Treasure of Khan (40 page)

S
UMMER KEPT HER HANDS GRIPPED
around Bull Neck's wrist, despite staring down the barrel of a Glock automatic pistol. Tong stood still in the doorway, trying to assess the situation. Behind him, a deep rumbling echoed across the water, but he ignored the sound while silently admiring Summer's skill at subduing one of his toughs.

On the opposite side of the bridge, the helmsman regained his tongue and nerve, while keeping a safe distance from Summer.

“The port thrusters are disabled,” he shouted at Tong. “We will strike the rocks.” Waving animatedly, he pointed toward the lava cliffs now materializing off the port beam.

Tong listened without quite comprehending, then followed the helmsman's motions and looked out the bridge wing. As he turned, an unseen pair of thick arms, clad in the black neoprene rubber material of a wet suit, reached out of the darkness and grabbed Tong around the torso. The Mongolian instinctively squeezed the trigger on his pistol, but the shot fired harmlessly through the roof of the bridge. Tong then turned to fight off his attacker by whipping the gun around as a club. But his movements came too late. His assailant had already taken a step forward, pitching Tong off balance. Tong staggered forward, trying to stay on his feet, but only added momentum to his captor. The assailant capitalized on the momentum with a gyrating lift, sweeping Tong completely off his feet. With a staggering lunge, he heaved Tong up and over the side railing, then let go. The stunned Mongolian let out a shriek as he disappeared over the side, his scream ending with a loud splash when he struck the water below.

On the bridge wing, the ex–calf roper Jack Dahlgren turned back toward the wheelhouse and gave Summer a quick wink and a grin. An instant later, Dirk rushed past him onto the bridge, wielding a gaff he had snared off the lower deck.

“You're all right,” Summer gasped at the sight of the two men.

“Alive but soggy.” Dirk smiled.

A jovial reunion was cut short by a jarring crash that knocked everyone to the deck. The four-thousand-ton drill ship, driven by the unabated power of its starboard thrusters, smashed broadside into the edge of the cove. The grinding impact of lava against steel echoed up from the waterline. The sharp volcanic rock sliced easily through the ship's hull, penetrating the lower hold in more than a dozen places. Seawater flooded in like a sieve, quickly tilting the ship to a port list. Somewhere in the darkened waters beneath the ship, the lifeless body of Tong swirled about, having found himself at the unfortunate point of impact between ship and shore.

The young helmsman was the first to find his feet, striking a ship's alarm bell, then fleeing out the starboard wing. Summer finally let go of Bull Neck's wrist, but the thug was in no mood to fight when Dirk jabbed the pike into his ribs and prodded him out the port wing door. Outside, the sound of men's shouts competed with the continued rumbling.

“Why did I have a feeling you had a hand in piloting the ship?” Dirk asked his sister with a grin.

“Desperate measures,” Summer replied.

“Company on the way,” Dahlgren said, peering off the bridge wing. Two flights down, a band of armed men were rushing toward the bridge.

“Can you handle a swim?” Dirk asked, leading the way up the sloping deck toward the starboard wing.

“I'm fine,” Summer replied. “A dip was actually on my agenda before you arrived.”

The threesome quickly scrambled off the bridge and down to the lower deck, where yells and shouts from the crew peppered the night air. On the bow, several crewmen were preparing to lower a lifeboat, though the water was already washing over the deck of the listing port side. On the opposite beam, Summer wasted no time in further encounters with the crew, climbing over the rail and sliding down the angled ship's flank until plunging into the water. Dirk and Dahlgren followed her in and quickly swam away from the ship.

The rumbling from the shoreline intensified until yet another earthquake rocked the ground. Stronger than the prior jolt, the quake rattled the unstable sections of the lava cliff face. All along the cove, chunks of lava were jarred free, tumbling down the cliffsides and crashing into the water with explosive eruptions of sea and foam.

The cliff towering above the drill ship shared in the instability, the quake carving out a large slice of volcanic rock. The huge piece tumbled once, bounding out from the cliff in free space before dropping directly onto the ship. The spire sliced through the rear of the bridge, collapsing the deck onto the computer room below. The base of the rock mashed into the port beam amidships, flattening a wide section of the ship. Panicked crewman dove into the water to escape the carnage, while the lone lifeboat finally broke free of the bow.

The rumbling from the quake finally fell away, and, with it, the crashing of the loosened rocks. The night air was now ruffled by the gurgling sounds of the dying drill ship, punctuated by the occasional shout of a crewman. A hundred yards away, Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren treaded water while watching the old vessel's final minutes.

“She'll make for a nice reef,” Dahlgren noted as the ship tilted lower into the water. A few moments later, the drill ship slowly rolled to her side, sliding off the rocks and disappearing under the waves to the seafloor seventy feet below. Only her tall derrick, sheared off during the roll and lying against the cliff wall, gave a clue to the ship's final resting spot.

“What did they hope to extract from the wreck?” Dirk asked.

“I was never able to find out,” Summer replied. “But they were going to the extreme of ripping open the lava field to get to it.”

“While generating a couple of earthquakes in the process,” Dahlgren added. “I'd like to know what kind of black box they were using for that.”

“I'd just like to know who they are,” Summer said.

The drone of an airplane approached from up the coast and shortly banked over the cove. It was a low-flying Coast Guard HC-130 Hercules turboprop, with its landing lights glaring brightly across the ocean's surface. The plane began circling overhead, buzzing the lifeboat and the mangled derrick, before expanding its search for survivors in the water. A few minutes later, a pair of Hawaii Air National Guard F-15s from Hickam Field on Oahu screeched by at low altitude, then lazily circled overhead in support of the Hercules. Unbeknown to the NUMA crew in the water, Hiram Yaeger had persuaded the vice president to investigate the scene when evidence of the second earthquake appeared. An immediate military sortie had been ordered to the site of the earthquakes' epicenter.

“That's a sight for sore eyes,” Summer said as the Hercules continued to circle overhead. “I don't know why they're here, but I'm sure glad they are.”

“I bet a cutter and some choppers are already on the way,” Dirk said.

“Heck, we don't need a darn cutter to pick us up,” Dahlgren suddenly said and chuckled. “We've got our own rescue vehicle.”

He swam off toward a nearby object floating in the water, then returned a minute later. Behind him, he towed the mangled but still intact catamaran.

“The cat. It lives,” Dirk said in astonishment.

Summer looked at the object, then declared with a frown, “My surfboard. What's it doing here?”

She looked quizzically at a mangled aluminum frame that was roped to Dirk's surfboard, which she noticed was pummeled in several places.

“And what happened to your board?”

“Sis,” Dirk said with a shrug, “it's a long story.”

T
HE HANDS OF THE CLOCK
had stopped. Or so it seemed to

Theresa. She knew that the constant glances at the ornate timepiece on the wall of Borjin's study only acted to slow its movements. The pending attempt at escape was making her nervous until she finally willed herself to stop staring at the clock and at least pretend to focus on the geological report in front of her.

It was the second straight day they had worked into the night, sequestered in the study with only a break for meals. Unbeknown to their captors, Theresa and Wofford had actually completed the drilling analysis hours before. They feigned continued work in hopes that their evening escort would be just one guard, as occurred the night before. One of the two guards stationed at the door had disappeared after their dinner was cleared away, raising their prospects for escape.

Theresa glanced at Wofford, who was digesting a seismic-imaging report with an almost-happy glow. He had marveled at the detailed imaging that von Wachter's technology had produced and devoured the profiles like a hog at Sunday brunch. Theresa quietly wished she could push the fear out of her mind as easily as Wofford seemed to.

The clock's hands were creeping past nine when Tatiana entered the study, dressed in black slacks and a matching light-wool sweater. Her long hair was combed neatly, and she wore a dazzling gold amulet around her neck. Her attractive external appearance, Wofford judged, was not enough to mask the cold and emotionless personality that ticked within.

“You have completed the analysis?” she asked bluntly.

“No,” Wofford replied. “These additional profiles have impacted our earlier assumptions. We need to make further adjustments in order to optimize the drilling prospects.”

“How long will this take?”

Wofford yawned deeply for effect. “Three or four hours should put us pretty close.”

Tatiana glanced at the clock. “You may resume in the morning. I will expect you to complete the assessment and brief my brother at noon.”

“Then we will be driven to Ulaanbaatar?” Theresa asked.

“Of course,” Tatiana replied with a thin smile that bled insincerity.

Turning her back, she spoke briefly to the guard at the door then vanished down the hallway. Theresa and Wofford made a slow show of restacking the reports and cleaning up the worktable, stalling for time as best they could. Their best chance, perhaps their only chance, was if they remained alone and unseen with the guard.

After stalling as long as they dared without appearing obvious, they stood up and stepped toward the door. Wofford scooped up a stack of files to take with him, but the guard pointed at the reports and shook his head. Dropping the reports on the table, Wofford grabbed his cane and hobbled out the door with Theresa, the guard following on their heels.

Theresa's heart was racing as they walked down the long corridor. The house was quiet and the lights were turned low, lending the appearance that Tatiana and Borjin had retired to their private quarters in the south wing. The emptiness was broken when the short doorman popped out of a side room, holding a bottle of vodka. He gave a haughty glance to the captives, then scurried off toward the stairwell and the servants' quarters downstairs.

Wofford hobbled along with exaggerated effect, playing the role of harmless invalid to full effect. Reaching the end of the main corridor, he slowed at the turn, quickly scanning the side passages to ensure there were no other guards or servants about. Passing through the foyer, Wofford waited until they were close to their rooms along the north hall before making his move.

By all appearances, it was simply a careless act. He poked his cane forward and a little out of line, tapping the ground in front of Theresa's right foot. Stepping forth, she caught her foot on the cane and lurched forward in a fall worthy of a Hollywood stuntman. Wofford followed suit, staggering forward as if to fall, then kneeling down on his good leg. He looked over at Theresa, who was sprawled flat on the floor, barely moving. It was up to the guard now.

As Wofford had predicted, the Mongolian guard proved himself more gentleman than barbarian and reached down to help Theresa up. Wofford waited until the guard grabbed Theresa's arm with both hands, then he sprang like a cat. Driving off his good leg, he jumped up and into the guard, whipping his cane up by the stock in a pendulum motion. The curved handle of the cane struck the guard flush under the chin, popping his head back. The force of the blow snapped the wooden cane in two, the loose handle clattering across the marble floor. Wofford watched as the guard's eyes glazed over before he tumbled backward to the ground.

Theresa and Wofford remained motionless in the still household, nervously waiting for a charge of guards down the corridor. But all remained quiet, the only sound in Theresa's ears being the loud thumping in her chest.

“You all right?” Wofford whispered, bending over to help Theresa to her feet.

“I'm fine. Is he dead?” she asked, pointing with a tentative finger at the prone guard.

“No, he's just resting.” Wofford pulled out a drapery cord he had purloined from his room and quickly bound the guard's hands and feet. With Theresa's help, he dragged the man along the polished floor to the first of their rooms and across the threshold. Yanking a pillowcase off the bed, he gagged the guard's mouth with it, then closed the door and locked him inside.

“You ready to earn your pyromania stripes?” he asked Theresa.

She nodded nervously, and together they crept to the main foyer.

“Good luck,” he whispered, then slipped behind a side column to wait.

Theresa had insisted that she return to the study alone. It made more sense, she convinced Wofford. He moved too slow and noisily on his game leg, which placed them both in greater jeopardy.

Hugging one wall, she scurried down the main corridor as quickly as she dared, stepping lightly on the stone floor. The hallway was still empty and quiet, save for the ticking pendulum of an old clock. Theresa quickly reached the study and ducked through its open door, thankful the guard had turned the lights off on the way out. The dark room gave her cover from the illuminated hallway, and she allowed herself a deep breath to help reduce the anxiety.

Feeling her way across the familiar room, she reached the rear bookcase. Grabbing a stack of books at random, she knelt down and began quietly tearing the pages out in handfuls, crumpling the sheets as they broke free of the bindings. Accumulating a small mound of kindling, she then built a pyramid-shaped stack of books around it, cracking open the spines and facing the loose pages inward. When she was satisfied with her handiwork, she stood and probed around the back of the study until finding a small corner table. Perched on the tabletop was a cigar humidor and a crystal decanter filled with cognac. Theresa grabbed the decanter and began pouring its contents around the room, dumping the last quarter's worth onto her paper pyramid. She returned to the table and opened the humidor, feeling around inside until she found a box of matches that Wofford had discovered earlier. Gripping the matches tightly, she tiptoed to the front of the room and carefully peeked out the door. The main corridor was still quiet.

Creeping back to the book pile, she leaned over, lit one of the matches, and tossed it onto the cognac-soaked papers. There was no explosive ball of fire or immediate inferno, but just a small blue flame that traveled across the cognac-stained carpet like a river.

“Burn,” Theresa urged aloud. “Burn this bloody prison down.”