The Storm nf-10 Read online

  In the maintenance room, Leilani stared at the army of machines, watching in horror as they stood up and began moving forward. Three of the things attacking down below had been enough to scare her, but fifty of them was an absolute nightmare. Anger flashed through her mind, along with the distinct impression that she’d gotten more than she had bargained for.

  “Do something!” she shouted to Marchetti.

  “I’m trying,” Marchetti said. “Tricky little man, that Otero. If I’d have known he was this smart, I’d have paid him more.”

  Leilani looked around for help. All she saw were the machines and a bank of lockers.

  “What’s in the lockers?”

  “Work uniforms.”

  “With IDs?”

  “Yes,” Marchetti said excitedly. “Exactly. Yes, go!”

  Leilani raced across the floor, slid under the swinging arm of one of the robots and slammed into the lockers like a baseball player stealing home. She popped up, threw one locker door open and yanked out a work uniform. A white ID badge came with it, and she held it tight.

  The approaching machines stopped and turned away from her, and then all of them zeroed in on Marchetti, who was pounding the keyboard to no avail.

  “I can’t break the code!” he shouted. The machines were on him now, one of them knocked him to the ground. Another brought a powered screwdriver down toward him, the Phillips head bit spinning furiously.

  Leilani ran forward, pushed through the machines, and dove on top of Marchetti. Hugging him tight, she hoped the robots would see their combined heat source as one person and read the ID tag at the same time.

  The drill bit spun and whined. She gripped Marchetti and closed her eyes.

  Suddenly, the noise ceased. The screwdriver wound down and retracted. The other robot released Marchetti, and the small army of machines began to move away, looking for some other victim.

  She watched them go, still holding Marchetti down.

  As the machines filed out of the maintenance building, she looked down at him, her eyes hard and cold. She needed him to understand something.

  “You owe me,” she said.

  He nodded, and she eased off him. Neither of them took their eyes off the door.

  A HALF MILE from the floating island, Kurt and Joe were taking direct fire from the seaplane. It was angling around, heading back downwind and accelerating. When it surged forward, Kurt dropped in behind it once again.

  “Now or never, Joe.”

  “I have an idea,” Joe said. He climbed forward onto the bow, grabbing the anchor.

  “A friend of mine in Colorado taught me how to rope,” he shouted. He began whirling the twenty-pound anchor on its cord like a one-sided bolo.

  Kurt guessed at his intentions and firewalled the throttle one last time. They began closing the gap. The gunfire returned, but Kurt swung the boat to the pilot’s side and ran it up under the seaplane.

  Joe spun and released the anchor like an Olympic hammer thrower just as the plane came off the water. It flew forward and wrapped around the pontoon struts and pulled taut.

  The plane’s nose came up, yanking the front end of the speedboat out of the water. The weight and drag were too much. The left wing dropped, hit the water, and the seaplane tumbled in a cartwheel, shedding pieces in all directions.

  The speedboat was yanked sideways, the anchor cleat ripped free, but Kurt managed to keep the boat from flipping. He turned to port, backed off the throttle and wheeled around to see the carnage behind them.

  The seaplane had come to rest with one pontoon missing, its wings bent and folded and part of the tail ripped off. It was being swamped by the water pouring in and looked to be going down.

  “Yes!” Joe shouted, firing a fist pump into the air.

  “We have to get you in the rodeo,” Kurt said, bringing the boat back around toward the shattered airplane.

  He pulled up beside it. The plane was sinking fast, the two occupants trying desperately to get free. Matson got out first and was soon clinging to the speedboat. Otero made it over next.

  They began to climb in, but each time they did Kurt bumped the throttles.

  “Please,” Otero shouted, “I can’t swim well.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t live on a floating island then,” Kurt said, goosing the throttle until they dropped off the side and then chopping it again. They dog-paddled back to the boat, grabbing at the handrail.

  Kurt scraped them off again.

  “It was all his idea,” Otero said, trying to tread water.

  “What was?” Kurt asked.

  “To steal the microbots,” Otero said.

  “Shut up,” Matson said.

  “Who’d you give them to?” Joe asked.

  The half-drowned duo latched onto the boat, and Otero clammed up once again.

  “Mr. Austin,” Joe said, “I believe we have a policy against boarders and hangers-on.”

  Kurt nodded and smiled. “That we do, Mr. Zavala. That we do.”

  He pushed the throttle a little more this time. The two stragglers tried to hold on, but they were soon pulled free. This time Kurt continued to idle away from them.

  “Wait!” Otero shouted, splashing around furiously. “I’ll tell you.”

  Kurt put a hand to his ear. “Before we get too far away,” he shouted.

  “His name is Jinn,” Otero sputtered. “Jinn al-Khalif.”

  Kurt cut the throttle, and the boat settled.

  “And where do I find this Jinn?” he shouted.

  Otero looked at Matson, who was shaking his head.

  “He lives in Yemen,” Otero blurted out. “That’s all I know.”

  CHAPTER 14

  IN THE COURTYARD OF A MOROCCAN-STYLE HOUSE, A STONE’S throw from the Gulf of Aden, the man known as Sabah enjoyed the evening. As dusk draped a cloak over the world, he savored a dinner of lamb with fresh-made flatbread and sliced tomatoes. Around him gauzy drapes wafted in the soft breeze while the sound of waves crashing against the nearby cliffs played its soothing, repetitive song.

  A servant arrived and whispered in his ear.

  Sabah listened and nodded. A slight wrinkle of aggravation crossed his forehead at the news.

  The servant took his plate, and Sabah reclined with a glass of black tea. The sound of approaching footsteps halted beneath the archway.

  “I request an audience with you,” a figure in the shadows reported.

  “I would say you already have one,” Sabah replied, “since you are in my presence, invited or otherwise.”

  “I do not mean to disturb you,” the man said. “I waited while you dined.”

  Sabah motioned to a seat. “Come sit with me, Mustafa. We are old friends, ever since the first war with Israel. The weapons you provided did not help us to win, but they allowed me to bolster al-Khalif and his family. My good fortune has followed.”

  Mustafa walked over and sat down across from Sabah, who noticed a sense of trepidation in his steps. As Mustafa was normally the boldest of men, arrogant, feisty, Sabah wondered what could be shaking him.

  “Good fortune is what I’ve come to discuss,” Mustafa said, “both yours and mine. And that of others who take the lion’s share for themselves.”

  Sabah took another sip of the tea and then set the glass down. On a small plate beside it were freshly cut leaves of qat, or khat, a plant with stimulant-like properties. It was similar to a mild amphetamine. Sabah took one of the leaves, folded it and placed it in his mouth. He began chewing slowly, sucking on the juices of the leaf.

  “Lions take the largest share because they are lions,” Sabah explained. “No one can challenge them.”

  “But what if the lion is weak and arrogant?” Mustafa asked. “Or if it is blind to the needs of the pride? Then another will rise up and take its place.”

  “Come now,” Sabah said, “there’s no need to speak in metaphors. You’re talking of Jinn and the project. You believe he’s failing us somehow.”

  Mustafa hes
itated, wringing his hands as if in great turmoil.

  Sabah slid the plate of leaves toward him. “Take one. It will free your tongue.”

  Mustafa plucked one of the leaves and folded it between his fingers, much as Sabah had. He placed it in his mouth.

  “What actions of Jinn seem wrong in your eyes?” Sabah asked.

  “Three years of promises,” Mustafa said, “not one new drop of rain.”

  “The changes take time. You were warned of this.”

  “We’re running out of time,” Mustafa said, “as are you. Yemen is dying. People are being forced from the cities at gunpoint because there is not enough water for all of them.”

  Sabah spat green saliva and the remnants of the qat leaf into a small bowl. He took a sip of tea to refresh his palate. Mustafa was correct. It was strongly believed the nation’s capital would run so low on water in the next year that no amount of rationing would save it. Forced migration was the only option, forcing people to other regions, but the rest of the country was in little better shape.

  “It’s rained here three times in the last week,” Sabah said, “rains we normally don’t see. Even now, clouds linger over the mountains to the north. The change is coming. Jinn’s promises will be kept.”

  “Perhaps,” Mustafa said, “but what prevents him from reversing those promises?”

  From the gleam in Mustafa’s eyes Sabah sensed he was coming to the point.

  “Honor,” Sabah said.

  “Jinn has no honor,” Mustafa said. “For proof, I point to you yourself. It’s well known that you, Sabah, are the reason for Jinn’s success. His wealth and power have been built on your wisdom. His family fortune has been made from your efforts, your labor, your loyalty. Many millions Jinn has: companies, palaces, wives. And what has he given you?” Mustafa looked around. “You have a nice home, a few servants. Fine foods to dine on. Is that all you get for a lifetime of dedication? No, it’s a trifle, and surely you deserve more. You should be a prince in your own right.”

  “I am a loyal servant,” Sabah replied.

  “Even servants share in the master’s rewards,” Mustafa said. “In the courts of old, even a slave could become a trusted adviser.”

  Sabah had heard enough. “Perhaps your tongue has been loosened too much, Mustafa.”

  “No,” his guest replied excitedly, “just enough. I know the truth. Jinn uses you just as he uses us. He takes much and gives only what he has to. We are at his beck and call. If he stops the project, we shall perish. If he asks for more, we have no choice but to give it.”

  “So it’s the money that disturbs you.”

  “No,” Mustafa said, “it’s the power. Jinn will soon pass beyond our ability to control or even bargain with him. He’s created magic like the genies of ancient times. But if he alone wields it, the rest of us are no longer necessary. There’s good reason why the Jinns of old were cursed. They were magicians who could not be trusted. If not held down, they make themselves into gods. This is Jinn’s goal.”

  Sabah took the measure of his old friend, trying to sense how far he would go. So far, Mustafa had stopped short of advocating betrayal, but that was clearly his purpose. If Sabah was right, he’d been put up to it.

  “So a council has been taken among the investors,” he guessed. “Tell me who had the will to call it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mustafa said.

  “It matters to me.”

  “What should matter is your position,” Mustafa insisted. “I ask you to consider why are you here in Aden instead of with Jinn at his genie’s cave in the desert?”

  “Because he doesn’t need me at this time.”

  “More and more, that seems to happen,” Mustafa suggested. “And what will you—the loyal servant—do when Jinn doesn’t need you at all?”

  Sabah was taken aback, but the words struck him as honest and not merely posturing.

  Mustafa continued, pressing, “When he was young, you controlled him with strength. As he aged, you controlled him with wisdom. What do you have left? You’ve given him everything, Sabah. Now is the time to take. To take what you have earned.”

  “A palace coup of some type, is that it? Is that what you seek?”

  “You built this empire,” Mustafa whispered, “you more than him. You should possess its keys, not stand outside the walls like the second-class member of the clan you’ve always been.”

  Mustafa’s words hit the one emotional trigger Sabah had buried the deepest. He wasn’t part of the Khalif clan. No matter how loyal or hardworking or ruthless, he would never be anything more than a trusted hand.

  Indeed, as Jinn’s sons and daughters grew, what had become a partnership would fade. The clan and the family bonds would become dominant. Sabah would be pushed to the side, his own offspring unable to reap what he had sown.

  In a sense, it had already begun. In the past year or two, Jinn had spent less and less time in Sabah’s presence. His habits had changed. He seemed tired of listening to Sabah’s advice where he used to savor it.

  But that alone was not reason for betrayal. Sabah reached for the qat, folded another leaf between his fingers and stuck it in his mouth. There was much to consider before making such a decision.

  As he chewed, the stimulants released by the plant sent a surge of energy through his body.

  He knew Mustafa would not change his mind, not after he’d voiced his plan. If Sabah did not agree in principle, there would be trouble right here and now. Perhaps Mustafa had men waiting nearby. Perhaps he believed he could kill Sabah on his own.

  Sabah would not give him that chance. “You have a strategy?”

  Mustafa nodded. “We must see the horde in action even if it’s on a small scale.”

  “By ‘we,’ you mean the others as well?”

  “I will be the witness, along with Alhrama from Saudi Arabia. Jinn trusts us the most. We will report to the others.”

  “I see. And how should I arrange this?”

  “Jinn must grant us an inspection of the control room and the production facilities. He must give us access to the programming and the codes.”

  Sabah pondered what they were asking for. He stroked his beard. “And when you have seen this?”

  “Then I will signal you,” Mustafa said. “And you will kill Jinn and take over the operation as a full partner in the endeavor and the head of the Oasis consortium.”

  CHAPTER 15

  KURT AUSTIN WAS HEADED FOR MARCHETTI’S HIGH-TECH office atop one of Aqua-Terra’s two completed buildings. In the twenty-four hours since he and Joe had caught the seaplane, preventing Matson and Otero from escaping, much had occurred.

  Back in Washington, Dirk Pitt and the NUMA brass had gone into high gear, gathering intelligence on Jinn al-Khalif.

  Nigel, the pilot, had finished putting the helicopter back together and, at Marchetti’s invitation, had picked up Paul and Gamay Trout.

  Marchetti himself had spent fifteen hours debugging the computer code, trying to be sure Otero had left no additional traps for them. He found none, but there were hundreds of programs running on his automated island. He insisted he couldn’t be sure that all of them were unaffected. At Kurt’s urging he’d concentrated on the more critical ones and completely deactivated the construction robots, just in case.

  With a report due in from NUMA HQ, everyone was gathering in Marchetti’s office to await the transmission and discuss their next move.

  Kurt opened the door and stepped inside. Joe and the Trouts were already there. Marchetti sat across from them. Leilani sat next to him.

  “That’s a mighty fine brig you have down there,” Kurt said to Marchetti. “I’ve stayed in worse five-star hotels.”

  Marchetti beamed. “When Aqua-Terra is ready, we expect to have millionaires and billionaires on board. If I have to put some of them in jail, I don’t want to ruin the Aqua-Terra experience for them.”

  Kurt chuckled.

  “Any luck getting them to talk?” Leilani as
ked.

  “No, they’ve clammed up tight,” Kurt said, glancing at Joe and then turning back to Marchetti. “Don’t suppose you have a hungry python around here anywhere?”

  Marchetti looked shocked by the request. “Um … no. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  Kurt sat down just as the satellite feed locked in. A moment later Dirk Pitt’s rugged face appeared on the screen.

  After a quick round of introductions, Pitt spoke.

  “We’ve developed some information for you on this Jinn character. The bulk of the data will be sent to you in an encrypted file, but here’s the gist of what we know.

  “Thirty years ago Jinn al-Khalif was a nineteen-year-old Bedouin camel herder; twenty years ago he entered the arms trade for a brief, profitable spurt, and shortly thereafter he used those funds to get a toehold in several legitimate businesses. Shipping and construction, infrastructure work. Nothing huge, but he did okay.

  “Five years ago he forms a company called Oasis. It’s an oddly designed international consortium, heavy into technology and funded from murky sources. Interpol has been watching it from the get-go. Their big concern was the vast amount of money and technology flowing into Yemen without any type of control.”

  “Can’t imagine Yemen is a magnet for attracting foreign capital,” Kurt said.

  “Not in the least,” Pitt replied. “Because of that, Interpol thought Oasis might be a terrorist front or a money-laundering operation, but Jinn has not been political, not even within his own struggling country. And they’ve seen no transactions that would suggest laundering. It seems the technology transfers and the high-tech investments were legitimate.”

  Pitt tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. A satellite photo came up, showing the stark beauty of Yemen’s northern desert region. The display sharpened and zoomed in as if they were dropping in from space. When the resolution locked, it was focused on a rocky outcropping that jutted above the sand and cast a long shadow. It reminded Kurt of Shiprock, New Mexico.

  Leading up to the outcropping, and stretching out behind it, were vehicle tracks and swaths of discolored sand.

  “What are we looking at?” Kurt asked.