Clive Cussler: Devil's Gate

Joe and Paul were standing on the deck above the river. Gamay sat nearby on a chaise longue. Paul appeared to have commandeered Kurt’s gas grill, and what looked like rib-eye steaks for the four of them were sizzling away on it.

Joe was scribbling something on a Dry Erase Board, and a bottle of merlot sat on his corner table along with a cooler of beer and some travel brochures.

Gamay hugged him. “Welcome home.”

“You guys know this is my home,” he said, “not a dormitory.”

They laughed, and Kurt leafed through the brochures, noticing a theme.

Joe handed him an ice-cold Bohemia, just like the one he’d liberated from the captain’s stash on the Argo .

The Trouts sipped the wine.

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked, feeling as if he’d stumbled upon a secret gathering.

“We’re planning a trip,” Joe announced.

“Haven’t we spent enough time together?” Kurt said, kidding, and well aware that he was standing amid family.

“This will be a vacation,” Gamay said. “No running, no shooting, no explosions.”

“Really?” Kurt said, taking a sip of the beer. “Where are we going?”

“Glad you asked,” Joe said. He walked over to the Dry Erase Board on which three names had been written. Each had a single check mark on it.

“We’ve all voted once,” Paul said, “but we have only white smoke to send up the chimney.”

“So I’m the tiebreaker,” Kurt guessed.

“Correcto,” Joe said. “And don’t let all the times I’ve saved your life influence you.”

Kurt stepped closer to the board, cutting a sideways glance at Joe. “Or all the times you’ve caused me trouble.”

He studied the choices.

“Eight-Day Moroccan Camel Safari,” he said, reading choice number one. It had Paul’s name next to it. “Have you ever been on a camel, Paul?”

“No, but…”

“Eight minutes might be fun, but eight days…” Kurt shook his head.

Paul looked hurt. Gamay and Joe smiled.

“Death Valley Hiking Trip,” he said, looking at the next line. Gamay’s choice. He looked at her. “Death Valley?” he said. “Nope, that’s a little grim, don’t you think?”

“Oh come on,” Gamay protested. “It’s beautiful there.”

“Yes,” Joe said. He raised his arms as if he’d won.

“Hold on there, partner,” Kurt said. “I’m not sure the Gobi Desert even counts as a vacation spot.”

“Sure it does,” Joe said. “I saw a commercial. They even have a slogan. ‘Go be in the Gobi.’”

Kurt laughed. “They might want to keep working on that.”

“It’s dry there,” Joe said. “No chance of drowning or freezing or ruining your best Armani shirt.”

Kurt laughed again. He could just about imagine Joe wearing Armani in the middle of the desert. He sighed, guessing they weren’t really serious, but there was one dry, sunny place he’d always wanted to go.

“I vote for the Australian Outback,” Kurt said. “Ayers Rock, rustlin’ roos, and Foster’s.”

They looked at him for a second, stunned.

“Rustlin’ roos?” Gamay said. And they broke into a cacophony of noes and long-winded reasons why Australia would never work. By the time they were done Paul was flipping the steaks and Kurt had finished his beer.

“Okay,” Paul said. “Let’s try again.”

Joe erased the board and scribbled “Round 2” at the top. Meanwhile, Kurt sat down in the other chaise, grabbed another beer, and gazed out over the peaceful river as the nominations came in.

As the names of various hot and dry places were called out, Kurt couldn’t help but smile. He had a feeling this might go on for a while. And sitting there, surrounded by his friends and soaking up the sun, he kind of hoped it would. In fact, for the moment, he could think of nowhere else he’d rather be.