Zero Hour (9781101600559)

by Cussler, Clive; Brown, Graham

  “Time to put on the show,” Paul said, handing his binoculars to the captain.

  “I’ll bring us up alongside of her,” the captain said. “You get ready to play commando.”

  “I don’t have to tell you to be careful,” Gamay said.

  “No,” Paul replied grinning. “No, you don’t.”

  With that, Paul left the bridge and raced down the stairwell. Minutes later, he was standing just inside the forward hatch with a dozen other volunteers. They all wore black, with hastily made arm patches that displayed an approximation of the Australian flag’s blue field, with its stars of the Southern Cross and the Union Jack in the corner.

  “Weapons, everyone,” Paul said. The Gemini’s weapons locker held six rifles and two pistols. The rest received wooden approximations of the M16 rifle that had been painted black. The volunteers from the crew laughed and pointed the guns at one another.

  “What do we do if they don’t surrender?” one man asked.

  “Either dive overboard or swing these things like Reggie Jackson,” another one replied.

  Paul hoped neither act would be necessary.

  He cracked the hatch a few inches and peered through the rain and fog. The MV Rama was just across from them, bathed in the spotlights, as the whoop-whoop of Gemini’s alarm blared like a coast guard siren.

  They chased and harried the Rama like this for several minutes to no effect. Finally, the intercom buzzed.

  “They’re not responding to our radio calls,” Gamay’s voice announced.

  “Understood,” Paul said. “I’ll man the rocket launchers. Tell the captain to get us in close. Real close. And be ready to give them your spiel over the loudspeaker.”

  “Will do,” Gamay said. “Good luck.”

  Paul looked at the chief. “I’m heading forward. Get ready to take your positions on the deck.”

  “We’ll be ready,” the chief said.

  Paul made his way to another door and pushed out through the hatch and onto the pitching deck. He crossed the foredeck to a squared-off structure that looked convincingly like a warship’s turret, with multiple rocket-launching tubes on either side.

  A hydraulic crane used to lift ROVs in and out of the water had occupied the spot hours before. The boom had been dismantled and the sheet metal façade of a turret welded onto the crane’s turntable-like base. Metal air-duct tubing had been removed from parts of the ship, cut to the right length, and affixed to the sides. Painted battleship gray, with a fake antenna dish mounted on the top, the “turret” gave off a reasonable impression of a lethal-weapons system.

  Paul slipped inside, ducking through a gap in the metal. He found the Gemini’s crane operator at the controls.

  Paul spoke into his radio. “Light up the foredeck,” he said. “Let them see what they’re up against.”

  Seconds later, additional lighting shone down on the turret as Gamay’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker, roaring at the highest volume.

  “This is Commander Matilda Wallaby of the Royal Australian Navy,” she called out. She was using a fake accent that was pretty close to the real thing. “Your vessel has been spotted poaching fish in Australian territorial waters. You will reduce speed and prepare to be boarded or we will disable your ship.”

  Paul stared through an aiming slit in the sheet metal. He detected no response from the Rama, but he saw lighting changes in the bridge area.

  “Hopefully, they’re looking this way,” he said.

  By now, the Gemini had pulled directly alongside the blocky superstructure near the aft end of the containership. The captain had eased the ship in closer. No more than fifty feet separated the sides of the two ships. As one swell rolled through, the Gemini rode up and almost sideswiped the larger vessel.

  “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.

  “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.

  “You mean, which one of us wants to go with you and die first,” the South African said.

  Kurt stared at him. The statement made no sense. “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?” the South African repeated.

  Kurt felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. He took another look at the men. They were filthy, wearing rags. Their weapons were crude. Suddenly, it made sense.

  “You three are miners here,” he said. “You’re trying to escape. Whose idea was it?”

  Two of them pointed at the Irishman.

  “Rats,” the Irishman replied. “The lot of you.”

  A broad smile creased Kurt’s face. “More like three blind mice,” he said. “The question is, exactly where were you running to?”

  For the next few minutes, Kurt pried information out of the miners, learning their names and a little bit about the operation. Masinga, the South African, had been there right from the start.

  “Eight months ago, I stole a key from one of the guards,” he explained. “But he never reported it lost because Thero would kill him for losing it.”

  “Took a lot of patience not to use it right away,” Kurt noted.

  Devlin, the Irishman, spoke up. “Apparently, patience runs in his family.”

  Masinga smiled. “I hoped a day would come when escape would mean more than just dying in the cold. Devlin here says he came on a ship. He says he knows how to get back to it.”

  “I hate to tell you,” Kurt said, “but you’re going the wrong way. Nothing but excavation tunnels back this way.”

  The other two prisoners looked menacingly toward Devlin.

  “That’s what you get for listening to me,” Devlin said. “I’ve been here only two days.”

  “So what’s the deal with this mine anyway? I don’t recall Thero having any mining expertise.”

  “He has others,” Masinga explained. “It’s an uneasy relationship between him and the overseers. He keeps them on a short leash, yanking their chains from time to time, but for the most part he leaves them alone. They work us and sell the diamonds. Thero lets them keep a cut, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Slave labor,” Kurt noted. “That’s one way to bump up the profit margin.”

  “As we die off, they bring in more,” Masinga added. “Kidnapping and luring in people who have little else in the way of opportunity.”

  Kurt understood. It was a whole new reason to put Thero out of business, but it ran a distant second to saving Australia. “Any new arrivals in the last few hours?”

  “Are you looking for someone specific?” Devlin replied.

  “I started out with some friends,” Kurt said. “Thero’s men attacked us. We got separated. I think they were probably captured.”

  “That’s no good,” Masinga said. “Thero will torture them, until they give in or die.”

  Kurt studied Masinga’s face. His nose had obviously been broken at some point, and a jagged scar next to his ear looked like the result of some violent blunt-force trauma. “I’m guessing you know where that would take place.”

  “I do,” Masinga said.

  “I need you to show me.”

  “That’s back into the middle of this maze,” the third member of the trio said. “You’ll never get past Thero’s men.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” Kurt corrected. “But we are going to try. You’re all coming with me.”

  “Fine by me,” Devlin said. “I’ve got a bone to pick with one of them.”

  “I do also,” Masinga said.

  “Just tie me to the machine,” the third man said. “I’ll wait for you to come back.”

  Kurt glared at him.

  “What’s the difference? Three against thirty or four against thirty? Same odds, really. You don’t need me.”

  In a roundabout way, the man was right. Kurt had another idea. “How many other prisoners down here?”

  “Sixty or seventy,” Masinga replied.

  “And how many of them might like a shot at revenge?”

  “At least sixty or seventy,” the South African repeated, smiling.

  “That makes the living quarters our first stop.”

  • • •

  JOE AND GREGOROVICH remained in the interrogation room, sweating in what had to be hundred-degree heat. As t
he perspiration trickled down his face and dripped off his nose, Joe could barely believe the irony. “An hour ago, I thought I’d freeze to death.”

  “Now they’re broiling us,” Gregorovich replied.

  The small room had begun to feel stifling. Joe figured it was time to take drastic measures. He writhed around until he could rub the side of his wet face against the back of his hand. When the perspiration from his face and hair had coated his hand, he changed positions.

  Squeezing his fingers together as tightly as he could, Joe eased his hand into the cuff. He felt like a contortionist, pulling and twisting.

  “You’ll never get free like that,” Gregorovich said.

  “I have large wrists and average hands,” Joe said. “And these old shackles have a lot of play in them.”

  With the sweat acting as a lubricant, Joe finessed his hand deeper into the cuff. Finally, it came free.

  Joe smiled victorious. “Blood, sweat, and tears,” he said. “That’s all it takes.”

  Gregorovich looked down. “What about your feet? I don’t suppose you have big ankles and narrow toes.”

  Joe hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “One step at a time,” he said. “One step at a time.”

  In the island’s control room, Hayley was doing her best to act normal. She continued to speak to Thero as if addressing George, infusing her words with affection while trying not to look obvious.

  As she fawned over him, Thero showed her the control panels for the great machine and led her to the viewing portal, through which she could see the great orb resting in the darkened cave.

  He pressed a series of switches. Lights came on in a cave outside the window. A huge spherical construction appeared. She recognized it from a conceptual drawing Thero had shown her years ago.

  “It’s incredible,” she said.

  “My father was right,” he said. “This is proof. From here, we can direct vast amounts of energy through the Earth to any point on the globe. Energy we draw from the zero-point field.”