Zero Hour - Cussler Clive (лучшие книги TXT) 📗

“Anything?” Paul asked into the radio.

“Not yet,” Gamay replied.

“Give them another warning, and have the chief fire off a clip of tracer shells.”

Gamay’s voice echoed over the loudspeaker again. “Merchant vessel Rama, this is your last warning. Reduce speed and prepare to be boarded or we will open fire.”

“Let’s show them what we’ve got,” Paul said.

The crane operator powered up the base unit and pressed a small joystick to the side. The turret and its attached missile tubes began to pivot on the crane’s turntable. It turned counterclockwise until the missile tubes were pointed at the Rama’s bridge.

Using a secondary actuator, Paul pitched the missile tubes up and down in an exaggerated motion designed to be obvious to the Rama’s crew. When he’d done as much as he thought he could get away with, he locked them in place again, pointed roughly at the Rama’s bridge.

“They have to see us,” he said.

The crane operator just shrugged.

Meanwhile, the chief and his commandos were deploying onto the deck with their rifles raised.

“What do you think, Paul?” the radio squawked.

“Go ahead and shoot, chief.”

The racket of gunfire rang out, sounding like a series of sharp pops over the wind. Paul watched as a series of glowing tracer shells raced past the bridge of the Rama and out into the night. Through his binoculars, Paul could see figures on the Rama’s bridge, staring out the windows. He hoped they were getting nervous.

“Our turn,” Paul said, lowering the binoculars.

Two makeshift rockets had been prepared using gunpowder, propellant from a box of flares, and the artistic skills of the men in the machine shop. They wouldn’t cause any damage, but they might make an impression.

Paul loaded one of the rockets into the launch tube and shut the breach.

“Turn us five degrees to the right,” he said. It would do no good to have the rocket hit and prove itself to be a dud. The missile had to cross in front of the Rama, close enough to scare the crew, far enough away to be convincing.

The turret turned and stopped.

“Wait,” Paul said as the Gemini rode down a swell and began to come back up. “Wait…” He was gazing through the aiming slit like a World War One gunnery officer, guessing at the rate each ship would rise and fall on the waves.

“Wait…” he said again.

The Gemini reached the top of the swell and paused. “Now!”

The crane operator pressed a switch, and the makeshift rocket ignited. It burst from the tube, showering the interior of the turret with sparks and smoke. It crossed the gap, spewing a tail of fire, and passing no more than twenty feet in front of the Rama’s bridge.

“Great shot!” Paul shouted, coughing because of the smoke. “That was perfect.”

Seconds later, Gamay’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker once again. “The next missile will hit your bridge,” she insisted. “Reduce your speed or we will stop you by force.”

Aboard the MV Rama, the ranking Russian commando had been arguing with the Vietnamese captain since the appearance of the Gemini. He’d ordered them to leave station off Heard Island to avoid any trouble or repercussions should Gregorovich succeed in detonating his bomb. Running into an Australian frigate was not the outcome he’d hoped for.

“I will not surrender!” he said.

“You can’t fight them,” the captain said.

The tracer rounds flashed by in the dark. That concerned him but did not change his mind. Then the “missile” was launched.

“Incoming!”

The commandos and the bridge crew hit the deck just as the missle lit up the world in front of them, rocketing past the main windows.

“That was too close,” the captain said.

“They wouldn’t fire a missile at poachers,” another commando insisted. “They must know we’re here and what we’ve done. If we don’t stop, we’ll all be killed.”

“We cannot fight them,” the Vietnamese captain repeated. “But you can negotiate once they’re aboard. Diplomatic immunity. That’s what you’ll claim. But only if you’re alive.”

The commando doubted the captain’s take on International Maritime Law, but he believed he would be better served, and more likely to live, if he surrendered rather than fighting.

“Do as they say,” he agreed reluctantly.

On the Gemini’s bridge, Gamay waited tensely. If their bluff didn’t work, they would have to try to risk a dangerous boarding maneuver in the storm.

She was about to make one more threat over the loudspeaker when the marine radio squawked.

“This is the MV Rama,” a voice said in accented English. “We will reduce speed to seven knots and allow your men to come aboard.”

A cheer went up on the bridge, and Gamay relayed the message to the others.

“Great work Commander Wallaby,” the captain said.

She smiled. Now the boarding would only be risky, not foolhardy beyond belief.

FORTY-THREE

“This is a mine,” Kurt whispered to himself.

He’d found quarried-out sections, discovered a conveyor belt loaded with gravel and a series of pipes along the wall that probably ran electrical wire. He’d found picks and a jackhammer and wheelbarrows.

What a mine was doing hidden on Heard Island, Kurt didn’t know. Nor did it matter at the moment. His only concerns were finding Joe and Hayley, if they were alive, and stopping Thero no matter what.

He slipped off the heavy parka, stashed it, and pulled his backpack on once again. He began moving down the dark tunnel, his hand on the conveyor belt, his head ducked to avoid any dangerous outcroppings of rock he probably wouldn’t see until it was too late.

After passing several other areas that had been quarried extensively, he came to a larger room. This one was dimly lit by a pair of exposed bulbs.

The conveyor belt ended there, beside a group of large machines designed to crush and sort the gravel. He’d seen this kind of setup before. It was an underground diamond mine. Suddenly, he had a better idea how Thero was financing the operation.

He saw a door on the far side and crossed the room toward it. Just as he reached for the handle, the door moved, inching open. Kurt stepped back and raised the pistol as a trio of men came through.

“Don’t move!” Kurt growled.

The men froze in place, and a tense standoff ensued. Kurt might have drilled all three of them, but without a silencer the gunshots would have echoed through the cave and brought the rest of Thero’s men running.

As they stared at the gun, Kurt studied them. They carried sharpened staves made of crude metal instead of guns. Two of them appeared almost petrified, the third just as shocked but calmer.

“Put your weapons down,” he said, then added: “Quietly.”

They did as ordered.

Kurt nodded toward one of the rock-crushing machines. “Over there.”

The three men shuffled toward the machine. Kurt kept his distance in case they tried something rash.

“Two of you are going to end up tied to this machine,” he told them. “Whoever doesn’t want to spend the night like that can take me to Thero.”

“Take you to Thero?” one of them asked. He spoke with a South African accent.

“Who’s Thero?” another said with an Irish lilt.

“The man who brought you here,” the South African said.

“Quiet,” Kurt said. “Which one of you wants to show me the way?”

The three men looked at one another as if they were baffled by the question.

“Why would we take you?” the third man said.

“Because I have an appointment,” Kurt said, “and I don’t want to miss it.”

The confused look returned. Apparently, biting humor wasn’t their strong suit.