“Maybe there’s a boat on the surface or a helicopter,” Joe said. “Maybe someone got our message.”
Kurt thought about that. It seemed unlikely. And if Joe was right about how long the air supply would last on full blast, Kurt doubted they had more than fifteen minutes or so to wait. Not enough time for someone to get to them even if he could call for help.
He needed a different answer, a third way between leaving Joe to drown and dying down there alongside him. What he needed was a hacksaw or a blowtorch to cut through the lift bar or, better yet, through the chains on Joe’s cuffs.
And then it dawned on him. He didn’t need a full-on blowtorch, just something that burned hot and sharp. He remembered the green tank he’d seen in the Constellation’s cockpit when he’d rescued Katarina. Green tank meant pure oxygen. Pure oxygen burned hot and sharp. Modulated just right, that could be his cutting torch.
He flipped open a small compartment door. Inside were the Barracuda’s emergency supplies. Two diver’s masks, sets of fins, and two small air tanks; ones he now wished contained one hundred percent oxygen but were filled with standard air.
Twenty-one percent oxygen and seventy-eight percent nitrogen didn’t burn, but at least it could be breathed.
He pulled them out.
Behind the tanks he found a packet of flares and an emergency locator transmitter, an ELT. An uninflated two-man raft completed the kit. Enough to save them if they could get free.
Kurt took one air tank and strapped it to Joe’s arm like a blood pressure cuff. He turned the valve and put the regulator up by Joe’s mouth.
“Breathe through your nose until the air in the Barracuda runs out, then start drawing on this,” he said.
Joe nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Are you going to the surface?”
Kurt was pulling on a pair of small swim fins.
“Hell no,” he said. “I’m going to the hardware store to get us a cutting torch.”
Joe’s gaze narrowed. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Years ago,” Kurt said, pulling the mask down. He strapped the emergency air bottle to his own arm and turned the valve. “But that doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
He took a test breath off of the yellow tank’s regulator.
Joe’s eyebrows went up. “You’re serious?”
Kurt nodded.
“I hope it’s not too far away, then,” Joe added.
Kurt hoped not as well. He knew roughly where they were when they’d been captured. He thought he could make it.
He put the regulator in his mouth and ducked his face into the water to look for one more thing that he’d need to pull it off. He found it and then submerged.
“Hurry back,” Joe said, but Kurt was already moving.
37
IF JOE HAD SAID ANYTHING ELSE, Kurt didn’t hear him. He dropped down out of the Barracuda like a man swimming from the mouth of a cave and began kicking forward with powerful strokes.
The fins weren’t full-sized, but they helped immensely, and with the mask on he could see clearly. But he still had to make a guess as to his whereabouts. He took out a piece of equipment he’d grabbed from the dash of the Barracuda: the magnetic compass.
It was just a dial in a sealed ball half filled with kerosene. As long as it hadn’t cracked or broken, it would still perform its only function. And that was to point toward the most powerful magnetic source around. Normally, that would be the north magnetic pole. But in this case Kurt guessed it would point toward the magnetic tower of rock.
Though he was quite certain the whole thing was a fraud of some kind, the magnetism emanating from the tower was real. Whether it was being generated by some type of device implanted within the rock that sent out an electromagnetic current or was just a result of highly charged minerals being positioned in the right place, he couldn’t say.
He lit one of the flares and held the compass out. It spun and dipped and slowly came onto a heading. The speed with which it centered told him it was reacting to something very strong, and he felt certain that it was pointing toward the tower.
Knowing he and Joe had been traveling basically to the east before they’d been caught, he triangulated in his head a direction to swim and lit out for the Constellation.
Five minutes later he came upon one of the ships in the graveyard. Two minutes after that he spotted the triple tails of the old aircraft. He pumped his legs hard, knowing both that time was running short and that he needed to keep as active as possible to delay the onset of hypothermia.
He ducked through the gaping hole in the aircraft’s side, swam forward surrounded by the bubbles he was exhaling, and made it to the cockpit.
A skeletal form sat in the copilot’s seat, still strapped in and stripped of everything organic. Only the plastic of the life vest, a pair of rusted dog tags, and the nylon-and-metal seat belt holding him in remained. Another few years and even the bones would be gone.
As he looked at the form for the second time, he realized that this plane’s presence had been part of what threw him. Part of what blinded him to the hoax.
The skeleton in the copilot’s seat, the CIA records of its secret mission, its departure from Santa Maria and its subsequent crash nine minutes later, all these things had lent some official credence to the mystery.
Putting the thought out of his mind, he reached down and released the clasp holding the oxygen tank to the floor. Picking it up, he studied the valve for signs of corrosion or decay. While there was some growth on the ring around the bottle’s neck, there didn’t appear to be much damage. He only hoped the thick steel tank still contained its pure cargo.
JOE ZAVALA REMAINED TRAPPED in the inverted hull of the Barracuda. His head and shoulders protruded into the cockpit and its lifesaving air pocket. His arms remained drawn awkwardly across his body, bent at the elbows and protruding out from under the cockpit’s rim. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. But he could still think, and he realized that running the air full blast was a mistake.
The excess was merely pumping itself out over the side before it could be used.
He managed to stretch his leg once again and use his toes, numb as they were, to jab at the switch.
The jet of air bubbles ceased. The cabin of the cockpit grew deathly quiet, and Joe continued to breathe slowly and count the seconds until Kurt returned with whatever he had in mind.
It was only a question of time, he told himself. Kurt would return no matter what. Joe knew his friend would never give him up until there was literally no other way. He just hoped that whatever Kurt had in mind worked and worked quickly.
As he waited in the silence, Joe found counting to be utterly tedious as a method of passing time. In fact, he’d honestly begun to believe it actually slowed time down somehow.
He decided to sing instead, both as a way to fight the silence to keep himself alert and as a way to take his mind off the fear and freezing sensation that was creeping through his body.
At first he considered singing something related to warmth, but somehow belting out the Supremes’ version of “Heat Wave,” or a similar tune, seemed like it would make things worse in this frigid environment.
Instead he settled on another song, one that seemed more appropriate. It took a second to bring the words together, but then he was ready.
“We all live in a yellow submarine . . .” he began.
Even Joe would have admitted it was more talking than singing at this point, but it was something to do. And it gave him some ideas.
“Note to self,” he said. “Paint next submarine yellow. And include a heater that works underwater, even if the whole cockpit floods. And missiles, definitely missiles.”
With that note filed away, Joe continued, singing louder with each chorus. He was on the third chorus, really beginning to get the hang of it, finding the acoustics of the inverted Barracuda to be most pleasing to the ear, when he realized he was getting delirious. The air was growing stale.
> He stretched out his leg and banged it against the control panel. His feet were so numb, he could only feel the impact higher up on his calf, but he knew he was in the right area. He tapped and tapped again, continuing his awkward attempts, until the air jets came back on.
At the sound of the bubbles racing through, pouring into the cockpit, he rejoiced and began singing once again.
And then, mid-verse, Kurt Austin surfaced through the foam and bubbles, rudely interrupting his performance.
Kurt spat his own regulator out and lifted his mask. “Well, you’re having a lot more fun than I expected.”
“Practicing for American Idol,” Joe managed. His teeth had begun chattering. “What do you think?”
“You may not be going to Hollywood, but I think we can get you out of this sub.”
Kurt held up a green tank of some kind. “One hundred percent oxygen,” he said. “I’m going to cut you loose.”
Joe tried to smile. The sooner, the better, was all he could think.
Kurt was already working, jabbing at the barnacles on the tank’s valve with a screwdriver. He managed to get it partially cleared, then stopped.
He showed the pinhole to Joe. “You think that’s enough?”
“Test it.”
Kurt worked the valve handle for a good minute, even banging it on the frame of the cockpit, until it would move. Finally, it gave. A few bits of debris blasted out of the valve’s opening. Kurt held it underwater. Bubbles poured out in a narrow jet.
Kurt grabbed another flare from the survival kit and ripped a length of aluminum trim off the control panel. The thin strip of metal would be needed in his project. He looked at Joe. “It’s gonna be hot,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Joe said. Unlike Kurt, he hadn’t moved for a good twenty minutes, and sitting still in 60-degree waters without a wet suit was enough to bring on hypothermia. He was getting close to that point.
“I’ll be careful,” Kurt said, pulling his mask back down.
“Kurt,” Joe said very seriously. “I’m not dying down here. If you have to take my hand off, do it. I can’t feel it anyway.”
“And deprive the boxing world of your pugilistic skills?” he said. “Perish the thought.”
“Kurt, I’m just saying—”
“Why don’t you go back to singing,” Kurt said. He held up the bottle, “I’m making a little request: ‘Light My Fire’ by the Doors.”
With that, Kurt put his regulator back into his mouth and submerged.
Joe knew Kurt would do his best, but he also knew Kurt would do as he’d asked if necessary. And to save Joe from thinking about it, he wouldn’t tell him in advance.
To take his mind off it, he did as Kurt had suggested . . . almost. This time, he’d give it everything he had, really belting it out.
“We all live in a yellow submarine . . .”
OUTSIDE THE BARRACUDA, Kurt heard Joe’s warbling voice and was secretly glad to be out beyond the confines of the sub. Still, it made him smile.
He got up beside the lift bar. Joe’s hands were curled up into balls from the cold. He pulled Joe’s right hand as far from the left as he could. He then lit the new flare and held up the strip of aluminum.
He pressed the pointed end of the strip into the narrow links of the hardened steel chain that held Joe’s hands together. Then he brought the oxygen bottle awkwardly to bear and turned the valve.
The jet of bubbles burst forth once again. He directed it toward the aluminum strip and Joe’s chains and the burning tip of the flare. Immediately, what looked like a jet of fire burst forth.
It was awkward work. Kurt felt like he needed three hands, but by holding the flare and the aluminum strip in one hand and the oxygen bottle in the other he was able to keep his little torch operation working.
While it seemed like the oxygen was burning, Kurt knew it was actually an oxidizer. It didn’t burn. It caused other things to burn hot and fast—in this case, the aluminum and, once a little cut appeared in Joe’s chain, the steel in the chain links.
The jury-rigged setup smoked and bubbled and snapped unevenly. For a moment it looked as if it would go out, but it stayed lit. After thirty seconds he pulled the torch away. The links were glowing red but not yet melted. He brought the torch to bear once again. After another fifteen seconds, Joe’s hands suddenly snapped apart.
He was free.
Kurt shut off the oxygen, thinking they might need it, and moved back into the sub.
Joe was all smiles. “I’d hug you,” he said, holding up his balled fists, “but I’m too damn cold.”
“How long we been down here?” Kurt asked.
“Thirty minutes,” Joe said.
That sounded right to Kurt. Thirty minutes at one hundred feet. They’d need at least one decompression stop. With Joe’s survival bottle largely untouched and what was left in his own, along with the green oxygen tank, Kurt was certain they could make it without any problem.
He slid Joe’s mask over his face and forced the swim fins on his feet. With the life raft and the ELT beacon under his arm, Kurt led Joe out of the sub.
Outside, he twisted the beacon until it began to flash, released it, and watched it shimmy toward the surface.
He looked to Joe and pointed upward. Joe nodded and began to swim, kicking slowly for the surface.
Kurt took one last look at the Barracuda and noticed something shiny on the ocean floor beneath the lights. The knife. The same knife once again. Another taunt from Andras.
Angrily, he reached out and grabbed it, and then he began to swim after Joe and the distant flashing light from the ELT.
THEY BROKE OUT INTO THE DAYLIGHT ten minutes later. Kurt tried to keep their ascent to one foot per second, as per the old Navy standard rules. But just to be sure, he and Joe stopped at forty feet for two minutes and then at twenty feet for three more.
Finally breaking into the sunlight was a glorious feeling. Kurt pulled the inflation cord on the raft. The CO2 charge filled and expanded the small raft in a matter of seconds. It unfolded and stiffened with full inflation.
“Ready for passengers,” Kurt said.
He helped Joe climb aboard and then pulled himself in.
Once they’d made it into the raft, lying still and flat was highly recommended. Kurt was pretty certain he could do nothing else.
He lay there breathing, aching and exhausted. He was surprised at how cold and numb he felt now compared to their time down below.
After several minutes with no sound but the slap of the water against the side of the raft, Joe spoke. “Where’s the driest place on earth?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt said, thinking. “The Atacama Desert maybe.”
“Next adventure we’re going there,” Joe said. “Or somewhere hot and dry.”
“I’m not sure the National Underwater and Marine Agency has a lot going on where it’s hot and dry,” Kurt said.
Joe shook his head. “Dirk and Al spent some time in the Sahara once.”
“True,” Kurt said. “I’m not sure they would recommend it though.”
“Hot and dry,” Joe said firmly. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Kurt laughed. It really didn’t sound too bad right now.
He was painfully aware how close they’d come to dying. It wouldn’t have taken much to tilt the scales from life to death for either of them. Kurt knew his overconfidence about what their foes were doing was half the reason for that.
He looked over at Joe, who was finally beginning to show some color in his face.
“I was wrong,” he said to Joe.
Joe turned his head awkwardly. “What?”
“I was wrong about St. Julien,” Kurt added. “He’s a gourmet. He would never chow down at some all-you-can-eat buffet.”
Joe stared at him for a moment and then started laughing and coughing all at the same time. Kurt laughed too. He knew Joe understood what he was trying to say.
“We all screw up, Kurt,
” he said. “You just do it bigger than the rest of us.”
Kurt nodded. It sure seemed that way.
He looked out over the surface of the water. Thirty yards away he saw the emergency locator beacon, riding the swells and flashing. He hoped rescue would come soon because there was still work to be done.
The way he saw it, Andras had screwed up even bigger than he had. He’d left Kurt alive and stirred the bitter embers of vengeance in his heart.
38
Off the coast of Sierra Leone, June 26
DJEMMA GARAND STOOD near the edge of the helipad on the false oil platform given the number 4. This platform contained the control center of his weapon and would be his command post if he ever needed to use it.
The control center sat three stories above the helipad, the glass enclosure of its main room jutting out like the bridge on a ship. At the moment Djemma’s attention lay elsewhere.
He stood, leaning up against a rail, in the shadows, his eyes hidden behind the ever-present green shield of the Ray-Bans he wore. Out in the center of the helipad, wilting under the blazing equatorial sun, stood the captured scientists from the various teams who had flocked to the lure he’d offered. The Azorean magnetic anomaly.
Djemma smiled at his own cunning. So far, all things were falling in line with his plan.
With the scientists forced to line up as if for inspection, he waited. Each time one of them tried to sit or get out of line, Andras or one of his men would march out and threaten them with reprisals far worse than standing in the sun. At all times a few men roamed the perimeter with machine guns in their hands.
Finally, when the moaning and complaining began to lessen, Andras came over to where Djemma rested in the shade.
“Leave them out there any longer and you’re going to fry their brains,” Andras said. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t what you brought them here for.”
Djemma turned to Andras. He would not respond to the man’s questions.
“There were thirty-eight experts in superconduction, particle physics, and electromagnetic energy on Santa Maria,” he said. “I count only thirty-three prisoners. Explain the discrepancy.”