Sea of Greed

by Clive Cussler

  On the third change of direction, the .50 opened up and the launch took a barrage of hits. Chunks of fiberglass flew around them, one of the life rings was blasted off its hook and sent flying through the air. Gamay felt something tug on her windbreaker as if a bullet had clipped it, but fortunately neither she nor Paul nor the engine took any direct hits.

  “We’re coming up on the island,” Paul said. “Maybe we can lose him in the shallows.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Gamay replied. “Head for the rocks, if you can see any.”

  Continuing his evasive maneuvers, Paul did his best to be unpredictable. Two more bursts from the .50 lit up the night, but both were well wide of the mark.

  Meanwhile, Gamay rushed down into the cabin and came out lugging two of the heavy steel containers containing the bacterial cultures.

  Reaching the stern, she heaved the tanks up on the transom. “Head straight for the island!”

  “We are!”

  “Turn at the last second!”

  “Got it,” Paul said. “Ten seconds.”

  The speedboat was closing in again, lining up right behind them, setting up a kill shot for the man with the machine gun.

  “Paul!”

  “Wait,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  The machine gun began firing. Gamay ducked as more fiberglass was blasted from the transom. A sharp pain ran through her arm as a long splinter embedded itself in her skin. She winced and held on to the containers.

  “Now!” Paul shouted.

  Gamay opened the valves on the two tanks, shoving one off the transom to the left and one to the right. They hit the water just as Paul turned the wheel.

  As the venting gas reacted, twin veils of fire spread out behind them. There was no explosion, no firestorm to cook the pursuing boat nor any thundering detonations to blow them off course, just two ballooning flashes of strangely colored fire, bright enough to blind.

  The pilot of the following boat did the only rational thing. He avoided both fires by racing between them. He came out the other side with his night vision compromised. Even then, he saw the island, but it was far too late.

  The boat hit the shore at forty miles an hour, tearing the bottom out, rupturing the tanks on the outboard engines and sending the remnants of the hull and the men flying onto the beach.

  Paul and Gamay fared better in the Raleigh’s launch. They continued to turn, racing into the dark, scraping the bottom on some sand but otherwise emerging undamaged.

  They left the barrier island behind and continued toward the mainland. After several minutes, without any sign of pursuit, they began to relax.

  “I think we’re in the clear,” Paul said. Gamay pulled her cell phone out and began looking for a signal.

  “I hope so,” she replied. “Now, let’s get in range and call the Coast Guard.”

  31

  GREAT SOUND, BERMUDA

  KURT WAS FERRIED back to the Lucid Dream in a 1963 Riva Tritone sportsboat. The perfectly restored craft was a work of art. Its polished wood gleamed beneath the moonlight. Leather seats dyed a powder-blue color were offset by chrome trim on the dash and around the windscreen.

  Kurt sat back, enjoying the breeze and the rumble of the engine, while the flag of Bermuda fluttered on a short post behind him. Rarely had he considered the perks of wealth anything to aspire to—adventure was more his style—but he could have gotten used to owning a classic powerboat like the Riva.

  Delivered to the yacht by the very security guard who’d attempted to tackle him, Kurt climbed aboard and saluted his nautical chauffeur. The gesture was not returned, but Kurt couldn’t really blame the guy.

  He made his way up the aft stairwell, finding Joe and Priya on the top deck, grinning like a pair of Cheshire Cats.

  Joe tapped his watch. “You’re well past curfew, young man.”

  “Ignore him,” Priya said. “How was it? And don’t spare the details.”

  “As missions go . . . it wasn’t the worst.”

  Priya frowned. “Not the worst? How romantic. That’s just the way every woman hopes to be described.”

  Kurt laughed. “Just trying to be a gentleman.”

  “Too late,” Joe said, “we saw every move. You’re far smoother than I’d have expected, but did you learn anything?”

  “Tessa is a very determined woman,” Kurt said, “with a plane full of dive gear, oxygen cylinders and a storage cradle the size and shape of our underwater flying object.”

  “Interesting,” Joe said.

  “Anything else?” Priya asked.

  “Her corporate strategy seems heavily dependent on rising oil prices. And considering how aggressively she pushed me, they might not be rising fast enough.”

  “Sounds like she’s our man,” Joe said. “Our woman . . . Culprit, I mean . . . But, it’s all circumstantial.”

  “I know,” Kurt said. “Even if it wasn’t, there’s more here to figure out. There have to be other players. I want to know who they are and how they fit into this, starting with a trio of interlopers named Volke, Millard and Yates.”

  “Who are they?” Priya asked.

  “No idea,” Kurt said, “but they arrived just as I was leaving—ruining a perfectly good evening.”

  She began tapping away on her laptop. “We can cross-reference the names with all Tessa’s known contacts. If anyone named Millard, Volke or Yates has been connected with Tessa or her company, we should be able to locate them.”

  It took less than a minute.

  “No link to anyone named Volke,” Priya said, “but Yates shows up. Brian Yates. He’s an engineer. Head of her development team. Seems to be the lead designer on the fuel cell project.”

  Joe chimed in. “I saw his name on the letterhead at the conference. He was there, taking questions from a group of Tessa’s investors. The ones you didn’t interrupt.”

  “What about Millard?” Kurt asked.

  Priya went back to searching. It took a little longer this time. “Pascal Millard,” she said finally. “He’s a French scientist. Genetic engineer. Primary field, bacterial crossbreeding.”

  Kurt’s eyebrows went up. “What’s his connection to Tessa?”

  Priya read down further. “He worked for the French military and then for the civilian government in a scientific role. He was linked to a project that Tessa funded through charitable grants several years ago. Looks like he got into trouble shortly after that and was censured by the French Academy of Sciences. As a result, he was disciplined and then terminated from his government position.”

  “Does it say what he did?”

  After scanning several articles, Priya shook her head. “No details. Only that he left France and moved to Martinique, then settled in Bermuda four years ago.”

  “What would a technology company need a genetic engineer for?” Joe asked.

  “Nothing legitimate,” Kurt said. “But according to Gamay’s report, she and Paul found an unidentified strain of bacteria in the sediment beneath the Alpha Star. They suspect it’s the source of the toxic and explosive gas.”

  “The trail is getting warmer,” Priya said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Across the bay, the exterior lights surrounding Tessa’s compound dimmed. Kurt picked up the binoculars and scanned the property. An open-topped fishing boat was heading out. It was the same one that had passed him as he’d left in the Riva. There were several men visible on deck. “Can you find a picture of Millard?”

  Priya tapped a few more keys and then turned the computer toward Kurt and Joe. On-screen was the photo of an unassuming man in his late fifties. He had wispy gray hair and narrow shoulders. He wore rimless glasses.

  Kurt felt certain it was the same man. He handed the binoculars to Joe. “What do you think?”

  “Looks like Millard,
” Joe said. “A little thinner, but I’d say it’s him. I don’t see Yates down there, but I assume we’re more interested in the genetic engineer at this point.”

  “You assume correctly,” Kurt said. “Let’s see where they’re going.”

  32

  KURT AND JOE went to the lower deck of the yacht and entered a compartment labeled Boat Hangar. Two Jet Skis were stored on one side while an aggressively designed powerboat was stored on the other side.

  “Pavati 24,” Joe said. “Normally, used for towing water-skiers or people on wakeboards. I’ve seen these in competition.”

  Kurt nodded his approval as he studied the craft. Its profile was jagged and angular instead of smooth and flowing. It had a wide, three-pointed bow, which the designers called a pickle fork. The hull was painted in a red and silver racing pattern, with the added touch of carbon fiber panels for looks and additional strength.

  “Is our gear on board? If they go diving, we need to be able to follow.”

  “I loaded everything this morning,” Joe said. “We’ve got all the new stuff.”

  “New stuff?”

  “Advanced designs I’ve been working on,” Joe said. “I think you’ll like them.”

  Kurt wasn’t sure what Joe had been up to, but he was looking forward to finding out. “You can tell me about them on the way.”

  They pushed the boat out into the water, climbed in and fired the engine up.

  As they pulled away, a shout reached them from the top deck. “Don’t mean to bother you gentlemen, but what should I do while you’re gone?”

  “Keep in touch with us by radio,” Kurt said. “And see what else you can learn about Millard, Tessa and the Monarch. I’d like to know where that plane has been and compare its travels with the map of the dying oil wells.”

  “Sounds like a make-work job to me,” Priya said, “but I’ll do my best.”

  “I expect nothing less,” Kurt said.

  Joe pushed the throttle and the Pavati surged forward, accelerating away from the yacht. While Joe drove, Kurt moved to the bow and traded in the binoculars for a night vision scope. “They’ve got about a mile on us.”

  “Want me to close the gap?”

  Kurt shook his head. “Save the power for later. They seem to be taking their time.”

  “You’re no fun,” Joe said as he eased off the throttle.

  “Something tells me you’ll get your chance to work that throttle before the night is over. For now, back us off and turn a little to the east, in case they’re watching for a tail.”

  Joe angled slightly away from the fishing boat, which continued moving toward the mouth of the Great Sound. “Nothing but the Atlantic if they keep going that way.”

  The fishing boat held its course until it passed Spanish Point—the western end of the main body of land that made up Bermuda. From there, it turned northeast and ran parallel with Bermuda’s north shore.

  Joe followed suit.

  “They’re drifting wide,” Kurt said. “Getting farther out.”

  “I’ll keep us in the shallows,” Joe said. “It’ll make us harder to see.”

  Kurt nodded and sat back. For a moment, it seemed like a pleasure cruise. The island’s long, low coastline, off to their right, was dotted with lights from homes, hotels and cars. Meanwhile, the fishing boat was easy to track against the pitch-darkness that loomed out to sea. At least until its lights suddenly went out.

  “They’ve gone into stealth mode,” Joe said.

  Kurt sat up, put the scope to his eye and scanned for the telltale white foam at the aft end of the boat. He found it and followed it for a few seconds before it, too, vanished.

  “That’s odd.”

  “What happened?”

  “The wake just ended,” Kurt said. “It didn’t peter out, it just stopped.”

  Widening the field of view, Kurt found the reason it had disappeared so abruptly. “They went behind a ship. A freighter, sitting out there, darkened to the world.”

  Putting the scope down, Kurt picked up the radio and called back to the yacht. “Priya, this is Kurt, do you read?”

  “Go ahead, Kurt.”

  “I need you to pull up the AIS tracking service we use. Our friends have linked up with a midsized freighter anchored north of the island. I want to know what ship it is and who owns it.”

  “Stand by,” she said. “Sorry, but there’s no AIS signal in your area. Whoever they are, they’re operating without broadcasting an ID.”

  “No surprise there,” Joe said.

  Kurt continued to study the freighter through the night vision scope. The fishing boat remained hidden behind it. “Find us a spot to anchor,” he said. “Time to put these special dive suits of yours to the test.”

  33

  WITH THE PAVATI anchored in the shallows, Joe opened the storage lockers and pulled out two wetsuits, a pair of rebreathers and two helmets.

  “The new stuff,” Kurt said. “You weren’t kidding.”

  None of the equipment looked like standard gear. The wetsuits were ribbed, with pads in the thighs, hips and calf areas, and battery packs instead of weight belts.

  The rebreathers were slim and compact, flat enough that one could wear a windbreaker over them and no one would notice. The helmets had strange protrusions sticking out either side that reminded Kurt of the mirrors on a small car.

  Kurt picked up the wetsuit first. “It looks like superhero body armor.”

  “You’ll swim like a superhero with this,” Joe said. “The ribs and padded areas are power-assisted modules and artificial muscle.”

  “Artificial muscle?”

  Joe nodded. “Those robotic assemblies we dealt with last year gave me the idea. I figured, instead of a bulky propulsion unit with a propeller, why not just enhance the diver’s swimming motion? To make it work, I embedded a material in the neoprene that expands and contracts like muscle when an electrical current is applied. Once you turn it on, the suit will kick for itself, all you have to do is set the pace on the small touch screen on your forearm.”

  “How fast will this make us?”

  “In this suit, you’ll be twice as fast as the world record holder,” Joe said. “It’s strong, too. We tested it against a four-knot current and the diver made it two miles without even breaking a sweat.”

  “Two miles against a strong current,” Kurt said. “Who was dumb enough to volunteer for that job?”

  Joe pointed to himself. “That’s the problem with being a visionary designer, no one believes in you till you prove it.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Tessa,” Kurt said, taking the dive helmet from Joe. “Now, what’s the deal with these helmets? They look like a cross between Buck Rogers and a VW Bug.”

  Joe feigned distress at the comment. “Form follows function. With these helmets, you can see in the darkest, murkiest water like a dolphin.”

  Kurt studied the helmet a second time. He noticed the appendage on the right side was slightly different than the one on the left. “One for emitting the sound burst, the other for hearing what bounces back.”

  Joe nodded. “What’s the one problem with a night dive? Aside from the creepy feeling that something might be sneaking up on you.”

  “Visibility.”

  “Exactly. Without powerful lights, you can’t see much at all. Even with them, you often attract sea creatures like moths to a campfire. And on a dive like tonight’s, we’re not going to be using lights at all unless we want to attract an entirely different kind of attention.”

  “Too true,” Kurt said. “But I hope you don’t expect me to interpret pings and clicking noises the way dolphins do.”

  “I’m aware of the limitations of your puny brain,” Joe said. “The system uses a scanning sound beam to continuously paint the area in front of you. The emitter uses ten different fre
quencies simultaneously. The receiver picks up the reflected sound waves, runs them through a program Hiram and Priya developed and then projects a 3-D image against the glass of the helmet. It’s monochrome for now, so it’ll feel like you’re swimming in a world of black and gray, but it’s pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.”

  “Can’t wait to try it,” Kurt said. “And the rebreathers?”

  “I simply miniaturized everything, added a powered filter and included a small reserve air tank in case the filters get corrupted or the pump breaks down.”

  Kurt began pulling on the gear. “You’ve outdone yourself this time. Let’s give this stuff a try.”

  As soon as they entered the water, Kurt began playing around with the sonar system. He swam under the wake boat, flipping over onto his back and kicking deeper. The sonar buzzed softly in his ear, but was not obtrusive. The detail on the glass in front of him was incredible. He saw seams and welds, even a notch in the propeller where it had obviously hit something—all from twenty feet away.

  The only real issues were shadows and loss of definition whenever something blocked the sonar wave, causing a delay in response and video projection.

  With the human mind used to perceiving life in the all-but-instantaneous fashion of vision through light waves, the delay in response from the sonar system was obvious and mildly disorienting when one moved one’s head from side to side. “That lag is going to take some getting used to.”

  Joe’s voice responded over the intercom. “It’s the one thing we can’t engineer out. Best not to move your head too often or too suddenly. One of the test divers got really queasy doing that.”

  “Was that you?” Kurt asked.

  “Like I said, it’s hard to find good help. Ready?”

  Kurt nodded.

  “Use the internal navigation system and set your course zero-two-five. That will take us right toward the freighter.”

  Kurt looked at the forearm-mounted display, hit the navigation button and typed in 025 [SET]. A compass indicator appeared, projected on the glass of the helmet.