The Storm - Cussler Clive (книги без сокращений .TXT) 📗

“Grab them!”

Otero extended the cleaner’s grasping claws and accelerated toward the last pair of bare feet. It was the woman.

The hull cleaner clamped onto the woman’s feet. A struggle began. The camera shook, bubbles rose when the girl had exhaled. Otero pushed the joystick on his panel downward, ordering the hull cleaner to dive.

The machine nosed over but went nowhere. Suddenly, a face capped with silvery hair came into the frame. The machine went sideways. The sound of an actuator arm snapping off came through the headset.

The screen cleared. The woman wriggled free and the man’s face appeared once again. He was holding on to the hull cleaner, staring into the camera. Otero felt the weight of that gaze through the water and into the control room. The man pointed a finger directly at the camera, directly at Otero, and then he made a slashing motion across his throat, before smashing the camera and rendering the hull cleaner useless.

The message was clear. The men from NUMA were coming for them, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Otero tapped a few keys and hit enter on the keyboard—setting up one last trick to cover his back—and then he stood and grabbed a small briefcase filled with cash. His final payment.

“What are you doing?” Matson asked.

“I’m getting out of here,” Otero said. “You can stay if you like.”

Otero pulled a revolver from his desk drawer and hustled out the door into the hall. Seconds later he heard Matson racing to catch up.

At the starboard section of Aqua-Terra, Kurt found a ladder running up the side of the hull. He and Joe hustled up first and took cover behind a small oak tree on a pile of woodchips. He stared across the wheat field as Leilani hauled herself up the ladder and slumped beside them, looking exhausted.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“We need to find the best way to that control center,” Kurt said, thinking it’d be nice to have some input from the man who designed the island.

He glanced over his shoulder. Down the ladder, Marchetti was climbing at a snail’s pace. One rung, then a rest, then another rung, another rest. He coughed, spat water.

“Come on, Marchetti,” Kurt said in a harsh whisper, “we don’t have all day.”

“I fear I can go no farther,” the billionaire said. “This is where it ends, right here on this ladder. You should go on without me.”

“I’d love to,” Kurt mumbled, “but I need you to turn off the machines.”

“Right,” Marchetti said as if he’d forgotten. “I’m coming.”

Marchetti began to climb once again. In the meantime, Kurt spotted a pair of figures exiting the second floor of the starboard pyramid and scrambling down a stairwell. He thought he recognized one of them as Marchetti’s arrogant aide. The other was unfamiliar.

“What’s Otero look like?” he asked.

Marchetti poked his head over the top of the ladder. “Average-sized man,” he said, “dark complexion, close-buzzed hair on a very small, very round head.”

The figures were too far away for Kurt to be certain, but that description fit the man he spotted. A moment later the two figures began a fast jog down one of Aqua-Terra’s roads. The occasional glance back was enough to tell Kurt they were on the run.

“Anyway off this boat,” Kurt said, “er—I mean island?”

“By helicopter,” Marchetti said. “Or via the marina, by boat or seaplane.”

The marina. If Kurt guessed correctly, that was their goal.

“I think Otero and your lawyer friend are headed that way,” he said. “Leilani, help Marchetti find a computer terminal and try not to kill him in the process. As annoying as he is, I think we’ve cleared him of anything more than crimes of fashion.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise.”

Kurt turned to Joe. “Ready?”

Joe nodded, and an instant later they took off running, sprinting into the wheat field and cutting their way through the neck-high stalks of grain. They reached the other side and began to cut across the park. Halfway there, Kurt heard the sound of an engine starting up.

“That sound like a boat to you?”

“More like an air-cooled Lycoming,” Joe said. “They’re going for the seaplane.”

“Then we’d better hurry.”

AS KURT AND JOE raced to the other side of the artificial island, Leilani and Marchetti scampered forward, eventually ducking into a maintenance building. The sight of fifty machines plugged in and charging gave her chills, but none of them moved.

Marchetti found the programming terminal and quickly logged on.

“I’m sorry I tried to scare you,” Leilani said, hoping it had some effect on Marchetti’s judgment.

“Me too,” Marchetti said, typing furiously. “But I can’t blame you for being angry.”

She nodded.

“I’m in,” Marchetti said. For a second he seemed elated, and then he paused with his mouth open as if surprised by what he saw. His eyes narrowed, focusing on one particular part of the screen. “Otero,” he mumbled, “what have you done?”

Suddenly, the machines around them began powering up. Motors whirring, LEDs going from orange to green.

“What’s happening?” Leilani asked.

“He changed the code,” Marchetti said. “When I logged on, it triggered a response. He’s set the robots on intruder mode.”

“Intruder mode? What exactly is intruder mode?”

“They go after everyone on the island not wearing an ID badge with an RFID chip in it. It’s my defense against pirates.”

Leilani realized instantly she didn’t have a badge, but as the machines began to disconnect from their plugs she wondered about him.

“Where’s your badge?”

“In the pocket of my robe,” he said, “the one Kurt made me get rid of.”

Kurt and Joe made it through the park and into the second strip of wheat on the far side. The sound of a different kind of motor rumbled to life, and far to their right, at the end of the field, a small combine sprung to life. It straightened and began moving toward them, its blades whipping through the wheat.

“A little early for harvesttime,” Joe said.

“Unless they’re trying to harvest us.”

Kurt picked up the pace and rushed out the other side onto the narrow path that led toward the marina. Running at full speed, with Joe right beside him, he noticed other machines coming out of the woodwork and tracking toward him.

“Apparently Marchetti hasn’t finished reprogramming things yet,” Kurt said.

“Let’s hope he remembers his password.”

Speed and agility were still in their favor, and after racing a hundred feet down the path and hopping a wall they cut away from the machines. A few seconds later Kurt and Joe were bounding down the stairs to the marina. Ahead of them the seaplane was taxiing out past the breakwater.

They had to hurry.

Kurt ran to the fastest-looking boat he could find: a twenty-two-foot Donzi. He jumped in and went to the control panel as Joe untied the lines. Pressing a start button, Kurt smiled as the V-8 inboard roared to life.

“Bogies coming up the dock,” Joe said.

“Nothing to worry about,” Kurt said, glanced at the collection of machines scrambling toward them. He gunned the throttle and spun the wheel.

The boat shot forward, curving and accelerating across the marina. As soon as they were on track, Kurt straightened out and pointed the bow toward the gap in the breakwater. The seaplane was already taxiing through it.

Kurt hoped to catch them, maybe tip them over, but that plan had a low margin for success.

He pointed to a radio on the dash. “Get Nigel on the horn,” he said. “Tell him to scramble. I don’t want to lose these guys.”

Joe switched the radio unit on, dialed up the right frequency, and began to transmit. “Nigel!” he shouted. “This is Joe. Come in.”

Nigel’s British voice came back with everything but a cheerio. “Hello, Joe, what’s the word?”

“Get that bird airborne,” Joe shouted. “We’re chasing a seaplane in a boat, and that’s not going to work for long.”