The Storm

“We should jump,” Thalia shouted.

  Kimo looked to the ocean. The swarm extended out from the boat and onto the sea from which it had come.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Desperate for something that would help, he scanned the deck. Two five-gallon cans of gasoline sat near the aft end of the boat. He aimed the hose at full pressure, sweeping it from side to side and blasting a path through the swarm.

  He dropped the hose, ran forward, and leapt. He landed on the wet deck, skidded across it and slammed into the transom at the rear of the boat.

  A stinging feeling on his hands and legs—like rubbing alcohol had been poured over open skin—told him some of the residue had found him. He ignored the pain, grabbed the first jerry can and began pouring fuel across the deck.

  The gray residue recoiled at the flow, curling out of the way and retreating but probing for a new path forward.

  Up on the cabin’s roof, Thalia was using the hose, blasting the water around her in an ever smaller circle. Suddenly, she cried out and dropped the hose as if she’d been stung. She turned and began to climb the mast, but Kimo could see the swarm had begun covering her legs.

  She screamed and fell. “Kimo!” she shouted. “Help me. Help m—”

  He splashed the deck with the rest of the gasoline and grabbed for the second can. It was light and almost empty. Fear knifed through Kimo’s heart like a spear.

  Only gurgling noises and the sound of struggling came from where Thalia had fallen. Her hand was all he could see, writhing where it stuck out from beneath the mass of particles. In front of him, that same mass had resumed its search for a path to his feet.

  He looked once again to the surface of the sea. The horde covered it like a sheen of liquid metal all the way out to the limits of the light. Kimo faced the awful truth. There was no escape.

  Not wanting to die like Thalia and Halverson had, Kimo made a painful decision.

  He dumped the rest of the fuel onto the deck, forcing the swarm back once more, grabbed for a lighter he carried and dropped down to one knee. He held the lighter against the gasoline-soaked deck, steeled himself to act and snapped his finger along the flint.

  Sparks snapped and the vapors lit. A flashover whipped forward from the aft end of the catamaran. Flames raced through the approaching swarm all the way to the cabin and then roared back toward Kimo, swirling around him and setting him ablaze.

  The agony was too intense to endure even for the brief seconds he had left to live. Engulfed in fire, and unable to scream with his lungs burned out, Kimo A’kona staggered backward and fell into the waiting sea.

  CHAPTER 3

  KURT AUSTIN STOOD IN A SEMIDARKENED WORK BAY ON THE lower level of his boathouse as the hour crept past midnight.

  Broad-shouldered, relatively handsome, Kurt tended more toward rugged than striking. His hair was a steel gray color, slightly out of place on a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties yet perfect for the man all Kurt’s friends knew him to be. His jaw was square, his teeth relatively straight but not perfect, his face sun-kissed and lined from years spent on the water and out in the elements.

  Sturdy and solid were the terms used to describe him. And yet, from that rugged face came a piercing gaze. The directness of Kurt’s stare and the brilliance of his coral-blue eyes often caused people to pause as if taken by surprise.

  Right now, those eyes were studying a labor of love.

  Kurt was building a racing scull. Thoughts of performance ruled his mind. Drag coefficients and leverage factors and the power that could be generated by a human being.

  The air around him smelled of varnish, and the floor was littered with shavings, wood chips and other types of debris, the kind that piled up and marked one’s progress when crafting a boat by hand.

  After months of on-and-off work, Kurt felt he’d achieved something near to perfection. Twenty feet long. Narrow and sleek. The wooden craft’s honey blond color shined from beneath nine coats of shellac with a glow that seemed to light up the room.

  “A damn fine boat,” Kurt said, admiring the finished product.

  The boat’s glasslike finish made the color seem deep as if you could look into it for miles. A slight change in focus, and the room around him was caught in the reflection.

  On one side of the reflection, a new set of tools sat untouched in a bright red box. On the other side, pegged to the backboard of the workbench with meticulous precision, were a set of old hammers, saws and planes, their wooden handles cracked and discolored with age.

  The new tools he’d bought himself, the old ones were hand-me-downs from his grandfather—a gift and a message all at the same time. And right in the middle, like a man caught between two worlds, Kurt saw his own reflection.

  It seemed appropriate. Kurt spent most of his time working with modern technology, but he loved the old things of this world; old guns, antebellum and Victorian homes and even historical letters and documents. All these things grabbed his attention with equal power. But the boats he owned, including the one he’d just finished, brought out the purest sense of joy.

  For now, the sleek craft rested in a cradle, but tomorrow he would lift it off its frame, connect the oars and take it down to the water for its maiden voyage. There, powered by the considerable strength in his legs, arms and back, the scull would slice through the calm surface of the Potomac at a surprising clip.

  In the meantime, he told himself, he’d better stop looking at it and admiring his own work or he’d be too tired to row in the morning.

  He lowered the bay door and stepped toward the light switch.

  Before he could flick it off, an annoying buzz startled him. His cell phone was the culprit, vibrating on the work desk. He grabbed the phone, instantly recognized the name on the screen and pressed answer.

  It was Dirk Pitt, the Director of NUMA, Kurt’s boss and a good friend. Before he’d taken over as Director, Pitt had spent a couple of decades risking life and limb on special projects for the organization. Occasionally, he still did.

  “Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” Pitt said. “I hope you don’t have company.”

  “Actually,” Kurt replied, looking back at his boat, “I’m in the presence of a beautiful blonde. She’s graceful and smooth as silk. And I can see myself spending lots of time alone with her.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to postpone all that and tell her good night,” Pitt said.

  The serious tone in Pitt’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “What’s happened?”

  “You know Kimo A’kona?” Pitt asked.

  “I worked with him on the Hawaiian Ecology Project,” Kurt replied, realizing that Pitt wouldn’t start a conversation that way unless something bad was coming. “He’s first-rate. Why do you ask?”

  “He was working an assignment for us in the Indian Ocean,” Pitt began. “Perry Halverson and Thalia Quivaros were with him. We lost contact with them two days ago.”

  Kurt didn’t like the sound of that, but radios failed, sometimes entire electrical systems did, often the boaters turned up safe and sound.

  “What happened?”

  “We don’t know, but this morning their catamaran was spotted adrift, fifty miles from where it should have been. An aircraft from the Maldives made a low pass this afternoon. The photos showed extensive fire damage on the hull. No sign of the crew.”

  “What were they working on?”

  “Just analyzing water temps, salinity and oxygen levels,” Pitt said. “Nothing dangerous. I save those jobs for you and Joe.”

  Kurt couldn’t imagine any reason such a study might offend someone. “And yet you think it was foul play?”

  “We don’t know what it was,” Dirk said firmly. “But something’s not right. We can see the life-raft containers from the air. The casings are burned but otherwise untouched. Halverson was a ten-year vet, he was a merchant marine sailor for eight years before that. Kimo and Thalia were younger, but they were well t
rained. And none of us can come up with a reason for a widespread fire aboard a sailboat to begin with. Even if we could, no one can tell me why three trained sailors would fail to deploy a life raft or get off a distress call under such conditions.”

  Kurt remained silent. He couldn’t think of a reason either, unless they were somehow incapacitated.

  “The bottom line is, they’re missing,” Dirk said. “Perhaps we’ll find them. But you and I have been around long enough to know this doesn’t look good.”

  Kurt understood the math. Three members of NUMA were missing and presumed dead. Something both Dirk Pitt and Kurt Austin took personally.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “A salvage team from the Maldives is getting set up,” Pitt said. “I want you and Joe on-site as soon as possible. That means you’re on a plane in four hours.”

  “Not a problem,” Kurt said. “Is anyone still looking for them?”

  “Search-and-rescue aircraft out of the Maldives, a pair of Navy P-3s and a long-range squadron from southern India have been crisscrossing the zone since the boat was spotted. Nothing yet.”

  “So this isn’t a rescue mission.”

  “I only wish it was,” Pitt said. “But unless we get some good news that I’m not expecting to receive, your job is to figure out what happened and why.”

  In the dark bay, unseen by Pitt, Kurt nodded. “Understood.”

  “I’ll let you wake Mr. Zavala,” Pitt said. “Keep me posted.”

  Kurt acknowledged the directive, and Dirk Pitt hung up.

  Placing the phone down, Kurt thought about the mission ahead. He hoped against all reason that the three NUMA members would be found bobbing in their life jackets by the time he crossed the Atlantic, but considering the description of the catamaran and the length of time they’d been missing, he doubted it.

  He slid the phone into his pocket and took a long look at the gleaming craft he’d built.

  Without another second of hesitation, he reached for the light switch, flicked it off and walked out.

  His date would have to wait for another morning.

  CHAPTER 4

  CENTRAL YEMEN

  A FIGURE CLOAKED IN WHITE STOOD ON A ROCKY OUT cropping that jutted above the sand of Yemen’s sprawling desert. The wind tugged at his caftan, producing a muted flapping sound as it waved in the breeze.

  A gleaming white helicopter sat on the bluff behind him. A green insignia, depicting two date palms shading an oasis, decorated its side. Three stories below lay the entrance to a wide cave.

  In times past, the cave would have been guarded by a few Bedouin men hidden in the crags of the bluff, but on this day there were a dozen men with automatic rifles in plain view, another twenty or so remaining hidden.

  Jinn al-Khalif raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and watched as a trio of Humvees rolled across the desert toward him. They rose and fell on the dunes like small boats crossing the swells of the sea. They traveled in an arrow formation, headed his way.

  “They follow the ancient track,” he said, speaking to a figure beside and slightly behind him. “In my father’s time they would have been spice caravans and traders, Sabah. Now only bankers come to see us.”

  He lowered the binoculars and looked to the bearded older man who stood beside him. Sabah had been his father’s most loyal hand. Sabah was dressed in darker robes and he carried a radio.

  “You are wise to understand their motives,” Sabah said. “They care nothing for us or our struggle. They come because you promise them wealth. You must deliver before we can do as we choose.”

  “Is Xhou with them?”

  Sabah nodded. “He is. Upon his arrival, all the members of the consortium will be present. We should not keep them waiting.”

  “And what of General Aziz, the Egyptian?” Jinn asked. “Does he continue to withhold the funds he’s promised?”

  “He will speak with us three days from now,” Sabah said. “When it is a better time for him.”

  Jinn al-Khalif took a deep breath, inhaling the pure desert air. Aziz had pledged many millions to the consortium on behalf of a cadre of Egyptian businessmen and the military, but he had yet to pay a cent.

  “Aziz mocks us,” Jinn said.

  “We will talk with him and bring him back in line,” Sabah insisted.

  “No,” Jinn said. “He will continue to defy us because he can. Because he feels he is beyond our reach.”

  Sabah looked at Jinn quizzically.

  “It’s the answer to the riddle of life,” Jinn said. “What matters isn’t money or wealth or lust or even love. None of those things were enough to save me when the bandits took our camp. There is only one thing that matters, now just as it did then: power. Raw, overwhelming power. He who has it, rules. He who doesn’t, begs. Aziz has us begging, but I will soon turn the tables on him. I will soon attain a kind of power that has never been held by a man before.”

  Sabah nodded slowly and a smile wrinkled his beard. “You have learned well, Jinn. Even better than I could have hoped. Truly, you surpass your teacher.”

  Below them, the Humvees were slowing to a stop in front of the cave.

  “You have been the pole star that guides me,” Jinn said. “That is why my father entrusted me to your care.”

  Sabah bowed slightly. “I accept your words of kindness. Now, let us greet our guests.”

  Minutes later they were inside the cavern, four levels below. The interior temperature was eighty-one degrees, a stark contrast to the one-hundred-and-five-degree winds beginning to blow outside.

  Despite the primitive setting, the assembled guests sat in comfortable office chairs at a black conference table. The room around them had been engineered and carved from what was once an uneven chamber. It now resembled a great hall filled with modern decor.

  Small screens lay recessed in the table in front of them. Computers lined the walls. Hidden rooms beyond this one held sleeping quarters and racks of weapons.

  At great expense, Jinn had transformed this old Bedouin meeting place from a dusty fissure to a modern headquarters. It had proven a long and complicated process, much like the evolution of his family from a group of nomads who traded camels and traditional goods to a modern enterprise with its hands in technology, oil and shipping.

  Long gone were the camels and the oasis that his family had claimed for centuries, traded away in exchange for small stakes in modern companies. All that remained were his father’s words: You must never have pity … And without the waters, we inherit only wandering and death.

  Jinn had never forgotten this message or the need for utter ruthlessness in obeying it. With Sabah’s help and the funds from those who’d gathered in his cave, he was one step from making certain they would control the waters of half the world, like his father had controlled the oasis.

  Mr. Xhou walked in along with his aides. Sabah greeted him and showed him to his seat. There were nine men of importance present. Mr. Xhou from China. Mustafa from Pakistan. Sheik Abin da-Alhrama from Saudi Arabia. Suthar had come from Iran, Attakari from Turkey and several lesser guests from North Africa, former Soviet republics and other Arab countries.

  They were not government representatives but businessmen, men with an interest in Jinn’s plan.

  “By the grace of Allah we are together again,” Jinn began.

  “Please dispense with the religious pronouncements,” Mr. Xhou said. “And tell us of your progress. You have called us here to ask for more funding and we have yet to see the effects that you’ve already promised.”

  Xhou’s bluntness rankled Jinn, but he was the biggest investor, both in funds given to Jinn and in money spent betting on the payoff Jinn had promised. Because of this, Xhou was impatient and had been from the beginning. He seemed most anxious to get past the investing phase and into the profiting phase. And with Aziz stiffing them, Jinn needed Xhou’s backing more than ever.

  “As you know, General Aziz has been unable to release the assets he pr
omised.”

  “Perhaps wisely,” Xhou said. “So far, we’ve spent billions, with little to show for it. I now hold two million acres of worthless Mongolian desert. If your boasts do not come true soon, my patience will end.”

  “I assure you,” Jinn responded, “the progress will soon become apparent.”

  He clicked a remote, and the little screens in front of each guest lit up. A larger screen on the wall showed the same diagram, a color representation of the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean. Red, orange and yellow sectors displayed temperature gradients. Circulating arrows showed the direction and speed of the currents.

  “This is the standard current pattern of the Indian Ocean based on the averages of the last thirty years,” Jinn said. “In winter and spring this pattern is from the east to the west, flowing counterclockwise, driven by cold, high-pressure dry winds from India and China. But in summer the pattern changes. The continent heats up faster than the sea. The air rises, drawing wind onshore. The current changes and flows in a clockwise pattern, and it brings the monsoon to India.”

  Jinn clicked the remote to show the pattern changing.

  “As you know, the temperature and pressure gradients drive the winds. The winds drive the ocean currents, and together they produce either dry air or monsoon rains. In this case, pumping moisture over India and Southeast Asia, creating the monsoon rains that drench those lands, allowing them to feed their massive populations.”

  New animation on the display showed clouds streaming over India and into Bangladesh, Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand.

  “We know all this,” Mustafa of Pakistan said abruptly. “We have seen this demonstration before. While they have abundant crops, our lands remain dry. Your sands are parched. We have come here to see if you are succeeding in changing this for we have invested a fortune in your scheme.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” another representative said.

  “Would I have called you all together if I had no proof?”

  “If you have it, show us,” Xhou demanded.