Piranha

by Clive Cussler

  The message had only one line: Stay away or they all die.

  Max frowned at the screen. “You don’t know how you got this?”

  Murph threw his hands in the air, flummoxed. “This is my private Corporation account. Nobody but the people on this ship should have the email address.”

  The breach was further confirmation that their security had been compromised.

  “What does he mean ‘stay away’?” Murph said.

  Max turned to Linda. “Show me the harbor.”

  The main screen displayed the feed from one of the deck cameras. It panned left to right until Max spotted an odd white vessel in the distance moving slowly toward them.

  “Zoom in.”

  Linda magnified the image until they could see a high-definition shot of a submarine that had catamaran pontoons on either side plowing through the rough seas. Armed men in wetsuits and scuba gear braced themselves on both pontoons amid dozens of barrels like the one in the email. Each of them had to have been filled with explosives.

  “They’re going to blow up the Roraima,” Linda said.

  “I’m getting really sick of Kensit knowing what we’re doing and where we’ll be,” Murph said.

  Max agreed. “This took some planning. They didn’t just throw together dynamite and a sub hijacking at the last minute. They’ve known we were coming here as long as we have.”

  “Which means Kensit knows what we’re looking for,” Murph said. “Destroying the Roraima is the only way to keep us from finding it.”

  “He must also know at least some of our capabilities. That’s why his men brought the hostages. They realized we would have torpedoed them the instant we knew it was them.”

  “We can’t let them destroy the ship,” Murph said. “We’ll never find Kensit if that happens.”

  “What are our tactical options?”

  “Offensive weapons are off the table with hostages inside.”

  “And we can’t send divers to attack,” Linda said. “Even with the rough seas, they’ll be spotted long before they could sneak up on the sub. They’d kill everyone on board before we got within a hundred feet.”

  “They’ll probably kill everyone anyway,” Murph replied. Given what Max had seen about Kensit and Bazin’s operations, he had no doubt the hostages were in grave danger no matter what they did.

  “We have to do something,” Murph said.

  “What if we—” Max said and then stopped himself. He suddenly had an idea that might work, but if anyone really was listening in on their conversations, he’d have to risk putting it into play without conferring with anyone else.

  “What if we what?” Murph asked.

  Max shook his head as if he was frustrated with himself. “Nothing. It’s too crazy. We need to back off.”

  “And just let them erase the evidence we’re looking for?”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Max said, hoping he sounded convincing. He called down to the moon pool. “Get me Eddie.”

  When Eddie was on the line, Max said, “We’ve got company coming, half a dozen hostiles on the outside of a sub carrying barrels of explosives.”

  “But we’ve got five men down at the Roraima, digging through it. They’re about to come up for their decompression stops.”

  “I know. There are hostages inside the sub, so we need to make sure they’re not harmed. I want you and Linc to take SPPs down with you just as a precaution.”

  Eddie sounded confused. “As a precaution?”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t explain right now. When you get down there, send your people up and you two hunker down inside the PUH.” Max hoped that the portable underwater habitat would provide a safe haven for Eddie and Linc. “Wait for my signal that the hostages are no longer in danger. You’ll know it when you hear it. You’ve only got about ten minutes before the sub gets here, so hurry.”

  “Roger that.” He hung up.

  “SPPs?” Murph said. “But you said—”

  Max interrupted Murph before he could blurt out anything more. “I need you to trust me.” He addressed everyone in the op center. “We are not going to let those hostages be killed. Do you understand?”

  They all nodded, but Max could tell they were confused.

  They did trust him, however. That’s why no one asked why he had sent Eddie and Linc down with SPP-1 underwater pistols that fired deadly steel darts, firearms specially designed for Soviet-era Special Forces and acquired by the Corporation.

  The crew knew Max was sending his men into battle.

  Berlin

  Juan followed the footprints around the building, where they disappeared under an elevated train platform. At the far end he caught sight of Bazin’s silhouette as he approached a parked Mercedes SUV. He jumped in, started it up, and sped directly toward Juan.

  Juan put two shots into the windshield before he had to roll out of the way. Neither bullet hit Bazin. Juan ran for the Audi.

  Eric had successfully threaded his way through the students milling outside and was just arriving at the Audi wagon. Juan pointed at the SUV rocketing away. “Bazin’s getting away! Get in.”

  The keyless entry chirped and Juan fired up the engine, dropping it into gear even before Eric had the door closed. The tires bit into the snow, Juan scraping the car in front of them with a screech of metal in his haste to get out of the parking spot.

  The Mercedes skidded around the corner and out of sight. Juan stood on the accelerator. The Audi spun all four wheels as it scrabbled for purchase on the slick road.

  The Mercedes was heavier and had better traction, but the lighter Audi had the advantage of four-wheel drive. Juan closed within half a block before the Mercedes started taking a series of hard turns in an effort to lose them.

  Even though the traffic was light, there were still plenty of cars to weave around. The Mercedes bounced off a Volvo as it overtook it, sending the sedan spinning into the path of the Audi. Juan wrenched the wheel around to avoid T-boning the screaming driver.

  “He’s going to kill someone if we don’t stop him,” Eric said.

  “Working on it,” Juan replied through gritted teeth.

  They rounded another corner, the Mercedes banking off parked cars, and Juan put the Audi into a four-wheel drift like a rally car driver to make up the rest of the distance. He nosed the front of the Audi against the SUV’s right rear fender and yanked the steering wheel to the left. The Mercedes skidded sideways, but it had enough power driving the rear wheels to keep from spinning out.

  The Audi lost contact and Juan had to steady the wheel to keep it from careening into a light post. The Mercedes pulled a couple of car lengths ahead of them.

  Juan had to put an end to the chase one way or another. He unrolled his window, drew the Colt, and aimed at the SUV’s rear tire. He squeezed off three rounds. The third connected and the tire blew out.

  The exposed rim bit into the snow, making the back end of the Mercedes fishtail back and forth. As Juan brought his arm back inside the window, the Audi hit a patch of ice and he had to slow considerably to regain control. The Mercedes was half a block in front, so he stomped the accelerator to catch up.

  Bazin was approaching a red light, but he showed no signs of slowing. A yellow street tram approached on the cross street from the left. While the city’s trams rode on steel rails embedded in the pavement, their seven cars were much more massive than a bus and took longer to slow down, especially on rails made more slippery by the snow and ice.

  Bazin accelerated in an attempt to make it through the intersection before the tram got there. The three good tires churned at the snow, but the rim spun uselessly, slowing the SUV.

  He didn’t make it.

  The tram slammed into the rear half of the SUV, missing the driver’s door by mere inches. The Mercedes was crushed and then flew into the air in a neat p
irouette. The tram barely shuddered from the impact.

  Juan didn’t want to suffer the same fate. He twisted the wheel to the left and feathered the gas pedal to maintain contact with the road. With the benefit of grip from all four tires, the Audi was able to maneuver across the intersection behind the slowing tram with millimeters to spare. Juan hit the brakes and the antilock system chattered as it strained to halt the car as it headed in the direction of a bridge over the Spree River, Berlin’s main waterway.

  The skewed angle across the road and the extra speed carried the Audi over an embankment and into a park leading down to the river beside the bridge. The snow on the hill was even deeper, and if the car stopped, Juan would never get it going again without a tow. He took his foot off the brake and accelerated left, risking a plunge into the icy river.

  After zigzagging across the park, he crashed through a chain barrier and onto a road. He headed back to the scene of the accident.

  His route had taken Juan all the way around the block. He came up behind the now stopped tram, which was surrounded by a snarl of vehicles that didn’t allow Juan to get closer than half a block away before he had to stop as well.

  He threw open the door and jumped out, running toward the scene of the accident. The tram’s passengers had already filed off at the behest of the driver, who was helping Bazin out of his wrecked vehicle. Even from this distance, Juan could see that every air bag had inflated, sparing him any serious injury.

  Bazin pushed the tram driver away and stumbled from the wreckage. He searched the crowd until he locked eyes with Juan, then scanned the traffic jam around him before settling on the tram itself. He ducked his head to use the milling passengers for cover and ran inside. The tram started moving despite howls of protest from the driver, who tried to get back on before the doors shut in his face.

  Juan ran alongside the accelerating tram and shot the glass door at its tail end three times, shattering it. He pocketed the gun and latched on with both hands as his feet hit an ice patch. He slipped and was dragged along by the tram, the remnants of the broken safety glass digging into the flesh of his palms.

  With all his strength, Juan heaved himself through the gaping hole where the door had been. As soon as he hit the floor, bullets ricocheted off the wall by his head. He took cover behind the nearest seat and returned fire, but Bazin was concealed too well in the driver’s cockpit. Juan tried pulling the emergency brake above the door, but Bazin overrode the signal.

  Bazin leaned out from the cockpit and took a couple of more shots. Juan did the same with his last two rounds, narrowly missing Bazin’s head. Once again, Bazin poked his head out, but the slide on his pistol was locked back, indicating he, too, was empty.

  At that point, Bazin placed what looked like the driver’s bag on the deadman brake pedal, the safety device that was supposed to stop the train if the driver became incapacitated. Though Bazin left the cockpit, the uncontrolled tram continued racing along the streets, bashing any vehicle in its path. Bazin took the cockpit’s fire extinguisher, went to the closest passenger window, and smashed the extinguisher against the glass. He was going to climb out, leaving Juan on the runaway tram and heading directly for a broad T intersection at full speed. If it didn’t stop before it hit the curve in the track, the tram would derail as it took the corner and plow through the front lobby of an office building at forty miles an hour.

  Juan charged forward and threw himself at Bazin, catching the mercenary’s arm before he could tumble out. Bazin teetered on the edge.

  “Not before I get this,” Juan said, and plunged his hand into Bazin’s coat. His fingers grasped the edge of the thesis and he pulled it free.

  Except Bazin also grabbed part of the bound document, opening it wide. He leaned out and the weight was too much for Juan to hold with one hand. Bazin fell, still gripping the back half of the thesis, which tore right down the binding, leaving Juan holding the other half.

  He watched the nimble Bazin roll through the snow and then spring to his feet before running toward a side street. Juan ran into the cockpit of the tram, kicked the bag off the pedal, and slapped a large red button that he hoped was the emergency stop.

  The brakes squealed and the tram lurched and skidded on the rails. It slowed to twenty miles an hour when it reached the curve. It leaned to one side but didn’t derail and then came to a stop halfway through the intersection.

  Juan opened the passenger door to see Eric pull up in the Audi.

  “Are you okay?” Eric asked as Juan got in.

  “I’m fine,” Juan said, disgusted, “but Bazin got away.”

  “With the thesis?”

  “Half of it.” He showed Eric the ripped document.

  “I can start translating that on the plane. Hopefully, it’s still enough to figure out what Kensit has been working on.”

  “Let’s get back to the airport before we have the entire Berlin police department asking us questions.”

  Eric drove away as the wail of sirens echoed off the buildings.

  Martinique

  “The sub is one hundred feet from the bow of the Roraima,” Linda said, reading the scan from the passive sonar.

  “What about our divers?”

  “All recovered in the moon pool,” Hali said. “MacD said he spotted what could have been a corner of the metal photo tin, but his air was exhausted before he could dig it up.”

  “What about grabbing it with Little Geek?”

  “He said Little Geek won’t fit where he saw it. It was a corner he had to reach his arm into. He said he told Eddie where it was when he passed them on the way up.” The full face masks they were wearing let them communicate up close underwater.

  “Where are Eddie and Linc now?” Max asked Murph, who was still operating Little Geek.

  “Camera shows them inside the portable underwater habitat,” Murph said. “They should be out of the sub’s view.” The PUH was an inflatable fabric dome that was anchored to the Roraima and contained an air bubble inside to allow the divers who were wearing regulators to rest, converse about the dive, or even get a drink of water.

  Max knew curiosity about why they were down there was killing Murph, but he was glad Murph understood enough not to ask questions when he shouldn’t.

  The front of the sub was about to pass over the disintegrating Roraima twenty feet above its prow. Max couldn’t wait any longer. It was the closest the sub would get to the Oregon before they started dumping the barrels of explosives.

  “Linda, get ready to send a single ping.”

  All eyes whipsawed to Max. Linda was shocked by the command. “But Eddie and Linc—”

  “Will be safe inside the PUH”—I hope, he thought, but didn’t say. “It’s the only thing I could think of to save the hostages. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you all before, but if our security has in fact been compromised, I didn’t want any eavesdroppers to know what I was planning.”

  Linda nodded her understanding and raised her finger over the button that would activate a sonar ping.

  Passive sonar detects submarines underwater using the noise generated by the sub itself. Active sonar sends out sound signals that bounce back to give a picture of the object, much like the clicks dolphins use to find fish. Dolphins are also thought to employ these clicking sounds to stun fish. At 220 decibels, their echolocation emanations are among the loudest noises emitted by any animal.

  The active ping of the Oregon’s sonar registered at 240 decibels. If a diver were unlucky enough to be swimming next to the transmitter when a ping was sent, his internal organs would be jellied, killing him instantly. The sub was three hundred yards away, so the ping would only stun the divers, as if they had been hit by a flashbang grenade. Eddie and Linc would be protected inside the PUH because their lungs and ears would be above the water level and the sound pressure would be lessened by its transition from water to air. The
hostages would be safe for the same reason. Eddie and Linc would have a few minutes to attack the dazed divers on the sub.

  That was the plan anyway.

  The sub was cruising slowly, likely to make it easier to drop the barrels in a regular pattern along the length of the Roraima.

  “Linda,” Max said, “send our surprise.”

  The deafening ping blasted forth, audible even in the op center.

  “I hope you got the message, guys,” he said under his breath.

  —

  Eddie and Linc had been discussing why Max was being so cryptic when the ping hit the dome’s fabric so hard that it temporarily caved in. The sound inside the PUH was loud enough to make their ears ring. Eddie couldn’t imagine how loud it would have been in the water.

  “That must be the cue Max was talking about,” Linc said.

  They quickly donned their masks and drew their SPP-1 underwater pistols. “You take the port side of the sub and I’ll take starboard. We should assume they’re armed as well.” The SPPs couldn’t be reloaded on the fly, so each of them had brought a pair of the pistols that held four bolts each. The disadvantage was that at this depth, the weapons had an effective range of only twenty feet.

  They ducked under the surface and emerged from the PUH to see the white sub gliding fifty feet above them. Through the Roraima’s remaining intact girders, Eddie could make out the silhouette of a scuba diver thrashing from the effects of the sonar disruption.

  An object was tumbling down toward them. It looked unsettlingly like a depth charge, which meant it had to be one of the barrels that Max had mentioned. It crashed into a rusted girder, which collapsed and sent a pile of metal down with it. The tangle of steel landed on the barrel. It was only twenty feet from the location where MacD said he had spotted the object he thought might be the corner of the tin holding the photographic plates they were looking for.