The Storm nf-10

by Clive Cussler

  “Not all of them.”

  Jinn was taken by surprise. He guessed what Xhou was about to say but was surprised he had such information. Then again, one didn’t rise to the top as Xhou had without knowing how to dig up information.

  “What is he talking about?” Mustafa asked.

  “A small research vessel took us by surprise,” Jinn said. “Americans. They’ve been dealt with.”

  Xhou shook his head. “The Americans you speak of come from an organization known as NUMA. The National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

  A murmur went through the group, and Jinn sensed he had to control the situation quickly. He needed the next installment of funds or the whole operation would collapse.

  “It could not be helped,” he said. “We had no reason to suspect a sailboat with a crew of three. They filed no permits, made no announcements. By the time we realized what they were up to, they were on the verge of discovering the horde. They had already sent data on the temperature gradient back to their headquarters.”

  “What happened?” the Sheik asked.

  “The horde consumed them.”

  “Consumed them?”

  Jinn nodded. “In a foraging mode, the horde can devour anything in its path. It’s a part of their program, required for reproduction and self-protection. In this case, it was activated from here.”

  Xhou seemed to grow even angrier at hearing this. “You are a fool, Jinn. For each action taken, there is reaction. In this case, NUMA will investigate. They will be angered by the loss of their crew and highly motivated to discover what happened. They have a reputation for being tenacious. I fear you may have succeeded only in waking the dogs.”

  Jinn fumed; he despised being questioned in this manner. “We had little choice. Now that the horde is concentrated, it is in a more vulnerable state. If the Americans found it, it’s possible—however unlikely—that action could have been taken before we initiate the final part of our plan, here and now, in this crucial growing season. If that had been allowed to happen, all our efforts would have been for nothing.”

  “What’s to stop that in the future?”

  Jinn puffed out his chest. “Once the weather pattern has been diverted, the horde can be dispersed again. Through its natural reproduction process it will grow large enough and spread far enough that even a concerted effort by all the world’s nations will be insufficient to destroy it.”

  “Where will it go?” Mustafa asked.

  “Everywhere,” Jinn said. “Eventually it will spread to all the oceans of the world. We will be able to affect not only the weather over our continents but across every landmass in the world. The rich countries of the world will pay us tribute to provide what they once received for free.”

  “And if they attack the horde?” Xhou asked.

  “They would have to burn the entire surface of the ocean just to damage it in any significant way. And even if they did, the survivors would reproduce and the horde would come back to life like the forest after a fire.”

  The members of the consortium looked around and nodded to one another. They seemed to truly understand the power of the weapon Jinn was wielding. A weapon they had a hand in.

  “Jinn has done correctly,” the Sheik said, supporting his Arab brother.

  “Agreed,” Mustafa said.

  Xhou remained less than satisfied. “We shall see,” he said. “It is my understanding that specialists from NUMA are on their way to Malé to begin investigating. If the horde is still vulnerable because of this concentration, I suggest we disperse it.”

  “Now is not the time for that,” Jinn said. “But don’t worry, we know who was on the catamaran and we know who they’re sending to investigate. I have a plan in place to deal with them.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE ISLAND OF MALÉ IS THE MOST POPULATED OF THE twenty-six atolls known as the Maldives. In centuries past Malé had been the king’s private island, the citizens living on the other islands spread out across two hundred miles of ocean. Now Malé was the nation’s capital. A hundred thousand people lived on it, packed into less than three square miles.

  In contrast to volcanic islands like Hawaii or Tahiti, the Maldives have no peaks or rocky outcroppings. In fact, the highest natural point on Malé is only seven feet above sea level, though multistory condos and other buildings sprout in every section of ground right up to the water’s edge.

  Flying there from Washington, D.C., was a daylong trip. Fourteen hours to Doha, Qatar, a three-hour layover, which seemed short by comparison, and then another five-hour flight that took great willpower even to board after so much time in the air already. Finally, after all that, travelers touched down at their destination. Sort of.

  Malé itself was so small and so built up that no room for an airport remained on the circular-shaped island. To reach it meant landing on the neighboring island of Hulhulé, which was shaped something like an aircraft carrier and pretty much covered entirely by the airport’s main runway.

  Aboard a four-engine A380, Kurt watched other passengers grip the armrests with white knuckles as the plane dropped closer and closer to the water. Just as it seemed like the landing gear would clip the waves, solid ground appeared and the big Airbus planted itself on the concrete runway.

  “Whoa,” a voice said from beside him.

  Kurt looked over. Joe Zavala had been jolted awake by the landing. His short black hair was a little disheveled and his dark brown eyes wide open as if he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. He’d been sound asleep until the wheels hit the ground.

  “How about a little warning next time?”

  Kurt smiled. “And ruin the surprise? A little adrenaline spike like that will get the day started right.”

  Joe looked at Kurt suspiciously. “Remind me not to let you choose my ringtones or alarm. You’d probably pick an air horn or something.”

  Kurt laughed. He and Joe had been through a decade of adventures together. They’d been in endless scrapes and fights and faced dozens of moments that loomed like utter disaster until somehow they’d managed to turn the tide, usually at the last second.

  Kurt had risked his life many times to pull Joe out of the fire. Joe had done the same for him. Somehow, that gave them the right to needle each other mercilessly in the downtime.

  “The way you snore,” Kurt said, “I don’t know if an air horn would do the trick.”

  Thirty minutes later, after a quick run through baggage claim and customs, Kurt and Joe found themselves in an open boat, otherwise known as a water taxi, crossing the narrow straight between Hulhulé and Malé.

  Kurt was studying the open water. Joe had his nose in a crossword puzzle he’d been working on for half the flight.

  “Five-letter word for African cat?” Joe asked.

  Kurt hesitated. “I wouldn’t go with tiger,” he replied.

  “Really?” Joe said. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Kurt said. “How come you look so tired?”

  Joe normally traveled well. In fact, Kurt often wondered if he had some secret handed down from generations of explorers in his family that allowed him to cross a dozen time zones and feel no ill effects of the journey. But right now, there were dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and despite his rangy, athletic physique, Joe looked bushed.

  “You were in D.C. when the call came in,” Joe said. “Ten minutes from the airport. I was in West Virginia, with fifteen kids from the youth program. We’ve been running cross-country and doing confidence courses all weekend.”

  In his spare time, Joe ran a program for inner-city kids. Kurt often helped with the outings, though he’d missed out on this one.

  “Trying to keep up with the teenagers, huh?”

  “It keeps me young,” Joe insisted.

  Kurt nodded. The fact was they were both athletes. To withstand the rigors of NUMA’s Special Projects branch, one had to be. There was literally no telling what would come their way, only a fairly high probability that it would be stren
uous, demanding, and likely to exhaust every last bit of mental and physical energy a man or woman had.

  To survive such rigors, both men kept themselves in great shape. Kurt was taller and more lean and agile. He rowed the Potomac or ran nearly every single day. He lifted weights and took tai kwan do, as much for the agility, balance, and discipline as for its value in combat.

  Joe was shorter, with broader shoulders and the build of a boxer. He also played soccer in an amateur league and swore he could have gone pro if he’d only been just a little faster. Right now he seemed obsessed with finishing the crossword.

  Kurt grabbed the paper out of his hands and tossed it into a basket. “Rest your eyes,” he said. “You’re going to need them.”

  Joe stared forlornly at the folded bit of newspaper for a second, shrugged, and then tilted his head back against the headrest. He shut his eyes and began soaking in the warm sun for the ten-minute ride across the strait.

  “You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.

  In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.

  “We’re here on business,” he said.

  “That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Malé. What kind do you do?”

  Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.

  “We solve problems,” he said finally.

  “Then you come to the wrong place,” the driver said. “Maldives are paradise. No problems here.”

  Kurt smiled. He only wished the man was right.

  The transit continued, slow and easy, until the buildings of Malé began to loom in front of them. The taxi moved through the breakwater and slowed. The turquoise color gave way to clear shallow water with only the slightest hint of blue.

  As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.

  Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the shore, tourists strolled in the sunlight, moving in and out of the shops of the waterfront. A group of men in bright reflective vests worked on a broken section of concrete, stopping mid-project to lean on their shovels and stare at a rather attractive Polynesian woman who walked by.

  Kurt really couldn’t blame them. Her lush black hair draped like ink against a sleeveless white top. Her tan face, high cheekbones and full lips glistened in the sun. And while her legs were covered by conservative gray slacks, Kurt had no doubt they were toned and tan like the rest of her.

  She ducked into a jewelry store, and both Kurt and the construction workers went back to their respective tasks.

  “You ready?” Kurt said.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Joe replied.

  Kurt pulled on his pack, and the two men hiked up the dock. Two other figures waited for them: a man of great height, nearly six foot eight, with a stern, intense look securely plastered on his face; and a woman with a kind yet mischievous look on her face, blue-green eyes and slightly curly hair the color of red wine. She stood about five foot ten, but she looked petite by the man’s side.

  “Looks like the Trouts beat us here,” Kurt said, pointing them out to Joe.

  Paul and Gamay Trout were two of their closest friends and invaluable members of the Special Projects team. Her irrepressible spirit and mischievous nature was the yin to his serious, sensible yang.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Gamay said. Originally from Wisconsin, she still spoke with a soft midwestern accent.

  “You’re the second person to call it that,” Kurt said.

  “It’s in the brochure.”

  Kurt hugged her and then shook Paul’s hand. Joe did the same.

  “How in the world did you guys get here so fast?”

  Gamay smiled. “We had a head start. We were in Thailand, sampling some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Lucky you,” Kurt said.

  “Do you want to check into the hotel?” Paul asked.

  Kurt shook his head. “I want to get a look at the catamaran. They bring it in yet?”

  “A rescue boat from the Maldives NDF (National Defense Force) towed it in an hour ago. At our request, they’ve kept it quarantined.”

  That was good news. “Then let’s go see what we can find.”

  A seven-minute walk took them along the harbor to a jetty manned by a few sailors. Two fast patrol boats were moored just beyond it, while the burned-out hulk of the NUMA catamaran was tied to the dock cleats at its side.

  At a small kiosk, Kurt filled out some paperwork and handed over copies of his ID and passport. As they waited for the stamp of approval, Kurt glanced around the dockside and noticed something odd. He kept it to himself for a moment, took his identification back and addressed the man in the uniform.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Very much so,” the young man said proudly.

  “Tell me,” Kurt continued, “without staring—is there a beautiful brunette in a white blouse watching us from the walkway?”

  The guard began to move his head for a better look.

  “Without staring,” Kurt reminded him.

  He was more cautious this time. “Yes, she’s there. Is she a problem?”

  “Not if you don’t mind being followed by beautiful women,” Kurt replied. “Keep an eye on her for us.”

  The man smiled. “Gladly,” he said, then added before Kurt could, “without staring.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kurt left the kiosk. And then he, Joe, and the Trouts went aboard the catamaran.

  “What a mess,” Gamay said, hands on her hips.

  That it was. Fire had charred and blackened half the boat, melting the fiberglass near the aft, where it must have burned the hottest. Equipment and supplies were strewn everywhere.

  “What are we looking for?” Paul asked.

  “Anything that tells us what might have happened,” Kurt replied. “Was it an accident or foul play? Were they having continuous problems or did something suddenly go wrong?”

  “I’ll find the logbook and the GPS unit,” Paul said.

  “I’ll check the cabins,” Gamay said.

  Joe moved to the driver’s seat. He flicked a few switches. Nothing happened. “Power’s out.”

  Kurt glanced around. The catamaran had two solar panels on the roof, which seemed to be intact. In addition, a small windmill high in the mast was spinning freely. The system should have had juice even if there was no one around to use it.

  “Check the cables,” he said.

  Joe climbed on the cabin’s roof and found the problem. “Burned through up here,” he said. “I think I can splice it.”

  As Joe went to work, Kurt began poking around near the life-raft canisters. Not only hadn’t they been deployed but the casings hadn’t even been unlatched.

  “Any sign of water below?” he shouted, thinking maybe a rogue wave had hit them and taken them overboard, though that wouldn’t explain the fire.

  “No,” Gamay shouted back. “Dry as dust down here.”

  Kurt crouched down to examine the marks left by the fire. The residue was odd and thick, more like sludge than soot.

  The boat had an auxiliary engine for use in emergencies or when there was no wind; it lay below deck near the aft. He lifted the deck cover to get a look at it.

  “No sign of fire in the engine bay,” he said, holding the cowling open and glancing over the top of it.

  The Polynesian brunette had moved closer to them, standing on the main walk beside a small tree near the edge of the dock. She held a phone oddly as if she was taking pictures of the catamaran with it.

  Was she a reporter?

  Somehow, this mess didn’t strike Kurt as
newsworthy unless this woman knew something he didn’t at this point.

  Gamay returned from below.

  “Anything?” Kurt asked.

  She held out a handful of items. “Thalia’s journal,” she said. “Some of Halverson’s notes. A laptop.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing major, but the table in the main cabin is broken. And there are dishes and plates smashed in there as well. But the cupboards are latched, so I’m assuming what’s broken was out and probably in use at the time. Also, the bulk food in the pantry is gone, everything except the canned goods.”

  For a second Gamay’s words sparked some hope inside Kurt. If a situation had put the catamaran’s crew in survival mode, food would be a priority, but they wouldn’t have left the canned goods behind. More likely, that’s all they would have taken.

  Paul made his way back from the bow. He had the GPS unit and the sampling tools. “Nothing out of the ordinary up front, except a deck hose left in the on position.”

  “Maybe they used it to fight the fire,” Gamay said.

  Kurt doubted that. A pair of red fire extinguishers sat untouched in their supporting clamps, one on each side of the boat. “Then why didn’t they use these?”

  With no answers or even guesses, Kurt looked to Gamay. “Dirk tells me you’ve been taking classes in forensics.”

  She nodded. “My time last year with Dr. Smith made me realize small things can tell us a lot. Especially when little else makes sense.”

  “None of this makes any sense to me,” Kurt said. “A few containers of missing bulk goods doesn’t mean they were pirated, not when the computers and anything of real value was left behind. Broken dishes and a broken table might suggest a struggle, but it isn’t enough to make me think they went crazy and killed each other. So the only danger I see is this fire, but if they fought it with the hose, they seemed to forget they had fire extinguishers.”

  “Maybe the fire disoriented them,” Paul suggested. “Maybe it happened at night? Or it released toxic fumes somehow, and they had no choice but to go overboard.”

  That sounded like a possibility to Kurt. Thin but at least possible. And that might explain the strange residue. Perhaps it was an accelerant or gel of some kind. But if so, how did it get there?