Clive Cussler - The Navigator

Ridley’s grin grew even wider when he saw increased bubble activity on the surface. His hand unclipped a hand grenade on his belt and hefted it like a baseball pitcher ready to make a throw. Carina tried to snatch the microphone, but Ridley backhanded her across the mouth with a blow that drew blood. The other men laughed at Ridley’s violent response, and didn’t see the turquoise flicker of movement in the sea until it was too late.

The submersible shot toward the surface like a breaching whale. The front bumper slammed into the powerboat with the force of a battering ram.

The speedboat rose up at a crazy angle. The man at the wheel let out a startled yelp as he was catapulted into the air with his arms flailing. He hit the water, went down several feet, and struggled back to the surface, yelling for someone to help him. His weapon slipped from his hands.

THE SUBMERSIBLE had bounced backward after ramming the speedboat, and Zavala fought to keep the sub under control.

Austin saw legs thrashing in a cloud of foam at the surface. An object was falling through the water. He launched himself out of the cockpit and grabbed the plummeting machine pistol.

He lowered himself back into the cockpit and jerked his thumb toward the surface.

RIDLEY WAS a professional soldier. Quickly getting over his surprise, he pointed at the figure in the water

“Get that idiot!” he barked.

His men slung their weapons on their shoulders and threw a ring-shaped life preserver to their comrade. Ridley clutched the grenade in his hand, ready to drop it over the side like an improvised depth charge. He was probing the water with his cold eyes when he heard what sounded like a car horn. He whipped his head around.

“Jeezus!” he gasped.

A turquoise Corvette convertible with a bashed-in bumper was skimming across the water toward Mustapha’s boat, Zavala at the wheel. Austin rested the machine pistol on the windshield frame and let off a few bursts, deliberately aiming high.

Ridley’s men slipped their weapons off their shoulders, dropped them onto the deck, and threw their hands in the air, leaving the man in the water to fend for himself. Ridley slowly brought his hands up.

Carina was being helped to her feet by Captain Mustapha. Austin was distracted by the sight of blood streaming from her mouth. In the meantime, Ridley had brought his hands together over his head, pulled the pin, and had an arm back ready to toss the grenade at the oncoming vehicle.

Austin’s eyes went back to Ridley and his finger tightened on the trigger. He hesitated, fearing that Ridley might drop the grenade to the deck. Captain Mustapha had also seen Ridley arm the grenade. As Ridley brought his arm back in a throwing position, the captain snatched a boat hook from a rack and brought the heavy wooden handle down on Ridley’s wrist. The grenade flew from his fingers, hit the rail, and rolled onto the deck.

Reacting with lightning speed, Mustapha dove on the grenade and flipped it over the side.

Ridley roared with pain and rage. He fumbled at his belt with his left hand for another grenade. Austin’s gun stuttered and laced Ridley’s chest with bullet holes. Ridley pitched over backward into the water as the grenade exploded and sent up a geyser that spattered onto the deck.

Austin swung the gun barrel toward the other two men.

“Jump,” he ordered.

He let off a fusillade at the awning. Shreds of canvas rained down like confetti. The men jumped over the side and joined the crewman already in the water. Austin triggered another burst that ripped into the water within inches of the swimmers.

Austin watched the sorry trio swim to land, then scramble onto shore and disappear into the woods. He put more holes in the listing speedboat and then turned his attention to Carina.

Mustapha wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel and she held the improvised compress against her head. Austin saw that she was not seriously hurt and handed the gun to Mustapha, with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.

Zavala brought the Subvette alongside the motor cruiser and Austin climbed aboard. The vehicle slipped below the surface and descended to the launch platform. Austin swam to the control console, and Zavala brought the vehicle down on the platform and the clamps locked it in place. Austin activated the pumps to expel water from the pontoons.

The launch platform surfaced near the motor cruiser, and it sat at a steep angle in the water because of the weight of the statue at the stern. Mustapha handed Carina the gun and moved his boat closer to the LRT platform. He threw a towline to Austin and Zavala. Then they slipped into the water and breaststroked to the boat ladder.

Back on board, Zavala peeled out of his wet suit, and glanced toward the wooded shore. “How did those guys find us way out here?”

Austin picked up his shirt and slipped the satellite phone from the pocket. “They may have zeroed in on the phone signal. Let’s not take any chances.”

He winged the phone as far as he could and watched it splash into the water. Then he thanked Mustapha for his quick-witted work with the boat hook and apologized for putting him and his boat in jeopardy and ruining his awning. The Turk took it in good spirits, but he wondered if he could call it a day and get paid. Austin peeled off enough Turkish lira to choke a horse.

“One more favor. We need to go somewhere we can be undisturbed,” he said.

“No problem.” The captain tucked the bills into his pocket. “There’s a place a few miles from here.”

LESS THAN half an hour later, Mustapha steered his boat into a quiet cove and anchored behind an outcropping of land. Mustapha said that local mariners avoided the inlet because the rocks hidden under the surface at the entrance made it tricky to navigate.

Zavala sat in the bow with the machine pistol resting in his lap. Carina gathered up a bag holding art supplies she had bought the day before and got into the skiff with Austin. He rowed to the launch platform, and they climbed aboard.

Carina leaned over the statue. “I feel guilty disturbing his sleep after all these years,” she said with undisguised tenderness.

“He’s probably glad to have a beautiful lady keep him company,” Austin said. “Look at his smiling face.”

Carina brushed away the dried marine vegetation clinging to the statue’s mouth. The face was that of a young bearded man with a strong nose and chin. Like the original statue, he wore a neck pendant engraved with a horse head and palm tree, a kilt around his waist, and sandals on his feet. The lack of arms gave him the grotesque aspect of a disaster victim.

Carina opened her bag, pulled out two sponges, and handed one to Austin. Working together, they cleaned every square inch of bronze. Carina laid out a brush, a square of cheesecloth, and a jar of liquid latex. She applied multiple layers of latex to the statue’s face, pendant, and other sections, then stiffened the layers with cheesecloth. The dried layers were peeled off, labeled with a marking pen, and carefully placed in the bag.

“It’s done,” she said, peeling off the final mold.

“What about the cat?” Austin said. “He was part of the crew.”

“Absolutely right,” Carina said with a smile. She applied the latex process to the side and half-turned face of the cat.

After the cast hardened, she removed it. Her work was done, but she was reluctant to leave.

“What should we do with him?” she said.

“We can’t bring the statue back,” Austin said. “It’s too heavy to move without specialized equipment, and transporting it overland would be a major problem. Someone is bound to see us. The Turkish authorities do not look kindly on foreigners who steal the country’s antiquities.”