Nighthawk

by Clive Cussler

  The controllers did as ordered. No one asked why.

  One by one, the satellite views came up. Gowdy stared at the peaceful scene. Clouds drifted over the Pacific. The west coast of South America ran hard against the blue waters of the ocean. The tropical disturbance in the Pacific swirled like a peaceful merry-go-round.

  Everything appeared calm.

  “What are you looking for?” Gowdy asked.

  The stern Air Force Colonel turned to the NSA bureaucrat he’d put up with for so long and exhaled. It was more relief than frustration.

  “Absent a command from the ground, the Nighthawk will enter an autonomous mode, thinking for itself. When it determines its own position and computes that it can’t reach Vandenberg, the craft will execute emergency descent procedures, slow to an appropriate speed and then land safely . . . by parachute.”

  “How do you know it hasn’t broken up already?” Gowdy replied, trying to reassert his aura of authority. “How do you know the autoland system hasn’t failed like everything else?”

  “Because,” Hansen said, “we’re still here.”

  It took a moment, but Gowdy began to understand. He looked up at the live satellite view and all the normal things it displayed. “How long do we have?”

  Hansen performed a quick mental calculation. “Seven days,” he said. “Less, if the fuel cells, solar panels or the battery packs were damaged.”

  Gowdy turned back to the screen and the massive expanse of the South Pacific on display. Seven days to search all that ocean and find a needle in its watery haystack. Seven days to find and shut off a ticking bomb that could shake the very foundations of the Earth.

  2

  Kohala Point, Hawaii

  Kurt Austin straddled a surfboard in the tropical waters a half mile from the Kohala Lighthouse on the Big Island of Hawaii. The strong Pacific sun warmed his tanned skin and the swells rolled beneath him in a constant rhythm. His muscles were taut and his mind quiet as he watched a fifteen-foot wave build toward the beach and then curl into a perfect left-hand break.

  White foam zipped along the top of the wave, racing to catch up to the surfer riding it, but he kept his speed up, turned out and accelerated toward the beach just before the crest surged and crashed down behind him.

  The sheer power of the wave sent a thunderclap echo off the lava rocks at the south end of the beach. There was a timbre to that symphony. “I could listen to that sound forever,” Kurt said.

  “That’s because you’re Kaikane,” a surfer beside him replied in a distinct Hawaiian accent. “Born from the sea.”

  Kurt glanced to his right, where a solidly built Hawaiian man straddled a short board. Polynesian-style tattoos on his arms and chest nearly matched a pattern painted on the board. He had shaggy black hair, a warm smile and a soft face. His name was Ika, but everyone called him Ike.

  Kurt grinned. “You might be right about that.”

  Now in his thirties, Kurt Austin had grown up in the Pacific Northwest where he’d spent most of his time boating, fishing or swimming. Years working in his father’s marine salvage business meant he learned to dive as a teenager. He spent countless hours underwater since, working for his father first, before a stint in the Navy and several years with a special CIA unit that did subsurface recovery and engineering.

  Since leaving the CIA, he’d been with NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency, a branch of the federal government focused on the exploration, study and preservation of the world’s oceans.

  Strangely, the farther he’d gone on his journey, the more technology came between him and the water. Skin diving gave way to wet suits and then to dry suits. Those layers gave way to hard-shelled, deep-diving units, which encased him like an undersea astronaut. More often than not, he now used submersibles, either robotic units piloted from the surface or manned subs that were pressurized and heated and comfortable enough to wear shorts and T-shirts. And so, after finishing a project on Oahu, Kurt had decided to get back in touch with the water and the rhythms of the sea.

  Being in Hawaii, that meant surfing, and over a period of weeks Kurt pushed himself to tackle larger and faster waves with a relentless desire to improve.

  After several weeks, he was almost as good as the local guides he’d grown to be friends with. His skin was so tanned, he might have passed as a Hawaiian—except for a mop of prematurely silver hair.

  “The rhythm of the sea is changing,” Ike said, turning and gazing out behind them. “Can you feel it?”

  Kurt nodded. “Swells coming through faster. Closer together.”

  There was a storm out there. It was beyond the horizon but growing toward cyclone strength. The waves pushed ahead of it were starting to line up.

  “Gonna get too rough to ride soon,” Ike said.

  “Let’s make the best of it, then,” Kurt said.

  He dropped forward on his board and began paddling toward the break zone.

  Ike did the same and they moved closer to shore, increasing their pace and separating. One huge swell after another rolled beneath them until Kurt sensed a monster wave, the largest of the day.

  This was the wave he wanted, the one that carried danger and power in equal measures. He paddled faster, began to roll up the face of the swell and got to one knee. He stood and turned with perfect timing, dropping in and accelerating just as the top of the wave began to curl.

  Ike was up ahead of him, already slicing a white wake in the water as if his board were powered by rockets. Kurt cut across the wave behind him and couldn’t help but grin at the incredible feeling that poured through him as if he’d tapped into the power of the sea itself.

  Accelerating down the face and cutting to the left, he stayed just ahead of the curling top that was forming a pipeline behind him. He dropped his hand and trailed his fingers in the water, drifting back until all he saw around him was a tube of translucent blue, a sheet of liquid glass.

  The wave roared like a living thing and began to close on him like Scylla and Charybdis. Just before it was about to crush him, Kurt turned out and zipped into the open again.

  He saw Ike up ahead and another surfer who’d picked the same wave. They maneuvered a little too closely and Ike had to cut back. His turn was sharp enough to avoid contact, but the other surfer was overmatched by the speed and power of the breaker and he went down.

  Kurt turned to avoid him, but then the sea surprised them all as the wave peaked suddenly and closed out all at once.

  The entire front crashed simultaneously, a change from the long, curling break they’d been enjoying. A mountain of water landed on Kurt’s shoulders, knocking him from his board and driving him under.

  He was forced deep and slammed into the sand. An outcropping of lava rock gashed his arm and he felt the snap of the surf leash attached to his ankle as his board was ripped away.

  The huge wave held him down, but Kurt’s experience diving prevented any panic. He steadied himself as the undertow returned and the swirling sediment around him cleared enough to see the light from above. He planted his feet and pushed off the bottom.

  Breaking the surface, Kurt immediately glanced around. Another wave was barreling down on him and his board had been flung into the shallows and tossed onto the beach. Ike was there in the shallows as well, pulling himself back onto his board and paddling frantically to get back out into the water.

  Kurt quickly realized why: the other surfer was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone down and stayed down.

  Kurt took a deep breath and dove just as the following wave crashed over him. He felt the surge rushing by, lifting him and then releasing him as if he was just beyond its grasp. He heard the muted rumble of the wave crashing up ahead and fought to see through the sand that exploded and swirled back toward him.

  In the gloom ahead, he spied a flash of color, yellow and red, dimmed by the water’s hue and blurred b
y the limitations of human vision underwater. He kicked hard and used his arms in a powerful stroke, lunging forward, until he grasped the surfer’s board. It was wedged into a gap in the lava rock, stuck tight. Feeling along the board, Kurt found the leash, used it to pull the unconscious wave rider toward him and ripped the Velcro cuff that held him.

  The undertow returned. The next wave was coming. He pulled the limp surfer to him, pushed off the bottom once more and emerged beyond the crest of the wave.

  He swam toward the shore; the next wave crashed behind them and shoved them forward in a burst of foam and spray.

  As they cruised into the shallows, several other surfers rushed out to help. They grabbed the injured man by his arms and legs and hauled him onto the sand.

  Ike helped Kurt to his feet and onto the beach, where he stood with his hands on his hips, drawing in as much oxygen as his lungs would allow. “Is he okay?”

  A few feet away, the other surfer was on his side, coughing and spitting out water. One of the men with him nodded.

  Ike grinned and held up the broken end of Kurt’s leash. “Look at this. You broke your leash. You’re a real big-wave surfer, now.”

  Ike laughed at his own joke and gave Kurt a playful shove.

  “Not exactly how I wanted the ride to end,” Kurt said. “What happened with that wave? Everything seemed fine and then . . .”

  Ike shrugged. “Every wave is different, bro. It’s part of the deal. Moana will let you play, but from time to time she reminds you I’m dangerous. I’m unpredictable. One day, I’ll turn on you. And in that moment of truth, you’ll find you can’t control me. You’ll find you’re at my mercy and only I will decide whether to hold you down or set you free.”

  Kurt enjoyed the poetry of the statement, enough that he didn’t labor the point with anything but a respectful nod and a glance back out to the sea. The waves were still growing, the storm was coming on. Moana would not let them play anymore today.

  A shout from higher up the beach broke his reverie. “Kurt Austin,” a voice called.

  There was an official tone to the address, sharp and clear. A tone very out of place on a beach with so much local flavor.

  Kurt looked up and saw a man coming down from the road. He wore black slacks, dress shoes and a white, button-down shirt. He had narrow shoulders and hips but stood ramrod straight and moved with a purpose. He’d come from a white SUV parked on the road up above.

  “Kurt?” the man shouted, getting closer.

  Ike leaned in. “I wouldn’t answer, if I was you,” he whispered. “Looks like Five-O to me.”

  “I should be so lucky,” Kurt said. He recognized a government official when he saw one, and he recognized this one in particular. “Rudi Gunn,” he said, extending a hand to NUMA’s number two official. “I didn’t know you were on the island. I’d have brought you surfing with me.”

  “I only arrived a few hours ago,” Rudi said, shaking Kurt’s hand, “but, considering the wipeout I just saw, I’d have to consider any future invitations as part of a plan to get rid of me and take my job.”

  “And handle paperwork all day long? No thanks. What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Rudi said. “Must have left a dozen messages on your phone.”

  “Phones and surfing don’t exactly mix,” Kurt said. “What’s the emergency?”

  “Who says there’s an emergency?”

  Kurt offered an incredulous look.

  “Okay,” Rudi said. “There probably is an emergency—otherwise, they wouldn’t have sent me to pick you up—but I don’t know what it is. I’m just lucky the valet at your hotel remembered you loading up a surfboard and heading this way.”

  “That kid just lost his tip,” Kurt said.

  “He’ll survive on what I paid him,” Rudi said. “Trust me.”

  Kurt knew it was time to go. He looked over at the surfer he’d pulled out of the sea. The young man was smiling now; he offered the hang-loose sign: a twist of the wrist with his thumb and pinky extended.

  Kurt returned the gesture and then turned to Ike. “The sea isn’t the only thing that’s unpredictable. Looks like I have work to do.”

  He pulled a black T-shirt over his shoulders and grabbed the backpack he’d brought with him. Hiking up toward the waiting SUV, he asked the obvious question. “So what can you tell me? Now that we’re out of earshot.”

  Gunn shook his head. “Only the obvious,” he said. “That time is of the essence.”

  Kurt figured Rudi knew more than that, but he was as tight-lipped as anyone at NUMA. Being number one in your class at West Point tended to come with that kind of self-discipline. “Don’t suppose I have time to shower and change?”

  Gunn shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

  3

  Rudi drove to Upolu Airport, a small strip on the northern tip of the island. A gleaming turquoise Gulfstream waited on the tarmac with engines running. It was a NUMA aircraft, one Kurt recognized as a model with extended range.

  The aircraft was buttoned up as soon as Kurt and Rudi took their seats. Moments later, they were screaming down the runway. After a long takeoff roll, the Gulfstream clawed its way skyward and turned east.

  As they climbed, Kurt stared out the window. Off in the distance he saw the dark clouds of the tropical depression that had sent the swells barreling to the shore. After a tip of the imaginary hat to the storm, he turned his attention back to Rudi.

  Of all the men at NUMA, Rudi was the closest thing to an enigma. Now in his late forties, he had lost none of the intensity and precision that were his trademark. Fiery but close-lipped, Rudi could be jocular and fun but never quite let down his guard. His mind was always active. Even now, as he sat in silence contemplating whatever it was they would soon talk about, Kurt could sense that Rudi was planning, coordinating and rearranging things. He was a logistical genius with a knack for getting things set up in the most efficient order.

  Kurt let him be. Twenty minutes went by before either of them spoke. “Are we going to see a flight attendant sometime soon? I could use a drink.”

  “You know alcohol is not allowed on NUMA aircraft anymore,” Rudi said.

  Kurt chuckled. By the book, as always. “I was thinking a bottle of water or a nice, cold Coke.”

  “Oh,” Rudi said. “Sorry. Help yourself.” He pointed to a fridge.

  Kurt unbuckled his seat belt and went to the mini-fridge. He opened it and plucked two bottles of Coke from the back, where they’d be coolest. Glass, not plastic, and he noticed the fine print on the label. It was written in Spanish, suggesting the plane had been restocked somewhere south of the border. Turning the bottle in his hand, Kurt found the bottler’s address, nodded to himself and closed the fridge.

  He returned to his seat, opened both bottles and slid one toward Rudi. “Time to talk,” he said. “Judging by the long takeoff roll and the slow climb, I can tell we’re carrying a lot of fuel. By our course, I can safely assume we’re not going to Oahu or Los Angeles; and by the wrinkles in your shirt, I’m assuming you’ve been on this plane a long time. Just came to get me and to bring me back, I’d suspect. So where are we headed? Somewhere in South America?”

  Rudi was in the process of pouring the Coke into a glass as Kurt spoke. “South America?” he said. “Is that your guess?”

  “It is.”

  “A rather large place,” Rudi replied with a grin. “Maybe you’d care to be more specific.”

  Kurt hemmed and hawed for a second as though thinking deeply on the subject, though he already knew exactly what he was going to say. “Ecuador.”

  Gunn’s eyebrows went up.

  “Guayaquil,” Kurt added, “to be precise.”

  Gunn looked truly shocked. “With all due respect to the great Johnny Carson, Carnac has nothing on you.”

  �
��Not really,” Kurt said, grinning and pointing to the Coke bottle. “These were filled in Quito. But that’s a landlocked city. The largest port in Ecuador is in Guayaquil. And we tend to work on the sea.”

  “Hmm,” Gunn said. “Not sure whether to be more impressed or less.”

  A red phone buzzed beside Gunn’s chair. He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. “We’re ready,” he said. “Put them through.”

  “If you’re not giving the briefing, who is?”

  “A colleague in the National Security Agency.”

  “Am I working for the NSA now?” Kurt asked. He’d been loaned out before.

  “Not just you,” Gunn replied. “Every NUMA ship and team member within five thousand miles.”

  Now Kurt’s eyebrows went up. There could be only one reason for that. “They’ve lost something.”

  Gunn didn’t confirm or deny. “I’ll let them explain.”

  A flat-screen monitor on the bulkhead wall came to life. It displayed the confines of a briefing room with two men at a desk. The first was an Air Force officer with multiple ribbons on his blue jacket. The second wore a shirt and tie.

  The man in the tie spoke first. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Steve Gowdy. I’m the director of ExAt projects for the National Security Agency.”

  “ExAt?” Kurt asked.

  “Extra-atmospheric,” Gowdy replied. “Basically, anything that takes place above the stratosphere. Including our satellite and maneuvering vehicle projects.”

  Kurt nodded to indicate he understood and Gowdy leaned toward the camera like a TV reporter on the evening news. “Before I begin, you have to understand that this project is of the utmost importance and is compartmentally classified on a highly restricted basis.”

  Kurt had heard this speech before. “There’s not much in the NSA that isn’t. But I understand.”

  Gunn cracked a smile, but Gowdy didn’t seem to get the joke.

  “We’ve had our project go off the wire at the last moment,” Gowdy continued. “An experimental craft on a reentry profile over the South Pacific.”