The Storm by Clive Cussler
Paul looked off toward the windows, facing southwest. He was recalling lectures on storm generation and the factors that built them. “Hurricanes in the Gulf intensify over hot spots. Jinn’s storms will travel over nothing but that. They’ll steal the heat, moisture and the energy that usually goes into the monsoon. They’ll carry it off like thieves.”
“Leaving India and Southeast Asia unusually dry at this time of year,” Gamay said. “This madman has done what people have sought to do for all eternity: he’s taken control of the weather, turning it away from its normal pattern.”
Marchetti sat down awkwardly. He all but collapsed on the edge of the seat. “And he’s used my design to do it,” he said.
He looked over at them. The billionaire with overflowing confidence was gone, as was the proud designer with the bold ideas and even the rational engineer. All the different personas seemed to vanish before their eyes, leaving only a broken man behind.
“All those people,” he whispered. “A billion people waiting for a monsoon that’s never going to come. I’ll be the worst mass murderer in history.”
Gamay looked as if she were about to jump in and say something to buck Marchetti up. This was the moment when she usually did, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.
Paul gave it a try. “Your legacy isn’t written yet. Alfred Nobel invented dynamite and ran a company that built weapons and armaments, but nobody remembers him for that. And you still have a chance to change the direction of things.”
“But we’re alone,” Marchetti said. “Your friends are gone. No one even knows what’s happening out here.”
Paul looked at Gamay because he shared her grief for their friends and because he loved her and wanted her to feel something more than despair. He squeezed her hands and looked into her eyes. “I know all that,” he said to Marchetti. “But we’ll find a way. First we have to get out of here.”
Gamay smiled a bit. It was a hopeful look, not quite enough to replace all the doubt and pain, but it was a start.
“Any inkling as to how?” Marchetti asked.
Paul looked around. “I do have one idea,” he said. “I’m just not sure you’re going to like it much.”
“At this point,” Marchetti said, “we don’t have much of a choice.”
CHAPTER 43
THE SURPRISE WIND THAT HAD PULLED KURT, LEILANI AND Ishmael along gusted for the better part of two hours. At times it threatened to lift the boat out of the water. Halfway through the ride, the strange reflective effect vanished as quickly as it had come, both from the water around them and from their bodies.
“Do you think they’re gone?” Leilani had asked.
“Doubt it,” Kurt said. “Whatever made them shine seems to have passed, but I’m guessing they’re still on us and in the sea.”
The wind began to taper over the next hour. Wherever it came from, it blew itself out an hour before dusk. The starboard side of the boat sagged further and the three of them had no choice but to hug the port bolsters to keep the boat from tipping. As it was, every little wave that came up washed over the slanted deck.
Kurt reeled the chutes in, wrung them out and stored them. He was almost done when a shout from Ishmael startled him.
“Land!” Ishmael shouted. “Land ahead!”
Kurt looked up. Low on the horizon was a greenish blur. In the failing light it could have been a cloud catching some weird reflection.
Kurt pulled the binoculars out, wiped the lenses and held them to his eyes.
“Please let it be land,” Leilani said, clasping her hands together. “Please.”
Kurt could see green and the tops of trees. “It’s land all right,” he said, slapping Ishmael on the shoulder. “It’s land, big-time.”
He put the binoculars away and moved to the tail end of the boat. He switched the fuel line to reserve and cranked up the outboard. It sputtered to life, and Kurt twisted the throttle.
With the prop going again, the half-deflated boat moved in a crablike fashion that soon had Kurt soaked to the bone in the surprisingly cold water.
After twenty minutes, he could see a central peak, maybe fifty feet high and covered in vegetation. Flat land ran out on both sides of it. He could see waves breaking on a reef that surrounded the island.
“Volcanic atoll,” he said. “We’re going to have to get over the reef to get on dry land. We might have to swim for it.”
He looked at Ishmael and then to Leilani.
“You still have his gun?”
She nodded. “Yes, but—”
“Give it to me.”
She handed him the pistol that both of them knew was empty. He held it at the ready. “She’s going to untie you,” Kurt said. “You cause any trouble, I’ll fill you full of more holes than the boat.”
“No trouble,” Ishmael said.
Kurt nodded and Leilani disconnected the carabiner and heaved the anchor over the side. Next she untied his legs and threw the rope away.
Kurt waited for him to make some move, but all he did was stretch his legs and smile with relief.
By now they were closing in on the reef that surrounded the island. The waves weren’t too bad, but it was pretty turbulent where there were gaps in the reef.
“Should we look for a calmer spot?” Leilani asked.
“Tank’s got to be almost dry,” Kurt replied.
He went for the first gap he saw. The floundering boat plowed toward it like a barge, shoving a low surge of water in front of it. The water around them changed from dark blue to turquoise, and the chop got worse where the submerged sections of the reef affected the wave dynamics.
One second they’d crest a two-foot wave and the next they’d be hit from the side by another and dropped into a trough that seemed to drag them backward. The hard spine of the boat ground across something solid, and the prop chewed into it.
Two waves from behind combined and shoved them forward and to port. They scraped over more coral as the foam from a third wave washed over them.
Kurt turned the outboard this way and that, gunning the throttle and backing off, using it as both a motor and rudder. The backwash through the gap fought against them, but with the next set of breakers they surged forward again. This time the port side hit hard and both the chambers were ripped open.
“We’ve taken a hit,” Leilani shouted.
“Stay in the boat as long as you can,” Kurt shouted.
He gunned the throttle once more. The outboard revved for ten seconds or so and then began to sputter. He backed off a little, but it was too late. The motor stalled, starved of fuel. Another wave smashed them sideways.
“Go!” Kurt shouted.
Ishmael clambered over the side. Leilani hesitated and then went in, diving forward. Another wave smacked the sinking boat, and Kurt also lunged forward into the surf.
He swam with everything he had. But twenty-four hours without food, a lack of water and the exertion of the past two days counted against him. Fatigue would not wait long to set in.
The undertow pushed him back and then a wave swept him forward. He scraped over some more coral, jammed his foot onto a solid piece and pushed off hard, again launching himself forward. The boots made it hard to swim, but they were worth their weight in gold each time he kicked off against the reef.
When the undertow returned, he wedged his feet into the coral and held his ground. The foam blinded him as the swells rose over him. Something soft crashed into him from the front.
It was Leilani.
He grabbed her and shoved her forward with the next wave, and they surged through into the calmer section of water inside the protective ring of the reef.
Kurt swam hard. Leilani did the same. When his feet hit the sand, he dug in and waded forward, one hand on Leilani’s life jacket, dragging her with him.
They made it out of the surf and collapsed on the white sand, far enough down the beach that the waves still washed up against them.
Breathing was almost the lim
She nodded, her chest heaving and falling, as his was.
Kurt looked around. They were alone. “Ishmael?”
He saw nothing, heard no response.
“Ishmael!”
“There!” Leilani said, pointing.
He lay facedown in the foam as the waves washed him up onto the sand and then dragged him backward.
Kurt got up, stumbled in Ishmael’s direction and crashed back into the sea. He grabbed Ishmael and dragged him to shore.
Ishmael began coughing and choking and spitting up water. A brief look told Kurt he would survive.
Before he could celebrate, a pair of long shadows fell over Kurt from behind. He recognized the shapes of rifles and burly men in the surreal shadows painted on the sand.
He turned. Several men stood with the sun to their backs. They seemed to be wearing ragged uniforms and helmets and carrying heavy bolt-action rifles.
As they approached, he saw them better. They were dark-skinned men, looking almost like Aboriginal Australians but with Polynesian features as well. Their rifles were old M1 carbines with five-shot clips and their uniforms and helmets looked like U.S. Marines circa 1945. Several more of them stood among the trees at the top of the beach.
Kurt was too exhausted and too surprised to do much more than watch as one of the men approached him. The man held the long rifle casually but wore a look of utter seriousness on his face.
“Welcome to Pickett’s Island,” he said in deeply accented English. “In the name of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, I make you my prisoner.”
CHAPTER 44
FROM JOE’S PERSPECTIVE EITHER THE DOCKING PROCEDURE for the ferry was overly complicated or the boat and its captain were ill suited to the task. A full hour after the bay doors had been opened and the ship had been shunted back and forth a dozen times, they finally bumped against a pier.
Joe remained huddled in the rear of the flatbed. The drivers and crewmen had clambered into their rigs long before the ship stopped and now began firing up the big trucks. For another few minutes they idled their engines, and despite the open doors Joe was sure he would pass out from the diesel fumes before they left.
At last, with a headache pounding inside his skull like a jackhammer, the trucks began to roll. One by one they pulled out of the cargo hold and onto the pier. Joe didn’t risk a peek until he felt they were away from the waterfront. But he was surprised at how quickly they were moving only minutes after leaving the ferry.
He crept past the barrels to the back end of the truck. Since his truck had been the first into the hold, it became the last one out. They were now the tail-end Charlie of the convoy, which meant he could look out without fear of being spotted.
He lifted the tarp a few inches, saw gray-weathered macadam flying out behind them as the trucks flew along a road at speeds they’d never come close to in Yemen.
It was almost night yet again after twenty hours on the boat. Joe saw desert terrain in all directions. It looked remarkably like he’d arrived back in Yemen.
“Didn’t we just leave all this?” he mumbled.
There were differences of course, primarily the paved road. There was more vegetation and the occasional road sign. There had been none out in the deserts of Yemen. As signs whipped past, Joe tried to read them, but he could see only the back side of those on his side of the road, and those meant for drivers heading the opposite way were lit only by the big trailer’s taillights. The dim red glow was not bright enough for Joe to see much before the sign went out of range.
All he noticed was the lettering. It was done in the swirling calligraphy of Arabic and also the block letters of English, the mere presence of which meant he was much closer to civilization than he’d been in days.
As Joe waited for more signs, the night grew darker and the landscape became monotonous. The only thing that changed was the scent. Joe began to smell dust and moisture and the desert wet with rain. It reminded him of Santa Fe, where he’d grown up, when the dry season ended. Looking up, he realized the sky was a curtain of starless black.
Moments later, rain began splattering the truck and the road around him. Joe heard thunder in the distance. As the trucks drove on, the shower intensified and the air grew cool and damp. To Joe’s surprise it wasn’t a passing shower but a steady soaking rain that continued to fall as the convoy pounded out the miles. Before long the tarp above him was soaked and dripping.
“Rain in the desert,” Joe whispered to himself. “I wonder if this is good news or bad.”
As the rain fell, they passed another group of signs. As luck would have it, a car was traveling in the opposite direction at almost the same instant. Its high beams cut through the rain and lit up a sign on the far side of the road long enough for Joe to read it.
The weathered blue placard was sandblasted and bent, but the words were clear enough.
“Marsa Alam,” Joe said as he read the sign. “Fifty kilometers.”
The name was familiar. Marsa Alam was the name of an Egyptian port on the Red Sea. It lay behind them. It must have been where the ferry tied up and the trucks disembarked. That meant they were three-quarters of the way from Cairo to the Sudanese border and only a couple of hours from Luxor.
“I’m in Egypt,” Joe whispered, quickly realizing what that meant. “These guys are headed for the Aswan Dam.”
CHAPTER 45
RAIN CONTINUED TO PELT THE CONVOY OF JINN’S TRUCKS as they rumbled west on the highway from Marsa Alam. With the moisture, the natural cooling of the desert at night and the wind swirling around the back of the truck as it raced along, Joe began to shiver.
At first he welcomed it as a relief from his time in Yemen and in the hot box of the ferry, but as the night wore on, the cold began to seep into his bones, and Joe pulled the flap shut to keep the wind and the mist from the truckbed.
It was four hours overland from Marsa Alam to Aswan, but after three hours the convoy began to slow as they came out of the open desert and into the swath of civilization that bordered the Nile.
The trucks crossed the Nile on a modern bridge and entered the town of Edfu on the west bank of the river. As Joe looked around, he saw multistory apartment blocks and storefronts and government buildings. It wasn’t exactly the Beltway, more like a dusty version of East Berlin in the desert, but it was civilization.
The truck slowed further, and Joe hoped they’d come to a red light, but they found a roundabout instead, turning a three-quarter circle before heading north in a straight line once again.
“It had to be a roundabout,” Joe mumbled.
He figured they might end up back on another highway at any moment and that he’d be in Aswan before he could get free. As the engine growled in low gear and the truck picked up speed, Joe decided the time to abandon ship had arrived.
He climbed under the flap and out onto the rear bumper. He glanced around the edge of the tarp, straining to see what was coming. No telephone poles or lights or signs. The coast was clear, and Joe leapt off the truck.
He hit the wet macadam, rolled and slid through an expansive puddle of muck where the rain had gathered as it soaked the street. He stayed down in it for a moment, watching the trucks for any sign the drivers had witnessed his stunt.
They rumbled north in the dark, never changing speed or even tapping the brakes.
Soaking and filthy, Joe pulled himself from the muck and looked around. He’d landed in an open area. Through the rain he could see a huge structure to the left lit by spotlights.
Ignoring new pains in his shoulder and hip and doing the best he could not to notice how badly his ankle hurt once again, he limped toward the lit-up area. It looked like a construction site and an ancient temple cross-pollinated, and only as Joe got close did he realize he was standing in front of the Temple of Horus, one of the best preserved ancient sites in all of Egypt.
The front wall had two huge wings
During the day the site would have been filled with tourists. But at night, in the pouring rain, it was empty. Except, Joe noticed, for a pair of security guards in a lit booth.
He ran toward it and rapped on the window. The guards just about died from shock, one of them literally jumping from his seat.
Joe pounded on the window again and eventually one of the guards opened it.
“I need your help,” Joe said.
The still-startled guard appeared confused, but he recovered quickly. “Ah … of course,” he said, “come in. Yes, come inside.”
Joe moved to the door. Fortunately for him, guards at the site were picked partly for their ability to speak English, as many of the tourists were Americans and Europeans.
Joe stepped into the lighted booth as soon as the door opened. He was soaking wet, dripping muddy water all over the floor. One of the guards handed him a towel, which Joe used to dry his face.
“Thank you,” Joe said.
“What are you doing out in the rain?” one guard asked.
“It’s a long story,” Joe replied. “I’m an American. I was a prisoner of sorts until I jumped out of a moving truck, and I really need to use your phone.”
“An American,” the guard repeated. “A tourist? Do you want us to call your hotel?”
“No,” Joe said, “I’m not a tourist. I need to speak to the police. Actually, I need to speak to the military. We’re in danger here. We’re all in danger.”
“What kind of danger?” the guard asked suspiciously.
Joe looked him in the eye. “Terrorists are going to destroy the dam.”
CHAPTER 46
THE FIVE TRUCKS IN JINN’S CONVOY RUMBLED NORTH, eventually pulling off the main road and onto a dirt track. They passed the dam and continued on, traveling a perimeter road that wound along the jagged shore of Lake Nasser.