Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

“We’re okay,” he said, half to himself, half to Remi. “They won’t see us unless they’re on top of us.”

“Odds?”

“Ninety-five percent. Maybe ninety.”

“Sam . . .”

“We’re okay. Keep your head down and cross your fingers.”

The Rinker kept coming. It was now a hundred yards from the inlet and heading straight for them, the spotlight skimming along the bank and over the trees.

“Anytime, boys,” Sam muttered. “Nothing to see here . . . Move along . . .”

The Rinker closed the gap to fifty yards.

Forty yards.

Thirty yards.

Sam took one hand off the binoculars, slowly reached backward, and grabbed the H amp;K from the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. He brought the gun up and laid it on the deck beneath his shoulder. He flicked off the safety.The Rinker was twenty yards away.

Sam whispered, “Remi, you better get below.”

“Sam-”

“Please, Remi.”

He felt the dhow rock slightly as she crept down the ladder.

Sam lowered the binoculars. He wiped his right palm on his pant leg, then grabbed the H amp;K, extended it through the branches, and took aim on the shadowed form behind the Rinker’s wheel. Sam let the scenario play in his head: driver first, then the spotlight, then the second man before he had a chance to take cover or return fire. Two shots for each, then pause and wait for signs of life.The Rinker kept coming.

Sam took a deep breath.

Suddenly the Rinker’s engine revved up. The bow rose up and pivoted to port, and within five seconds the boat disappeared from view.

Sam exhaled. He knocked twice on the cabin’s roof. A few seconds later Remi whispered, “Clear?”

“Clear. Check the map. How long until they clear the northern tip of Little Sukuti?”

There came the crinkle of paper in the darkness, followed by the scratching of a pencil. Remi said, “It’s a little over a mile. Twenty-five minutes and we should be okay.”

FOR SAFE MEASURE, they let thirty minutes pass before shoving off and motoring out of the inlet. For the next forty minutes they glided along the northern shoreline, never straying more than fifty feet from the beach and never exceeding a quiet but frustrating three miles per hour.

Leaning over the map on the deck, penlight clamped between her teeth, Remi was walking the dividers. She looked up, took the penlight out of her mouth. “The Rinker should be reaching the southern tip of Little Sukuti. We’ve got at least twenty minutes on them.”They reached Big Sukuti’s northern tip, paused there for a binocular scan of the coastline ahead, then set out again.

“The docks are less than a mile away,” Remi told Sam.

“What do you think? Stop at half a mile?”

“Sounds good.”

They covered the distance in twelve minutes. To port, the island’s sloped moonscape rose from the beach to meet the rain forest. Sam slowed the dhow as Remi scanned the shoreline.

“This looks good here,” she said, then scrambled to the bow.Sam turned to port, aimed the bow at the beach, and followed Remi’s curt directions until she called, “All stop.”

Sam throttled down, then collected their packs from the deck and met Remi at the pulpit. She lowered herself over the side, then Sam grabbed her wrists and lowered her the rest of the way. The water was waist-high. He handed down their packs.“Come here,” Remi said.

“What?”

“Come here, I said.”

He smiled, then leaned his head over the side until she could crane her neck and kiss him on the cheek. She said, “Be safe. No drowning allowed.”

“Noted. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

THE NEXT PART of their plan turned out to be anticlimactic. Sam reversed the engines, brought the bow around, and took the dhow a few hundred yards off the coast, then turned off the engine and dropped anchor. He estimated there was fifty feet of water beneath the keel. He went below and opened each of the dhow’s five scuttle valves. When the water reached his calves, he went topside and dove over the side and began swimming. Five minutes later he stood up in the shallows and waded ashore to where Remi was waiting.Together they watched the dhow settle into the water and sink from view.

Sam gave it a salute, then said, “Ready?”

Remi nodded. “Lead on.”

BIG SUKUTI ISLAND

WITH SAM IN THE LEAD THEY WALKED IN SILENCE FOR FIFTEEN minutes, keeping to the harder wet sand until they came upon a twenty-foot-high rock outcropping bisecting the beach. Sam scaled up the slippery rocks, found a flat spot below the ridge, and peeked over. After a few seconds he turned and motioned for Remi to join him. Together they poked their heads above the rocks. A few hundred yards down the beach they could see the dock jutting into the water. On one side the Njiwa was still moored, her interior cabin lights glowing yellow through sheer curtains; opposite her, both Rinkers were tied up as well. There was no sign of either the driver or passenger.“They must have cut a few corners to get back so quickly,” Remi said.

“They probably move at a pretty good clip along the southern side. With the Big Eyes we saw on the roof earlier, nobody’s going to be sneaking up from that direction.”

“And at least we know where everyone is,” Remi added. “I don’t see any activity. You?”

“Nothing. We’ve got two choices, by land or by water.”

“There’s too much loose rock on the slope and no cover,” Remi said.

“Agreed. Water it is.”

“How’re we getting aboard the Njiwa ?”

Sam zoomed his binoculars until he could see the yacht’s companion ladder. While it was less than five feet tall, its head was attached to the deck right in front of the cabin’s sliding door.“Not by the ladder,” Sam said. He thought for a moment. “Back on the dhow I saw a sea anchor in the cabin-”

Remi reached over her shoulder and patted the backpack. “In here. Improvised grappling hook?”

“You read my mind. We hook the stern rail and shimmy up.”

They climbed back down to the sand, then waded into the surf and set off, perpendicular to the beach, in a quiet, energy-efficient breaststroke. Once they’d covered fifty yards, they turned south, parallel to the beach, until they drew even with the dock. They stopped and treaded water.“Movement?” Sam asked.

“I don’t see any.” “Head for the Rinker.”

They set out again, arms sweeping them forward, their eyes scanning the dock area for movement. Soon they reached the Rinker’s transom. They took a moment to catch their breath, listening and looking. From the Njiwa’s cabin they heard muffled voices, then a pounding sound. Silence. More pounding.“Someone’s hammering,” Sam whispered. “Touch that engine.”

Remi touched the Rinker’s outboard with the back of her hand. “Cold. Why?”

“This one will have more gas. Wait here. Time for our insurance policy.”

He took a breath, ducked under, and swam alongside the first Rinker to its twin at the head of the dock. He grabbed the gunwale, chinned himself up, and looked around. No movement. He boosted himself over the side onto the deck, then crawled forward to the driver’s seat. He checked the ignition. Not surprisingly, the keys were missing. He rolled onto his back, opened the maintenance hatch beneath the dashboard, and wiggled inside. He clicked on his penlight and studied the wiring bundle.

“Just like old times,” Sam muttered. Five months earlier he’d found himself doing the same thing with another speedboat on a lake in the Bavarian Alps. Luckily, like that boat’s, this Rinker’s wiring was simple: ignition, wipers, navigation lights, and horn. Using his Swiss Army knife, Sam severed each wire, taking as much length as he could. He rolled them into a tight ball and tossed it over the side, then wriggled back out and closed the hatch. He crawled back to the gunwale, did a quick check, then rolled back into the water and returned to Remi.“Okay, if all goes well, this’ll be our getaway boat. We grab the bell, disable the Njiwa if we can, then bring the bell back here-”