Clive Cussler: The Eye of Heaven

“I hate that. You should take something for it — you sleep little enough as it is …”

“If it lasts much longer, I will. But for now, it’s a good thing I was up. I’ll call you back once I have something to report. Is there anything else?”

“Have the Gulfstream fueled and ready for takeoff for tomorrow evening. That’ll give us the twenty-four hours we need from our last dive. File a flight plan for San Diego. We’re coming home.”

“That’s wonderful. Consider it done.”

Sam had purchased a Gulfstream G650 business jet with an effective range of over seventy-five hundred miles from a bank that had repossessed it from an investment group that had fallen on lean times. Since acquiring it, their ability to move around the globe had increased markedly. The extravagance was unlike him, but as the accountants had pointed out, there was never a U-Haul following the hearse at a funeral — you couldn’t take it with you. The sale of the company and the ongoing royalties from Sam’s latest inventions ensured that they would always have far greater financial resources than they could spend in ten lifetimes.

Remi hung up and leaned in to Sam, who was standing on the aft deck, gazing at the blue expanse of the Mediterranean distrustfully as though Benedict’s yacht would reappear at any instant.

“Selma’s putting on the full-court press. Knowing her, she’ll have the Seventh Fleet here by lunchtime.”

Sam put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am to have you?”

She turned to face him, stood on her tiptoes, and rewarded him with a long kiss. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing it. Does this mean my spa time and hedonistic pampering start soon?”

“The moment we arrive home.”

They took in the calm sea, a few recreational craft puttering in the distance near the island, and Remi touched her lucky scarab necklace. “All things considered, this could have been a lot worse. At least we didn’t have to take on a small army of guerrillas armed only with a spade and a flintlock.”

“Ah, the good old days. You’re right, of course, I just wish I’d gotten to that last statue in time. Thirty more seconds and we’d have had it clear.”

“I know, but you can’t win them all, and I’d say that we did pretty well for a last-minute improvisation.”

Dominic approached them from the pilothouse, a dejected expression on his handsome face, the dusting of a five o’clock shadow and the red bandanna covering his hair lending him the air of a pirate. “Still nothing. I’m afraid we won’t be hearing anything until Monday, but at least the yacht has left the area, no?”

“But it might come back — and the wreck still needs guarding. We’ve put some things in motion on our end. It’s a long shot, but you never know,” Sam said.

Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he smiled his infectious Castilian grin. “That would be wonderful. Everything’s closed down at the university, so I’m getting nowhere.”

Half an hour later, Remi’s satellite phone trilled and she had a murmured discussion with Selma before disconnecting. “The cavalry’s coming over the hill,” she said.

Sam nodded. “How long?”

“Two hours. They’re going to send a boat from Cartagena, but it’ll take some time to get it under way.”

Sam and Remi had returned to the main deck when they heard the distant roar of large engines from the west. Remi scanned the water and pointed at a gray shape bearing down on their position. A two-hundred-foot Serviola-class naval patrol vessel approached from the harbor at Cartagena, and as it drew near she could make out its name: Atalaya .

They both stood and watched as it anchored nearby. They were soon joined by Dominic.

“I’d say that should keep any treasure hunters away until a proper recovery of the wreck’s cargo can be mounted,” Sam said. He filled Dominic in on the predawn raid on Benedict’s boat and handed him a slip of paper with coordinates scribbled on it. “The nets are at this waypoint. The yacht’s divers were kind enough to retrieve them from the wreck, so it should be child’s play to raise them from the bottom.” He took another look at the warship and nodded. “With our early-morning dive, we won’t be able to fly until tomorrow. Any chance we could impose one more night?”

“A pleasure — and I’ll take you to the mainland myself.”

The next morning they packed their belongings, including the night vision dive gear to return to Sam’s source. Dominic shared a farewell luncheon with Sam and Remi. The crew had had a very successful fishing expedition that morning. Enjoying a last glass of the excellent local Albarino white wine, Sam said, “We appreciate all the hospitality, Dominic. But looking at the time, we need to get ashore. Can we catch that ride you promised us?”

“Of course. Give me five minutes.”

They loaded into a fiberglass skiff, twenty-four feet long with a single powerful outboard, and then they were slicing through the gentle waves, an occasional bump and splash as they encountered a bigger swell sending a curtain of salt spray high into the air. Sam and Remi sat amidships on a hard bench seat as Dominic captained the craft from the stern. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the commercial port in Cartagena, where, after saying their good-byes, they flagged down a taxi to take them to Murcia — San Javier Airport, fifteen miles away.

Their jet waited on the tarmac. The two pilots, Brad Sterling and Rex Fender, were running their preflight checklists while Sandra, the flight attendant, supervised the provisioning of the sleek plane, watching the catering personnel with a sharp eye as food and drink were loaded aboard. When the Fargos arrived, she greeted them warmly, her weeklong vacation in Spain now at an end, and Remi noted that she’d found time to catch some sun in the seaside town, no doubt having a more relaxing time than they’d had on the Bermudez with a round-the-clock diving schedule.

“We filed a flight plan and should be in the air within twenty minutes, tops,” Brad informed them. “Flight time will be eleven hours at forty-eight thousand feet, and it should be smooth sailing — we’ll be above any weather.”

Sam and Remi settled into the oversize, hand-stitched leather seats. A separate cabin in the rear was furnished with a bed that occupied most of the width. Sandra had thoughtfully arranged for a chilled bottle of 2004 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame champagne and two crystal flutes to ease their wait for takeoff. Sam popped the cork with a flourish and poured them each a portion, which they sipped with relish.

The powerful turbines whined as Sandra closed and secured the fuselage door, and after a brief taxi to the far end of the runway the sleek jet was streaking into the sky in defiance of gravity, climbing at a steep angle over the Mediterranean before executing a gentle bank west.

Once they were at their cruising altitude, the Spanish mainland disappearing behind them, Sam and Remi logged on to their respective computer terminals to prepare for their next outing: an expedition in the northern reaches of Canada to assist in a U.S. Coast Guard — sponsored exploration of the fjords of Baffin Island to study the cataclysmic melting of the glaciers. They’d been invited by their friend Commander Wes Hall, and would spend a week there using Sam’s specialized equipment to collect data on the geophysical changes.

They touched down at San Diego International Airport just before nine p.m., where they were greeted at the charter terminal by Selma, who was driving the Cadillac CTS-V. Remi hugged her while Sam loaded the bags into the expansive trunk and soon they were on their way to their oceanfront home in La Jolla.