Zero Hour - Cussler Clive (лучшие книги TXT) 📗

“It’s coming this way,” Joe said.

Gregorovich nodded his agreement.

Joe went back to working on his freedom, straining and pulling and trying to rip his left hand free. It was no use, this cuff fit tighter.

Gregorovich pointed with his chin. “Over there,” he said. “Pliers. Maybe you can reach them.”

Joe looked at a cluttered desk across from them. Pliers, brass knuckles, and a few other tools of the intimidation trade rested on it. He stretched toward them, but they were at least six inches out of reach.

“Come on,” Gregorovich urged.

“What am I, made of rubber?”

Gunfire and shouting echoed right outside the door.

Joe stretched again but flailed inches from the table.

The door swung open. One of Thero’s men backed into the room, his eyes and his rifle aimed out through the door and down the hall.

As he fired off a burst at some unseen enemy, Joe lunged for him, wrapping his free arm around the man’s neck and yanking him backward.

The man dropped his rifle and grabbed at Joe’s forearm, trying to pull it away from his windpipe. Joe held on, every muscle in his body straining, his powerful arm locked in a sleeper hold.

The man flailed and kicked, but Joe had all the leverage. Strangely, being anchored to the wall only helped. Soon, the man went limp in Joe’s arm.

Joe held him like that for another full minute and then let him go. The man splayed out on the floor, and Joe stretched down and retrieved the rifle.

Twisting his body, he tried to aim the weapon at the chain cuffing his left hand to the wall, but the barrel was too long. He turned toward Gregorovich. “Looks like you’re first.”

Gregorovich stood and leaned away from the wall. “Better make it quick. Before someone else shows up.”

Awkwardly, Joe tried to aim the rifle at Gregorovich’s chains with only one hand on the grip.

“Watch it,” Gregorovich said as the rifle swayed toward his body.

Before Joe could steady his aim, the door flew open again. Joe swung the rifle toward it.

“Hold on, buddy!” a familiar voice called.

“Kurt!” Joe blared. He lowered the gun. “It’s about time you showed up. I almost had to rescue myself.”

“I don’t know, you look like you have things well under control,” Kurt said. “Can I offer some assistance?”

“Maybe you’d better do this,” Joe said, handing the rifle over.

Joe tensed as Kurt took careful aim and blasted the chain off his arm and then did the same for his feet. He stepped forward, glad to be free. Kurt freed Gregorovich the same way seconds later.

Kurt explained about the prisoners and the melee going on outside. He handed Gregorovich two pistols he’d confiscated from Thero’s prison guards.

“I think we’re gaining the upper hand, but we’re running out of time,” he said. “Any idea where Hayley is?”

“Thero took her,” Joe said. “He had something he wanted to show her. I’m guessing we both know what that is.”

“Which way?”

“Not exactly sure,” Joe replied. “But I believe he used the words bring her up. It’s just a guess, but if I was a villain with an underground lair, I’d probably put my own quarters somewhere near the top.”

Seconds later, Devlin and Masinga came rushing in. Their status report seemed to mesh with Joe’s guess.

“Thero’s men are retreating up to the higher levels,” Devlin explained. “We tried to follow, but they sealed off the corridor. We did find something of interest, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The radio room.”

Kurt grinned. “Now we’re making progress. Time to call in the cavalry.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Dirk Pitt’s message to Jim Culver stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity. Within ten minutes, a briefing was under way in the White House Situation Room. Culver was there, along with the President, Vice President Sandecker, and several ranking members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A cadre of advisers and aides backed them up, while Pitt and Yaeger watched the proceedings on a flat screen, patched in via a secure video link.

A brief set of remarks gave way to the prime question: With time almost up, could anything be done to stop Thero?

To that end, the only voice of importance was a rear admiral whose operational title was COMSUBLANT, an acronym that meant he was the Commander of U.S. Submarine Forces in the Atlantic.

Even though Heard Island was a long way from the Atlantic, the admiral was also in charge of the submarines currently assigned to the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean. These were the closest vessels to what was now considered the target zone: Heard Island.

“… the Tomahawk missiles these ships carry have an extended range capability,” he said in answer to a question from the President, “putting both the Albany and the New Mexico within range of Heard Island, but just barely.”

“So what’s the problem?” Culver asked.

“The time frame. The Tomahawk is a subsonic weapon.”

“Meaning?”

The admiral sighed. “Time from launch until impact is over three hours. According to the timetable you’ve given us, we have less than ninety minutes until this man acts.”

The room went silent. All of them knew what that meant.

“How could this happen?” Culver asked aggressively. “We ordered vessels to begin moving into position two days ago.”

“The navy reacted as soon as we were directed to,” the admiral said. “But Heard Island is one of the most remote spots on the face of the Earth, and we don’t spend a great deal of time patrolling the bottom of the world. The USS Albany was the closest operational vessel at the time and it was over four thousand miles away.”

An aide rushed into the room and handed Culver a note.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Culver said. “Our early warning network has picked up a neutrino wave in the southern hemisphere. We don’t have a location, but I’m pretty sure we can guess where it’s coming from.”

“So Thero isn’t going to give us ninety minutes,” the President said. “Talk about jumping the gun.”

VP Sandecker spoke next. “We’d better inform the Australian prime minister. Tell him doomsday is coming early.”

Pitt watched the proceedings stoically until the buzz of his intercom interrupted. It was Ms. Conry from communications.

“I have an incoming radio call for you, Dirk.”

Pitt pressed the talk button. “Now is not a good time.”

“It’s Kurt Austin,” she replied. “He’s calling on a shortwave band. The signal is very weak.”

“Put him through,” Pitt said without hesitation.

A distorted squeal of static and shortwave frequency interference came through the line seconds later.

“Kurt?” Pitt asked. “Can you hear me?”

More static, and then finally Kurt’s voice.

“Barely,” he said. “We’re on Heard Island. We found Thero’s base of operations. It’s underground. Near the front of the Winston Glacier.”

“We know,” Pitt said. “Hiram managed to figure out your signal and Paul and Gamay bluffed the MV Rama into surrendering. What’s your situation?”

The sound wavered again, punctuated by bursts of interference. “We’ve managed to start a small uprising and we’ve taken over half the station, but Thero and his men have walled themselves off on a higher level. We can’t get to them.”

“The NSA sensor grid is picking up neutrino emissions,” Pitt said. “We believe Thero is charging his weapon now. Can you confirm that?”

“Not exactly, but it would explain the lighting issues we’ve been having,” Kurt said. “You’re going to have to hit this place hard to knock it out. We’re at least a hundred feet below the surface.”

“We can’t get any ordinance on-site in time,” Pitt said. “You’re going to have to stop it from there.”

The silence and distortion returned.

“Kurt? Do you read me?”