Clive Cussler: The Solomon Curse

Remi and Sam exchanged a glance, and Sam held out his hand. “Fine. Give me the keys. I don’t know what’s wrong with you people, but your friend here is dying and needs help. Who can show me where the nearest hospital is?”

Leonid fumbled in his pockets as the islanders muttered among themselves, and then a youth in his late teens stepped forward. “I’ll go. That’s my uncle Benji,” he said, his English thick with a pidgin accent.

“What’s your name?” Remi asked as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Ricky.”

Sam slid behind the wheel. Leonid moved to the door and handed him the keys. “I’ll be right behind you in the orange truck.”

“Fine.” Sam looked at Ricky. “Get in the back with your uncle and make sure the belt stays tight. How far are we from the hospital?”

“Maybe forty-five minutes…” Ricky said doubtfully.

Sam frowned. “Buckle up. We’ll see if we can make it in fifteen.”

Remi and Ricky strapped in as Sam cranked the engine. He dropped the transmission into gear and they roared off, bouncing down the track that was little more than a thinning passageway through the encroaching jungle. The big motor labored on the mushy terrain, and it took what seemed like forever to reach the ragged pavement strip of the coastal road that ringed the island. Once on the asphalt, Sam floored the gas, his gaze intent, his concentration absolute, and the SUV surged forward, tires screeching as he took the curves at double any sane speed.

Remi’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the armrest. “It won’t help him very much if they have to send an ambulance to scrape us off a rock.”

“Don’t worry. I used to own a Ferrari.”

They drifted around a bend, all four tires protesting as they lost traction. Sam gunned the engine and downshifted to regain control. After a glance at Remi, he shrugged and slowed a few miles per hour, still pushing the limit of what the heavy vehicle could manage.

Remi twisted to look at the injured man, who was soaked in blood and laboring for breath. Ricky had his hand clenched on the belt, a frightened expression on his young face. His eyes met Remi’s and he swallowed hard.

“You think he’ll make it?” he asked.

“We’ll do everything we can to see that he does. What’s the hospital like? How advanced is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I guess it’s okay. I’ve never been anywhere else, so I don’t know what others are like.”

“Do they deal with a lot of injuries?”

“I think so.” He sounded doubtful.

Sam accelerated on a relatively straight stretch and called over his shoulder. “Are there many crocodile attacks here?”

Another shrug. “A few. Mostly, people just disappear, so we don’t know for sure the crocs got them.” His tone was matter-of-fact, like he was describing the regular rainstorms or the onset of old age.

Remi fixed him with a hard stare. “Why didn’t anyone help him?”

Ricky scowled. “They’re superstitious. They were so busy talking about how the area is cursed, nobody could decide what to do. It’s like that a lot when there’s any sort of disagreement.”

“Cursed?” Remi repeated.

“One of the older divers was saying there were rumors that it’s haunted. Damned. Like I said, superstition.” He regarded his uncle. “At least I think so.”

“That was a huge crocodile. Weighed at least a couple thousand pounds,” Sam said. “No superstition required, just a hungry croc and a couple of guys not watching what they were doing.”

“Is Leonid going to have a hard time getting anyone to help him now?” Remi asked.

Ricky looked away. “Not a lot of people want to push their luck in crocodile territory for a few dollars a day,” he explained.

Sam caught Remi’s expression and dared a glance in the rearview mirror.

“No, I don’t suppose they would.” It was obvious to everyone that Leonid’s exploration had just hit a major obstacle, if not a wall. “I can’t believe that nobody had a rifle if there are crocodiles around this area.”

Ricky shook his head. “Guns are illegal here. Ever since the Australian peacekeeping force took over.”

“That’s a big win for the crocs, I suppose,” Remi said.

They rounded the westernmost point of the island and headed east toward the capital city of Honiara, where the only real hospital was located, according to Ricky. By the time they pulled up to the emergency entrance, twenty-six minutes had elapsed, and Ricky’s uncle was in desperate shape. Ricky darted from the car to get help, and moments later two islanders, accompanied by a handsome woman in a green medical smock, came running out with a gurney.

Remi’s eyes locked with the woman’s as she approached the car. She looked like an islander, but her hair was styled differently from the other locals they’d seen, and her bearing commanded immediate attention. This was clearly a woman in a position of authority, in spite of her smooth skin and relative youth. When she reached the victim, she glanced at Remi and Sam before focusing on his wounds.

“How long ago did this happen?” she asked, her English colored with a marked Australian accent.

“Half an hour ago. Crocodile on the east side of the island,” Remi said.

The woman took in the bleeding man with a glance. She eyed the butchered leg before turning to the orderlies and giving a rapid-fire order in pidgin. The men leaned into the vehicle and dragged out Benji’s inert form. They placed him on the gurney, which looked like it had survived the Japanese occupation, and inspected the tourniquet. Seeming to intuit Sam and Remi’s doubts about the care he was going to receive, the woman pursed her lips.

“Don’t worry. The gear in the OR is in better shape than this relic.” She held out her hand. “Dr. Vanya. I’m the chief medical officer here.” Remi shook it, followed by Sam.

“Sam and Remi Fargo,” Sam said.

Dr. Vanya appraised them for a lingering moment and then turned to where the orderlies were wheeling Benji into the hospital. “If you’ll excuse me, duty calls. You can wait in the emergency room. There’s a bench and a ten-year-old copy of the Times . Oh, and nice work with the tourniquet.”

Before either of them could say anything, she disappeared into the building. Sam eyed the smear of blood on the car seat, and his gaze drifted to his clothes, covered with rust-colored stains. They’d only been on the island for a few hours and already they’d helped save a man who was now battling for his life.

A troubling start to what should have been a low-key underwater exploration and an ugly omen for their time in the Solomons.

Leonid’s pickup truck rolled into the lot several minutes later and pulled up next to the SUV. Leonid got out and waved to the driver, who gunned the engine and veered back onto the main road in a cloud of exhaust. The Russian approached Sam with a hangdog expression on his face.

“Did he make it?” he asked.

“Barely,” Sam said. “It’ll be touch and go, that’s for sure.”

“Poor guy. What a way to go.”

“I can’t believe they didn’t warn you about the crocodiles,” Remi said.

“They did. That’s why they had the machetes and axes.”

Sam eyed Leonid. “Couple of AK-47s would have been a better idea.”

“Believe me, my friend, if there were any on the island, I would have had them.”

“Where’s your crew?” Remi asked.

“Back at the bay. They’re packing up and returning by sea with the boats and gear. Nobody wanted to ride with me. I have a feeling they blame me for their friend’s misfortune for some reason.” He paused. “Did you see the size of that creature? It was longer than the truck.”