The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

Joe stayed down longer than he needed to. Han and his people were pressed for time. That’s what the guard had told them. This was Joe’s chance to make the delay worse.

Another shock was sent forth. Joe winced and twisted as the energy passed through him, causing his muscles to tighten and lock. He bit through part of his tongue in the process and felt a wave of relief when the pulsing stopped.

“Stand up and state your name,” Gao said.

Slowly, Joe got to his feet. He remained stooped over on purpose. Record this, he thought. Looking up, he gave them a twisted countenance. His face as screwed up as he could make it. To enhance the effect, he did his best I, Claudius imitation, faking a stutter and a facial tic.

He turned from camera to camera, giving them a good look. Gao must not have been watching directly because he simply asked his question one more time.

“State your name.”

“‘What’s in a name?’” Joe said, sounding as British as he possibly could. “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . .’”

There was a pause and for a second Joe thought he might have gotten away with it, but the surging pain of the electric shock hit him again. This time, it was stronger and lasted longer.

Some part of his mind knew they couldn’t kill him if they hoped to use his replacement. But that meant little as he flopped around on the ground like a fish out of water.

It was a full twenty seconds of agony before the current was shut off. Joe’s body shook, his teeth hurt and one particular metal filling felt as if it had melted. His mind was an absolute blank.

“We have calibrated the current to cause maximum pain but no lasting damage,” Gao said. “We can do this all night. Now stand up, state your name and read the following paragraph.”

The projected image of a statement came on and Joe tried to focus. Pretending to surrender, he got to his hands and knees, thought up a new prank and wearily began to straighten. He wasn’t sure how long his body would hold out, but he would die before he would give them anything they could use.

* * *

• • •

WITH HIS HANDS on the rusted pipe and his feet on the wall, Kurt climbed down into the pit. He was ten feet below the rim when he encountered his first obstacle: one of the anchors that held the old pipe in place.

It was still attached to the wall, but loosely. Sixty years of erosion had seen to that. Working it back and forth with a controlled force, he soon broke it loose from the rock.

He slipped the chains around it and slid down farther. The next anchor was completely corroded and Kurt didn’t even have to strain to break it in half.

He continued down. The farther down he went, the more rusted the pipe became. With each move, flakes and dust fell like red snow. Every few feet, the chain caught in a crevice on the pipe.

Kurt was looking for a connector where two sections of the pipe had been joined. During his years salvaging wrecks (and sinking other ships on purpose), he’d learned that corrosion always set in first at the joints. Those were the weak points in any system. Microscopic gaps allowed water to pool and rust to bloom. Mechanical stress of movement caused metal fatigue and damage. Even on the oldest ships, hull plates rarely gave way, but rivets and hatches failed with regularity.

With the rainwater dripping down from above and the seawater rising and falling with the tide, Kurt would soon find a spot where corrosion had worked enough of its magic. The connection might even look healthy from the outside, but the metal itself would be eaten away internally like a rotten tree.

He was still searching for the weak spot when his feet hit the water. He dropped in, fought against the natural buoyancy of his wetsuit and descended into utter darkness.

The chain scraped along the pipe as he descended. When his thumb pushed through a rusted section, he knew he’d struck gold. Holding his breath and positioning the chain where he felt the corrosion had done the most damage, he pulled with a sudden jerk.

The back half of the pipe crumpled and he pulled again. More progress, but not enough. He began sliding the chain back and forth, using it like a saw. He could feel the jagged metal giving way: a chunk here, a section there.

Suddenly, the chain burst through and he was free and swimming.

He kicked upward, bobbed calmly to the surface and took a deep breath.

A circle of light could be seen up above. He’d come down forty feet. The climb would be a joy.

* * *

• • •

HAN WATCHED the farce in the recording booth without a hint of glee. Zavala was on the floor again, having endured several additional rounds of shock treatment. He’d used three additional accents and recited an Irish limerick before collapsing once more.

He now lay in a heap, breathing heavily but otherwise unmoving. Steam rose from his scalp.