“Not totally for nothing,” Paul said, aiming his light at a dark bruise on the back of the man’s neck. He felt for the vertebrae, there was no rigidity.
“What’s wrong?”
Paul reached over and switched Marchetti’s radio off and then did the same to his own. Marchetti seemed confused.
With no one else listening Paul felt he could speak freely. He was not normally given to such leaps, preferring to be the calm, rational one while others shouted conspiracy theories and insisted the sky was falling, but he could see no other reason for all that had happened.
He looked Marchetti in the eyes and spoke loud enough for him to hear through the masks. “This man didn’t die from smoke inhalation or the heat. His neck’s broken.”
“Broken?”
Paul nodded. “This man was murdered, Mr. Marchetti. You have a saboteur on board.”
Marchetti looked stunned.
“It’s the only explanation for the fire and systems failures. Since you’re in here with me, I’m assuming it’s not you. But it could be anyone else. One of the skeleton crew or even a stowaway. Probably someone with hidden ties to Otero or Matson. I suggest we keep it to ourselves until we can figure out who it might be.”
Marchetti looked at the dead crewman and then back at Paul. He nodded.
Paul switched his radio on and scooped up the dead man. Marchetti turned his own radio back on. “We’re headed for the main door,” he said, informing the bridge.
DOWN ON THE LOWER DECK, Gamay, Leilani and the chief made it to the brig. The chief used his keys to unlock the cell door. Gamay stepped in. Otero looked up at her from his seat. His sullen eyes were dark.
“We know you’ve messed up the computer system,” she said. “My husband is trapped in the engine room after fighting a fire. You need to enable the doors so he can get out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if he dies, it’s murder, and that’s a lot worse for you than what you’ve already done.”
Otero’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as if he were weighing the pros and cons of her request.
“Damn you!” Gamay shouted, stepping forward and slapping him. “There are people here who would kill you for what you’ve already done. I told them it wasn’t necessary, it wasn’t right.”
She grabbed a Wi-Fi-enabled laptop from the chief and shoved it toward him.
Otero looked at it but did nothing.
“I told you he was worthless,” Leilani said.
Looking angry, the chief stepped past Leilani and moved up beside Gamay. “You’ve tried it your way, now I’ll try mine.”
He loomed over Otero. “Open the damn doors or I’ll beat you until you can’t remember your name.”
Otero pulled back a bit, but he seemed less afraid to Gamay than he should have, considering the build of Marchetti’s chief. It took a second to realize why.
The unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking came from behind them, and Gamay’s heart froze.
“No one’s going to get beaten today,” Leilani said from behind them.
Cautiously Gamay turned. Leilani held another gun, different than the one Kurt had taken from her.
“Thanks for moving past me,” she said. “I was wondering how to get the drop on both of you at the same time.”
PAUL and MARCHETTI waited at the main door in the engine room. Time was running out.
“Thirty seconds,” Marchetti said. “Give or take.”
Paul tried to control his breathing. No doubt he’d sucked a lot of oxygen while fighting the fire, he hoped remaining calm at this point would counteract that.
“Anytime now,” Marchetti said loudly.
It concerned Paul that they hadn’t heard from the bridge in several minutes. His last few breaths had been awfully stale. His instincts urged him to take off the mask as if it was smothering him. He knew better of course, the toxic fumes from the fire were far worse than stale air. But any second that air would become no air at all.
“Are you guys out there?” Marchetti shouted. He began banging on the door.
“Save your air,” Paul warned.
“Something’s wrong,” Marchetti said. He pounded on the door with his fist until the warning light on the side panel went from red to yellow. Around them the sound of fans spooling up and the bang of exhaust vents flipping from closed to open rang out.
“Or maybe not,” Marchetti said, looking pleased.
The smoke and steam and fumes began to drift upward, sucked out of the compartment by the system, and the indicator beside the door turned green.
An instant later the door handle spun and the hatch cracked open with a hiss as the heated air from the engine room forced its way out.
An instant of exaltation was followed by a blow of crushing defeat. Outside the door, Gamay and seven of the crewmen, including the chief, were down on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Just beyond them, holding a mix of rifles and short-barreled machine guns that looked like Uzis, were two other crewmen, along with Otero, Matson and, of all people, Leilani Tanner.
“I guess we know who the saboteur is,” Paul said. “You’re not Kimo’s sister, are you?”
“My name is Zarrina,” she said. “Do as I order and I won’t have to kill you.”
CHAPTER 31
LYING FLAT IN THE SAND ONCE AGAIN, KURT PEERED through the gathering dusk to a dry lake bed on the desert floor. A half mile from them sat the two odd-looking jets that had flown over them and a third aircraft of the same type, which they hadn’t seen approach. All three sat quietly up against the right side of what passed as the runway.
From a breast pocket he pulled the compact set of binoculars he’d liberated from Jinn’s dead guard at the bottom of the well. Brushing sand from the lenses, he lifted them to his eyes.
“You were right,” he said. “Not exactly JFK. More like Edwards Air Force Base out in California.”
“Dry lake bed for a runway,” Joe replied, “but what on earth are they doing down there?”
Kurt watched as Jinn’s men poured from holes in the ground like angry ants. They scurried around the three aircraft in a haphazard way. Nearby, a set of trucks idled with black diesel smoke drifting from their exhaust stacks. A trio of forklifts seemed to be staging huge loads of equipment, and a tanker truck was easing out of a tunnel in the rock wall, moving at a snail’s pace.
Joe’s concept of an ant farm seemed more accurate every minute.
“They must have ramps and tunnels everywhere,” Kurt said, watching as men appeared from out of nowhere and then disappeared just as quickly.
“Can you see what they’re bringing in?” Joe asked.
Kurt saw wide cargo doors at the tail ends of the aircraft opening up, but nothing was coming out.
“They’re not here to drop off,” Kurt said. “They’re picking up. Pilots are talking with some sort of loadmaster.”
“So this is moving day.”
“Or D-day,” Kurt said.
“Can you catch the tail numbers off the jets?” Joe asked. “That might help us down the road.”
With the sun down and the light fading fast, Kurt zoomed in on the closest aircraft and squinted.
“White tails,” he said. “No markings of any kind. But I’m pretty sure they’re Russian-built.”
“Can you make out the type?”
“They look modified to me. They have the six-wheeled main landing gear of an An-70, a large tail ramp like a C-130 or other military transport but the shape of something else, they almost look like …”
It hit Kurt all of a sudden. He’d seen the odd-shaped plane two summers ago, fighting fires in Portugal. “They’re modified Altairs,” he said. “Beriev Be-200s. They’re jet-powered flying boats. They land on the water, scoop up a thousand gallons of the stuff, fly off and dump it out over a blaze.”
Joe seemed all the more baffled by this news. “What would Jinn want with a firefighting plane that lands on water? There’s not a l
ot out here that can catch on fire, and there isn’t much water to scoop up and fight fires with if there was.”
As Kurt watched the tanker truck sidle up to the first of the jets, he thought he understood. “This is how they’re getting the microbots to the sea,” he said.
“In the water reservoirs,” Joe said.
Kurt nodded. “There’s a tanker truck hooked up to one of the jets right now, but unless someone put the fuel port in the wrong place it’s not Jet A or JP-4 they’re pumping.”
“So they’re not washing down from here or escaping,” Joe said. “What about the model of the dam?”
He handed the binoculars to Joe. “Take a look beside that line of trucks.”
Joe put the binoculars to his face. “I see yellow drums on pallets,” he said.
“Look familiar?”
Joe nodded. He scanned back toward the aircraft. “I don’t see any of those going onto the planes. Looks like they’re loading weapons and ammunition onto the closest one, and I think I see a couple of ribbed Zodiacs like the SEAL teams use set up in the staging area.”
“Sounds like our friends are headed somewhere a little wetter than here,” Kurt said. “Which really isn’t a bad idea.”
Joe handed the binoculars back to Kurt. “See if you can spot a water fountain down there somewhere.”
“Sorry, partner,” Kurt said. “I think we just escaped from the only water fountain in this vicinity. And it’s out of order.”
“Just like in the mall,” Joe said, trying to clear his throat of the dust and sand they’d breathed in. Kurt did his best not to think about the thirst he’d built up or the dry, caked feeling in the back of his own throat.
“I wonder,” Kurt said. “Maybe we’re trying to connect the wrong dots. Maybe the model dam they wrecked has nothing to do with the current diagram you spotted in the drafting room and what’s going on in the Indian Ocean.”
“Two targets?”
Kurt nodded. “Two modes of transportation. Two different ways of carrying those microbots. Maybe they have two distinct operations going here.”
“Have we underestimated our maniacal little friend?”
“We might have,” Kurt replied.
“What do you want to do?”
“My original idea was to catch a flight out of here,” Kurt said, “but now that we appear to have a choice in our mode of transport. What do you suggest, trucks or planes?”
“Trucks,” Joe said.
“Really?” Kurt said, surprised. “Planes are faster. And we both know something about flying.”
“Not those things.”
“They’re all the same,” Kurt insisted.
Joe pursed his lips. “Have you ever calculated how much trouble your endless optimism gets us in?” Joe asked. “They’re NOT all the same. And even if they were, where are you going to go once you have control of the plane? This is the Middle East. Planes crossing borders without permission don’t last long around here. The Saudis, the Israelis, the Seventh Fleet, any one of them might shoot us out of the sky before we could explain why we violated their no-fly zone.”
Kurt hated to admit it but Joe had a point.
“Besides,” Joe added, “those planes might end up in a worse place than this. But trucks have to stay on the beaten path and stick close to civilization. There are only so many roads and so many places a truck can go from here. I say we climb aboard.”
“In the back?” Kurt said. “With ten billion little eating machines?”
Joe took the binoculars from Kurt and trained them on the drums beside the line of covered flatbeds. “From the way Jinn’s men are keeping their distance I’m gonna guess they have some idea what’s in those drums. That plays in our favor. It’ll keep ’em away and reduce the chances of our being discovered and redeposited in that well.”
Kurt remained quiet.
“And,” Joe added, perhaps sensing victory was near, “if we are discovered in the trucks, we can jump and run. Kind of hard to do that from thirty thousand feet.”
Kurt could not remember a time when Joe had made such a forceful argument. “You’ve talked me into it.”
“Really?”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” he said, brushing some dust off his uniform and straightening it. “And in this case you are right on, my friend.”
Joe handed the binoculars back to Kurt, looking very pleased with himself. He tried to make his own uniform look more presentable.
“Shall we?”
Kurt tucked the binoculars into his breast pocket. “We shall.”
As darkness fell and the moonless night spread across the desert, the loading and servicing of the Russian-built jets continued. To provide some light a few temporary spotlights and the high beams of several parked Jeeps and Humvees were moved into place.
The strange setup made it easy for Kurt and Joe to sneak up on the staging area as the men in the lighted zone were all but blind to the darkness of the desert beyond.
Upon reaching the operations area, Kurt and Joe pulled up their kaffiyehs to cover their faces and heads. Aside from looking dirty and scruffy, their uniforms matched those of the men handling the loading.
“Grab something,” Joe whispered, picking up a small crate of equipment. “Everyone looks official if they’re carrying something and walking briskly.”
Kurt followed suit, and the two of them walked right into the main staging area without receiving a second glance. They began to get their bearings, trying not to look conspicuous.
Kurt spotted the row of yellow drums. Only a dozen of perhaps sixty remained.
He pointed, and the two of them moved that way. As they closed in, someone began to shout at them in Arabic.
Kurt turned and saw the bearded man named Sabah standing by the row of trucks. Kurt recognized some of the words, something about lazy workers.
Sabah pointed and shouted again and waved his hands in earnest. He seemed to be indicating an idle forklift.
Kurt raised a hand in acknowledgment and began walking toward it.
“I think he wants us to drive it.”
Joe followed him. “Do you know how to drive one of these things?”
“I’ve seen it done once or twice,” Kurt said. “How hard could it be?”
Joe cringed but followed Kurt to the gray-and-orange forklift. He stood by as Kurt climbed on the four-wheeled machine and tried to familiarize himself with the controls.
Sabah began shouting again.
“You better at least start the engine,” Joe whispered.
Kurt found the key and twisted it, the motor rumbled to life.
“Climb on,” he said.
Joe scrambled up onto the side of the forklift and held fast something like a fireman on the ladder trucks of old.
Kurt found the clutch and the gearshift. The rig had three gears: low, high and reverse. Kurt pressed the clutch down, forced the shift into low and added some gas.
Nothing happened.
“We’re not moving,” Joe whispered.
“I realize that.”
Kurt let out the clutch a little more and pressed the accelerator a little harder. The engine revved, the gears meshed and the big machine lurched forward like a driver’s ed car in the hands of a three-time dropout.
“Easy,” Joe said.
“I thought that was easy,” Kurt replied.
Sabah waved impatiently, pointing them toward the stack of yellow drums, each of which sat on its own pallet.
Kurt turned that way. Up ahead one of the other forklifts was raising a pallet that held one of the yellow drums. As it lifted the load, a second workman lashed it to the apron with a metal cable. Apparently no one wanted to spill the contents of these barrels.
The forklift reversed and headed off with the worker still hanging on to the front.
“That’s your job,” Kurt said.
“Great.”
“You’d better find us a cable.”
Joe discovered one hooke
d to the forklift’s roof guard. He disconnected it and hopped down to the desert floor.
As Joe edged toward the yellow drums, Kurt struggled to guide the big machine. He lined up and moved forward. He grabbed the fork control and went to lower the forks, but they moved opposite to what he remembered. The forks came up, threatening to puncture the drum.
He slammed on the brake, and the forklift stopped short.
As he lowered the fork, Kurt caught sight of Joe. His eyes were wide. Kurt couldn’t really blame him. When the forks were at the correct height and angle, Kurt inched the rig forward and picked up the pallet.
Joe stepped up and lashed the drum tight and gave Kurt the thumbs-up.
With a great degree of caution, Kurt backed up and turned. Going forward once again, he found the rig far better balanced with Joe and the yellow drum weighing down the nose.
He moved slowly toward the line of trucks, following in the tracks of the other forklift.
There were five trucks in all. They were flatbeds with treated canvas tarps stretched over the top of metal ribs. It looked like the lead truck was filled and being buttoned up. The others were still being loaded.
Sabah pointed toward the last truck in the line, and Kurt moved toward it. He lined up with the rear bumper and raised the forks. When it was even with the bed of the truck, Joe unlashed the drum and eased it forward, sliding the entire pallet onto a set of rollers on the bed of the truck.
Moving it like that, he slid it into place and lashed it down like the other barrels. With the job done, Joe climbed back onto the side of the forklift.
“You realize this could be considered aiding and abetting the enemy,” he said as Kurt turned the forklift back toward the staging area.
“We can leave this off the report,” Kurt said. “A simple omission.”
“Great idea. It could happen to anyone.”
“Exactly,” Kurt said. “When we load the final barrel, you stay in the truck bed. I’ll park this thing and join you when no one’s looking.”
It sounded like a good plan and it seemed to be working. All the way up until they were almost ready to put it into action.
The Storm nf-10 Page 18