The Emperor's Revenge
ALSO BY CLIVE CUSSLER
DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES
Havana Storm (with Dirk Cussler)
Poseidon’s Arrow (with Dirk Cussler)
Crescent Dawn (with Dirk Cussler)
Arctic Drift (with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan (with Dirk Cussler)
Black Wind (with Dirk Cussler)
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave
Inca Gold
Sahara
Dragon
Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacific Vortex!
Night Probe!
Vixen 03
Raise the Titanic!
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper
FARGO ADVENTURES
The Solomon Curse (with Russell Blake)
The Eye of Heaven (with Russell Blake)
The Mayan Secrets (with Thomas Perry)
The Tombs (with Thomas Perry)
The Kingdom (with Grant Blackwood)
Lost Empire (with Grant Blackwood)
Spartan Gold (with Grant Blackwood)
ISAAC BELL NOVELS
The Gangster (with Justin Scott)
The Assassin (with Justin Scott)
The Bootlegger (with Justin Scott)
The Striker (with Justin Scott)
The Thief (with Justin Scott)
The Race (with Justin Scott)
The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
The Chase
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES
The Pharaoh’s Secret (with Graham Brown)
Ghost Ship (with Graham Brown)
Zero Hour (with Graham Brown)
The Storm (with Graham Brown)
Devil’s Gate (with Graham Brown)
Medusa (with Paul Kemprecos)
White Death (with Paul Kemprecos)
The Navigator (with Paul Kemprecos)
Fire Ice (with Paul Kemprecos)
Polar Shift (with Paul Kemprecos)
Blue Gold (with Paul Kemprecos)
Lost City (with Paul Kemprecos)
Serpent (with Paul Kemprecos)
OREGON FILES ADVENTURES
Piranha (with Boyd Morrison)
Mirage (with Jack Du Brul)
The Jungle (with Jack Du Brul)
The Silent Sea (with Jack Du Brul)
Corsair (with Jack Du Brul)
Plague Ship (with Jack Du Brul)
Skeleton Coast (with Jack Du Brul)
Dark Watch (with Jack Du Brul)
Sacred Stone (with Craig Dirgo)
Golden Buddha (with Craig Dirgo)
NONFICTION
Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt
The Sea Hunters (with Craig Dirgo)
The Sea Hunters II (with Craig Dirgo)
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed (with Craig Dirgo)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Sandecker, RLLLP
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
eBook ISBN: 9780698406513
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Also by Clive Cussler
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Epilogue
Prologue
ST. HELENA
APRIL 28, 1821
Lieutenant Pierre Delacroix cursed himself for his overconfidence. He had taken a huge risk by sailing into the predawn twilight, hoping to get just a few miles closer to the rocky cliffs on the north side of St. Helena before sunup. A British frigate, one of the eleven guarding the remote island, appeared around the coast and turned in their direction. If his submarine were caught on the surface in broad daylight, the mission to free Napoleon Bonaparte from exile would be over before it began.
Delacroix lowered his spyglass and called down through the hatch. “Prepare to dive the boat!”
Three men quickly lowered the sail in the gusting wind. With the bright sun at his back, Delacroix took one last look at the approaching frigate before ducking below and closing the copper hatch. His nostrils flared at the rank odor of fifteen men packed together inside the cramped quarters.
“Did they spot us?” asked Yves Beaumont, a frown c
reasing his forehead. Though he kept his voice calm, his eyes flicked incessantly toward the closed portal, betraying his anxiety. The experienced alpinist had nonchalantly stood on ledges at heights that would cause normal men to faint in fear, but the idea of submerging inside the confines of a hollow metal and wooden tube terrified him.
Delacroix had no such claustrophobia, one reason why he was the perfect man to lead the mission on the world’s first operational submarine.
“We’ll know if they’ve seen us soon enough, Monsieur Beaumont.”
They’d also soon know if the sub would be able to withstand submerging in the open ocean. It had been built based on designs American engineer Robert Fulton had used to demonstrate the concept of submarine warfare to Napoleon’s naval staff. Delacroix named his fifty-foot-long update Stingray.
Since casting off from the schooner that had towed the technically advanced vessel within sixty miles of St. Helena’s shores, the Stingray had sailed under cover of darkness. So far, the voyage had been uneventful, and the copper-clad oaken hull remained watertight.
Now it was time to find out if the harbor dive tests that the Stingray had passed with flying colors were matched by her performance under the high seas.
“All hatches sealed, Lieutenant,” said Ensign Villeneuve, Delacroix’s second-in-command. “The snorkel is closed and tight.”
“Ready on the ballast pumps.”
The sub’s two engineers prepared to work the manual pumps that would force water into the empty tanks. The rest of the twelve-man crew was in position to operate the crank that would turn the propeller at the rear, while Delacroix held the stick that controlled the rudder. Beaumont and their second passenger, who wore a black mask at all times to keep his identity secret, pressed themselves against the hull to stay out of the way.
With a deep breath as if he were preparing to plunge into the ocean himself, Delacroix said, “Dive the boat.”
The engineers cranked the pumps, and in a few minutes water began to break against the two windows in the Stingray’s viewing tower. The wood of the vessel creaked as it adjusted to the pressure pushing against it on all sides.
“It’s not natural to be in a boat underwater,” he heard one crewman murmur, but a sharp glance from Delacroix silenced him.
He waited until the external line attached to a float indicated they were submerged twenty feet below the surface, then said, “Hold here.”
The engineers stopped pumping. The Stingray held steady and the creaking ceased.
Now all they could do was wait. Except for an occasional cough from the crewmen, the Stingray’s interior was eerily quiet. Even the reassuring sound of water lapping against the hull was gone.
By now, the sun had fully risen, providing enough light through the inch-thick windows in the observation tower under the water so that a lantern was no longer needed to illuminate the sub’s interior. They should now be able to remain underwater for six hours before needing to either extend the snorkel tubes or surface for air.
Two hours into their vigil, a shadow passed over them. Delacroix, squinting through the window, could just make out the hull of the frigate not a hundred feet away, her sails shading the sub from the sun. All movement inside the submarine stopped as the crew waited for an attack, looking up at the ceiling as if they could see through it to the threat above.
Delacroix’s eyes were glued on the frigate for any clue that it was tacking in their direction. Instead, its course stayed straight and true. In a few minutes, it was out of view. Out of extreme caution, Delacroix waited another three hours before ordering the snorkel to be extended.
With their air supply renewed, they remained submerged until darkness fell. The Stingray surfaced to a night illuminated by a half-moon. Delacroix was pleased to see that no lights were visible.
He turned his gaze to the jagged cliff of Black Point close by. The northern face rose five hundred feet above the sea. He’d been training for months with the mountaineer Beaumont, but seeing the rocky crag in person made him doubt the mission for the first time.
Beaumont joined him in the hatch and nodded as he viewed the steep cliff.
“Can we climb it?” Delacroix asked.
“Oui,” Beaumont replied. “It’s not the Matterhorn. And it will be easier to climb than Mont Blanc, which I’ve ascended three times.”
Instead of this covert infiltration, Delacroix would have preferred a full-on invasion of the island, but he would have needed three dozen warships and ten thousand men to have any chance at success. The garrison of twenty-eight hundred soldiers and five hundred cannon protecting a single prisoner twelve hundred miles from the nearest land made Napoleon Bonaparte the most well-guarded person in world history. It probably would have been easier to abduct the King of England.
The crew tumbled out onto the deck, inhaling the fresh air. They lowered cork bumpers around the edges of the Stingray to keep it from being dashed on the outcroppings and dropped the anchor.
Delacroix looped a large coil of high-strength fishing line over his shoulder, and Beaumont did the same. They hooked a safety line between them. More than a thousand feet of rope was piled on the deck, along with a contraption that looked like a child’s swing.
With a nod, Beaumont stepped onto the nearest rock and began climbing. When he was ten feet up, Delacroix followed. They methodically climbed the cliff face, detouring when they needed to avoid a particularly sheer part. Beaumont proceeded with seemingly little effort, pausing only to give Delacroix some rest. Just once did Delacroix slip, but the safety line prevented him from plummeting to his death.
Normally, Beaumont would take forty minutes to climb five hundred feet on his own, but Delacroix’s inexperienced pace meant that the ascent took more than an hour.
When they reached the top of the cliff, Beaumont hammered an iron bolt and ring into the rock. He then attached a pulley, tied both coils of fishing line together, and looped the line over the pulley before anchoring it with a metal weight painted bright yellow. He tossed it far over the side to make sure it would extend all the way down to the water next to the sub. Delacroix spotted no ships on the horizon, so he waved a small flag to signal the crewmen to hook up the rope to the line.
When they received a signal in return that the rope was attached, he and Beaumont hauled up the fishing line over the pulley. The heavy rope snaked up the cliff. When it reached the top, they signaled again.
With two hundred pounds of the masked man muscle added to the weight of the rope, progress was agonizingly slow. After ten minutes of backbreaking labor, Beaumont held the rope fast while Delacroix heaved the masked man over the edge and helped him out of the wooden swing contraption, called a bosun’s chair. A separate board was lashed behind for Delacroix to stand on while it was being lowered later in the evening.
“Doesn’t he ever talk?” Beaumont asked, pointing a thumb at the masked man.
“He’s paid not to,” Delacroix said. “Just like you were paid to bring me up here. Now your job is done, and I thank you.”
“So who is he?”
“You’ll never know,” Delacroix said, and jabbed a stiletto into Beaumont’s neck. The alpinist went rigid, his eyes staring in confusion and disbelief. He slumped slowly to the ground.
Delacroix shoved twenty pounds of stones into the pack on Beaumont’s back. Using his foot, he nudged the mountaineer’s corpse over the cliff at an angle to avoid hitting the submarine below. The crewmen would see the tumbling body and the splash, and Delacroix would tell them that Beaumont had slipped and fallen. Now there was one less witness to worry about.
“Come,” Delacroix said to the masked man as they began their arduous three-mile trek inland. Delacroix’s companion followed dutifully behind without a word. Barren rock slowly gave way to lowland scrub brush and then thick forest.
By midnight, they reached the edge of the Longwood est
ate, the sprawling manor house where Napoleon was being held prisoner. It was in the dreariest part of the island, miles from Jamestown, the only port. The isolation was intended to be part of the defeated emperor’s punishment, but it also played into Delacroix’s plan. Because it was so inaccessible, the guards were lax and let Napoleon roam wherever he wanted as long as he did not head toward town.
The sole road to Jamestown lay on the opposite side of the estate, as did the main guard shack and barracks. The guards didn’t even bother with a random patrol of the grounds, a carefully tended garden comprising a mix of native gumwoods and English hardwoods.
Using the trees as cover, Delacroix and the masked man were able to reach the house without raising an alarm. Delacroix had memorized the floor plan and guided them to the nearest door.
At this late hour, the house was still and dark. Delacroix navigated noiselessly through the halls until they reached the bedroom they were looking for. Delacroix eased the door open and crept inside, followed by the masked man. He instructed the man to remove his mask, then struck a match to light the bedside lamp.
The occupant of the bed stirred at the sudden light.
“We’ve come for you, Your Majesty,” Delacroix said.
With a start, Napoleon Bonaparte sat up in bed. He was prepared to shout for assistance when he saw Delacroix’s companion.
He could have been Napoleon’s twin brother. Same balding head, same diminutive height, same Roman nose. Even though Delacroix had been expecting this moment, the sight of them together still took his breath away.
Napoleon squinted at his doppelganger and said, “Robeaud?”
“It is I, Your Majesty,” the double said in a pitch-perfect imitation of the emperor’s cadences.
François Robeaud had served for many years as Napoleon’s duplicate, appearing at events when the emperor chose not to and allowing Napoleon to stay out of harm’s way when he feared an assassination attempt. His existence had been known only to a select few, and it had taken years for Delacroix to track him down in debtors’ prison, where Robeaud had been incarcerated ever since his benefactor had been captured by the English.
“Who are you?” Napoleon demanded, turning to Delacroix, who saluted smartly. His heart pounded at meeting the military mastermind who had conquered a continent.