Zero Hour nf-11

by Clive Cussler

  At the conclusion of a state dinner for the Prime Minister of India, the attendees were given the chance to talk, network, and discuss ideas unencumbered by the constraints of long-held official positions. It had been said that more business was done after business hours than during all the official meetings, negotiation sessions, and carefully orchestrated mediations of the world’s governments combined.

  Dirk Pitt didn’t doubt it.

  As he moved through the room, he overheard deals being closed, wiggle room in treaties being discussed, and myriad other activities. As Director of NUMA, he’d used such occasions himself, putting a bug in the right ear or two. Tonight, however, he was on hand mainly as a favor to an old friend.

  Tall and rugged, with the weathered good looks of an outdoorsman, Pitt was a man of action and a decisive leader who exhibited the greatest sense of calm amid the worst types of chaos. Were an explosion to go off down the hall and others begin racing for the exits, Dirk Pitt might assess the situation, finish his drink, and then calmly find the closest fire extinguisher.

  With that mind-set, he moved slowly around the room, looking for the only potential flash point he expected to find that evening: his good friend James Sandecker, NUMA’s former director and the current Vice President of the United States.

  Pitt found him, standing proudly on the far edge of the reception. Sandecker’s red hair was now partially gray, but his bantamweight frame still taut and fit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, presumably to discourage anyone from attempting to shake them. That stance and the scowl on his face seemed enough to warn most of the spurious human traffic to steer well clear.

  Most but not all.

  “How many senators does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” a stocky, red-faced congressman asked him between swigs of a scotch on the rocks.

  Dirk Pitt watched the exchange with amusement. He pegged the odds of a profanity-laced reply somewhere around fifty-fifty. They would have been higher, but they were in the White House after all.

  “How many?” the Vice President said curtly.

  The congressman began laughing at himself. “No one knows, but if you like we can form a blue-ribbon committee, study the issue, and get back to you in a year or two.”

  Sandecker offered a fleeting smile, but the scowl returned almost instantaneously. “Interesting,” he said, offering nothing more.

  The congressman’s laugh faded and then stopped cold. He seemed confused by Sandecker’s response and unnerved by it all at the same time. He took another sip of his drink, gave a polite wave, and walked off, glancing back once or twice with a bewildered look on his face.

  “I do believe you’re mellowing,” Pitt said, easing up beside the Vice President. “It’s a testament to your self-control that you didn’t slug that guy.”

  At that moment, the shrill beeping of an alert tone sounded in one of their pockets.

  “You or me?” Sandecker asked.

  Pitt was already reaching for his phone. “I believe it’s me.”

  He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and typed in a code. The screen lit up with the words PRIORITY 1 MESSAGE.

  Sandecker offered a serious look. “I remember the days before cell phones and pagers,” he began, “when some poor soul had to actually come running like the dickens to tell you bad news.”

  “Times have changed,” Pitt said, waiting for the message to download.

  “Not for the better,” Sandecker suggested. “Shooting the messenger isn’t half the fun when it’s nothing but a damned machine. What’s the word?”

  “Kurt’s gotten himself involved in something down under.”

  A grin lit upon Sandecker’s face. “I heard he smashed up the Opera House pretty good,” he said, barely suppressing a laugh.

  “What’s so funny about that?” Pitt asked.

  “They’re like grandchildren,” Sandecker explained. “Paying you back for the havoc you and Al used to cause me. When I think of all the things I had to smooth over or sweep under the rug…”

  Sandecker laughed again and shook his head. “You know the IRS still wants to tax you on that Messerschmitt you brought back from Germany.”

  Pitt cut his eyes at Sandecker. “Considering all the money I’ve put into it, that thing’s more of a liability than an asset anyway.”

  The answer rolled off Pitt’s lips almost subconsciously, he wasn’t really focused on the conversation anymore. He was scanning the text as it was decrypted by the security software on the phone. In other company, he might have kept his emotions hidden. But around one of his oldest friends, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  “Something’s wrong,” Sandecker guessed.

  “Nine members of the ASIO killed in an ambush. It looks like Kurt and Joe stumbled onto the scene and managed to save two others and a scientist of some kind. Kurt wants to talk on scrambled satellite feed. Says he’s at the air force base in Alice Springs.”

  “Alice Springs,” Sandecker said. “Interesting.”

  Pitt looked up. “Interesting like the senator’s joke? Or interesting for real?”

  “Interesting for real,” Sandecker said, though he didn’t elaborate.

  Dirk slid the phone back into his pocket. “I assume you have somewhere in this building I can talk to Kurt?”

  “The Situation Room is available,” Sandecker said, pulling out his phone and firing off a text. “I’ll have the communications team set it up. The lights will be on and the coffee piping hot by the time we get there.”

  “We?”

  “I can’t let you walk around the White House unattended,” Sandecker explained, as if Pitt were part of a tour group or something. “Besides, I need an excuse to get out of here before I pummel someone and sully the reputation of my office.”

  Twenty minutes later, Pitt and Sandecker were in a secondary area of the Situation Room, a smaller section no larger than an average household den. A single large monitor and three smaller ones were set into a wall. Two rows of comfortable chairs completed the kit. All in all, it felt like an upscale home theater.

  True to Sandecker’s word, some of the best coffee Pitt could remember was ready and waiting. He sipped it as a technician from the communications crew finished the setup and stepped out.

  Pitt sat front and center, Sandecker took a seat beside him.

  Seconds later, an incoming signal was locked, and the stubble-covered face of Kurt Austin appeared on the screen.

  “Two-way link established,” the tech’s voice said over the intercom. “You can see and hear them, they can see and hear you.”

  “Thanks, Oliver,” the Vice President said.

  On-screen, Austin straightened. “Mr. Vice President?” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you on this call.”

  “Would you have shaved if you’d known?”

  “If they’d loan me something sharper than a butter knife, absolutely.”

  Sandecker flashed a smile. “Not to worry. By the way, the good people of Pickett’s Island send you their best. We recently swore them in as United States citizens. They’ve chosen to keep the island as it is, for the most part, with one notable exception. They’ve renamed the cove where they found you. It’s now called Austin’s Bay.”

  “Sounds terrific,” Kurt said. “Hope I live to see it again.”

  Pitt spoke next. “You’ve been on vacation for less than a week, Kurt. So far, you’ve managed to destroy a world-famous landmark, got yourself and Joe Zavala tangled up in a matter of Australian national security, and, apparently, landed yourselves in the hospital. I’m starting to worry about your definition of recreation.”

  “I shouldn’t have involved Joe,” Kurt admitted.

  “Probably shouldn’t have involved yourself,” Pitt corrected. “On the other hand, you’ve saved lives. That has a tendency to even things up.”

  Kurt nodded. “In case it hasn’t totally balanced out, the head of the ASIO’s counterterrorism unit has asked for some additional assistance.”
>
  Kurt went on to explain the events of the past two days, the existing situation and the perceived threat. He finished up by describing what he knew about zero-point energy and laying out Bradshaw’s request.

  As Pitt listened, he found the story almost too incredible to believe, but he’d learned long ago that ignoring what seemed impossible usually meant dealing with it face-to-face at some later date. He noticed Sandecker, sitting tight-lipped and appearing less surprised by what Kurt was saying.

  “The immediate danger affects Australia,” Kurt finished. “But according to Bradshaw, Thero’s letter indicates that Australia will suffer first and that other countries will feel his wrath in the future.”

  “So you want to search for him,” Pitt said. “Any idea where to look?”

  “Based on the contraband mining equipment and some other facts, the ASIO believes the next phase of Thero’s work would be conducted offshore, either at a submerged facility or on the Antarctic shelf.”

  Pitt nodded thoughtfully. “That’s an awful lot of space. You’re talking hundreds of thousands of square miles. We have to find some way to narrow down the search area.”

  “According to Bradshaw, Ms. Anderson’s been working on some type of detector,” Kurt said. “She believes the initial earthquake was caused by the prototype device in the flooded mine but that the larger device Thero is building will require several calibration tests before he can use it at full strength. Those tests could bring some danger, and cause some havoc, but, if she’s right, they’ll give us a way to hone in on the weapon site.”

  A grunt came from Sandecker’s direction. Pitt glanced at his old friend. “Does that mean something to you, Mr. Vice President?”

  Sandecker sat back in his seat and began stroking the neatly trimmed Vandyke beard on his chin. After a moment, he sat straight up and leaned forward. His face was fixed, his eyes unblinking. He was the very picture of a commander who made instant and authoritative decisions.

  “What I’m about to tell you men is confidential,” he said. “Top secret, in fact. The NSA has developed a special kind of remote sensing array. It’s designed to locate nuclear explosions through the neutrino bursts and gamma rays they produce. The new detectors are far more sensitive than our satellite-based systems when it comes to studying underground nuclear tests and blasts. There are twenty-four of them located at various military bases around the world. For reasons unknown, several of them received an anomalous signal at 0735 GMT a month ago, immediately prior to the earthquake in Australia.”

  “Which stations?” Pitt asked.

  “Cape Town, Alice Springs, and Diego Garcia, with the strongest signal coming in at Alice Springs.”

  “Can we get access to that data?” Pitt asked.

  “I’ll make sure of it,” Sandecker replied.

  “It sounds like it could be connected,” Kurt said. “Might help us narrow down the search zone.”

  Pitt agreed. “What do you need to take your next step, Kurt?”

  “I’ll need a few ships,” Kurt said, “as many as you can spare. We’d like to set up a picket line and listen for anything louder than a peep. And I’ll need some technical help. Paul and Gamay Trout should fit the bill, if you can pull them in. Also, I’m forwarding a list of high-tech equipment that Ms. Anderson has requested. If you can ship it to Perth, that would be great. We’ll arrive there in a couple of days.”

  “A couple of days?” Pitt repeated. “Perth is no more than three hours from Alice Springs by air.”

  “I know,” Kurt said, “but we’re not traveling by air. Joe and I have to escort Ms. Anderson. And she’s deathly afraid of flying. So, apparently, we’ll be traveling by train.”

  Pitt would have preferred to send a jet for them, but it would take several days to get the ships and equipment in place anyway. “Understood,” he said. “Plan on shoving off the minute you arrive at the dock.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Kurt said.

  He signed off, and Dirk Pitt considered the task ahead of them. Pinpointing an experiment in the vast expanse of the Great Southern Ocean would not be an easy task even for a small fleet of high-tech vessels.

  He turned back to Sandecker. “Do these neutrino detectors of yours have a directional-sensing component?”

  “To some extent,” Sandecker admitted, “but not in a pinpoint-accurate kind of way, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Pitt’s gears were turning. “Any chance we could have them tuned to look for these waves? In case our friends do exactly what Kurt is suggesting but that this sensor Kurt’s scientist friend is building doesn’t pick them up?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Even if it’s a vague directional vector, three stations receiving a signal means we should be able to cross-reference and triangulate. That’ll help us narrow down the target zone.”

  Sandecker grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  FIFTEEN

  NUMA vessel Gemini

  Indian Ocean, 140 miles due west of Christmas Island

  The NUMA vessel Gemini was a rakishly designed, hundred-and-fifty-foot vessel. In profile, she looked like a bulked-up yacht, thicker and heavier, designed to carry instruments and ROVs and a crew of scientists packed into tiny cabins.

  At the moment, Gemini was moving due west, as the crew tested a new type of sonar designed to penetrate the seafloor.

  With a walkie-talkie in his hand, Paul Trout moved to the very front of the forward deck. He leaned over the railing and gazed downward. Just aft of where the ship’s bow met the water, an eleven-foot triangular flange stuck out from the side of the hull. This protrusion, along with an identical one on the port side, gave the ship’s bow an odd shape, like the head of a stingray, and the crew had nicknamed it the Skate.

  Perhaps it was appropriate. Like her namesake, the Skate was designed to scan the seafloor far below, searching for things hidden beneath eons of piled-up sediment.

  It was expected to be a huge leap forward in the hunt for and development of underwater resources. But first, it had to work, which, so far, had proven hit or miss.

  Paul pressed the talk switch on the radio. “Flange folded down and locked in place. The hookup bars are secured, the alignment indicators are matched up. The Skate is visually in the correct location.”

  “Okay, Paul,” a female voice said over the radio. “We’re still getting an odd signal on the processor.”

  The female voice belonged to Gamay Trout, Paul’s wife. She was in Gemini’s information center, monitoring the data stream from the Skate’s bell-like housing.

  Paul preferred to be out on the deck, partly because the information center was cramped and tight and he was six feet eight inches tall, but also because the idea of signing up for a mission at sea and spending most of it in a darkened room surrounded by computers struck him as the height of absurdity.

  “Do you see any dolphins?” Gamay asked.

  “Dolphins?”

  “During a test run, there were dolphins bow-riding with us, they seemed very interested in the Skate. They kept blasting it with their sonar. It was a similar kind of staccato display.”

  Paul hadn’t heard that one before. He checked both sides of the ship. “No dolphins, no pilot whales.”

  A long pause followed. Paul figured Gamay was running through a diagnostic protocol or something. He took the time to stretch out and marvel at the blue sky, the fresh breeze, and the warm sun.

  After more silence, he decided to risk prodding her. “Everything okay?”

  There was no answer, and Paul imagined the computers crashing and all manner of swearing going on in the control room. For the moment, he was doubly glad not to be down there.

  He turned as a figure appeared outside the Gemini’s bridge and descended the stairs toward the main deck.

  Paul smiled at Gamay as she approached. At five foot ten, she was relatively tall for a woman, but her proportions were such that she looked neither thin nor reedy the way many t
all women do. Glamorous when she needed to be. For now, she was dressed like the rest of the crew, in khaki pants and a NUMA polo shirt. Her dark red hair was pulled sleekly back in a ponytail and tucked beneath a NUMA cap that read GEMINI in gold letters. She flashed a smile at him, and her blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous quality.

  “Decide to join me for a stroll?” he said, a New Hampshire accent detectable in his voice.

  “Actually,” she said, “I came to tell you the bad news. We have to pull up stakes and head south.”

  “South? Why? I’m sure you can get the Skate back online.”

  “It’s not the Skate,” she said. “We have new orders.”

  Paul sensed the ship beginning a turn to port. “Not wasting any time.”

  “Dirk wants us to go help Kurt and Joe with what he called a critical project.”

  “Last I heard, Kurt and Joe were on vacation,” Paul reminded her. “Does this project involve bail money or sneaking them out of the country somehow?”

  “You know Dirk,” she said, looping an arm around Paul’s waist. “He’s a man of few words. Said we’d be given more details when we arrived on-station.”

  Now Paul became deeply suspicious. In addition to Gamay’s words, he could feel the Gemini picking up speed.

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  Gamay shook her head. “All I know is, Dirk told me we’d better break out the cold-weather gear.”

  “So that’s why you’re out here,” Paul said.

  “Figured I’d better enjoy the sun while I can.”

  Paul and Gamay often worked closely with Kurt and Joe. And, in most of those cases, once the ride picked up speed, they got more than they’d bargained for. If the pattern held, the next day or two would probably be their last chance to relax for quite a while.

  “How about that stroll?” Paul asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Gamay replied.

  SIXTEEN