The Emperor's Revenge

by Clive Cussler

  He scanned the water and spotted two orange life vests ahead of him near the raft. Those had to be Eric and MacD. Juan swam toward them harder, knowing that neither of them would have the strength to pull themselves into the raft once they reached it. He knew the Oregon was behind him and had to have seen the raft deployed. Max would be racing to pick them up.

  The fire aboard the Achilles reached its apex. Huge geysers of flame shot into the sky, throwing off thick clouds of black smoke. The fuel tanks finally succumbed to the heat and exploded, annihilating the stern of the majestic yacht and blasting away shards of steel, fiberglass, gold, mahogany, and crystal. The bow, still on fire, settled into the water at a steep angle and seconds later disappeared from view. Except for an oil slick and floating bits of debris, the Achilles was gone.

  Juan reached the raft. “How is everyone?” he asked MacD and Eric. He could see now that it was octagonal, with a weatherproof canopy to shield occupants from the sun and rain.

  “Going swimmingly,” MacD said with a forced grin.

  Eric coughed up some water. “I could sleep for about three days.”

  Both of them looked ashen but in good spirits.

  “I think shore leave for the entire crew has been well earned,” Juan said as he untied Gretchen’s line. He hauled himself into the raft, pausing to catch his breath before pulling Gretchen in with him. Then he pulled up MacD and, finally, Eric, who cried out when a wave hit them and caused his leg to bang against the lip of the raft.

  Juan checked Gretchen. She was still unconscious. He brushed the hair from her face and swaddled a reflective blanket around her to keep her warm. Frustrated that he couldn’t do more for her, he lay back in exhaustion and triggered his mic. “Max, can you read me?”

  Max’s voice came back garbled and indistinct, the result of damage to Juan’s comm system.

  “Juan . . . you seen . . . coming to . . . sonar . . .”

  “Max, if you can hear, tell Julia to get the medical team ready. We’ve got casualties.”

  “Juan . . . it’s coming toward you . . .” He could now hear that Max’s voice had an urgency that he wasn’t expecting.

  He peered out of the canopy’s opening, expecting to see the Oregon coming toward them. Instead, he saw a disturbance in the water, like the wake of a ghost ship. Moments after that, a black fin pierced the surface as it rose.

  No, not a fin. A conning tower.

  It was the Achilles’s submarine. And it was charging straight toward them.

  The conning tower hatch flew open and there was Golov, maniacally grinning at Juan as he brandished an assault rifle.

  Juan momentarily thought about dumping everyone overboard and diving under the water, but there wasn’t enough time and he didn’t think the others would make it back to the surface. All of their weapons had been discarded when they jumped into the water, but he still had the .45 ACP Colt Defender in his combat leg. He drew it and found the raft’s flare gun, which he wielded with his other hand. Neither was a match for a high-powered assault rifle at this distance.

  Golov seemed to agree with his assessment and waggled a finger at Juan when they were a hundred yards away, well out of effective range of his pistol. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and waved good-bye to Juan.

  Before he could fire, someone from inside the sub grabbed Golov’s attention. He yanked the rifle away from his shoulder, called down into the sub, then looked to his left in horror.

  Juan looked right to see the familiar rusty bow that he knew so well racing toward the submarine.

  Golov yelled for the sub to dive, but it was too late. The kinetic energy of eleven thousand tons of armored steel bore down on the relatively puny eight-man submarine. Golov screamed in terror and defeat as the bow of the Oregon hit the sub dead center.

  It split in two as if it were cleaved by a butcher’s knife. The conning tower was crushed, pinning Golov inside the hatch. Water surged into the broken front half of the sub, pulling it down. Juan’s last sight of the Ukrainian ship captain was him flailing desperately as he was sucked down beneath the sea’s surface to a watery grave.

  Max reestablished comms. “Juan . . . you there?”

  “Still here, Max. Thanks for riding to the rescue.”

  “Our pleasure. The old girl took a licking, but she came through it all right. Did we lose anyone?”

  “Not yet, but some are in bad shape. Come and get us as soon as you can.”

  “Hux is waiting in the boat garage with stretchers. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Juan felt a hand grasp his arm. He looked down and saw Gretchen’s eyes open, searching and confused.

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “Where am I?”

  Juan took her hand gently and knelt beside her. “We’re on a life raft. How are you feeling?”

  “I can’t move my right leg.”

  “You’ve been injured in an explosion, but Julia is on her way to take care of you.”

  “Doesn’t hurt too much.”

  Juan knew that wouldn’t last long. She was still in shock. The pain hadn’t hit her yet, but it soon would.

  She looked at Eric, then MacD, before returning her gaze to Juan. “Did we . . . Did we stop them?”

  “We sure did. You missed all the fun.”

  Gretchen wheezed a hoarse laugh. “You call this fun?”

  Juan shook his head and smiled at her. “I call this a typical day at the office.”

  Epilogue

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  BORNHOLM ISLAND, BALTIC SEA

  This kind of view must be why tourists flock to the island, Juan thought as he stood alone on the aft deck of the Oregon. The late-afternoon sun perfectly framed the scenic rocky coastline of the Danish island, situated halfway between Sweden and Poland. Gossamer wisps of clouds daubed the azure sky, and a light breeze lifted a pleasant salty tang from the sea. A lone gull noiselessly hovering over the fantail was his only company.

  Soon the sound of the waves crashing against the nearby shoreline was punctured by the throb of helicopter blades pulsing in the air. The seagull banked away, making room for the Oregon’s MD 520N helicopter as it flared out over the ship’s landing pad. Gomez Adams grinned at him as he smoothly landed the unusual chopper, with its rotorless tail. The skids had barely kissed the deck when he killed the engine.

  Juan walked over and opened the helicopter’s passenger door. Gretchen greeted him with a warm smile.

  “Nice of you to send this first-class ride for me,” she said as she gingerly climbed down with Juan’s assistance. “Breathing outdoor air is a nice change after being cooped up in a hospital room for a month.”

  When she had both feet firmly planted on the deck, she removed a brass-tipped cane from beside the seat while Juan grabbed her small suitcase.

  “No more walker for you, I see,” he said, holding her arm as she hobbled off with him.

  “My first full day with a cane. I felt like an old lady riding in those courtesy carts at the airport on the way here, but they do get you around fast.”

  “I like it. Very sophisticated.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the rehab nurses at Bethesda thought the same thing when they taught me how to use it. By the way, I’m supposed to pass compliments on to Julia Huxley from the surgeons there. They commented several times on what an excellent job she did realigning my fractured pelvis.”

  That was high praise coming from doctors at Bethesda Naval Hospital, one of the best in the world. Juan had taken Gretchen there personally after her injury and spent several days with her before returning to the Oregon.

  “You can tell her yourself tonight over dinner,” Juan said. “Chef has put together a banquet fit for a queen.”

  “I just wish I could have been there for Mike Trono’s wake. I imagine it was quite the party.”

  “You will definit
ely hear stories about it. Ask MacD about his impromptu karaoke serenade.”

  “Can’t wait. How are he and Eric doing?”

  “Eric’s still in a cast, but he loves whizzing down the halls on his scooter. MacD’s shoulder didn’t sustain any structural damage, and he’s already bragged about showing off his nice new scar to the ladies.”

  “As if he needs more help in that department.” Instead of going inside, Gretchen steered them toward the railing. “I want to take in this view.”

  They leaned against the railing for a few silent moments. Gretchen’s eyes reflected the sunlight as she inhaled the sea breeze.

  Maurice appeared seemingly out of nowhere, carrying a tray holding two glasses.

  “A refreshment after your trip, Ms. Wagner. It’s an elderflower cordial, a local Danish concoction.”

  “Thank you, Maurice.”

  “I’ll take your luggage to your cabin.” The octogenarian steward retreated with her bag just as quietly as he had arrived.

  “How does he do that?” she asked Juan as she sipped her drink.

  “My theory is that he was trained by ninjas.” He paused to take a sip, then said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t have stayed longer with you at the hospital.”

  She waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. I know you had a lot to do back here. The ship looks as awful as usual, by the way.”

  Juan smiled. “Why, thank you. We do make an effort.”

  “Did it take long to fix?”

  “A couple of weeks in port after we returned the Jaffa Column to the Maltese Oceanic Museum. Of course, we couldn’t return to Vladivostok after what happened there, but we have a few other options around the world for repairs.”

  “The less I know, the better.”

  “It sounds like the Oregon isn’t in your future.”

  “According to the doctors, fieldwork isn’t in my future after this.” She pointed at her hip. “But the CIA has given me a promotion, heading up a new financial analysis department. I start as soon as I get back.”

  Juan clinked glasses with her. “I’m happy for you. But they didn’t give it to you. You earned it.”

  Neither had brought up their night together in Lithuania, and Juan didn’t think there was any point now, despite how he felt about her. It was clear their paths had intersected only briefly and were now diverging again. Their time with each other would have to remain a wonderful memory.

  To avoid the subject, Juan filled her in about the aftermath of the attack on the electrical grid and banking system. Although Gretchen had seen news updates from her hospital bed, she hadn’t yet heard some of the most important details.

  Before Juan could tear Eric away from ShadowFoe’s computer, Eric had initiated an upload of all its contents to the Oregon’s servers. Most of the files were transferred before the Achilles was destroyed and they provided a wealth of knowledge about Ivana Semova’s hacking activities.

  Using the data that Eric and Murph gleaned, they were able to unlock the Credit Condamine computer system and restore all of the funds, including the Corporation’s. In addition, they learned about ShadowFoe’s unusual coding technique, which had its roots in a radical mathematical concept previously hidden for two hundred years.

  Maxim Antonovich—whose captivity and innocence in the entire affair had been confirmed by three crewmen who confessed after being saved from the wreckage of the Achilles—had purchased several rare documents, most of which had been in the yacht’s safe when it went down. But prior to that, they’d all been scanned into ShadowFoe’s computer. One of those documents was a centuries-old mathematical treatise by a Russian named Alexei Polichev, who was an instructor at Moscow State University at the time of Napoleon’s invasion. His revolutionary algorithms were lost during the war—or so it was thought. But two copies had survived, the one that Antonovich ended up buying and a second set whisked away by Napoleon’s soldiers, along with the rest of the treasure. That copy was damaged beyond repair when it went into the Neris River inside the trunk that Trono tried to save. ShadowFoe had based her unique computer viruses on Polichev’s formulas.

  After reverse engineering Ivana’s programs, Eric and Murph consulted with the banks to recover the stolen funds, collecting a tidy reward in the process, enough to not only refit and rearm the Oregon but also to install a few upgrades. The Corporation then turned Polichev’s equations over to the CIA for use in the government’s various counter-cyberwarfare operations.

  “In addition to electronic copies of the torn-out pages from Napoleon’s Diary, we also found an interesting letter on ShadowFoe’s computer,” Juan said. “Remember Pierre Delacroix?”

  “You mean the naval lieutenant who wrote about kidnapping Napoleon from St. Helena?”

  “That’s him. Antonovich never told us about a second letter Delacroix had written.”

  He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Gretchen.

  “It was addressed to a wealthy businessman named Jacques Aubuchon, although we don’t know if the letter actually made it to him. Aubuchon, apparently, funded the operation to kidnap Napoleon in the hopes of finding the treasure he stole from Moscow.”

  She unfolded the printout and began to read.

  Dear Monsier Aubuchon,

  It is with great despair that I must inform you that our venture has failed. The treasure that you seek shall remain unearthed, for the emperor has betrayed us.

  He led us to believe the riches he took from Moscow were taken by sea to Bornholm Island. As an ally of France, Denmark and its territories would have served as a possible hiding place for the immense cache of valuables, so we had no reason to doubt his guidance.

  He took us to a marine cave on the southern side of the island where he claimed the treasure was secreted. Using the Stingray submarine, which you so generously provided us funds to build, we infiltrated the cavern. But when we reached the interior, we found nothing but bare rock.

  It was then that I discovered the emperor had convinced several of the crew to mutiny against me and join his cause. It was only through the aid of my most trusted officers that we managed to swim out of the cave during a battle that caused many casualties on both sides.

  Whether the emperor survived the battle, I do not know. But because you instructed that there be no evidence of the abduction from St. Helena, I ordered our cannons be used to cause an avalanche and seal the cavern behind me with the emperor still inside. I trust that you will burn this letter upon receipt and destroy the only remaining proof of his escape from exile.

  According to your desire upon the outset of this mission, my failure means that I will make no further contact with you.

  Faithfully yours,

  Lieutenant Pierre Delacroix

  Gretchen looked up from the letter in astonishment, first at Juan, then at the island next to them. He followed her gaze to a small outcropping of jumbled rocks near sea level. Several of them had been pushed aside to create an opening.

  “Come on,” Juan said. “I want to show you something.”

  He took her down to the boat garage, where he helped her into the RHIB. It took only a few minutes to motor over to the shore.

  Several days of work had allowed the Oregon crew to carve out an entrance and clear a smooth path that Gretchen could navigate with her cane. Juan switched on a generator and light shined from within the previously dark opening in the cliff.

  Juan took her hand and guided her inside. He watched her face as she entered the spacious cavern, which was well lit by powerful lamps. Just as Delacroix had described, it was a featureless chamber, smoothed by centuries of erosion by the sea. Half of the cave’s lower portion consisted of an uneven stone floor, while the other half had sunk below sea level, creating a natural inlet, before the opening was sealed by the falling rocks.

  Gretchen gasped when she saw a strange-loo
king submarine beached on the rocky platform. Its bright copper cladding had transformed into a green patina, but otherwise the vessel was completely intact.

  “We think it sailed in during an unusually high tide,” Juan said. “When the cave was sealed by the avalanche, the water might have seeped out or evaporated over the next two hundred years.”

  As they ventured farther inside, they stepped around several skeletons. Little was left of the skeletons’ clothing except brass buttons and belt buckles.

  “These had to be the crewmen who mutinied or the officers who fought against them. We’ve found bullet wounds and sword injuries on the bones.”

  “This is incredible. What are you going to do about this discovery?”

  “We haven’t decided yet, but we’ll probably let the Danish and French governments duke it out. It should be another epic battle, not only for the sub itself but because of what’s inside. We’ve spent hours debating why we found it this way, with the hatch closed, but I’m not convinced which theory is right. I’ll let the archaeologists figure out that one.”

  Scaffolding had been constructed next to the sub. With Juan’s assistance, Gretchen managed to climb up until she could see inside the conning tower’s window.

  Since the sub’s hatch was still closed, the air inside remained undisturbed. Juan shined a flashlight through the window so she could get a better look.

  “Good Lord,” Gretchen whispered with reverent awe.

  Sitting below them was a desiccated corpse, perfectly preserved by the submarine’s airtight seal. Even in death, the body sat upright, dignified and regal to the end, dressed in a majestic uniform adorned with medals.

  Juan’s favorite detail was the right hand tucked inside the tunic, which left no doubt that they were privy to the final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte.

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