Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

The crew imprisoned in the Sargasso Sea’s wet lab recoiled when the lone door was flung open. One of the ship’s helmsmen, a diminutive man named Ross, was shoved through the door, clutching a large cardboard box. A pair of armed commandos followed him in and scanned the room from behind the muzzles of their assault rifles. They nudged Ross forward to distribute the box’s contents.

“Ross, is that you?” Captain Smith asked from the back of the bay. He was seated in a desk chair with his feet propped on a stool and his chest wrapped in gauze. While he was still weak, his eyes were bright and alert.

Ross made his way to the captain, passing out bottles of water. He moved gingerly, sporting a black eye and a bruised cheek.

“Sir, the ship’s been relocated nine miles off the coast. A crew boat came alongside a short time ago. My Spanish is a little spotty, but I think one of the commandos on the bridge said they brought some explosives aboard and they intend to sink the ship tonight with us on it.”

Smith’s ashen face seemed to pale further, then a swell of anger turned his cheeks red. “Keep that to yourself, Ross.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you know of the crew being held in the other lab?” Giordino asked.

“They seem to be holding up fine except for Tyler, who’s lost a lot of blood. They let me drop a box of provisions there before I came here.”

“Is that what’s in the box?” Smith asked.

“Yes, a bit of a mad mix of food stores. They gave me ten seconds in the galley, so I grabbed whatever was within reach.”

“You!” One of the guards motioned to Ross. “Hurry up. And no talking.”

“Distribute that to the rest of the crew,” Smith said.

Ross nodded, passing out apples and water as he made his way up front. The guards escorted him out of the lab and locked the door behind them.

The captain motioned to Dirk and Giordino. “We’re in a tight fix,” he said in a low voice. “Any ideas?”

“It’s a sure bet we’re supposed to ride the ship to the bottom,” Dirk said. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of options.”

“There’s no way out of here on our own accord.” Giordino waved his arm around the lab. Immediately after being locked up, he’d examined every square inch for an escape route. But absent a blowtorch, there was none. The lab was essentially a big steel box with a single entry point. “Our only chance will be to jump the guards next time they open the door.”

Dirk nodded. “It’s all we can do.”

Smith shook his head. “There are always at least two armed men at the door. You’ll both get killed.”

As he spoke, the captain squirmed in his seat, causing his legs to slip off the stool and crash to the floor. The pain wrenched through his shoulder and he cursed.

Standing closest to him, Dirk helped readjust his seat. As Dirk bent down, he noticed that a lower shelf on the lab bench held a large bottle of iodine and several other reagents used by the lab’s scientists. As he examined the bottles, an idea formed.

“Captain, about Al’s suggestion . . .” He rose to his feet, clasping a few of the bottles. “What if I can improve our odds a bit?”

61

Pitt came to amid a clamor of voices. He rubbed his eyes, shaking off a grogginess that made him forget where he was. He rolled onto his elbows, and the sharp pain in his left shoulder instantly restored his memory of the helicopter crash. He peered through a low hedge of bushes to locate the source of the shouting.

It came from some divers on a military dive boat working a short distance offshore. A small inflatable cruised the shoreline, presumably looking for survivors. He was stunned at their sudden arrival, then glanced at his Doxa wristwatch and realized he had been out for nearly two hours. He touched his hand to the gash on his neck and shoulder, feeling a mass of dried blood. No wonder he’d passed out.

From the commotion on the dive boat, it seemed the rescue team had located the remains of the helicopter. Pitt watched as five body bags were passed over the boat’s rail to a team of divers in the water. It wouldn’t be long before someone would realize there had been a sixth person of interest aboard the chopper.

Pitt took stock of the terrain. He had staggered into a small grove of bay cedar shrubs growing beneath a banyan tree. It was the only significant cover for thirty yards around. The open beach stretched for a half mile to his left, while a boulder-strewn bluff blocked passage to his right. Behind him was an open, rocky incline that rose toward the inland jungle a short distance away.

Pitt was considering a path up the hill when he heard the sound of brakes squealing just above. He spied the top of a canvas-covered military truck pull to a stop near the jungle fringe. There was a road atop the hill. But for now it was out of reach as a squad of Revolutionary Armed Forces soldiers dispersed from the truck and began combing down the slope toward the beach.

Pitt moved to the corner of the thicket and crawled under a large bay cedar as a pair of soldiers trod by. They didn’t linger but instead proceeded through the thicket and onto the beach. But something caught the attention of one of the soldiers. He stopped and looked down, examining the sand at his feet.

It was Pitt’s footprints. They led one way from the surf, up the beach and into the thicket. Pitt watched as the soldier slowly traced the prints back to the banyan tree. The ground was firm around the base of the tree, the prints less distinct. The soldier pivoted around as he searched the area. There was no way Pitt could avoid detection, so he took to the offensive. Waiting until the soldier turned away, he sprang from the bush.

It took Pitt two steps to reach him undetected. He swung his fist, delivering a blow that struck just above the soldier’s belt, forcing him to stagger. He spun around to bear his assault rifle, but Pitt was ready. He grabbed the barrel and jammed it to the soldier’s chest, then delivered a blow to his face with his free hand.