Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt purged the ballast tanks, and the submersible began a lazy ascent. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon when they broke the surface off the Drake’s beam. Gunn stood by the crane as the sub drew alongside. He expertly lowered the jaws and clamped onto the submersible’s hoist ring. Gunn lifted the sub out of the water to deck level, then left it dangling.

  “Come on, Rudi,” Giordino said, “bring us on in.”

  Pitt stared out the view port, then stiffened. A large man unknown to Pitt stood near Gunn, holding a pistol. The man smiled at Pitt, but there was no warmth in the expression. Gunn eased his hands off the crane controls, then gave Pitt a grim shake of his head before stepping away.

  Giordino saw Gunn abandon the controls and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Pitt kept his eyes fixed on the gunman aboard the Drake.

  “I would say that we’ve been hung out to dry.”

  13

  THEY HAD ATTACKED THE DRAKE UNDER THE GUISE of helplessness.

  The crew on the Mexican powerboat floating nearby had surreptitiously monitored the NUMA vessel all day—until they spotted their objective. When the sun began to follow the submersible beneath the waves, a Spanish-accented voice hailed the Drake over the marine radio, feigning a shortage of fuel. Taking the call on the bridge, Gunn told the boat to come alongside if they were able and he would pass across some gasoline.

  The boat made a show of limping over at minimal speed, swinging around the back of the barge before inching toward the NUMA ship. While the boat was temporarily out of view, a lone gunman leaped aboard the barge’s stern and sneaked his way to the pilothouse.

  Soon a large man stood on the boat’s afterdeck, waving at Gunn with a cold smile. He wore black slacks and a loose knit black shirt, odd attire for a fishing trip. The approaching twilight obscured his coffee complexion and flat facial features, more typical of Central American heritage than Mexican. The man tossed a line to a waiting deckhand, then turned to Gunn, who leaned over the rail with a five-gallon container of gas.

  “Thank you, señor,” he said in a baritone voice. “We stayed too long fishing and feared we would not make it to shore.”

  He reached for the can and set it on the deck. Then, moving as quickly as a cat, he grabbed the rail and leaped aboard the Drake. A Glock semiautomatic materialized from his back paddle holster—and was leveled at Gunn’s chest the instant his feet touched the deck. “Tell your crewmen to put their hands on the rail and face the sea.”

  Gunn relayed the order to a pair of shocked crewmen on the deck, who nodded. They raised their arms, then shuffled to the rail.

  Two more gunmen climbed aboard and sprinted up to the Drake’s bridge. Gunn winced when he heard gunfire, but then breathed easier a few moments later when he saw the helm watchman marched down to the deck. One gunman had spotted the Drake’s rigid inflatable lifeboat and casually pumped several rounds into it, making the rubber boat sag like a limp balloon. When a scientist ducked out of the lab to see what the commotion was about, he was grabbed roughly and herded together with the other crewmen.

  Gunn looked to the tall man in black. “What is it you want?”

  The man ignored him as a small radio clipped to his waist chirped.

  “The barge is secure,” radioed an unseen voice.

  “Bring it alongside and join us aboard the research ship,” the gunman replied. “We’ll be ready shortly.”

  The radio sounded again. “Pablo, the submersible has surfaced.”

  The man in black cursed as he looked over the side, seeing the crown of the submersible. Pocketing the radio, he grabbed Gunn by the collar and marched him to the lift crane. “Raise your friends out of the water, but don’t bring them aboard the ship.” He stepped back, keeping his weapon drawn.

  As Gunn reached for the controls, he searched for a way to warn Pitt. The idea was abandoned when he felt the Glock pressed against his spine. Gunn attached the recovery clamp, raised the submersible, and stood by helplessly as he left it suspended in the air.

  A few seconds later, the old barge bumped against the Drake’s stern. A fourth gunman, also wearing dark clothes and carrying a pistol, raced across the deck and jumped onto the Drake. He stepped over to Pablo, breathing heavily. His shirt was ripped, and a trace of blood trickled from his lower lip.

  “What happened to you?” Pablo asked.

  “The captain gave me some trouble, at first.”

  Pablo shook his head and frowned. “Get the crate aboard. Now!”

  The new gunman meekly joined the other two in hoisting the box recovered from the Cuttlefish and placing it on their boat. Gunn suddenly thought of Ann and realized she wasn’t on deck.

  The leader of the assault team turned to Gunn, waving his Glock. “Do not follow us or call for help or we shall return and kill you all.” Pablo smiled at Gunn, his dark eyes glistening. “Thank you for your assistance.” He stepped to the rail without looking back and climbed onto his boat.

  Pitt and Giordino were forced to watch the drama from the confines of the submersible. Though they could have exited the sub’s hatch, they would have had a precarious leap to get aboard the Drake. Before they could act, it was all over.

  Watching Pablo step over the rail, Pitt detected a movement at the forward part of the ship. He turned to Al. “Did you see something go off the side, near the bridge?”

  “No,” Giordino said. “I was keeping tabs on the guy who pulled the gun on Rudi.”

  They watched as Pablo boarded the powerboat and it pulled away from the Drake. But as it turned and sped toward shore, they caught a glimpse of its opposite deck in the fading light.

  Giordino poked a finger at the view port. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Pitt had seen it too and he nodded.

  It was the outstretched figure of a drenched blond woman, hiding on the narrow side deck of the boat as it thundered toward Mexico.

  14

  GUNN WASTED NO IN TIME HOISTING THE SUBMERSIBLE aboard as Pitt and Giordino waited at the open hatch.

  “Is everyone all right?” Pitt asked.

  “No one was hurt,” Gunn replied. “They threatened to kill us if we call for help or pursue them.”

  “Who were they?” Giordino asked.

  Gunn shook his head. “I have no clue. The leader was called Pablo. They came for that box you guys lifted from the Cuttlefish. Any idea what was in it?”

  “No,” Pitt said, “but I think Ann does. How did she get aboard their boat?”

  “Ann? I thought she was in her cabin.”

  “We saw her hiding beside the wheelhouse of their boat as it stormed away,” Giordino said.

  Gunn turned pale. “They may kill her if they catch her.”

  “Call the Coast Guard,” Pitt said. “Maybe they have a drug interdiction patrol boat nearby. But don’t say anything about Ann, in case they’re listening in. Al and I will try and track them in the inflatable.”

  “Not going to happen,” Gunn said. “They shot up the bridge radio and the inflatable. We’ve got some handheld radios I can make the call with, but you’re out of luck with the RIB.”

  “What about the barge?” Giordino said.

  “First we better check out the pilot. I think they may have roughed him up.”

  “Rudi, you go make the call,” Pitt said. “Al and I will check the barge.”

  Pitt and Giordino ran to the stern rail. The bow of the barge was pressing alongside just below the deck, the older vessel pushing the research ship at a turtle’s pace. They jumped aboard and sprinted the length of its oily deck to the small wheelhouse at the stern. They heard a dog growl as they approached and stepped inside.

  A gray-haired man knelt by the helm, holding his palm against a bloody gash along his hairline. A black-and-tan dachshund stood guard
in front of him and barked at the intruders.

  “Hush, Mauser,” the man said.

  “Are you all right, old-timer?” Pitt helped the man to his feet after easing past the dachshund. He nearly matched Pitt’s six-foot-three height, but carried a few more pounds.

  “That son of a gun walked in out of nowhere and started smashing my radio.” As the old man spoke, clarity returned to his blue eyes. “I gave him a good lick, but he got me with the butt of his pistol.”

  Giordino found a first-aid kit and applied a bandage to the man’s wound.

  “Thanks, son. Who were those guys, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt said, “but one of our people is aboard their boat. Do you have a launch we can borrow?”

  “There’s a small Zodiac out back. Not much for an engine, but help yourself.”

  The captain gazed out the windshield—and realized the barge was pushing the Drake. “Deuces! Let me back off your vessel before you boys cut loose.”

  He briefly jammed the throttle in reverse, then shifted to neutral. Turning to Pitt, he raised his brows with worry. “You watch yourself with them.”

  “Will do.”

  Pitt nodded at the man, then turned to follow Giordino out the door. As he exited the wheelhouse, he noticed the old man’s commercial master’s license hanging on the bulkhead. Seeing the name Clive Cussler printed on the document, Pitt wrinkled his brow, then hurried onto the deck.

  Giordino had already unlashed the small inflatable from the wheelhouse. Rather than take the time to lower it over the side with a winch, the two men manhandled it over the rail, then climbed aboard. Pitt primed the outboard motor, then gave a few tugs on the starter pulley, bringing the engine to life. Easing the throttle to full, he turned away from the barge and headed toward shore.

  The Mexican powerboat was still visible in the growing darkness, and Pitt set an angle of pursuit along its path. But they were in a losing race, as the cabin cruiser beat the waves a good ten knots faster than the little Zodiac. All Pitt could do was try to keep them in sight long enough to determine where they would put ashore.

  “I hope you remembered to bring our passports,” Giordino shouted. Their southeasterly tack had them on a clear course for the Mexican mainland.

  “I wish I had remembered to bring an RPG instead.”

  Giordino had already searched the Zodiac; their only potential weapon was a small anchor. But Pitt had no intention of going head-to-head with the armed thieves. His only concern was for Ann’s safety.

  As the faint shape of the powerboat faded in the distance, he thought about the plucky NCIS agent and wondered what on earth she actually planned to do.

  15

  LYING SOAKED AS SHE CLUTCHED THE RAIL OF THE cabin cruiser, Ann was asking herself the same question. She wanted to commandeer the boat and sail it to San Diego, but that was a tall order against four armed men. She felt along her back at the waist, making sure the holster containing a SIG Sauer P239 had survived the plunge into the ocean.

  Her decision to sneak aboard the Mexican boat had been driven more by adrenaline than strategy. She was exiting one of the ship’s labs while searching for a secure place to store Heiland’s crate when she saw Pablo on deck, pulling a pistol on Gunn. She ducked into a companionway, slipped down to her cabin, and retrieved her own weapon. When one of the gunmen drew everyone’s attention by blasting the Drake’s inflatable, she crept up to the bridge—only to find the ship’s radio destroyed. While the crew had been startled by the attack, she knew why the gunmen had appeared. They were after the crate. It, not Eberson’s body, was the real reason Ann was aboard.

  The gunmen acted quickly and off-loaded the crate before she could devise a counterattack. Just one thought ran through her mind. If it could not be saved, then it must be destroyed.

  With her heart pounding, she stepped to the bridge doorway and peeked aft. Pablo was busy with Gunn near the submersible, while the other gunmen were securing the crate aboard the powerboat. She took a deep breath, stepped onto the bridge wing, and dove over the side.

  Ann’s years of springboard diving kicked in. She stiffened her body as she dove and stretched her hands above her head, reaching for the sea. She hit the water at a vertical angle, the desired rip entry barely producing a splash. The cool Pacific made her body shudder as she dove deep, then turned and swam toward the Mexican boat.

  Surfacing off its outer beam, she moved in close alongside to stay concealed. She heard a man jumping aboard, then noticed the boat was drifting clear of the Drake. With a swift kick she reached up the side of the hull and grasped a rail stanchion on the deck. Then the engines rumbled, and the boat lurched forward. Ann held firm and let the boat’s momentum drag her across the surface as she swung one leg up and caught her foot on the deck. She yanked her torso up and rolled aboard on the narrow deck that ran alongside the enclosed cockpit.

  She lay patiently, catching her breath and building her nerve, as the boat raced toward shore. It would be a half-hour journey. With darkness her ally, she waited for the sky to turn black. Salt water sprayed her face, and she bounced like a rodeo rider, battling to hold her position while praying no one looked her way.

  Pablo and his men hung on the stern deck rail for several minutes, watching the Drake behind them. The barge faced them, obscuring the launch of the small Zodiac from its stern. After several minutes, the party moved into the cabin. Pablo made a phone call, then sat and drank a bottle of Dos Equis.

  When a charcoal wash crossed the skies, Ann crept backward along the rail until she could catch a peek at the open deck. A dark, heavy-set man sat on a side bench, cradling a handgun as he gazed off the stern. He had a high forehead and a long full beard, reminding Ann of a young Fidel Castro. Secured on the deck in front of him was Heiland’s crate, which he used as a footrest.

  Though the odds were against her in a gunfight with the full crew, this lone man she could subdue, especially with the element of surprise on her side. Her objective was simple: just get the crate over the side by any means she could. Perhaps Pitt and the NUMA ship could find it later. At least it would stay out of foreign hands.

  She inched backward along the side rail and dropped quietly to the deck. Voices came from the main cabin, which was several steps below deck and out of clear view. Just above the cabin was the boat’s cockpit, where Ann could see the pilot’s legs a few feet away. With the boat closing in on the coast, she could only hope the pilot kept his eyes on course.

  She slipped the compact SIG Sauer from its holster, reversed her grip, and sprung at Fidel. He never heard her coming. She aimed for his temple but struck high, and the pistol butt skipped over the crown of his head. He grunted and fell on his side, dropping his handgun to the deck.

  Ann kicked it aside and knelt to free the case, which had been tied to the bench.

  Only stunned by the blow, the man cradled his bleeding head with one hand and groped the deck for his gun. Instead of locating it, he found Ann’s ankle. He wrapped an angry fist around it and pulled with all the strength he could muster.

  Hunched over the crate, Ann was caught off balance and went sprawling across the deck. But her reflexes were quick, and she quickly rolled to her feet. The gunman still clutched her left ankle, so she let go with her right foot, landing a vicious blow on the side of his head.

  He grunted and pulled harder, so she let fly with another kick, connecting with his jaw. His fingers finally went limp, his eyes glazed over, and he sunk to the deck.

  Ann scurried back to the crate, untying one strap and then the other. At last it was free. She dragged it to the stern and hoisted one end onto the rail. She bent to lift the other end, then froze. A cold ring of steel touched the back of her neck.

  “That will be staying here, my dear,” boomed the deep voice of Pablo as he pressed his Glock pistol into her flesh.


  16

  TWINKLING LIGHTS BLANKETED THE SHORE IN A glowing wave of amber, but the serene image only irritated Pitt. The full outline of the Mexican boat had long since disappeared, leaving only its running lights to track its position. As the glow from the fast boat shrank in the distance, it melded with the shore lights until becoming lost from view.

  Pitt held the tiller steady, tracking to the boat’s last visible position while hoping it didn’t dramatically alter course. He didn’t realize that the Mexican coast from the border south offered no natural harbor for some thirty-five miles. After running blind for several minutes, they approached the shoreline and the bright hillside lights above it. Around them, the seas appeared empty, so he angled the Zodiac south. Two minutes later, they caught sight of it.

  “There!” Giordino shouted, pointing off the bow.

  A mile ahead, they could just make out a small rock jetty that fingered into the Pacific. A primitive quay had been constructed over the first fifty feet of rock—and here an illuminated boat sat, idling. As they motored closer, Pitt and Giordino could make out several figures moving along the dock to a waiting four-door pickup truck. Two figures returned to the boat, then carried an oblong crate to the truck and dropped it onto the rear bed.

  “That’s our box,” Giordino said. “Do you see Ann?”

  “No, but she might be one of the people in the truck. I’ll try to get us to shore on the other side of the jetty.”

  He kept the boat well out to sea as they approached the jetty and backed off the throttle to lessen the motor’s whine. When they had drawn close, the Mexican boat suddenly burst away from the quay. It looped around the end of the jetty, coming within a whisker of flattening the unseen Zodiac as it sped down the coast.

  Rocked hard by the wake, the Zodiac’s lone fuel can tipped over. Giordino shook the can before setting it upright. “We don’t have the fuel to chase her any distance.”

  Pitt spotted the truck’s taillights illuminating as its engine started. “Then we best get to shore.”