. He looked up and saw the men race up the Adelaide’s gangway and head to the stern. They’d not seen him after all.

The dock was now empty, and Pitt made his move, jumping up and sprinting across its width. He eyed a storage shed near the crew boat and reconsidered escaping by water. There would be tools inside the shed, something he could use to free the boat. But to get there without being seen, he’d have to loop his way through the brush.

He made it to the jungle fringe and cut across a small footpath. Following the path around a thick cedar tree, Pitt suddenly ran smack into another man rushing from the other direction. The men bounced off each other and fell hard to the ground. Pitt reacted first. He sprang to his feet, then paused when he recognized the other man.

It was Bolcke, wearing pressed slacks and a polo shirt. The Austrian was slow to get up but wasted no time in ripping a handheld radio from his belt and pressing it to his lips. “Johansson, the escaped slave is near the northern dock.”

Pitt shook his head. “I’m afraid Johnny the Whip won’t be making any more house calls.”

Bolcke stared at Pitt as his radio call was met by a long silence. Another voice came on and spoke to Bolcke in hurried Spanish. The Austrian ignored it as he stared at Pitt.

“Just stay where you are.”

“Sorry,” Pitt replied, “but I’ve decided to check out of your sadistic hotel.” He could hear voices coming from the dock and movement farther up the path, which Pitt now realized ran from Bolcke’s residence.