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

“We won’t drown even if both of them go flat.”

“But we’ll be stuck clinging to the other side like shipwreck survivors,” she said.

“Better than waiting for Jinn to shoot us,” he said. “Besides, I have a bet to win. All we have to do is push on until we find some help.”

“And if we don’t find help?”

“We will,” Kurt insisted, feeling confident.

He reached into the locker and pulled out the flares, which he stuffed into his breast pocket next to the binoculars. He grabbed the life jacket and handed it to Leilani.

“Put this on,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution.”

Next he pulled out the anchor—a fifteen-pound fluke anchor hooked to an anchor rope by a large carabiner. He detached the anchor from the rope and hooked it onto the cord that bound the prisoner’s feet. The man looked up at Kurt in terror.

“Also just a precaution,” Kurt told him.

The man’s face showed little faith in that statement.

Kurt pulled the gag off the man’s face. “I know you understand when we talk,” he said. “Do you speak English as well?”

The man nodded. “I speak … some.”

“I don’t suppose you know the story of the little Dutch boy?”

The man stared at him blankly.

“This boat is sinking,” Kurt explained, “losing air. I can either throw you overboard to lighten our load or you can help us.”

“I’ll help,” the man said. “Yes, yes, I definite want to help.”

“The anchor is on your feet to keep you from trying anything stupid,” Kurt explained, and then he pointed to the forward section. “I need you to cover up these two holes and keep the air in.”

The man nodded. “I can do that. Definite, big-time.”

“Good,” Kurt said. “’Cause if you don’t, you’re going to hit the bottom of the sea faster than the rest of us.”

Kurt loosened the ropes around the man’s wrists and pulled them free. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Ishmael,” the man said.

“Great,” Kurt mumbled. “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about. Let’s hope we don’t encounter an angry white whale.”

With his legs still tied together and hooked to the anchor, Ishmael twisted and slithered a foot or so until he reached the prow of the boat. He placed his hands on the two leaks Kurt had pointed out.

“Press and hold,” Kurt said.

Ishmael pressed his fingers on the two spots and held them down. After a few seconds, he looked back, smiling.

“Perfect.”

“What about the other leaks?” Leilani asked.

“I’ll take first shift,” Kurt said, trying to spread his fingers like a piano player, “you keep us pointed west.”

Kurt and Leilani switched positions twice in the next three hours, but the rear chamber continued to deflate and the boat began to list to starboard and the aft corner settled. From time to time seawater washed over the top, soaking whoever was trying to stem the leak and weighing them down even further.

Fortunately, the Indian Ocean was the calmest of the world’s major seas and the swell was very small, only a foot at most. Kurt found that lower speeds kept the breaches to a minimum and he backed off the throttle just a bit.

As noon approached, they still hadn’t encountered anything resembling help, not even a trail of smoke on the horizon. With the sun high overhead, the outboard began to sputter and Kurt had no choice but to shut it off.

“Out of gas,” Leilani guessed.

“We have a gallon or so in the reserve tank,” he said, pointing to a stopcock on the fuel line that could be turned to access the reserve. “But we need to save that.”

“Save it for what?”

“Suppose we see a ship on the horizon,” he said. “We’ll need to intercept it, to get in front of it or at least alongside.”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

He smiled. “It’s okay.”

In the absence of the droning outboard, the silence felt oppressive and ominous, like a sign of their eventual doom. There was no wind. The only sound that could be heard was the light chop slapping against the sides of the boat.

Bathed in this silence, they bobbed up and down, wallowing in the low swells, three people aboard a sixteen-foot inflatable boat in a million square miles of ocean.

“Now what?” Leilani asked.

“Now we wait,” Kurt said patiently. “And see what fortune holds for us.”

CHAPTER 39

JOE ZAVALA HAD SPENT FIFTEEN HOURS IN THE CARGO HOLD of an unknown ship with only a group of trucks and untold billions of microbots for company. Another man might have gone stir-crazy and given himself up, banging on the doors just to get out. Joe had put the time to good use.

He’d searched each truck thoroughly. He’d found three bottles of water, drinking two of them and saving the third. He’d also discovered a plastic Ziploc-style bag filled with some type of jerky. Beef it wasn’t, but goat or camel or lamb it might have been. He ate as much as he could and put the rest back.

He’d also measured out the confines, took a look under the hoods of the trucks and come up with several alternate plans of action. He’d even considered sabotaging the engines, pulling out distributor wires, tampering with the carburetors or attempting to loosen the oil plugs so the big rigs either wouldn’t start or would break down shortly after they got going.

He chose not to. If the trucks couldn’t go, he couldn’t get off the ship. If they moved and then broke down twenty miles into whatever land they were heading to, Joe might be stuck somewhere worse than Yemen—and surrounded by angry militants to boot.

He considered breaking out. The huge doors were still pinned shut, but Joe was pretty certain he could bash them open with all the horsepower he had available. But then what? Based on what he remembered about their entry into the freighter and the thick layer of tire marks on the floor, he figured he was near the back end of some kind of dedicated transport. Almost like an auto ferry.

It wasn’t a roll on/roll off ship because there was no front exit, but it was definitely designed for vehicles. From the way it wallowed and swayed he didn’t think it was all that large either, which meant they probably weren’t taking him too far.

He decided not to break out. The only thing that would lead to was going overboard. Instead he waited, took a nap in the bed of the lead truck and woke to the sound of shouting on the decks above.

It felt as if the ship was slowing and maneuvering in smaller increments.

The sound of horns and whistles from other ships suggested they were near a port or harbor somewhere. Joe sensed the time for action approaching. If the ship docked in this mystery port, he was finding a way off even if this wasn’t the truck’s final destination.

Finally the sound of rattling came from the rear doors. Someone was working a heavy padlock. Moments later light spilled into the hold as the doors began to slide open.

CHAPTER 40

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. THE SUN WAS SETTING IN THE western sky. Jinn had secured his ownership of the floating island, bringing on board thirty men, heavy machine guns, RPGs and even a dozen ground-to-air missiles, minus the one he’d used against Kurt Austin.

The flying boat sat, fueled and waiting, in the marina in case he had to leave quickly. He felt safe, he felt secure. He would not have to concern himself with Xhou or the other members of the consortium here, nor would he face any repercussions from the Americans who were still in the dark as to his methods and goals.

Such success had put him in a boasting mood. He stood on the observation deck that jutted out from Aqua-Terra’s control room. The annoying Americans and the Italian billionaire stood near the edge, hands cuffed to the rail in front of them. Zarrina and a couple of Jinn’s men stood behind them. Otero sat just inside the door of the control room, his fingers on the keys of a laptop.