Devil's Gate by Clive Cussler
He stopped midsentence. Gamay was staring past him, a hollow look in her eyes. He turned.
Packed sediment had pressed itself against the glass of the view port. It looked almost like a sand painting, with a few swirls and striations.
“We’re buried,” Gamay whispered. “That’s why it got so quiet all of a sudden. We’re buried alive.”
18
KURT FOUND THE FIRST SEVENTY-TWO HOURS as chaperone of the sea to be twice as bad as he’d expected. No, he thought, that was an understatement, it was at least three times as bad as he’d feared.
Every group of researchers wanted special treatment, every group seemed to question the rules and his decisions, even his authority.
A team from Iceland insisted that an experiment by one of the Italian groups would interfere with the baseline data they were trying to collect. A Spanish group had been caught trying to plant a flag on the tower of rock in strict contravention of the agreed-to plan. And while Kurt found their boldness somewhat endearing, the Portuguese were ready to duke it out over the incident. He half expected pistols at dawn, the way they spoke.
Meanwhile, the Chinese were complaining about the presence of three Japanese teams, to which the Japanese responded that the Chinese didn’t need anyone there as they would just steal all the data in a cyberattack once it was downloaded anyway.
Dealing with enough squabbling to make the UN jealous was not the only problem. Along with Joe and the rest of the Argo’s crew, Kurt also had to act as lifeguard.
Most of the science teams had only rudimentary training in the ways of the sea, either on the surface or below. Two of the teams had already collided head-on. Their small boats suffered only minor damage, but it was enough to send them back to Santa Maria for repairs.
Others had issues diving. One team narced itself by using the wrong mixture, and two of the Argo’s rescue divers had to corral them before they lost consciousness. Another member of a different team had to be forced to take a decompression stop he didn’t think necessary, and a French scientist almost drowned when an inexperienced divemaster put too much weight on the man’s belt and he sank to the bottom like a stone.
In full gear, Kurt and Joe dove down and rescued the scientist, only to surface and find another team with an engine fire aboard their rented vessel. It was enough to make Kurt wish they’d never found the damn tower in the first place.
As the sun began to head over the yardarm, the day’s madness seemed to be winding down. Most of the smaller boats were heading back in toward Santa Maria. Kurt guessed the bars would fill up quickly, and stories would be tossed around, growing more extravagant with each telling. Or perhaps not. He wasn’t really sure what scientists did with their spare time. Maybe they would plot against one another all night and come out in the morning ready to cause him and Joe more headaches.
Either way he was already regretting his decision to play umpire when he stepped out onto the Argo’s starboard bridgewing and spotted a 50-foot black-hulled trawler he hadn’t seen before.
“You recognize that one?” he asked Joe.
Joe squinted off into the distance. “Wasn’t here this morning.”
“I didn’t think so,” Kurt replied. “Get the Zodiac ready.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Kurt, Joe, and two men from the Argo’s crew were skipping across the light swells, headed for the trawler. They reached it and circled it once.
“You see anyone on board?” Kurt asked.
Joe shook his head.
“You know,” Joe said, “technically, this boat’s outside the exclusivity zone.”
“Come again?” Kurt said.
“We’re three-quarters of a mile from the tower,” Joe said. “The exclusive zone is a mile in diameter. Technically, this boat’s outside that. We’re only supposed to have authority over vessels, divers, and submersibles inside that radius.”
Kurt looked at Joe oddly. “Who made that rule?”
“I did.”
“When did you start becoming a bureaucrat?”
Zavala shrugged, a wry smile on his face. “You put me at the big desk and tell me to take charge, these kind of things are going to happen.”
Kurt almost laughed. Governor Joe.
“Well, if you’re in charge, let’s widen that circle.”
“We need a quorum,” Joe said.
“Did that boxer hit you harder than I thought?” Kurt asked.
Joe shook his head and looked at the crewmen. “All in favor of enlarging the observation zone say aye.”
Kurt and the other two crewmen said aye simultaneously.
“The rule is duly changed,” Joe said.
Kurt tried hard not to laugh. “Great. Now get us aboard that boat.”
On board the trawler they found maps, diving gear, and some type of paper with Cyrillic lettering on it.
“It’s Russian,” Kurt said. “We have any Russian teams registered?”
Joe shook his head. “We got papers from their Science Ministry requesting information, but no one signed up.”
“Looks like they came anyway.”
Kurt moved to the rear of the small boat. A long anchor had been thrown out. There was no flag up, but Kurt was pretty sure a diver had gone down that chain. He noticed a pair of shoes by the dive ladder.
“Only one pair of shoes,” he noted.
“Someone went down alone,” Joe guessed.
Diving alone was crazy enough; leaving no one on the boat up above was even crazier. A little wind, a little change in the current, or the arrival of an opportunistic pirate or two, and you could surface to find yourself lost and alone in the ocean.
“Look at this,” the Argo’s crewman said, pointing to a video screen.
Kurt turned. On the monitor was a murky scene being broadcast from an underwater camera.
“Could it be live?” Kurt asked.
“It looks that way,” the crewman said, examining the setup.
Kurt studied the screen. The dark water and swirling sediment were obvious as the camera maneuvered in what looked to be a confined space. He saw metallic walls and equipment.
“Whoever it is, they’ve gone inside one of the wrecks,” Joe said.
“Unbelievable,” Kurt said. Short of antagonizing a group of sharks, wreck diving was about the most dangerous thing you could do underwater. He could not believe someone would try it alone.
“This person is far too stupid to be in our exclusivity zone.”
Joe laughed and nodded.
Kurt pointed to a second set of tanks. “Are those charged?”
Joe checked the gauge. “Yep.”
“I’m going down,” Kurt said.
A minute later Kurt was in the water, breathing the compressed air and kicking with long strokes as he made his way down the chain. Approaching the bottom, he saw a pinpoint of light and angled toward it.
Whoever it was, they’d gone into the downed Constellation. Considering that the middle of the plane was broken open like a cracked egg, that didn’t seem so reckless. But the movements of the camera had seemed odd, and as he stared at the shaking beam of light he wondered if the diver was in some kind of trouble.
Kicking harder, he made it to aircraft’s triple tail. The cone of light from inside the fuselage continued moving in a random pattern.
He swam to the break in the aircraft’s skin. The light was coming from the forward section. The random movements made Kurt think it might be floating loose. He feared he was about to find a dead diver, one who’d run out of oxygen but whose light, probably attached to his arm by a lanyard, still had battery power and was floating around above him like a helium balloon on a string.
He eased inside, working his way around tangled insulation and bent sheet metal. Clouds of sediment wafted from the front of the plane, and the oddly moving beam pierced the darkness, faded, and then came through again.
Kurt swam toward it. Emerging through the cloud of silt, he found a diver digging voraciously, twisting and pullin
He reached out and put a hand on the diver’s shoulder. The figure spun, swinging a knife toward him.
Kurt saw the blade flash in the reflected light. He blocked the diver’s arm and then twisted it, dislodging the knife. Bubbles from both regulators filled the cabin. Combined with the swirling sediment and the waving light, they made it difficult to see.
The knife tumbled through the water and disappeared. Kurt held the diver’s right arm in a wristlock. His other arm shot forward, grabbing the diver by the neck. He was about to rip the diver’s mask off—a classic underwater fighting technique—when he saw that the diver was a young woman, and her eyes were filled with panic and fear.
He released her and held up a hand with his fingers spread. Calm down.
The woman nodded but remained rigid. She motioned toward her feet.
Kurt looked down. Somehow she’d gotten her leg caught between a twisted part of the fuselage and some equipment. A jagged cut in the sheet metal marked her attempts to saw through the metal with her knife. It didn’t look like she’d gotten very far.
Kurt had a better idea. He sank down, wedged his back to the skin of the fuselage, and placed both feet on the attached equipment box. With all the strength in his back and legs, he pushed against the metal box. He expected it to snap and break loose, but instead it bent just enough.
The woman pulled her foot out and immediately began rubbing her ankle. When she looked up, Kurt put his index finger and thumb together, making a circle—the universal OK symbol. Are you okay?
She nodded.
Next he brought his two index fingers together parallel and then looked at her questioningly.
She shook her head. Apparently, she wasn’t diving with a buddy.
Just as he thought.
He pointed at her sharply and then made the thumbs-up signal.
She hesitated and then nodded reluctantly. Grabbing her light, she began to swim out of the aircraft. Kurt took a last look around and then followed.
After a decompression stop for her, they broke the surface together a few yards from her boat. She swam to it and climbed in first. Kurt followed.
Joe and one of the Argo’s crewmen remained aboard to welcome them.
The woman removed her mask, pulled back the head covering on her wet suit, and shook out her hair. She didn’t look happy to have boarders. Kurt didn’t care.
“You must be out of your mind to make a dive like that on your own.”
“I’ve been diving alone for ten years,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “You spend a lot of time exploring sunken wrecks?”
She grabbed a towel, dried her face, and then looked back at him defensively. “Who are you to be telling me what to do? And what are you doing on my boat anyway?”
Joe puffed up his chest, about to launch into an explanation. Kurt beat him to it. “Our job is to make sure you scientists don’t drown or infringe on the rules we set up. You seem to be doing both, so we came to check you out,” he said. “This boat isn’t even registered as part of the study. You want to tell us the reason?”
“I don’t have to register with you,” she said smugly. “I’m outside your official zone. Outside of your jurisdiction, as you Americans like to say.”
Kurt glanced at Joe. “Not anymore,” he said, turning back to the woman. “We enlarged it.”
“We even had a vote and everything,” Joe added.
She looked from Kurt to Joe and then back again. “Typical American arrogance,” she said. “Changing the rules to suit you whenever the need arises.”
Kurt could almost understand that sentiment, except she was missing an important fact. He grabbed the pressure gauge on her tank and turned it over. As he suspected, she was well into her reserve air.
“Typical Russian stubbornness,” he replied. “Getting angry at the people who just saved your life.”
He showed her the gauge.
“You had less than five minutes of air left.”
Her eyes focused on the gauge, and Kurt let it drop. She reached out and took it in her hand, studying it for a long moment.
“You should be glad we’re so arrogant,” he said.
She let the gauge go gently and looked up. He could see her jaw clench, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of embarrassment or anger. “You’re right,” she said finally, taking a more subdued tone. “I am . . . appreciative. I was just . . .”
She stopped and focused on Kurt, and whatever she was about to say she replaced it with a simple “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Kurt said.
He noticed a change in her demeanor, even a hint of a smile on her face. “You are the ones in charge here?” she asked.
“Unfortunately,” Kurt replied.
“I’m Katarina Luskaya,” she said. “I’m here on behalf of my country. I would like to talk to you about this discovery.”
“You can register with the liaison officer in the—”
“I was thinking more like talking tonight,” she said, focused on Kurt. “Perhaps over dinner?”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Here we go. The Austin charm in full effect.”
Kurt was too busy for this. “You’ve seen too many movies, Ms. Luskaya. There’s not much I can tell you anyway.”
She stood up, unzipping the top half of her suit, exposing a bikini top that accentuated her curves and an athlete’s midrift.
“Perhaps there’s something I can tell you,” she said. “Since you are in charge, I have some information you might be interested in.”
“You’re serious?”
“Very,” she said. “And, besides, we all have to eat. Why should we do it alone?”
“So we’re all going?” Joe asked.
Kurt cut his eyes at Joe.
“Maybe not,” Joe said. “Lots of paperwork to do anyhow.”
Kurt doubted the woman had any information of value, but he admired her blatant attempt to get him alone and no doubt see what information he might have.
It suddenly dawned on Kurt that if there was even the slightest chance that something important could be learned from Ms. Luskaya, well, then it really was his duty to find out.
“You’re staying in Santa Maria?” he guessed.
She nodded, and Kurt turned to Joe.
“I trust you guys can make it back to the Argo on your own?”
“And if we can’t?” Joe said.
“Then signal for help,” Kurt said, smiling.
Joe nodded reluctantly and motioned toward the Zodiac. The Argo’s crewmen climbed aboard and Joe followed, muttering something about “shirking responsibilities” as he went.
Kurt looked at the young woman. “Do you have a car in town?”
She smiled. “Mmm-hmm,” she said. “And I know just the place to take you.”
19
ANDRAS, THE KNIFE, stood at a pay phone overlooking the harbor at Vila do Porto. He felt as if he’d gone back in time, using such a phone to make a call. He could hardly remember seeing one over the last few years. But despite its vacation destination status, the Azores were not quite up to speed in the technology department. Many of the island’s inhabitants were less than wealthy and often did not have landlines or mobile phones, so the pay phones still sprouted in many places.
For Andras, that meant the chance to make an untraceable call, one the U.S. government or Interpol could not tap into as its digital signal flew through space and bounced off a satellite somewhere. To listen to this conversation they would have to break into a heavy trunk line buried under Azorean soil and stretching across the floor of the Atlantic to North Africa, where it made landfall.
This was not impossible—in fact, the Americans had famously done just that to a Russian trunk line during the cold war—but unlikely, considering no one had a strategic reason to care what conversations were going on between the Azorean islanders and their families and friends on the mainland.
He dialed and waited for what seemed like hours. Finally, he was connected to an operator in Sierra Leone and then to an office in Djemma’s palace. Eventually an aide put the President for Life on the line.
“Why are you calling me?” Djemma said. He sounded like he was in a tunnel somewhere—apparently there were drawbacks to using old landline technology.
“I have news,” he said. “Some good, some bad.”
“Begin, and be quick.”
“You were right. At least twenty scientific groups have shown up, with others on their way. This magnetic phenomenon seems to be drawing great interest.”
“Of course it is,” Djemma said. “Why else do you think I sent you there?”
“It’s not only scientific interest. There are some military personnel here as well.”
Djemma did not sound concerned. “That is to be expected. You will have no issues with them if you do as planned.”
“Maybe,” Andras said. “But here’s the real problem. The Americans who almost caught us on the Kinjara Maru are here. I’ve seen their ship in the harbor. Now it anchors over the magnetic tower. According to the Portuguese, they’ve been put in charge of the entire study. I’m sure there’s a military angle to it.”
Djemma laughed. “You continue to make your enemies bigger than they really are, perhaps to add glory to your name when you knock them down, but it smacks of paranoia.”
“What are you talking about?” Andras asked.
“You were not attacked by U.S. Navy SEALs or Special Forces, my friend. These men from NUMA are oceanographers and divers. They find wrecks and salvage ships and take pictures of sea life. Honestly, I’d have thought you could handle them. I wouldn’t let it get out that they bested you so easily, it may reduce your ability to charge such outrageous fees.”
Djemma laughed as he spoke, and Andras felt his blood beginning to boil.
“Are you worried about facing them again?” Djemma asked, needling him.
“Listen to me,” Andras said, growing furious. And then he paused as a sight he could hardly believe came walking right up the dock toward him. The same silver-haired American who’d interfered with him on the Kinjara Maru, walking with a dark-haired woman he recognized as the Russian scientist he’d been told about. As they drew closer, Andras recognized the man in a more concrete way.