Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  Dirk had hoped to turn back and drive past the warehouse toward the beach, but was thwarted when the dockhand emerged from the building with the assault rifle.

  Cursing himself for not taking the weapon, he wheeled the ATV sharply left and sped down the front of the dock. He waited for a fusillade of lead, but it never arrived. He quickly saw why.

  Directly ahead, a half dozen laborers manned the conveyor system. The dockhand didn’t want to fire into his compatriots just beyond. Dirk held his course to increase the distance from the armed dockhand, but ultimately he had nowhere to go. Ahead, the conveyor blocked the width of the dock, while to his left sat towering mounds of gray ore.

  He edged close to the dock as the workers at the conveyor began pointing and yelling. Barreling toward the heavy conveyor, he seemed bent on suicide. He wondered that himself, but he had no other choice. Building speed down the quay, he held steady until just a few yards from the conveyor. As the workers ducked behind the ramp for cover, Dirk jammed the ATV to his left.

  The all-terrain vehicle’s knobby off-road tires slid on the sandy dock as he threw it into the turn while holding the throttle to its stops. All four wheels began to bite, and the ATV shot forward toward the mound of ore being loaded onto the ship. Dirk was nearly jolted off his seat when the front wheels met the base of the pile, but the ATV proved its mettle by blasting straight up the mound. It shot past an idling front-end loader and climbed past the feeder end of the conveyor. It was twenty feet up the side of the steep pile when its momentum began to waver, and Dirk eased the front wheels to his right. He came dangerously close to flipping the vehicle, but the trailer acted as an anchor and helped him to pivot the ATV around.

  One of the laborers ran, yelling, as Dirk sped back down the hill, angling past the far side of the conveyor. A small avalanche of ore crashed to the dock after him and sent the remaining workers scrambling for cover. As it slammed onto the dock at high speed, the ATV bounced high into the air before landing on all four wheels. The trailer was less artistic, breaking free of the ATV’s hitch and smacking into the freighter, then dropping into the water.

  Dirk had to throw the ATV into a hard left to avoid the same fate. Braking and skidding, he barely clung to the wheel as the ATV danced and slid. One of the rear wheels struck a bollard, which jolted the vehicle back on track, and Dirk accelerated hard down the dock.

  Ahead, he could see the freedom of the open desert, in a gap between the dock and the dormitory. But as he sped ahead, another ATV appeared from around the building’s corner. Dirk slowed and waved as he passed the other rider, who he realized was the smirking gunman in green fatigues from the patrol boat. The gunman gave Dirk an empty stare, and then the light of recognition flipped on. By then Dirk had opened his throttle and was tearing past the building.

  Across the dock, scores of men were running toward them, shouting and pointing. The gunman whipped his ATV around and gave chase.

  A sharp, rocky cliff backed the lagoon, forcing Dirk to ascend a lesser hill that ran parallel to the dock. Shots rang out from below, peppering the hillside around him. He zigzagged up the hill, generating a billow of dust that obscured his path. Ducking low, he urged the ATV on until cresting the rise and disappearing from view below.

  As he turned and angled toward the beach, he ventured a glance over his shoulder. Green Fatigues was hot on his trail, less than fifty yards away.

  Dirk squeezed harder on the throttle as the ATV wallowed through a dry wash. Passing the other ATV earlier, he had seen a holster on the driver’s belt. Once again, he found himself weaponless against an armed man. But at least he had the ATV, and he knew where he was going.

  Green Fatigues indeed had a holster with a loaded pistol, which he removed with one hand when the vehicles hit a stretch of sandy flats. Steering and accelerating with his right hand, he used his left to fire a handful of potshots, all of which missed by a wide margin.

  Over his shoulder, Dirk caught sight of the gun and threw his ATV into a shallow serpentine course. Already kicking up a large cloud of dust, it now sprayed wide walls of brown that offered sporadic cover.

  But that maneuver also allowed the pursuer to draw closer until he was choking on Dirk’s dust just twenty yards away. Dirk veered left along a flat rise above the beach, briefly losing his companion in the haze. When Green Fatigues broke free of the dust, he had a clear view of Dirk and fired two shots. One of them hit home.

  Dirk heard a loud pop as one of the rear tires burst. The ruptured tire thumped loudly, and Dirk muscled the handlebars to maintain control.

  He was as good as finished. Green Fatigues could speed ahead or alongside and finish him off with an easy shot. Weighing his options, Dirk prepared to swing the ATV around and force a collision. But ahead, in the sand, he saw footprints that angled sharply inland. They were his own footprints from earlier in the day and they signaled a possible riposte—one that just might give him a fighting chance.

  49

  THE SANDY SURFACE GAVE WAY TO DUST-COVERED rock, which rose in an undulating fashion. The gradual inclination concealed the approaching precipice, the one Dirk had climbed that morning. And the one Dirk hoped to use to his advantage.

  Over the rocky surface, the ATV’s trailing dust grew lighter, forcing Dirk into a dangerous maneuver. Rather than dodge his pursuer, he angled ahead of him, desperate to obscure his vision.

  As Dirk crossed his earlier footprints, he eased off the throttle. The lip of the precipice appeared a second later. He hesitated, drawing the gunman in close, before downshifting and jamming on the brakes. The ATV wavered as its knobby tires skidded across the rock. Dirk swung his leg over the seat, let go of the handlebars, and leaped.

  Barely ten feet from the ledge, Dirk’s ATV regained momentum and soared over the side. Green Fatigues’s hard-charging ATV arrived a few seconds later. Too late, he saw the abrupt drop-off. He mashed on the brakes and flung the handlebars over with white knuckles, but to no avail. The ATV skidded off the edge and plunged over the cliff, Green Fatigues flying up and over it, screaming as he fell.

  Dirk had missed the sight. After jumping from his own ATV, he had pulled himself into a tuck before hitting the ground hard and rolling several times. Sliding feetfirst toward the cliff, he clawed at the ground as his legs went over the ledge. He stopped just short, legs dangling midair. With his head pounding, he pulled his lower body back over the ledge and lay on his back, recovering.

  He felt scrapes and bruises, but he’d managed not to break any bones. After a minute, he rose to his feet and peered over the side.

  Forty feet below, his ATV stood on end, its nose augured into the ground and its body telescoped. A few yards away, the other ATV lay upside down, its wheels still spinning. Dirk didn’t see Green Fatigues at first, then spotted a motionless leg protruding from beneath the vehicle.

  Dirk walked along the cliff, moving gingerly until his limbs loosened. Glancing back toward the dock facility, he saw some movement, a small foot patrol heading his way. Just beyond, at the mouth of the lagoon, he saw the patrol boat heading to sea. They were taking the theft of the ATV rather seriously, Dirk thought.

  He retraced his morning footsteps until he reached a shallow face in the ridge where he could slide down. At the crash scene, he found the inverted ATV battered but mostly intact. He dug his feet into the sand, positioned a shoulder against its side, and shoved, rolling the vehicle back onto its wheels. The mangled body of its rider lay embedded in the sand, his back and head unnaturally twisted.

  Dirk pocketed the man’s pistol and climbed onto the ATV. The seat and handlebars were bent and two fenders torn off, but the drivetrain looked undamaged. He hit the ignition button and heard the starter grind and grind. Gasoline had drained from the fuel line while the vehicle sat inverted, and it took several tries before the engine caught. Dirk gunned it, and the ATV took off, the exposed tires sending
sand flying.

  At the far end of the beach, Dirk pulled up alongside the small berm. Summer appeared from a large hole in the center and waved. After pulling herself inside, she had excavated nearly a third of the rubber raft.

  He hopped off the idling ATV and ran to her. “You all right?”

  “Fine, except for my dead leg.” She noticed his bruised appearance, and the even more battered ATV.

  “I thought I heard a crash. What happened?”

  “I had a falling-out with an acquaintance.” He motioned his thumb over his shoulder. “The crowd at the port facility is the same bunch that rammed us. I borrowed one of their ATVs, and they aren’t too happy about it.”

  Summer saw the urgency in his eyes. “We need to go?”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  He scooped her off the ground and carried her to the ATV.

  “Wait,” she said. “The Barbarigo’s logbook.”

  Dirk gave her a quizzical look.

  “That’s a rubber raft buried in the sand. It’s from a vessel called the Barbarigo. I found a book wrapped in oilskin under the bench,” she said, pointing at the mound. “I can’t read it because it’s written in Italian, but it looks like a logbook.”

  Dirk stepped to the partially buried raft and reached in. He froze when he saw a fully exposed skeleton, which he had somehow missed seconds earlier. The torso lay near a bench seat, on which sat the oilskin-wrapped logbook. He snatched it, climbed onto the ATV behind Summer, and handed it to her. “You didn’t mention its scribe was still hanging around.”

  “There’s at least two other bodies. We need to have the ship’s archaeologist examine the site.”

  Dirk reached around his sister and twisted the throttle. “Perhaps another day.”

  Leaving the bones and beach behind, they rode up a rocky ridge that fingered into the sea. From its peak, they could view the opposite coastline curve before them in a broad expanse of sandy flats. The turquoise hull of the Alexandria bobbed in the swells several miles distant. Dirk focused his eyes on the ground, driving down the rocky hill as fast as he dared, aware of Summer’s impaired ability to stay seated.

  Summer was the first to notice the vessel, a small Zodiac, skimming parallel to the beach ahead. When the ATV’s tires reached the flat sands, Dirk accelerated to top speed. The Zodiac was traveling away from them, but he quickly closed the gap. Honking the ATV’s high-pitched horn, he caught the attention of Jack Dahlgren, who was piloting the Zodiac with a NUMA crewman. The parties converged, Dirk driving his ATV into the waves as Dahlgren drew the Zodiac near.

  “Enjoying the local tourist sights in comfort, Ah see,” Dahlgren said by way of greeting. The Texan’s relief at finding them alive was evident in his eyes.

  “More than we really cared to,” Dirk said. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Dahlgren nodded and inched the Zodiac alongside the ATV.

  “Summer’s lost feeling in her left leg,” Dirk said. “We think she’s bent.”

  Dahlgren plucked Summer, still clutching the Barbarigo’s logbook, off the ATV and set her in the inflatable boat.

  “Everyone aboard Alexandria will be anxious to hear what happened. Had us plenty worried when we found the sub downstairs without you in it. Guess you’ll have plenty of time in the chamber to fill us in.”

  He had to sit down and goose the motor to keep the Zodiac from swamping under a wave. As Dahlgren pivoted back to the ATV so Dirk could jump aboard, he noticed the shredded jumpsuit and multiple bruises. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you went square dancing with a rototiller.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I feel like it,” Dirk said.

  “You don’t want to park that ATV on dry land?”

  “No, the owner was rather troublesome about me borrowing it. I suggest we get to the Alexandria as soon as possible.”

  Dahlgren gunned the outboard motor and steered toward the research ship. Dirk gazed across the horizon, spotting the patrol boat speeding in their direction. A moment later, a deep rumble drowned out the whine of the outboard, and a shadow darted over the Zodiac. Dirk looked up to see a low-flying C-130 lumber over. It was painted gray, with the multicolored flag of South Africa displayed on its tail. Dahlgren waved at the plane, slowing the Zodiac to be heard over its motor.

  “Search-and-rescue plane we dialed up out of Pretoria. About time they showed up. I guess we better let them know you’re safe.” He retrieved a handheld radio and informed the Alexandria of Dirk and Summer’s appearance.

  While they waited for the message to be relayed to the airplane, Dirk tapped Dahlgren’s shoulder and pointed to the approaching patrol boat. “Call back and ask the plane if they would buzz those guys. Tell them we suspect they’re part of a local piracy ring.”

  “I reckon the FAA doesn’t extend to these waters,” Dahlgren said, and relayed the message.

  The C-130 had already receded to a speck on the horizon. Then it turned and grew larger. The pilot brought it down low, barely fifty feet above the waves. Approaching the patrol craft off its stern, it caught the crew by surprise. Several gunmen threw themselves to the deck as the roar of the four 4,200-horsepower turboprop motors engulfed the patrol boat.

  The plane flew past, made a lazy turn, and came back for a second run across the patrol boat’s beam. This time, a few of the braver crewmen waved their weapons, but nobody fired a round. Undaunted, the C-130’s pilot made three more passes, each one lower than the last. The patrol boat accepted the message, reluctantly veering off and motoring back to shore. Tracking it for good measure, the C-130 hung around at low altitude for almost an hour, before dipping its wings and heading home.

  Dirk looked to Dahlgren. “Remind me to send a case of beer to the South African Air Force.”

  “Those boys don’t mess around, do they?”

  A few minutes later, they pulled alongside the Alexandria. Dirk and Summer were surprised to see their mangled submersible on the stern deck as they were hoisted aboard.

  “We found her promptly with the sonar and were able to rig her for lifting with an ROV,” Dahlgren said. “We renewed our shore search when we didn’t find you inside.”

  The siblings were greeted warmly as they boarded, but Summer sensed a nervousness, even from Dahlgren, as she was helped onto a gurney. The ship’s doctor rushed them to the decompression chamber, which was already prepped with food and medical supplies.

  Dirk tried to duck out, but the doctor ordered him in as a precaution. Before the hatch closed, Dahlgren poked his head inside to ensure they were comfortable.

  “Might not be a good idea to linger around the area,” Dirk said. “We were able to plant all the seismic sensors before our run-in with the patrol boat. We can deal with the thugs another time.”

  “The captain’s already winding us up for a run to Durban at flank speed.” Dahlgren’s face was taught and serious.

  “Why Durban? I thought we were headed up to Mozambique from here?”

  The doctor yelled from behind the chamber to seal the hatch.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Dahlgren said. “Your dad and Al have gone missing in the Pacific.”

  Before the words could sink in, the heavy metal hatch closed, and the chamber’s occupants were pressurized back into the depths.

  50

  PITT FELT LIKE HE WAS IN A CHAMBER OF HIS OWN, only his was a chamber of horrors.

  By the hour, the dank prison he shared on the Adelaide felt more and more claustrophobic. A daily rise in the outside temperature had turned the bay into a stifling-hot oven. Making matters worse, the heat intensified the foul odors generated by the confined men and two dead bodies.

  Pitt felt constant hunger, but was thankful they were given plenty of drinking water. Periodically the hatch door would be thrown open, and two
armed men would toss in boxes of bread and other dried stores from the galley. The prisoners valued the brief gusts of fresh air nearly as much as the food.

  Pitt and the SWAT team had tried formulating an escape plan, but their options were nonexistent. The storage bay had been stripped of any tools or equipment to force another exit. The locked hatch, they found, was guarded around the clock. Multiple attempts at testing the handle or hinges were instantly met by a rapping from a gun barrel on the opposite side. Whenever the hatch was opened to deliver food and water, at least two men stood ready with assault rifles.

  Noticing the stale rolls they had been given to eat had hardened to the consistency of granite, Giordino suggested using those to attack the guards.

  Pitt’s friend rebounded swiftly from his wound, which somehow showed no signs of infection. After sleeping nearly three straight days, Giordino had awoken with an irritable vigor, and he quickly regained his strength despite the sparse diet.

  While most of the men grew resigned to their captivity, a few began losing control. Fights broke out among the crew of the Adelaide, while another man gave in to fits of hysterical yelling. Pitt felt an uneasy gratitude when he noticed a reduction in the ship’s engine revolutions, signaling their arrival in protected waters.

  Pitt had counted the number of hours passed since he was thrown into confinement. Traveling at sixteen knots, he calculated the Adelaide could have covered almost four thousand miles, placing them anywhere between Alaska and Peru. But the warm temperatures suggested something equatorial. If the ship had held its southeasterly heading, Pitt figured they could be somewhere off southern Mexico or Central America.

  Confirmation came soon, after the ship had stopped and started several times, accompanied by the sound of dock activity. The ship got under way and sailed another three hours before stopping for good. A short time later, the prisoners were roused from their compartment.