Sabotage (2 page)

“Distract them,” the newcomer instructed.

With a firm grip on the bottle, Ragnar ambled toward the closest of the four guard towers. He drew his lighter and ignited the cloth soaked in degreaser, then lobbed the bottle at the tower.

The cocktail soared in a wide arc before shattering a glass window panel. Flames exploded inside the tower room. Frenzied guards dashed out, shouting for help.

Ragnar looked on as chaos erupted throughout the colony. Sentries opened fire and cried for reinforcements. Streams of bullets lay siege to the yard, kicking up snow and ice as guards searched for the culprit. The other inmates scattered, screaming in confusion and crazed jubilation, sprinting toward the sidelines to escape the barrage and bloodshed.

The peaceful compound had descended into bedlam. Black curls of smoke coalesced into pillars, rising from the tower and sweeping away with the cold Siberian wind. Guards cast buckets of water over the spreading flames and unleashed extinguishers while the blaze raged out of control. Workers in chains flung chunks of timber at the tower to feed the conflagration. Pistols raised, guards poured into the yard at ground level to contain the anarchy.

Ragnar jogged to his corner and joined his abettor. At first the din of machine-gun fire masked the sound for which they'd so keenly listened. Then they felt the pulsations. A black apparition climbed over the tower opposite the fire, its blades kicking up gray swirls of dust and debris. The helicopter hovered over the colony for several seconds before descending into the center of the yard. The chopper's skids scarcely tapped the ground. Prisoners fled at the sight of the aircraft, and guards ceased fire, surprised their reinforcements had arrived so promptly. The Kamov helo was a civilian craft closely modeled after a Russian Air Force helicopter intended for reconnaissance, anti-tank, radio-electronic jamming, and distant hauling of air-assault forces. Designed to fly with stealth and maneuverability worthy of special ops, the Kamov demonstrated its true colors by hovering inches above the snow with no sign of powering down.

Ragnar and his conspirator made for the chopper, which lingered in place as they climbed inside and slammed the door behind them.

Guards and inmates gawked in disbelief as the two men disappeared behind the helicopter's reflective windows. The rotor blades began to revolve faster, lifting their attached machinery skyward.

The aircraft veered in a one-eighty. Sparks flew as a volley of rounds grazed the hull, all sentries now training their aim on the chopper as it soared. For all their relentless shelling, the guards were too late. Riding an easterly wind, the Kamov climbed to a safe distance and became a dot in the clouds, leaving in its wake a glowing inferno amid stretches of ice.

 

PART I

THE PEARL ENCHANTRESS

 

ONE

White froth rolled shoreward and dissipated. A tall, slender form unfurled from the water and stood in defiance of a stiff wind. The body turned to the sea and dove against an oncoming wave, then surfaced as the wave passed.

His eyes were two black opals panning the seascape. An insatiable desire to see, to feel, to experience, could be seen in their crystalline intensity. Bronzed only slightly by the sun, the face held a look of wayward independence under thick waves of dark brown hair. He was twenty-four.

The noon sun blazed overhead, easing the chill of the ocean air. Visibility was perfect, the sky cloudless and clear, rare in Northern California's Half Moon Bay. This beach was always empty when he came. He thought of it as his beach.

A crest loomed, capped with white. The young man's arms plunged into the water with force, and his legs kicked up to a horizontal, carrying him against the tide until he reached the base of the mounting arc. An engine hummed in the distance; he ignored it. He took in a sharp breath and flipped around, holding his body in the shape of the curved wall as he timed his launch, and thrust his torso forward.

The wave engulfed and propelled him. A surge of cold streamed through the layer of water caught inside his full-length wetsuit, flushing across the skin of his chest and back. He laughed under the surface, his mind filled with the awareness of his own body; he could feel the vibrations of his laughter in a mix with the tumult. Soon the wave became a gentle hand stroking the sandbank.

He stood again, a six-foot-three silhouette of slim musculature. Then he dove back, arms churning to catch another.

The sound of the engine grew louder. When he surfaced, he realized the source was practically riding on top of him. A deluge of saltwater splashed over his face, and the humming diminished.

A female voice spoke.

“Looking lean and mean in neoprene, Austin Hardy.”

Blond curls fluttering behind her as she jockeyed the water scooter head-on into the crosswind, Rachel Mason was grinning. The passenger behind her was not. Sitting on the pad and still clinging to her waist, a young Japanese man had wedged his feet inside the Jet Ski for safety, his expression laced with queasiness and regret. The life vest hugged so tightly around his waist and aloha shirt that his cheeks were flushing red.

His name was Ichiro Yamada, and his face had pulled taut. “Austin, hurry! Save me from this madwoman!” he shouted.

Rachel tossed her passenger a pitiless glance, her dimples caving with amusement and condescension. “You haven't lost any limbs. That's good enough for me.”

Austin smiled back at them.

“Hello, Rachel, Itchy. How are you two enjoying your romp around the Bay?”

“You've told us about this place for too long,” Rachel said. “We had to see the swimmer in his element.”

“You make a grand entrance.”

She tossed her hair, and a cascade fell over a strap of her light green bikini. “We rented the Jet Ski for the hour. Unfortunately, Itchy here may be too scrawny to last.”

“Don't call me that,” Ichiro said irritably, removing a pair of goggles.

Austin asked, “How has my brave roommate fared?”

“Your brave roommate loves his life and wishes to keep it,” Ichiro said. “Which means it's time for him to disembark.”

Ichiro pinched his nose and jumped into the water. He came up shivering.

“Cold?” said Rachel.

“Torturous, but better than riding with you.”

Austin took two strokes and came up alongside the scooter. He kicked his legs to impel himself upward, then hoisted himself aloft. The Jet Ski wobbled until he gained his balance. In one motion he swiped the lanyard from Rachel's wrist and placed it around his own. She yelped as he lifted her onto the passenger seat behind him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

With a hand on the controls, he gunned the motor and twisted the throttle clockwise. The craft pitched and kicked up a misty spray.

“Riding off to an undisclosed location, where I can take advantage of you under the hot sun.”

“And then what?”

“I'll drop you as far out as I can to hide the evidence. But I'd better get busy. Class starts soon.”

They were gone before she could protest.

Ichiro watched them shrink in the distance as they glided over the surface like a rock skipping a lake.

“Nice to see you, roomie,” he said. “I do hope you'll come back for me.”

*   *   *

Virtually airborne, the racer banked and twisted, skimming the wave crests. After staking off a mile-wide loop of ocean, the duo traversed a self-styled slalom, chasing gulls in figure eights.

“So this is where you come to bodysurf?” Rachel asked, shouting to be heard over the wind.

“Once a week,” Austin said.

“Pretty luxurious, having a beach to yourself.”

He had grown up in Malibu, spending many a high school sunset bodysurfing at Zuma Beach. After moving to Northern California, he had claimed this spot off Highway 1, a sanctuary for mulling over puzzles and projects.

“Helps me think,” he said.

He slowed the Jet Ski and cut the engine.

“Is this where you take advantage of me?” she asked, wringing out her hair.

“Of course not. We go way out to sea for that. If I tried anything here, you could just swim ashore and get away. That's what the last one did.”

She cocked her head. “Oh? There was another?”

“Actually, you're number fifty-five, but I like you better than the others. They put up a fight.” Rachel leaned down to the water and splashed a handful in his mouth. He coughed, adding, “I didn't deserve that, and you better remember I retaliate.”

She flailed as he picked her up and tossed her into the water. She made a small splash and rose to the surface struggling to control her laughter through chattering teeth. He dove in after her.

“Too bad Ichiro jumped ship,” he said, smiling at her with affection, as he would a sister. “He's missing out.”

“We should go get him.”

“Good idea. I'd rather not hear news of a human-shaped ice cube washing ashore.” He paused. “What's the matter?”

She looked beyond him. “I thought you said this beach was private.”

“Not officially, though I've never seen anyone else. Why?”

She pointed. Treading water, he turned around to follow her finger.

“Looks like a small daytime campfire,” he said, though he wasn't sure if he believed his own words.

“Look harder.”

A head of blazing red hair had tricked his eye. A man was standing at the edge of the water. The red color bled down to his shoulders and moved with the breeze, giving the appearance of a flame dancing on a candle. The man's arms were crossed, hands tucked and hidden. Wearing a knee-length woolen coat, he stood with solemn stillness. His legs bore into the sand like monoliths, giving Austin the impression that it would take more than rough tides to remove this man's physical connection with the earth; he could have kicked any wave back into the sea.

“You've never seen him before?”

“Never,” Austin said.

He noted the man's vehicle, a black sedan parked behind a cluster of trees.

“Is he staring at us?”

“Don't think so.”

“You sure? We can't see his eyes.”

“He looks like someone who loves the sea, and came to meditate.”

Not buying Austin's tranquility, Rachel felt a sharp frisson and said, “Yeah, and I wonder how long he's been there.”

“I'd say the cold is giving you the willies. Let's head back.” He checked his watch as he helped her climb onto the Jet Ski. “And we better go fast. I'm already running late, and now I'm thinking about the winding roads back to school. I'll have to drive like a maniac.”

“Ichiro and I just got here!”

“Come earlier next time.”

She began to pout. “You can miss one class. Just one class.”

He found it difficult to refuse. “Not this one.”

Austin had graduated two years before with a bachelor's in mechanical engineering. He had spent one year traveling and completed one year of aerospace research, studying turbulence mechanics with a professor in Bologna, before returning to Stanford to begin the doctoral program in aeronautics and astronautics.

“Don't you want to stay?”

“And skim the wave tops with a fiendishly attractive creature clad in scanty swimwear? Desperately. But it's important I attend this lecture. I haven't missed one all quarter. If you knew the professor, you'd understand.”

She sighed. “You live the life of three people. Which class is it?”

“Aircraft and Rocket Propulsion.”

The motor groaned under his directive. Austin veered toward the beach and teased the break line, then spun the Jet Ski around to face the open water. They found Ichiro bobbing a half-mile down, and he and Austin traded places.

Austin gave Rachel a playful bite on the neck before swimming ashore and changing out of his wetsuit. She watched as he slipped into his car and drove off into the forest. For a few minutes, she stayed on the scooter, staring wistfully at the beach.

 

TWO

“You have probably heard the urban legend of the space-pen. As the story goes, during the heat of the space race of the 1960s, NASA scientists were determined to develop a pen that could write in zero gravity. They tried everything from pressurized capsules to ballpoints with new ink formulas. Finally, after months of research and millions invested, they succeeded. Meanwhile, the Russians used a pencil.”

He didn't speak his words; he liberated them in his distinguished London accent. They carried an understated rubato
,
an artful bending and shaping of tempo. He'd enter a sotto voce now and again for emphasis. The soft tones would build and build until they reached an exultant fortissimo—and then they would stop, and he'd let an expressive silence linger.

The man was in his early sixties, commanding the stage with the vibrancy and gusto of a man one-third his age. His gestures and animation induced a hypnotic yet enlivening effect on his audience. Slight and bony-limbed, he looked not the least bit fragile; rather, a vigorous persona made his delicate physique seem uncannily robust. His focused squint captured the intensity of a jockey certain of a solid standing only seconds from the finish line. Owlish behind thick spectacles, he faced his listeners with unwavering concentration. A jolly ruddiness speckled his cheeks above the white of his sideburns. Hearing him speak was like listening to a novel on tape, the prose polished, the tenor styled to captivate.

“While the anecdote provides an example in creative thinking, the facts teach a different lesson,” he said. “In reality, Americans did use graphite pencils on all Mercury and Gemini space flights prior to 1968, as did the Russians—but not without problems. Bits of wood and graphite broke off, creating floating debris hazardous to the eyes and nose. Due to electron delocalization within its carbon layers, graphite conducts electricity, so drifting particles could short computer equipment. The flammability of wood and graphite proved dangerous in pure oxygen atmospheres present in pre-Apollo manned space missions.