Sabotage (42 page)

A stolen glance out the window, and Austin saw the white cloud of water—but to him it was filled with the sparks of his emergency landing in the Azores. He was ten years old, hearing the frantic announcement over the plane's PA system—
explosive decompression … hydraulic systems failure … emergency landing on Terceira
. His hands covered the back of his neck to protect against flying shrapnel. Perceptions converged, the sights with the sounds, and from all the noises filling his ears he discerned a single wavelength, harsh, inescapable, pulsating, causing his head to throb. It was a communion of the senses—senses in their most heightened form, working together, channeling more information than he could process, forcing his brain to race, awakening a primal life-preserving instinct that shut out despair but ushered in unfiltered memories of the belly landing on Terceira.

He saw lights, multiple lights, not glowing like auroras, not radiant like haloes, but sharp and defined, hissing and spitting like electric sparks, each one searing the insides of his eyelids. They were bright, dazzlingly bright. He wanted to close his eyes and force out the lights. He tried to close them … but they wouldn't close. Why wouldn't they close? He realized: They were already closed. He squeezed the lids more tightly, and the lights intensified. They were smoldering hot. He wasn't sure if his retinas were burning, or if his head were exploding. It was the impact, he told himself. It was just the impact. He was spinning. It would all be over soon. His fingers were still interlaced around the nape of his neck. A thousand forces tried to pull them apart as the spin persisted. The sparks began to blur. Slowly they dissipated, fading like brake lights in a fog. He could only believe he was experiencing the spinout in slow motion.

He looked around and saw no hills, no vegetation as there had been on Terceira—only water and icebergs.

It was over.

The floatplane skimmed to a stop and tipped on its side, the odors of fuel replaced by salty mist.

They both let go, and their bodies rolled out of the cabin, landing in the water by the bow of the cruise ship. Emerging from a daze, Victoria found her arms wrapped around Austin's waist like a flotation ring. When she realized what she had clasped, she peeled her arms away and began treading water on her own, her face blue.

“You okay?” he asked, shaking out his hair, held buoyant by a scissor kick.

Her indigo eyes pooled with embarrassment. “All but for the cold,” she said. “Sorry about the rough landing.”

“That felt like a long crash.”

“It was only three or four seconds.”

“Seemed like minutes.”

“Don't expect wonders from an unpracticed pilot.”

“The gunners nearly ripped our hull to shreds. I'm only glad we're unhurt.” He pointed to the aircraft's body. “Can't say the same for the
King Otter.
Water's already seeping into the seats.”

She wasn't listening.

“What's wrong?”

“No more gunfire,” she said. “We'd better find out what's happening up there.”

*   *   *

“Don't shoot him,” Ragnar said, too preoccupied to hear anyone climbing over the rails onto the ship. “He's killed too many of our men, and his accomplice torched one of our vessels. Tie his hands behind his back. Make the knots strong.” Ragnar released Clare and dropped him on the ground. Three more Marauders moved in and stood guard around him.

Ragnar looked straight at Rove. “You are a man of the sea. Fitting you should die at the bottom.” He gestured to his men. “Find a weight. Fix it to the ropes.”

The professor yanked at his own bonds to no avail. He knew there was nothing he could do to save his friend.

“What's the matter?” he spat. “Is this going to make you feel better? Knowing he drowned?”

Ragnar kicked Clare in the thigh. There was no restraint in his kick. “If you want to join him, I'd be happy to oblige.” He used his ankle to roll the man onto his back, then dug a heel into his abdomen so Clare couldn't breathe.

A soldier raised his rifle and shouted. “Captain!”

A wet foot connected with Ragnar's stomach, followed by a strike that would have collapsed his windpipe had his reflexes been a second slower. The thrust behind the foot was strong, but his abdomen was stronger, causing his assailant's foot to rebound. To block the attempt at his throat, he held up a fist and swept his hefty arm to the side. He was shocked to identify his attacker as a six-foot female. He couldn't see her face; there was a tangle of hair glued to her cheeks by seawater. She had sprung from behind the elevated Jacuzzi tub. Judging from her plan of assault, she was an amateur in physical combat but a rough, determined fighter, undeterred by his size or strength. She seemed to channel her adrenaline in ways that allowed her to remain disciplined even after taking the worst of blows. With a decade of experience and a hundred more pounds of muscle, she would have made a decent opponent.

He cuffed her and shoved her backward with sufficient force to level her. Her fall broke a lounge chair. He was impressed by the speed and agility of her recovery. She sprang back into play with no sign of damage and assumed a kickboxer's stance, then went straight for an uppercut. He blocked her jab and hooked her in the neck. She didn't yelp or squeal as she fell back again. The young woman landed against the jagged plastic edges of a broken lounge chair. A second time she bounced elastically to her feet and resumed her fighting posture.

Her imminent defeat was not for lack of willpower; strong and flexible as she was, even her most artful attacks had little effect against the mountain that he was, and he protected his vulnerabilities well. So far he had only cat-toyed with her. The moment he decided their match was over, he spun her around and grabbed her throat from behind. He gave it a squeeze.

Glass shattered, and a shard plunged through Ragnar's thick pelt. He dropped Victoria and spun to face his second opponent, this one taller than the first, his forehead matted in brown waves.

Austin delivered a punch using his left hand, which Ragnar took with practice by angling his head downward and rolling with the blow. The impact was nil. Austin steadied himself once more, then lunged with the broken wineglass. The swipe nicked Ragnar in the forearm. Austin felt like he was cutting through leather, but he had drawn blood and took this as a small victory.

Ragnar's hand shot out toward Austin's and clamped down around his wrist, causing him to lose control of his crude weapon. Defenseless, Austin took a knee in the stomach and tottered back. At the same time, Ragnar conveyed one last kick to Victoria, who had managed to pry free a crossbeam from the lounge chair and was attempting to use it as a bludgeon. She landed against the wall of the elevated Jacuzzi and stayed there, realizing that even between the two of them their chances were zero—and if they somehow defied the odds, a hundred or so rifles were still trained on them; the only reason none had discharged was that Ragnar stood in the line of fire.

“Stay down,” said Ragnar. “Both of you, whoever you are, remain on your knees and crawl to the poolside.”

They obeyed.

At her father's side, Victoria said, “Hi, Dad.”

Clare looked at her, his disapproval unmistakable. “
Victoria?
I've been terrified for you through all of this. How could you be so
stupid
to come here yourself?” She caressed his cheeks and kissed him on the forehead. His admonishing glare turned to one of surprise at the sight of Austin Hardy. “I don't believe it!” he said. Austin felt powerless to do anything. Guns had turned to him. “Victoria! Austin! What are you doing here?”

“Long story, Professor,” he said.

“You came with her?”

Victoria answered him. “We'll fill you in later,” she said. “We recovered the satellite. Glitnir Defense has full control of Baldr. Unfortunately, your laptop was the only casualty. It just went down in flames. Crash landing.” She started to untie him. “We're both okay, but you should have seen the
King Otter.
”

Her father sighed. Despite the pain in his wrists and the soreness in his body, he gave her a doting grin.

“Looked more like a Spitfire to me,” he said.

When he saw she'd begun to undo his bonds, Ragnar ripped her away. “Hands off!” he said, bridling. “We have a schedule to meet. Soldiers, start loading the cargo. And dump the waste into the sea.”

Three Marauders dragged Rove by the foot toward the railing. It was a long drop to the ocean, and even farther to its floor. For the first time since surrendering his weapon, he resisted. Though his hands were bound, they struggled to subdue him. It was a poetic moment for Rove. He'd spent his life at sea and knew nature's forces often worked in mysterious ways.

“That's the man who's helped us from the beginning,” Clare said mournfully. “Jake Rove.”

The hijackers finally stood him up, one at each leg and one holding him by the neck. They forced Rove against the railing. The weight dragged him down. He hardly winced as they swung him back for the final heave.

Rove panned the ocean one last time.

 

FORTY-FOUR

“Jake, you old seadog!”

The words rang like an epitaph.

“Look at the trouble you've gotten yourself into. Why couldn't you just keep a low profile?”

It was Lachlan Fawkes. He wore no spectacles, no tuxedo, no prim attire but a rugged vest and jeans. He'd slung a travel sack over his shoulder. The mantle of fog thickened around him as he emerged from the doorway, his eyes shining with a macabre sparkle.

The Marauders whirled around to face the newcomer, who held up a cautionary hand. “Set him down, boys. I realize mercy is a matter of politeness for you. For me, it's a passion. He'll go with the rest.” He looked at the professor. “Untie them both. Have your men board their ships, Ragnar. Prepare to sail.”

The chief looked like he'd been asked to don a skirt.

“Do it, Ragnar,” the wizened valet ordered.

Ragnar nodded to his men, who set free both Rove and Clare. Austin and Victoria huddled with the released captives.

“That was my steward during the cruise,” Rove whispered to them.

Fawkes continued. “Looks like I've come to the party in full swing, albeit without an RSVP. Forgive the intrusion. I've a boat to catch. But before I leave, a toast.” He strode behind the bar and mixed himself a White Russian. “To the day's heroes,” he said, and took his first sip.

Victoria squeezed her father's shoulder while Austin and Rove exchanged glances. They'd just met, had hardly said a word to each other, yet their shared cause seemed to bond them like old friends.

Fawkes spit out the drink. “It's not the same without ice, but alas, refrigeration is hard to come by these days. Booze without the rocks, anyone? It's on me.”

No one said anything. Ragnar simmered.

“Come on, folks! It's a time for celebration. The end of troubles.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a chrome-colored cylinder about the size of his thumb. “At least, it soon will be. Days ago, a diver lined the hull of the
Pearl Enchantress
with explosive charges. They're timed to blow in thirty minutes. That is, unless anyone acts stupidly and compels me to do it sooner. I can push this little red button ahead of schedule, and the
Enchantress,
with its three thousand passengers, will be reduced to wreckage.”

The rhythm of rotor blades could be heard in the distance, the source hidden. Rove stepped forward. “You're quite a legend, Lachlan Fawkes, just not the one you project to the public. Or perhaps I should call you by your real name: Clifford Pearl.”

The old man's face contorted with surprise. He mulled over the allegation, then let out a cold laugh. “Well done, Jake.”

The professor, his daughter, and Austin watched in silent amazement.

“Gotta admit, you had me in the beginning with that disarming Australian yokel,” Rove said. “Too bad there's not an ounce of Aussie blood in you. But then there's your second alias. That name suits you better.”

“You're right. It is befitting,” Pearl said. “Granted, I may not match the physical stereotype, but there's a gratifying likeness. The Vikings were explorers and longship sailors. And what is Pearl Voyages if not a fleet built for exploration? Of course, there's more to the pseudonym. Vikings hardly sailed for leisure. They were warriors, raiders, pirates, like my associates here.”

Half distracted by the growing background noise, Rove said, “Give up, Clifford. We know what you're up to. We have all but a few missing pieces.”

The whipping sound drowned out the end of his sentence. A gray, twin-engine Augusta corporate helicopter descended from above, closing in at fifty yards, its airstream flattening hair and apparently gaining strength until power was cut to the rotors. A shaky tail boom suggested the pilot was battling unruly winds. Rove watched as the dark body edged toward the stern, its skids kissing the ship's helipad. The blades slowed to an unhurried slice, then idled to a full stop.

Pearl looked more entertained than surprised as two strangers in jumpsuits and flight helmets appeared at the nearest stairwell. One was a stout man, his chest rounded like a cask, the other a petite woman with a decisive gait and an unflappable air of authority. They assessed the scene from a ledge before joining the others on lido deck level. Clare looked partially relieved to see them.

“Welcome, Mr. Chatham,” Pearl said. “This is a happy surprise.”

Chatham looked uncomfortable. “Who are you?”

“We've been speaking on the phone the past few days. Don't you recognize my voice?”

A look of unease turned to downright consternation on Chatham's face. He glanced at his companion. “I brought one of my colleagues, Kate Dirgo.”