The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

“Then we should go back to the shipwreck and intercept—”

Golov shook his head. “They could be gone by the time we arrive. Or we might wait there for days before t

hey return, and we don’t have time for that in our schedule. No, the best plan is to make them come to us.”

Antonovich’s private jet would meet them in Ibiza. The Achilles would only be in port long enough for the transfer to the plane.

“What lure do we have?” Ivana asked.

“Money. They showed up in Monaco claiming to be insurance investigators. That means they care about what happened to the deposits, and I don’t think it was because they were hired to look into the heist. Assuming they operate as mercenaries, like the admiral thinks they do, then I’d say we made a big hit on their finances.”

Ivana nodded. “Then they’ll want it back.”

“I know I would. This is yet another occasion when having someone on the Monaco police force has been useful.”

“What are you thinking?”

After Golov was done outlining the plan for her, he said, “We need to get a message to the captain of the Oregon. One that he can’t ignore.”

Ivana smiled. “I think I can take care of that.”

“Send him a pleasant invitation.”

“Do you think he’ll come?” she asked as her fingers danced across the keyboard. “He’ll suspect it’s a trap.”

Golov kissed his daughter on the forehead and stood to go back to his cabin and get a good night’s sleep. “That, my dear, is exactly what I’m hoping.”

FORTY-THREE

When the Narwhal had collapsed, Juan’s only option had been to head for the biggest railgun hole in the deck that he could see close by, which was below him. He’d made it just before the ship slammed into the seabed, but the jagged edge caught his thruster pack, pinning him to the bottom. It took him a couple of hours to wriggle free enough to jettison the pack. He could now move freely, but he was limited to the hobbling walk similar to the ones seen in the films of moonwalking astronauts.

His light was strong enough to show the jumble of metal and equipment that lay on what was now the floor of the upside-down ship. The cracked visor seemed to be holding, and since there was nothing he could do about it, he tried to ignore the star pattern staring him in the face. He explored the interior of the expansive open hold, hoping to find a hole big enough for him to squeeze through, but he couldn’t even locate an opening big enough to see through.

His acoustic backup communication system was useless because it would be blocked by the steel hull. He chose a spot closest to the outer hull and began tapping out the famous • • • — — — • • • , representing the universal call for help, SOS. Several times during the hour that he’d clinked the mechanical claw against the steel frame of the ship he’d heard the faint whirr of Nomad passing close by. He’d tapped as hard as he could, but the sub kept on going without stopping.

He had lost track of time when he heard the sound that he’d expected to come many hours later. It was a warning beep, signaling that his battery power was fading fast, another casualty of one of the impacts the suit had withstood. Not only did the battery power his light but also the carbon dioxide scrubber that was keeping him alive. If it failed, there was only enough oxygen in the suit to last for five minutes before he passed out.

The beep indicated that it would fail in twenty minutes.

He kept tapping the monotonous rhythm of the SOS. Nomad passed by yet again, and he amped up the volume as much as he could. The whine of the impellers stopped for a minute, giving Juan hope that he’d been heard. Then they started up again, and Juan was prepared to hear the motors fade into the distance.

But this time, the sound came toward him.

He clanged away with both claws so they could home in on his location. The motors came to a stop again, quite close.

He stopped tapping and listened.

A slow, methodical set of bangs against the outer hull gave him a renewed hope. It had to be Nomad’s less responsive robotic manipulator, tapping its own message on the ship. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

We are here, Juan, Linda tapped with Nomad’s arm.

Thought you left, Juan replied.

Not a chance. We will get you out. Are you hurt?

No. 15 min of air left.

There was a pause, probably because they realized there wasn’t enough time to bring down a cutting torch to get him out.