The Storm - Cussler Clive. Страница 5

“On this side!”

He stepped to her side and blasted away at the muck.

“Get behind me!” he shouted, directing the hose.

The pressurized stream of water helped, but it was a losing battle. The swarm was surrounding them and closing in on all sides. Try as he might, Kimo could not keep up.

“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.”