Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

There was no room in Pitt’s mind for the suffering of the past five days, for any emotion revolving around the torment of near death, no thought of anything but the primeval obsession for revenge. Revenge or execution, there was no distinction in Pitt’s mind. Dorsett would not, could not be permitted to continue his reign of evil, certainly not after so many deaths. He had to be held accountable.

Pitt’s mind was fixed on not one but two objectives— the rescue of Maeve’s two sons and the killing of the evil diamond merchant.

Pitt steered the tiny craft over the vast sea throughout the eighth day. At sunset, Giordino took over the navigation duties while Pitt and Maeve dined on a combination of raw and dried fish. A full moon rose over the horizon as a great amber ball before diminishing and turning white as it crossed the night sky above them. After several swallows of water to wash down the taste of fish, Maeve sat nestled in Pitt’s arms and stared at the silver shaft in the sea that led to the moon.

She murmured the words from “Moon River.” “Two drifters off to see the world.” She paused, looked up into Pitt’s strong face and studied the hard line of his jaw, the dark and heavy brows and the green eyes that glinted whenever the light struck them right. He had a welt shaped nose, for a man, but it showed evidence of having been broken on more than one occasion. The lines around his eyes and the slight curl of the lips gave him the appearance of someone who was humorous and always smiling, a man a woman could be comfortable with; who posed no threat. There was a strange blend of hardness and sensitivity that she found incredibly appealing.

She sat quietly, mesmerized by him, until he looked down suddenly, seeing the expression of fascination on her face. She made no movement to turn away.

“You’re not an ordinary man,” she said without knowing why.

He stared quizzically. “What makes you say that?”

“The things you say, the things you do. I’ve never known anybody who was so in tune with life.”

He grinned, his pleasure apparent. “Those are words I’ve never heard from a woman.”

“You must have known many?” she asked with girlish curiosity.

“Many?”

“Women.”

“Not really. I always wanted to be a lecher like AI here, but seldom found the time.”

“Married?”

“No, never.”

“Come close?”

“Maybe once.”

“What happened?”

“She was killed.”

Maeve could see that Pitt had never quite bridged the chasm separating sorrow and bittersweet memory. She regretted asking the question and felt embarrassed. She was instinctively drawn to him and wanted to burrow into his mind. She guessed that he was the kind of man who longed for something deeper than a casual physical relationship, and she knew that insincere flirting held no attraction for him.

“Her name was Summer,” he continued quietly. “It was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Maeve softly.

“Her eyes were gray and her hair red, but she looked much like you.”

“I’m flattered.”

He was about to ask her about her boys but stopped himself, realizing it would spoil the intimacy of the moment. Two people alone, well, almost alone, in a world of moon, stars and a black restless sea. Devoid of humans and solid ground, thousands of kilometers of fluid nothingness surrounded them. It was all too easy to forget where they were and imagine themselves sailing across the bay of some tropical island.

“You also bear an incredible resemblance to your great-great-great-grandmother,” he said.

She raised her head and gazed at him. “How could you possibly know I look like her?”

“The painting on the yacht, of Betsy Fletcher.”

“I must tell you about Betsy sometime,” said Maeve, curling up in his arms like a cat.

“No need,” he said smiling. “I feel I know her almost as well as you. A very heroic woman, arrested and sent to the penal colony at Botany Bay, survivor of the raft of the Gladiator. She helped save the lives of Captain `Bully’ Scaggs and Jess Dorsett, a convicted highwayman who became her husband and your great-great-great grandfather. After landing on what became known as Gladiator Island, Betsy discovered one of the world’s largest diamond mines and founded a dynasty. Back in my hangar I have an entire dossier on the Dorsetts, beginning with Betsy and Jess and continuing through their descendants down to you and your reptilian sisters.”

She sat up again, a sudden anger in her snapping blue eyes. “You had me investigated, you rat, probably by your CIA.”

Pitt shook his head. “Not you so much as the chronicles of the Dorsett family of diamond merchants. My interest comes under the heading of research, which was conducted by a fine old gentleman who would be very indignant if he knew you referred to him as an agent with the CIA.”

“You don’t know as much about my family as you might think,” she said loftily. “My father and his forefathers were very private men.”

“Come to think of it,” he said soothingly, “there is one member of your cast who intrigues me more than the others.”

She looked at him lopsidedly. “If not me, who then?”

“The sea monster in your lagoon.”

The answer took her completely by surprise. “You can’t mean Basil?”

He looked blank a moment. “Who?”

“Basil is not a sea monster, he’s a sea serpent. There’s a distinct difference. I’ve seen him on three different occasions with my own eyes.”

Then Pitt broke out laughing. “Basil? You call him Basil?”

“You wouldn’t laugh if he got you in his jaws,” she said waspishly.

Pitt shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m listening to a trained zoologist who believes in sea serpents.”

“To begin with, sea serpent is a misnomer. They are not true serpents, like snakes.”

“There have been wild stories from tourists claiming to have seen strange beasties in every lake from Loch Ness to Lake Champlain, but I haven’t heard of any sightings in the oceans since the last century.”

“Sightings at sea do not receive the publicity they used to. Wars, natural disasters and mass murders have pushed them out of the headlines.”

“That wouldn’t stop the tabloids.”

“Sea routes for powered ships are fairly well fixed,” Maeve explained patiently. “The early sailing ships moved in unfrequented waters. Whaling ships, which sailed after whales rather than the shortest distance between ports, often reported sightings. Wind-driven ships also sailed silently and were able to approach a serpent on the surface, while a modern diesel vessel can be heard underwater for kilometers. Just because they’re large doesn’t mean they aren’t shy, retiring creatures, indefatigable ocean voyagers who refuse to be captured.”

“If they aren’t illusions or snakes, then what are they, leftover dinosaurs?”

“Okay, Mr. Skeptic,” she said seriously, a touch of defiant pride in her tone. “I’m writing my Ph.D. thesis on the subject of cryptozoology, the science of legendary beasts. For your information there are 467 sightings confirmed after faulty vision, hoaxes and secondhand reports have been eliminated. I have them all categorized in my computer at the university; nature of sightings, including weather and sea conditions in which sightings took place; geographical distribution, distinguishing characteristics, color, shape and size. Through graphics-rendering techniques I can backtrack the beasts’ evolution. To answer your question, they’ve probably evolved from dinosaurs in a manner similar to alligators and crocodiles. But they are definitely not `leftovers.’ The Plesiosaurs, the species most often thought to have survived as present-day sea serpents, never exceeded sixteen meters, far smaller than Basil, for example.”