Clive Cussler: Devil's Gate

“Show me the location of the Liberian tanker Onyx ,” Pitt said. “Based on Kurt Austin’s last report.”

It took a few seconds and then a new icon appeared in a blue tint, one so pale it looked almost white. A tiny flag next to it read “Onyx: Liberia.”

Dirk Pitt stared at the icon along with everyone else in the Situation Room.

It sat almost dead center of the screen, exactly halfway between the Quadrangle off the coast of Sierra Leone and the city of Washington, D.C.

“My God,” Sandecker said. “When do our submarines attack?”

The Navy’s attaché answered. “Thirty minutes just to get in range. They won’t be able to stop it.”

With that, Sandecker sprung into action, grabbing the aide.

“Get the President to the bunker,” he said. “Order an immediate alert on the Emergency Broadcast System. Contact all law enforcement and emergency services personnel and the power companies. Tell them to have their people take cover and be ready for an emergency shutdown. We’re going to need them to get this place back up and running if this happens.”

As Sandecker spoke to the aide, a brigadier general from the Air Force was on a phone to Andrews, passing the word and ordering a scramble. Other people around the room were giving similar commands, in person or over phone lines. The normally quiet Situation Room suddenly resembled a busy telemarketing center or a Wall Street trading pit.

Pitt grabbed his own cell phone and sent an emergency text that would reach all NUMA personnel in the vicinity. He called the office to follow up.

For his part, Brinks looked stricken, fumbling with a cell phone, trying to call his wife. Dirk understood that; he was thankful that his wife, Loren, and his children, Summer and Dirk Jr., were on the West Coast this week or he’d have been doing the same frantic dance.

Brinks hung up and wandered unsteadily over to Pitt, of all people.

“Voice mail,” he said as if in a trance. “What a time to get voice mail.”

“Keep trying,” Pitt told him. “Ring that phone off the hook.”

Brinks nodded but continued to act as if he’d been drugged. The shock had stunned him into inaction.

He looked at Pitt through starry eyes. “Did your man get on that ship?” he asked quietly.

Pitt nodded. “As far as I know.”

Brinks swallowed, perhaps his pride. “I guess he’s our only hope now.”

Dirk nodded. One man on a tanker in the middle of the Atlantic now held the fate of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, in his hands.

ABOARD THE ONYX , Kurt ran and fired and ran again. He emptied his second magazine, loaded another, and kept moving, pushing Katarina ahead of him.

Clear of pursuers for a second, they ducked into an alcove between two of the ship’s storerooms and listened.

Some kind of strange alarm had begun sounding. It almost resembled the Whoop, Whoop heard on a submarine before it was about to dive.

“What’s that?” Katarina asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Seconds later a recorded voice came over the ship’s loudspeaker. “Fulcrum deploying. Stand clear of midships array. Repeat. Stand clear of midships array.”

“We’re running out of time,” Katarina said. “Can’t be more than a couple minutes left.”

“And we’re going the wrong way,” Kurt said.

They’d had no choice, each pack of crewmen they’d run into had forced a detour. Since they’d left the cabin, they’d actually moved farther forward instead of aft.

In their favor, the ship was mammoth yet crewed by no more than a hundred or so. Some of those had to be at duty stations to pull off whatever Andras was doing with this Fulcrum array. And at least six were now dead.

Working against them was the ship’s architecture. The Fulcrum compartment was between them and the coolant room at the aft end of the ship. Since the Fulcrum took up the top half of the ship, and ran from beam to beam, the only way to get past it was to go deep into the ship and use one of the bottom decks to cross under it.

The alarm and recording continued, and Kurt imagined the giant fan-shaped array, larger than a football field, emerging through huge doors on the top of the Onyx ’s hull.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling Katarina up and getting on the move once again.

She was struggling to keep up but had yet to make the slightest complaint.

Kurt found a ladder that dropped through a hole in the deck. He took it, sliding down with his feet on the outside rails.

“Come on,” he said. As Katarina came down the ladder he noticed the rag around her hand was soaked right through in red.

He went to look at it.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Keep going.”

Another ladder dropped them down a few feet to one more deck. And this time, Kurt stopped. He could hear machinery throbbing in an odd pattern, on, off, and back on.

It gave him an idea.

“Wait here,” he said.

Kurt crept forward. Markings on a pair of closed hatchway doors read “Thruster Unit.”

Behind him, Katarina leaned against the wall and slid down it in slow motion.

“I’m okay,” she said as he started back toward her. “Just… taking… a little rest.”

She wasn’t going to make it much farther. At least not running through the ship at breakneck speed. And they were running out of time anyway.

The Whoop, Whoop alarm stopped, and even down in the bowels of the ship the hull shuddered slightly as something big locked into place.

“How much time?” he asked.

“A minute,” she said through her exhaustion. “Maybe less.”

She slumped onto her side, the blood-soaked rag over her hand smearing blood across the metal deck.

He couldn’t help her now. He had to do something about the Fulcrum before it was too late. With a fire ax he pulled from a bracket on the wall, he broke open the lock on the door in front of him. The sound of throbbing machinery echoed throughout the room.

He stepped inside. Down below were the powerful electric motors of the bow thrusters. By the way the system was acting, it was struggling to keep the ship in some kind of perfect alignment.

Kurt guessed that redirecting a particle beam would require exact precision. If he could stop the thrusters, or throw them off, that might ruin either the beam’s cohesiveness or its aim.

OFF THE COAST OF SIERRA LEONE, Djemma Garand studied the field of battle from his vantage point in the control room of platform number 4. He had forced the Americans back. Twice he had repelled their assaults. Now he would strike with a vengeance.

“Bring all units back to full power!”

Cochrane was beside him, looking nothing like a man who was about to become infamous for all eternity. He looked like a rodent who would rather have scurried under a bush and hid than a man ready to claim his place in history. But he did as he was told, and he had trained Djemma’s other engineers well enough to operate the machinery if he balked.

“All units at a hundred one percent design load,” Cochrane said. “Magnetic tunnels are energized and reading green. The heavy particle mix is stable.”

He looked over at one more screen, a telemetry display from the Onyx . “The Fulcrum array is locked in position,” he said. “You may fire when ready.”

Djemma savored the moment. The Americans had attacked him with missiles and aircraft, and now his sonar readings detected two of their submarines entering the shallows. They were breaking themselves on his strength, and now, as he promised, they would feel his bite.

Once he gave the order, the system would energize. It would take fifteen seconds for the charge to build up in the tunnels of his massive accelerator, and a quarter of a second later the energy burst would race forth, cross over the Onyx , and be directed down onto Washington, D.C.