Ghost Ship by Clive Cussler
“May you live in interesting times,” Gamay whispered to herself.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind her. “Are you Gamay Trout?”
She turned to see a man wearing a navy blue suit and an open-necked, button-down white shirt. He offered his hand. “My name is Jacob Fredricks. I’ve heard a rumor that you might have discovered the SS Waratah. Is that true?”
Gamay hesitated.
“I worked with NUMA on an expedition looking for the ship years ago,” the man explained. “Unfortunately, we came up empty.”
She recalled the name. And though she wasn’t sure if this man was who he said he was, she doubted there was much danger to her or the ship anymore. As the truth was obviously leaking out from several sources, she decided to tell him what she knew.
They spent the next two hours discussing the ship’s vanishing and the time Fredricks thought he’d found it, only to learn he’d discovered a World War Two cargo ship torpedoed by the Germans.
“I’m almost relieved to know the ship has been beached somewhere all this time,” he told her. “Makes not finding her on the bottom a little easier to take.”
Gamay smiled and told him about the incidents that had occurred since the discovery. Fredricks seemed surprised by what he heard but mentioned that odd theories and occurrences had always surrounded the ship.
“A psychic once held that they’d made land and started a new civilization,” he explained.
“Closer to the truth than we might have guessed,” Gamay said, though it was pretty clear that the passengers never made land.
“One of the strangest stories took place in 1987,” he said.
“When you thought you’d found the wreck?” she asked.
“No, that was years later,” he said. “Back in ’87 an old, double- end lifeboat was found adrift off the coast of Maputo Bay, Mozambique. By some fisherman, if I recall. There were three people in it. A woman and two boys. The woman had a slight bullet wound, but it was not fatal. Unfortunately, dehydration was . . . for all three of them. They were identified as part of a family that had been abducted years before. Authorities thought they’d escaped from somewhere up the coast. Somalia was the prime suspect. It was a pretty lawless place even back then.”
“Sounds terrible,” she said. “But what does that have to do with the Waratah?”
“The old lifeboat they were in was rotted half to the core. It had been hastily patched and sealed with household items and wouldn’t have lasted much longer, had it not been found. Several experts insisted it was a design used and built from 1904 to 1939. Years later, someone did a computer analysis of the photos taken then and claimed to discover the remnants of lettering still visible on the highest plank, basically because the layers of paint had limited the erosion. I truly can’t remember how they did it, but in the photo the writing could have been interpreted to spell Waratah.”
Gamay sat back, stunned. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head. “At the time, everyone assumed it was a hoax. Like that alien autopsy video. But now, after what you’ve found, there is a possibility it might be true.
“And then there was the Klaar River Gang,” he said, moving on to a new subject.
“I was just reading about them,” she said.
“Some think they bribed their way aboard the ship,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Yes. And then drowned when it went down.”
“Except that it didn’t go down,” Gamay noted. “Could this gang have hijacked the ship?”
“From what I’ve read, they were ruthless,” he told her. “If the ship was taken over, they would have been just the kind of people to do it.”
Gamay found her mind swirling. She wanted to investigate everything this man had told her. But before she could do anything, her phone buzzed. A text message requested that she return to the laboratory, where the samples were being analyzed.
“I have to go,” she said. “I would love to talk more when I have some time.”
“Anything for NUMA,” he said, handing her a business card and shaking her hand.
Gamay left the library and returned quickly to the lab. The biologist who’d led the team summarized the results.
“Have you been able to give us some idea of where the ship might have been?” she asked.
“You’re in luck, Ms. Trout,” the biologist told her. “You’ve found several species that exist in only one place on Earth.”
He showed her the skeleton of a small animal that one of Paul’s deckhands had dug up during the excavation. She thought it looked unique when she was putting the remains in the plastic case.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A fossa,” he said, showing her a picture of the animal.
“It looks like a cross between a cat and a kangaroo,” she said, looking at the picture.
“It’s actually a type of mongoose,” he replied. Next he showed her a large moth—it had been just emerging from a cocoon when Elena had spotted it. Neither of them could believe how large it was.
“This is a moon moth,” the biologist said, before moving over to the spiders they’d found on the first night. “Golden orb-weaver spider,” he explained. “While there are many species like this around the world, what we found in its web is unique.” He pointed to an insect, one that had been wrapped up in spider silk. “Giraffe weevil,” he explained, handing her a magnifying glass.
She focused her vision. The little bug looked fairly normal except for a long, skinny neck and head that stuck out from its body like an extension attachment on a vacuum cleaner.
She couldn’t believe they’d gotten so lucky. She figured the bad news was coming next. “Let me guess. Somalia?”
“No,” he said. “Much closer. The west coast of Madagascar.”
“Madagascar?” she repeated.
He nodded. “You see, the island of Madagascar broke off from Africa a hundred sixty million years ago,” he explained. “India was still attached to it at the time. But, eighty million years ago, India itself was torn loose by plate tectonics.
“As the three landmasses were pulled farther and farther apart, animals and plants left on Madagascar evolved differently from those in the rest of the world. As with Australia, there are hundreds of species that call only Madagascar home. You’ve discovered three of them on your floating wreck. Which tells us it was parked there for quite a while before it floated back out to sea.”
“And the crocodile?” she asked.
“Plenty of them in Madagascar,” he said.
Gamay nodded. The evidence was clear. The Waratah had spent her time aground on the western shores of Madagascar. The only questions now were where, and why someone was interested in sinking her.
Kurt Austin felt himself falling, dropping weightless, into the darkness, his nerves tingling at the sensation. He plunged into the water and the cold sting opened his eyes. Suddenly he could see. Murky blue surrounded him, but there was light up above and the strange sight of waves toppling from beneath as they rolled over him.
He kicked for the surface and came out into a storm. Winddriven rain lashed the sea, and swells the size of railroad cars buoyed him up and then dropped him down once again. The yacht, the Ethernet, was ahead of him. Sienna and her family were on it.
He kicked toward it and pulled himself aboard as a wave brought him up on the deck that was nearly awash in the storm. Struggling toward the bridge, shouting for Sienna, he found himself pushing through the main hatch only to be clubbed in the back of the head and slammed to the floor.
The impact at the back of his skull nearly knocked him unconscious; he was woozy and dazed. The next thing he knew, someone was slamming him against the bulkhead and trying to choke him.
“Where the hell did he come from?” a voice shouted from the other side of the bridge.
“There’s a rescue copter outside,” the man holding him called back.
Kurt knocked the man’s hand from his t
Not one to lose many fights, Kurt was aware of weakness in his limbs that must have come from the initial blow to the back of his head. Having been concussed several times in his life, Kurt recognized the symptoms. The ringing in the ears, tunnel vision, dizziness. The blow should have put him out, might have even killed him. But, then again, Kurt has always been a hard head.
He looked up, trying to assess the situation. The man at the far end had a woman by the arm.
“Sienna?” Kurt said weakly.
She looked over at him. “Kurt?” she said.
She tried to pull free and reach for him, but the man yanked her back and handed her off to a subordinate. “Get her to the escape pod. Her husband and the children are already there.”
Sienna struggled against them but could not break free. As she was dragged into the ship, Kurt could hear her shouting his name. He tried to stand, but his assailant was too heavy for Kurt to overcome in his current state.
“What about the rest of us?”
“We’ll be joining her as soon as we get rid of this one.” The man dropped down beside Kurt, flipped open a knife, and went for the cable that attached Kurt to the harness.
Kurt heard the helicopter through the storm and saw the spotlight probing around. It spurred the dim realization that he wouldn’t survive if these men cut the cable connecting him to it.
He snapped free, kicked the man with the knife, and lunged for the door only to be tackled again.
“Kill him.”
The man cocked the hammer on the pistol, but Kurt spun and kicked the man’s knee. The weapon discharged, hitting the clear ceramic wall. The wall didn’t shatter, but cracks spread across it like veins. Before Kurt could make a second move a boot caught him in the chin, and the man holding him pressed him down into the water, trying to drown him.
Despite every effort, Kurt could not push hard enough to rise up.
“Wait!”
The order came from a female voice. The man pulled Kurt from the water and held him there.
“We can use him,” the woman said.
As he was allowed to breathe, Kurt stared at the woman. He recognized her. The short dark hair, wet and matted to her head. The high cheekbones. He knew her somehow. Her name was . . . Calista.
“He’ll tell the world about us,” the man said, objecting.
“Someone has to,” she said cryptically. “You idiots have killed the captain and the crew. We planned on using them for that purpose.”
“We didn’t expect them to fight.”
She dropped down beside Kurt and opened a small case. Kurt could feel the yacht rolling in the swells. It was in danger of going over. Almost unconscious, Kurt fought to stay awake. His strength was gone. His mind clouding over.
The woman produced a syringe and jabbed it in his neck. Kurt’s mind drifted further.
She moved close to his face and held it in both hands. “You came aboard the yacht,” she said, her voice a distant echo. “You saw Sienna beyond this wall.”
She turned his head toward it. The cracks caught his eye. “She was floating facedown. Her hair was wet, waving like sea grass.”
Kurt stared at the glass wall. The glare of a flashlight reflected off it, blinding him. When it was gone, he could see through the glass. The room was half filled with water. The cushions and papers floated in muck.
Sienna was there, he saw her. He lunged toward her only to bang into the glass.
“She drowned,” the voice told him. “Along with her daughter. Such a pretty child. Such a shame.”
Kurt could see it happening. The little girl in her dress, a towheaded blonde. Her small fingers were still curled around her mother’s hand. He remembered hearing that her name was Elise.
“Her eyes are open,” the woman said.
Kurt winced at the image. He tried again to get to them but was thrown back to the deck.
“The yacht is sinking,” the voice told him. “Filling with water. Break the glass! It’s your only hope.”
Kurt slammed his fist into the glass wall but it was no use. He couldn’t break through.
“You tried to smash it with the chair but the glass would not fall. Instead, you did.”
He was pushed onto his back.
“The yacht is rolling over. You’ve run out of time.”
“No!”
“They’re pulling you out!”
“No,” Kurt shouted. He felt himself being drawn backward. His mask was ripped off. And then the back of his head slammed against something once again.
But instead of finding himself out in the sea, he realized, through the haze in his mind, that he was still on the bridge.
He saw the woman and the others walking away. He heard her speaking to someone by radio. “Open the sea cocks. Sink this ship. And let’s get out of here.”
“What happens when he starts to remember?” another of them said.
“He won’t,” she insisted. “Not until we let him.”
Kurt lost track of them and tried to move. He had to get out of there, he had to escape. He tried to stand, but his arms felt as if they were made of lead. His legs were useless.
The water began rushing away from him. The ship was rolling. Suddenly the harness pulled taut around him, dragging him toward the door. It pulled him free and then snapped with a loud twang.
He dropped back into the sea.
Dazed and barely conscious, he tried to kick for the surface but knew he was going deeper, pulled down by suction from the sinking yacht. The flashlight on his arm pointed downward, and Kurt saw the blurry outline of the yacht disappearing into the darkness below.
He turned his gaze upward, caught a glimpse of the silvery light, and then watched the darkness close around it. Everything went black. Until a hand grabbed him and pulled him above the waves.
Kurt woke up quietly. Unlike all the other nights he’d woken from the memory/nightmare, this time he returned to consciousness in a state of peace. He could hear a soft beeping and the sound of a ventilating duct. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself bathed in blazing light.
He was not at home but in a hospital, with a white ceiling, walls, and floor. His pupils, dilated by some medication, were letting in vast amounts of light that turned the dimly lit room into a blazing solarium.
He raised a hand to block the glare, but the IV line taped to the crook of his arm made it awkward. He let his arm fall and noticed a pulse meter attached to his finger, which was in turn connected to the monitor emitting the soft beeping sound.
He guessed that meant he was alive.
Looking through the glare, he saw a figure across the way. It was Joe, sitting in a chair, on the far side of the small room.
Joe looked like he’d been up forever. Three days of stubble covered his face, dark circles rested beneath his eyes. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a comic book across his knee.
“Didn’t know you were a Manga guy,” Kurt said.
Joe looked up, a warm smile cutting through the haggard look. “I just look at the pictures,” he said. “Especially when the words are in a foreign language. As far as I can tell, this one’s about an orphan robot who befriends a boy and girl with mutant powers who have a penchant for samurai swords and cupcakes . . . Though I could be wrong about that.”
As Joe held the comic up, Kurt could see the surreal drawings and the Korean lettering in bright red. “Sometimes pictures don’t tell the whole story,” he said, thinking about his own experience. “What am I doing in a hospital?”
“Don’t you remember? Your girlfriend tricked you into zapping yourself.”
“ ‘Zapping myself ’?”
“In the tunnel under the DMZ.”
It took Kurt a minute to recall the extracurricular activities beneath the DMZ, but thankfully he did. He even remembered falling after pressing the button on the screen of the woman’s remote. “Considering the quality of care,” he said, “I’
“We made a run for the border, Zavala style,” Joe said. “Basically, I saved you . . . once again. And you missed the whole thing . . . once again.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Kurt said. His eyesight was returning to normal. “How long have I been out?”
“Three days,” Joe said.
“Three days?”
Joe nodded. “They did some minor brain surgery on you,” he explained. “I pointed out to them that any brain surgery on you would have to be minor, but they didn’t get the joke. Lost in translation, I guess.”
Kurt chuckled. “You’ve been waiting for me to wake up just so you could say that, haven’t you?”
“Pretty much,” Joe said. He put down the comic book and slid his chair over to Kurt, presenting him with a clear plastic vial. Inside was a tiny metal fragment half the size of a Tic Tac. A microchip.
“What is it?”
“Simple device,” Joe said. “It emits an electronic signal that short circuits your brain every time they expose it to a certain frequency. The doctors say they’ve tried similar systems on patients with Parkinson’s to control tremors. Or on people who’ve experienced emotional trauma, in an effort to rewire the recollection and reduce the emotional pain.”
Kurt looked at the chip. He wondered if its removal had allowed his memory to clear or if the jolt Calista had given him was so powerful that it had somehow overridden the false memory.
“According to the docs, the little thing has to be triggered by a transmitter,” Joe added. “Hearing that, Dirk sent a team to sweep your house. They found a transmitter hidden in your garage.”
Kurt considered all the trouble the tiny chip had caused him. “That’s why the nightmares stopped once I left D.C. And, I’m assuming, why I can remember being on the yacht now. I even remember you pulling me out of the water.”
“That alone has to be worth all the trouble,” Joe said.
Kurt nodded and told Joe the memories he’d finally recalled. “Some of it’s still fuzzy,” he added, “but Calista was definitely there. They had Sienna. They had her husband and her children, which makes me wonder what he’s doing back in the States.”