Treasure of Khan (36 page)

“Have you contacted the local American embassy yet? We need to get the political forces working to save them,” Gunn said.

Pitt and Giordino looked at each other in affirmation.

“Diplomacy ain't going to work in this case, Rudi,” Giordino said. “Borjin is too well protected. Our Russian friends have been trying that route to no avail, and they've got a lot more clout in this part of the world than we do.”

“We've got to do something,” he countered.

“We are,” Pitt said. “We're going in after them.”

“You can't do that. Going in under the name of the U.S. government might create an international incident.”

“Not if the U.S. government doesn't know anything about it. And by the way, it's not just Al and me going in. You're coming with us.”

A sick feeling struck Gunn in the stomach and he could feel the color drain from his face.

“I knew I should have stayed in Siberia,” he muttered.

D
R
. M
C
C
AMMON ENTERED THE
NUMA computer center just as Yaeger hung up the phone to Mongolia. On the opposite side of the console, the holographic image of Max turned toward the marine geologist and smiled.

“Good evening, Dr. McCammon,” she said. “Working late?”

“Uh, good evening,” McCammon replied, not sure if he should feel foolish for conversing with a computerized image. He nervously turned and greeted Yaeger.

“Hello, Hiram. Long day?” he asked, noting that Yaeger was dressed in the same clothes he wore the day before.

“Very,” Yaeger replied, suppressing a yawn. “A late request from the boss yesterday kept us busy. We expected to see you hours ago.”

“Some unexpected meetings managed to kill most of my day. I understand if you didn't get a chance to retrieve the data from the earthquake center,” McCammon offered.

“Nonsense,” Yaeger replied, as if insulted. “Max can multitask with the best of them.”

“Yes,” Max replied. “And at least some of us keep our demeanor in the process.”

“We pulled in the data last night,” Yaeger continued, ignoring the comment, “and ran your program early this morning. Max,” he said, facing the image of his wife, “please print Dr. McCammon a copy of the program results. And while that is running, why don't you give us a verbal overview of your findings.”

“Certainly,” Max replied. A large laser printer at the side of the room immediately began humming with the printed output while Max chose her words.

“The data received from the National Earthquake Information Center reflected global seismic activity for the last five years, including the two large quakes that just recently struck the Persian Gulf. I ran your software program, which analyzed the two earthquakes, then filtered their key commonalties against the entire database. Interestingly, there were several unique characteristics associated with the two earthquakes.”

Max paused for effect, then stepped closer to Yaeger and McCammon before continuing.

“Both events were classified as extremely shallow earthquakes, as their epicenters were less than three kilometers beneath the surface. This compares to most shallow-focus earthquakes, which are typically in the five-to fifteen-kilometer depth range.”

“That's a meaningful difference,” McCammon said.

“Of less significance, both were tectonic quakes rather than volcanic in origin. And, as you know, both were large quakes, measuring over 7.0 on the Richter scale.”

“Isn't that quite rare to have a pair of quakes with that magnitude?” Yaeger asked.

“It's a little unusual but not unheard of,” McCammon said. “An earthquake of that size in Los Angeles would capture plenty of attention, but the fact is there is a 7.0 magnitude or greater earthquake occurring on average once a month somewhere around the world. Since they mostly strike in nonpopulated areas or under the sea, we don't hear much about them.”

“That is correct,” Max said. “Though there is a statistically significant anomaly in that the two quakes of that magnitude struck in such close proximity.”

“Any other similarities, Max?” Yaeger asked.

“Yes. Though difficult to quantify, it appears that the damage produced by these earthquakes was not commensurate with their size. Significant structural damage was recorded at both sites, which exceeded the norm for similarly sized earthquakes. The actual damage was more reflective of what an 8.0 magnitude quake would produce.”

“The Richter scale is not always an accurate measure of an earthquake's destructive power,” McCammon noted, “particularly for shallow-focus events. In this case, we had two shallow quakes that proved highly damaging. The intensity on the ground was likely much higher than the magnitude rating indicated.”

Max frowned briefly as she rifled through her databases, then nodded at McCammon.

“You are absolutely correct, Doctor. The primary seismic waves were much smaller in magnitude than the surface waves for both quakes.”

“Anything else, Max?” McCammon asked, finally finding a comfort level with the image.

“Yes, one final aspect. In both earthquakes, there was a record of low-magnitude P-waves registering before the actual quake-induced waves occurred.”

“Foreshocks, I suppose,” McCammon said. “Not at all unusual.”

“Will somebody kindly explain all this surface wave and P-wave business?” Yaeger asked tiredly.

Max shook her head. “Must I teach you everything? Elementary seismology. The slippage from a common tectonic earthquake generates three types of seismic energy releases, or shock waves, if you will. The initial wave is called the primary, or P-type wave. It has similar properties to a sound wave, able to travel through solid rock and even the earth's core. A slower and hence secondary wave is called an S-wave. The S-waves are capable of shearing rock sideways to the direction of travel and produce the damaging vertical and horizontal movement of the ground when they reach the earth's surface. As both types of waves approach the surface, they refract to produce additional surface waves, which create the bulk of the shaking that is felt on the ground.”

“I see,” said Yaeger. “So they are essentially different frequencies sent out from an earthquake's epicenter.”

“That's right,” McCammon said.

“Is there a large fault line in the area where the two earthquakes struck?”

“The Persian Gulf actually lies near the boundary of two tectonic plates, called the Arabian and Eurasian. Nearly all the seismic activity that takes place around the world is in narrow zones surrounding the plate boundaries. The large earthquakes we've seen historically in Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan would suggest that these two quakes in the gulf were not extraordinary but for their proximity.”

“I guess your friend at Langley won't have too much to chew on,” Yaeger said.

“I can't imagine,” McCammon replied. “But thanks to Max, he'll have plenty of data to peruse.”

As McCammon walked to the printer to retrieve the output, Yaeger threw one more question at the computer.

“Max, when you ran Phil's filter program did you match any other earthquakes to the same parameters?”

“Why, yes. It would be easier for me to show you graphically, so feast your eyes on the video board.”

A large white screen behind Max was suddenly illuminated with a color map of the world. Two flashing red dots appeared in the Persian Gulf, marking the recent earthquakes. A few seconds later, a flurry of red dots erupted in several clusters, concentrated in an area of Northeast Asia. They were followed by a lone flashing dot slightly north of the others. McCammon set down his reports and approached the map in curiosity.

“A total of thirty-four seismic events were identified from the National Earthquake Information Center's data as matching the characteristics of the two sample earthquakes. The most recent occurred just over a week ago in Siberia,” Max said, pointing to the lone red dot.

Yaeger's bleary eyes widened in shock. “And the locations of the other events?” he asked.

“Primarily Mongolia. Fifteen events occurred in the mountains east of the capital of Ulaanbaatar, ten in the southern Mongolian province of Dornogov, and another nine in an area just across the border in China. There was also one event in Siberia, at Lake Baikal.”

“Mongolia,” Yaeger muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Slowly rising to his feet and rubbing his tired eyes, he turned to McCammon.

“Phil,” he said, “I think you, me, and Max are going to need some coffee.”

L
ISTENING TO THE LATEST
Nils Lofgren CD on a portable MP3, Summer hummed along happily as she monitored the tension on the air lines snaking over the side of the barge. Boredom was just beginning to set in, and she found herself looking forward to getting back into the water and working the other end of the line. Standing up and stretching, she gazed seaward and caught sight of the black ship she had noticed earlier, now rounding Kahakahakea Point. Something nagged at the back of her brain as she watched the ship turn and aim its bow directly at the NUMA work barge.

“Please, no more media hounds,” she said aloud, hoping it was not another boatload of reporters. But her deepening suspicions rang louder, and, as she studied the ship, she realized what it was.

The approaching vessel was a drill ship. Small by most drilling standards at less than two hundred fifty feet, the ship was at least thirty years old and had clearly seen better days. Rust appeared to grow from the ship's scuppers, while its deck and forecastle were stained with dirt and grease. It was less the appearance than the function of the ship that troubled Summer. What was a drill ship doing in Hawaiian waters? There were no oil deposits in the Hawaiian Islands to speak of, and the surrounding ocean depths quickly drop to over ten thousand feet, making any offshore drilling efforts a costly proposition.

Summer watched as the old ship continued churning directly for her, frothy sprays of white foam creasing away from its weathered bow. The ship was less than a mile away now and showed no signs of decreasing speed. When it closed to within a quarter mile still at speed, Summer glanced at a makeshift flagpole erected over the barge's sleeping shack. A large red diver's flag with the cautionary white slash across the middle fluttered in the morning breeze.

“I've got divers in the water, you idiot,” she cursed as the ship continued its beeline track. The vessel was close enough that Summer could make out a couple of figures standing on the ship's bridge. She quickly walked to the facing rail then turned and waved an arm at the dive flag. Summer detected the ship finally starting to slow, but it was approaching without caution. It was clear by now that the drill ship intended to moor alongside the barge.

Summer hustled to the shack, where a marine radio was mounted to the wall. Spinning the dial on the VHF set to channel 16, she spat into the microphone.

“Approaching drill ship, this is NUMA research barge. We have divers in the water. I repeat, we have divers in the water. Please stand off, over.”

She waited impatiently for a reply but there was none. With a greater urgency in her voice, she repeated the call. Again, there was no answer.

By now, the drill ship was only a few yards away. Summer returned to the rail and yelled at the ship while pointing to the dive flag. The ship started to turn, but, by its angle, Summer could see it was only preparing to pull alongside. Half expecting to see a horde of seasick reporters and cameramen lining the rail, she was surprised to find the ship's starboard and stern decks empty. A slight chill ran up her spine at seeing no one on deck, the men in the forecastle remaining concealed on the bridge.

With an experienced helmsman's touch, the drill ship glided alongside the barge until its starboard rail hung just above the lower side rails of the barge. The drill ship's multiple positioning thrusters were activated and the ship hung precisely in place as if physically moored to the barge.

The vacant ship stood perfectly still for a minute, Summer watching with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Then a faint yell erupted from inside the ship and a half dozen men came storming out of a bulkhead door. Summer took one look at the men, all tough-looking Asians, and shivered with fear. As they scrambled to the ship's rail and began leaping onto the barge, Summer turned and sprinted back to the sleeping shack. She could feel somebody chasing her but didn't look back as she tore into the shack and grabbed the radio.

“Mayday, mayday, this is…”

Her voice withered away as a pair of thick-callused hands reached into the shack and tore the radio off the wall, ripping the microphone clutched in Summer's hands out of the socket. With a perverse grin on his face, the man took a short step and hurled the radio over the side rail, watching as it splashed into the water. Turning back toward Summer with a thin smile that revealed a set of dirty yellow teeth, it was his turn for a shock. Summer took a step toward him and let loose with a powerful kick to his groin.

“Dirty creep,” she cursed as the man fell to one knee in agony. His eyes bugged out of his head, and Summer could tell he was teetering with dizziness. She quickly stepped back and swung her leg in another kick, delivering a roundhouse blow to the side of the man's head. The assailant crumpled to the deck, where he rolled about in obvious pain.

Two of the other boarders witnessed the takedown and quickly charged Summer, grabbing her arms to restrain her. She struggled to free herself until one of the men pulled out a knife and held it to her throat, grunting into her ear with stale breath. The other man found a section of rope and hastily tied her hands and elbows together in front of her.

Gripped with fear but helpless to act, Summer studied her assailants with deliberation. To a man, they were short in stature yet bullish in build. They were of Asian descent, but had high cheekbones and more-rounded eyes than the classic Chinese profile. Each was dressed in black T-shirt and work pants, and all looked like they were accustomed to hard work. Summer guessed they were Indonesian pirates, but what they wanted with a sparse work barge was beyond her guess.

Gazing at the opposite end of the barge, Summer felt her stomach suddenly tightened into a knot. Two of the boarders had carried axes with them and were now swinging them through the air, cutting into the stern mooring lines. With a few quick swings, they severed the lines, then walked toward the bow to repeat the act. A third man stood overseeing the work with his back to Summer. His profile looked familiar, but it wasn't until he turned around and exposed the long scar on his left cheek that she recognized him as Dr. Tong. He walked slowly toward Summer, surveying the equipment on the deck as the two hatchet men went to work on the forward anchor lines. When he came near, she shouted to him.

“There are no artifacts here, Tong,” she said, figuring he was no doctor but simply an artifact thief.

Tong ignored her, staring at the running equipment with annoyance. He turned and barked an order to the man Summer had kicked, who was now limping around the deck trying to walk off the blow. The injured man limped to the shack, where the small portable generator was humming. As he had done with the radio, he hoisted the generator up in the air and shoved it over the side. The machine gurgled as it slipped under water, silencing the small gas motor. The man then set his sights on the two air compressors. Limping to the nearest one, he looked it over, searching for the kill switch.

“No!” Summer shouted in protest.

Finding the
STOP
button, the injured man turned to Summer and gave her a twisted smile, then pressed his thumb against the switch. The compressor immediately wheezed to a stop.

“There are men below on those air lines,” Summer pleaded.

Tong ignored her, instead nodding to his minion. The man hobbled over to the second compressor and, with another smile directed at Summer, punched
STOP
. As the roar of the dying compressor fell away, Tong walked over and stuck his face close to Summer's.

“I hope your brother is a good swimmer,” he hissed.

A well of fury burned within Summer, replacing her fear. But she said nothing. The man holding the knife at her throat pulled tighter, then spoke to Tong in a foreign tongue.

“Shall I kill her?”

Tong glared at Summer's fit tan body lasciviously. “No,” he replied, “take her aboard.”

The two axmen finished cutting the bow anchor lines and walked toward Tong with their hatchets over their shoulders. The barge was now drifting freely, the current pushing it out to sea. On board the drill ship, the helmsman manually engaged the positioning thrusters and backed the ship in reverse to stay alongside the moving barge. Absent a fixed target, the drill ship had to bob and weave to keep from colliding with the free-floating barge. Several times they nudged sides, the barge slapping against the bigger drill ship with a clang.

“You—incapacitate the rubber boat,” Tong barked to one of the men holding an axe. “Everybody else, back on the ship.”

A small Zodiac had been secured to the bow of the barge, in case the NUMA team needed to go ashore. The ax bearer walked over and with a few quick swings cut loose the securing lines. He then pulled a knife from his belt and wedged it into the inflated pontoon in several spots, producing a loud rush of escaping air. For good measure, he stood the boat on end, then flipped it over the side rail. The deflated rubber boat bobbed on the surface for several minutes until a wave swamped its sides and sent it to the bottom.

Summer witnessed little of the sabotage as the thug at her side shoved her roughly to the rail. A thousand thoughts were surging through her mind. Should she risk trying to fight back with a knife to her throat? How could she help Dirk and Jack? Would anything good come from stepping aboard the drill ship? Every query led down a short path to something bad. There might be one chance, she decided, and that was if she could get into the water. Even with her hands tied, outswimming these roughnecks would likely be no problem, she figured. If she could jump into the water, she could easily swim under the barge to the other side. Maybe it would be enough of an annoyance to let her go. And maybe she could then help get Dirk and Jack aboard and mount a stronger defense. That is, if they were all right.

Summer feigned a lack of resistance and followed the other men as they climbed on top of the rail and pulled themselves onto the deck of the drill ship. The knife wielder gave her a boost, holding her elbows as she stepped onto the rail. One of the men on the ship knelt down and reached over to help pull her up. Summer reached up but pretended to slip before she could reach the man's hands. She then flung her right foot backward, striking the knife holder flush in the nose with her heel. By the sound of the muffled crunch, she knew she had broken his nose but didn't turn to see the blood rushing out of his nostrils. Instead, she ducked her head forward and dove for the thin patch of water between the two vessels.

She floated weightless for a fraction of a second, awaiting the splash of the cool water. But it never came.

Seeming to materialize out of thin air, a pair of hands sprung over the rail and clasped the back of her shirt and the cuff of her shorts. Instead of falling vertically, she felt herself flung sideways, bouncing harshly over the side rail before falling hard to the deck of the barge. She had hardly hit the ground when the same pair of hands jerked her to her feet. The hands belonged to Tong, who showed remarkable strength for a man who stood nearly a foot shorter than Summer.

“You will be going aboard,” he spat.

The blow came from her left side and Summer was a hair late warding it off. Tong's fist struck her on the side of the jaw and she immediately buckled to her knees. A flurry of stars danced before her eyes but she didn't pass out. In a dazed stupor, she was yanked aboard the drill ship and dragged up to the bridge, where she was locked in a small storage room at the back of the wheelhouse.

Resting on a large coil of rope, it seemed to Summer that the whole world was spinning around her head. A wave of nausea swept over her until she threw up into a rusty bucket in the corner. She immediately felt better and pulled herself up to a small porthole. Sucking in fresh air, her vision gradually cleared until she could see that the drill ship was positioned in the cove over the same spot where the barge had been moored.

The barge. She craned her neck, finally spotting the brown barge drifting out to sea, already more than a mile away. Squinting to try to improve her blurry vision, she fought to make out signs of Dirk and Jack aboard. But they were nowhere to be seen.

The empty barge was drifting out to sea without them.