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  “There were thirty-eight experts in superconduction, particle physics, and electromagnetic energy on Santa Maria,” he said. “I count only thirty-three prisoners. Explain the discrepancy.”

  Andras turned his head, spit over the side of the rig, and looked back at Djemma. “The French team took a core sample of the tower. It could have blown the whole operation before we made our move. I had to eliminate them. The Russian expert turned out to be a spy. She tried to escape twice. I killed her as well.”

  Andras did not blink as he spoke, but he did not seem to like explaining himself.

  “And Mathias?” Djemma asked.

  “Your little key master forgot his place,” Andras said. “He questioned me in front of the others. I couldn’t allow that.”

  For a moment Djemma was angry. He’d placed Mathias with Andras to watch him, perhaps to keep him under control. No doubt that was half the reason Andras had killed him.

  Still, Djemma could not show his anger. Instead he began to laugh. “What leader could afford such insolence?”

  He pushed off the rail and stepped away from Andras, walking out into the hot sun to address the assembled group.

  By the time he’d reached a spot in front of them a trickle of sweat was running down the side of his face. The scientists looked as if they might soon pass out. Most were from cooler climates, America, Europe, Japan. Seeing their weakness, he took his sunglasses off. He wanted them to see his strength and the fire in his eyes.

  “Welcome to Africa,” he said. “You are all intelligent people, so I will dispense with the games and secrecy. I am Djemma Garand, the president of Sierra Leone. You will be working for me.”

  “Working on what?” one of the scientists asked. Apparently, they hadn’t steamed the starch out of everyone yet.

  “You will be provided with the specifications and requirements of a particle accelerator I have built,” Djemma said. “You will have a single job: to make it more powerful. You will of course be paid for your work, much as I was once paid for working in the mines. For your efforts you will each receive three dollars a day.”

  To his right one of the scientists, a man with short gray hair and uneven teeth, scoffed.

  “I’m not working for you,” he said. “Not for three dollars a day or three million.”

  Djemma paused. An American of course. No people of the world were less used to being powerless than Americans.

  “That of course is your option,” he said, nodding to Andras.

  Andras stepped forward and slammed a rifle butt into the man’s gut. The scientist crumpled to the deck, was dragged away toward the edge of the platform, and summarily thrown off.

  His scream echoed as he fell and then stopped suddenly. The water was a hundred twenty feet below.

  “Check on him,” Djemma said. “If he lived, renew our offer of employment.”

  Andras motioned to a pair of his men and they double-timed it over to the stairwell. Meanwhile, the rest of the scientists stared at the edge over which their associate had just been thrown. A few covered their mouths; one of them went to her knees.

  “In the meantime,” Djemma said, quite pleased that someone had been stupid enough to resist right off the bat, “I will explain our incentive program. One I know you will find most generous. You will be divided into four groups and given the same information to work with. The group that comes up with the best answer, the best way to boost the power of my system, that group will get to live.”

  Their eyes snapped his way.

  “One member from each of the remaining groups will die,” he finished.

  With that, Djemma’s men moved in and began to separate them.

  “One more thing,” Djemma said loudly enough to stop the proceedings. “You have seventy-two hours for your initial proposal. In the event I have no satisfactory answer by then, one member of each group will die, and we shall start again.”

  As the now thirty-two members of the world’s scientific community were separated and hustled toward the waiting elevators in the center of the rig, Djemma Garand smiled. He could see the shock and fear in their faces. He knew that most, if not all, would comply.

  He turned to Andras and another African man in uniform, a general in his armed forces.

  “Get back to the Onyx,” he said. “Get her into position.”

  Andras nodded and moved off. The general stepped up.

  “It is time, old friend,” Djemma said. “You may begin to take back what is rightfully ours.”

  The general saluted and then turned and was gone.

  39

  Washington, D.C., June 27

  KURT AUSTIN STEPPED OFF the elevator on the eleventh floor of the NUMA headquarters building on the shore of the Potomac River in Washington, D.C. He moved slowly, his body battered, his ego suffering from the badly missed call that had taken them out to the tower of rock in the dark of night.

  He was walking with noticeable pain. His face and arms were peeling from saltwater sores and eight hours waiting for rescue in the burning sun. His ribs were sore from the pipe attack, and his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, and his lips were creased with healing scabs where Andras and his thugs had pounded him and split the skin.

  Adding insult to injury were the hours sitting in the Argo’s tiny conference room, answering questions from the Spanish and Portuguese authorities with Joe and Captain Haynes, and then a fourteen-hour trip by plane from Santa Maria to Lisbon and over to D.C.

  The least someone could have done was spring for business class.

  Now fighting jet lag, exhaustion, and his wounded pride, Kurt pressed forward toward another conference room, where he and Joe would discuss with Dirk Pitt and members of the U.S. Navy and the National Security Agency everything they’d already explained a half a dozen times. All the while, whatever trail Andras had left grew colder and faded away.

  He neared the end of the hall and despite the pain and fatigue spotted a reason to smile and keep going. At the door to the conference room he saw Gamay Trout. It troubled him that she was alone.

  They hugged, and he could feel that much of her usual self-assurance was missing.

  “You don’t look so good, Kurt. How do you feel?”

  “Never better,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Paul?” he asked.

  “He’s still unconscious,” she managed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “His EEG is improving, and a CAT scan showed no damage, but I’m scared, Kurt.”

  “He’ll come back,” Kurt said hopefully. “After all, look what he’s got waiting for him.”

  She tried to smile, and then grabbed the door handle and pushed through.

  Kurt followed her in and sat protectively beside her. Joe arrived a moment later and sat on her other side. Dirk Pitt, Hiram Yaeger, and some brass from the Navy held positions down the table from them. At the head of the table, a suit from the NSA took center stage.

  Dirk Pitt stood and explained. “I know you’ve all been through a lot, but we’re here because the situation has gone from bad to worse.”

  He waved toward the man in the suit. “This is Cameron Brinks from the NSA. He and Rear Admiral Farnsworth are spearheading the response to what we believe is a very present threat to international peace.”

  Cameron Brinks stood up. “We have to thank you men for discovering and bringing this threat to our attention. Like you, we believe a well-financed or even nationally backed group has developed a directed-energy weapon of incredible power. If the extrapolations from the data are correct, this weapon could undermine the current world socio-military balance.”

  Kurt wasn’t sure what exactly the term socio-military balance meant, but it sounded like a politician’s made-up parlance, and he guessed Brinks was more a politician than a man of action. That meant they were in for a long speech. Great.

  Brinks continued. “After consulting with Mr. Yaeger, and also running our own studies, we’ve concluded that this weap
on uses a system of particle acceleration similar to one suggested years back for the Strategic Defense Initiative’s anti-missile shield.”

  Kurt considered what Brinks was saying, and he allowed some of his aggravation to dissipate. At least these men seemed to grasp the danger.

  “To make matters worse,” Brinks said, “the kidnapped scientists are precisely the kind of people one would need to improve on whatever these terrorists are already in possession of.”

  “Do we have any idea who they are?” Kurt asked.

  Brinks nodded. “In addition to the individual you identified, we’ve two pieces of credible evidence suggesting their base of operations is in Africa.”

  “Africa?” Gamay said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Trout,” Brinks replied. “Early this morning a body was recovered two miles south of the spot where Kurt and Joe were rescued.”

  Brinks nodded to an aide, who brought photos out that were passed to Kurt and Joe.

  “Recognize him?” Brinks asked.

  The water had bloated the man’s face, but it wasn’t enough to hide his identity.

  “Key master,” Joe whispered.

  Kurt nodded. “This guy was with Andras,” he said. “What happened to him?”

  “Twenty-two, Old West style,” Brinks said. “Right between the eyes. Any idea why?”

  “He was alive when we went down,” Kurt said. He put the photo away. “Who is he?”

  “He’s been identified as a citizen of Sierra Leone,” Brinks said. “A former major in their armed forces, perhaps even a bodyguard for the president, Djemma Garand.”

  “Sierra Leone,” Kurt said. This was the second time that nation’s name had popped up.

  Brinks nodded. “As odd as it sounds, the links are starting to point to a connection with that country. We know the superconducting ore was transferred in Freetown, but until now we thought it was the work of a group of mercenaries manning the docks. Your friend Andras may have been one of them.”

  Kurt didn’t like hearing Andras referred to as his friend, however facetiously. Beyond that, something sounded odd about this assessment. “Sierra Leone is one of the poorest countries in the world. They can barely feed and clothe their people. You’re telling me they have the wherewithal to create a particle accelerator using advanced superconductors?”

  “We have this man’s body to prove a link,” Brinks said, not looking particularly thrilled to have questions coming at him. “We have other intelligence suggesting there may be a connection, including some odd military mobilizations of late.”

  “Okay, so what are we doing about it?” Kurt asked, unable to take any more preamble.

  Brinks retrained his gaze on Kurt. “To begin with, greater surveillance of the nation is beginning. Until now we haven’t much reason to keep a close eye upon them. But we’re starting to.”

  “What else?”

  “Believe it or not,” Brinks said, “we still think your initial guess is correct. These people undoubtedly have to be operating from a submarine. Portuguese divers have been all over that rock tower and they’ve found hidden tunnels designed to funnel the current through turbines, banks of batteries, and powerful electromagnetic coils. All designed to create the appearance of a magnetic anomaly. The construction would have required extensive use of submersibles.”

  Kurt felt a small amount of vindication, but he’d still been wrong in a highly costly manner.

  “And?” he asked.

  “And the three of you are to be assigned to a Navy task force charged with finding this submarine,” Brinks said. “Mrs. Trout will work with the Navy acoustics team in trying to refine the signature left on the sonar tapes from the attack on the Grouper.”

  “And what are we going to do?” Kurt asked, growing aggravated at what looked like a giant detour.

  “Because of your experience in salvage operations and construction of submersibles, you two will be assigned to ASW teams that will be sent out looking for this sub.”

  Kurt wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Looking for it?” Kurt said. “You mean wandering around the ocean, listening to hydrophones and hoping to pick up something more than whales making out?”

  Neither Brinks nor Admiral Farnsworth reacted.

  “Are you kidding me?” Kurt continued. “There’s forty million square miles of ocean out there. And that’s if these idiots are still sailing around, waiting to get caught. More likely they’ve parked that thing under a shed somewhere and are on to the next step in their plan.”

  “Our ASW teams are the best in the world, Mr. Austin,” the admiral said.

  “I know they are, Admiral, but how many are you going to spare?”

  “Seven frigates and twenty aircraft,” he said. “We’ll also be using both the SOSUS line and other listening stations in the South Atlantic.”

  That was better than Kurt had expected, but paltry in comparison to the need. And unless Kurt had missed something, they didn’t even know what they were looking for yet.

  “Did we pick up anything on the SOSUS during any of the incidents?” he asked.

  “No,” the admiral admitted. “Nothing but the sounds of the Kinjara Maru breaking up on her way down and the explosions of the torpedoes during the attack on the Grouper.”

  “So all we have is the garbled tape from the Matador,” Kurt said.

  “Do you have a better idea, Mr. Austin?” Brinks asked pointedly.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to track down Andras. And when I find him, that’ll lead us to whoever he’s working for.”

  “CIA’s been looking for him for years,” Brinks said dismissively. “He never stays in one place long enough for anyone to get a line on him. What makes you think you’re going to succeed where they failed?”

  “Because there are certain rocks they don’t like to turn over,” he said bluntly. “I have no such qualms.”

  Brinks pursed his lips, looking disgusted. He turned back to NUMA’s Director. “Mr. Pitt, would you do something, please?”

  Dirk leaned back in his chair, looking as casual as could be. “Sure,” he said to Brinks and then turned to Kurt. “Are you serious about this plan?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “I know someone who Andras used as a contact years ago. I believe he’s still active.”

  “Then what are you doing wasting your time with us? Get your butt moving.”

  Kurt smiled and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “This is ridiculous,” Brinks said.

  “And take Joe with you,” Pitt added, “if he wants to go.”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Joe said.

  Brinks ground his teeth and leaned over the table, looking at Dirk Pitt.

  “One call and I’ll override this,” he said.

  “No you won’t,” Pitt said confidently. “For one, Kurt’s right. Sticking him and Joe on a destroyer is a waste of resources. For another, it puts all our eggs in one basket: your basket. Which I realize, having spent so much time in Washington lately, is half the point. You get the credit if we succeed and you blame them and NUMA if you fail. Simple math. But you forgot a very important variable and that is: I don’t work for you and neither do these men. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you put the country or maritime community at risk for your own personal political agenda.”

  Brinks looked about like a man who’d been gored in a bullfight. Even Admiral Farnsworth seemed pleased with the outcome, no doubt wondering what he needed a couple of NUMA civilians on his boats for anyway.

  The admiral chuckled and then looked over at Gamay. “We could still use you, Mrs. Trout. Our sonar teams are very friendly.”

  “I’ll do my best to help,” she said.

  Kurt stepped to the door.

  “One thing, Kurt,” Dirk said.

  Kurt looked back.

  “Stay on the narrow road. This is a mission for us,” Pitt reminded him, “not a sortie of revenge.”

  Kurt understood Dirk’s concern. He could feel
the conflict inside himself, and no doubt it was easy for someone like Dirk Pitt to pick up on.

  He nodded to Pitt, glanced at Brinks, and then headed for the door. He opened it and ran right into one of NUMA’s administrative assistants, a young woman he didn’t know.

  “Are you okay?” Kurt asked.

  The young woman nodded. “I just came to give Mrs. Trout some news.”

  Kurt opened the door wider and let her in.

  “Paul’s awake,” the woman said. “He’s asking for you.”

  40

  Freetown, Sierra Leone, June 28

  DJEMMA GARAND STOOD TALL in the commander’s position in the turret of an aging Russian-made battle tank. His nation had only forty of them, and as Djemma sprung his nationalization plan on the world he intended to put together a show of force in the most public way possible.

  While infantry units supported by helicopters and militiamen took control of the mines out in the country, Djemma and twenty of his precious tanks rolled through downtown.

  They traveled in a long column, flanked by missile-carrying transports and jeeps and armored personnel carriers. They flowed through the center of town to the sound of thunderous cheers. Tens of thousands of civilians had come out on their own after hearing Djemma promise them better jobs and higher wages once the nationalization was complete. Thousands more had been prodded to line the parade route by the subtle suggestions of Djemma’s security apparatus.

  As the convoy rolled past, the cheers sounded genuine, and Djemma took pride in what he was doing. His force was headed to the port in a ceremonial gesture. It was already in his hands, as was the large refinery a few miles to the north and the airport and the few factories on Sierra Leone’s soil.

  Riding beside him, a handpicked reporter and cameraman recorded the event.

  “President Garand,” the reporter said, almost yelling to be heard over the roaring tank engine and its rumbling, squeaking tracks, “I understand you’ve informed the IMF that Sierra Leone will no longer be making payments on its outstanding portfolio of loans. Is this correct?”