Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

Pitt removed his shirt and ripped off the sleeves, tearing them into long strips. Someone passed over a bottle of water, which the medic used to clean the wound. He took one of the strips and folded it into a pad. Applying it to the wound, he bound it with the remaining strips.

Giordino opened his eyes and looked up. “Where we headed?”

“To get some beer,” Pitt said. “Take a nap, and I’ll wake you when it’s on ice.”

Giordino gave him a crooked grin, then drifted off a few seconds later.

Simpson pulled a section of tarp over him and motioned Pitt aside. “He’s lucky. There were two wounds, indicating the bullet went clean through. Most likely, it missed the bone. But it must have nicked his femoral artery, hence all the blood. He may go into shock with that much blood loss, so we’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s a tough old goat,” Pitt said.

“He should be fine for now. His biggest problem will be avoiding infection in this stink hole.”

Pitt saw in the dim light that Simpson had a bruise on his cheekbone. “What happened to you?”

“Got jumped in the corridor on my way to watch. Bugger hit me with a chain. I was luckier than some of the guys.”

Pitt looked around the bay, which was lit by a single flickering overhead lamp. The Coast Guard team sat nearby, while another group, members of the Adelaide ’s real crew, was sprinkled about the rear of the compartment. Two oblong shapes, wrapped in canvas and positioned off to one side, were responsible for the horrible odor.

“The captain and another man,” Simpson said. “Killed in the assault before we came along.”

Pitt nodded, then turned his attention to the Coast Guard team. They all bore wounds and bruises. Plugrad sat among the men with his back to a bulkhead, a vacant look in his eye.

“How’s Plugrad?”

“They knocked the lieutenant upside the head pretty good,” Simpson said. “He’s got a concussion but otherwise appears okay.”

Pitt stepped across the bay to the other group. They appeared weary but unhurt. A broad-shouldered man with a thick gray mustache rose and introduced himself.

“Frank Livingston, executive officer,” he said with a thick Australian accent. “How’s your comrade?”

“Gunshot wound to the leg. Lost some blood, but the medic thinks he’ll be okay.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help. Our chief bosun was the ship’s medic. He’s over there with the captain.” He pointed toward the canvas-covered bodies.

“How’d they take the ship?”

“A fast freighter came alongside on the evening watch three nights ago. Pulled right alongside our beam, scaring the dickens out of the helmsman. When they didn’t respond on the radio, the captain went on deck with the chief bosun. The vessel fired up some sort of radar device amidships that killed them both.” His mouth tightening into a grimace. “Never seen anything like it. Almost as if they were cooked alive. The freighter sent over an armed boarding party shortly after. There wasn’t much we could do. We’ve been cooped up in here ever since.”

“I’m sorry we were late to the scene,” Pitt said. “I guess they were tipped off to our arrival and came after you early.”

Livingston’s tired eyes flared with vengeance. “Who are they ?”

Pitt shook his head. “They’re part of a ring we believe has hijacked a number of bulk carriers transporting rare earth elements.”

“We’re loaded with something called monazite,” Livingston said. “Guess they got what they came for. Any idea where we’re headed?”

Pitt looked around to make sure none of the other men were listening. “We think they usually transfer the cargo at sea, then scuttle the ships. At least two other carriers were sunk in these waters.”

Livingston nodded, but not with the look of a man sentenced to die aboard a sinking ship. “Tell me, Mr. Pitt, how large were those other hijacked carriers?”

“Not large. They were older dry bulk carriers, maybe ten thousand tons. Why do you ask?”

“The Adelaide is rated at forty thousand tons. I got a good look at the attacking freighter before being tossed in here. She’s a runt compared to us, capable of carrying no more than half our cargo.”

“Your entire cargo is monazite?”

“Every last ounce. No, sir, I don’t think they’ll scuttle the Adelaide . Not just yet anyway. What we’re carrying is just too valuable.”

Pitt glanced at the hurt and haggard men scattered around the fetid prison bay.

“Mr. Livingston, I certainly hope you speak the truth.”

42

IT TOOK ONLY A FEW SECONDS FOR ANN TO PANIC.

Striking the water cleanly, she kicked hard, with her hands outstretched in front of her, driving deep into the Ohio River. The water was warmer than she expected, easily in the seventies. Reaching a comfortable culmination point, she arched her torso and tried to stroke with her hands. But with her wrists bound by the cuffs, she couldn’t do it.

A momentary flash of terror struck, telling her she was going to drown.

“Relax. Relax. Relax,” a voice repeated in her head.

With her heart pounding, she forced herself to hold still and drift with the current for a few seconds. It calmed her nerves, and she began scooping the water with her bound hands in a doggie paddle that would carry her to the surface. But in the inky black water, she no longer knew which way was up.

The answer came quickly when her shoulder grazed the corroded underside of the barge. She pushed herself away and drifted clear, holding on a few more seconds, before ascending slowly into the cool night air.

The current was swift, and she found herself moving away from the barge and towboat. She looked back and saw Pablo running along the dock, scanning the water. Spotting Ann’s head bobbing in the river, he pulled his Glock out of its holster.

Ann instantly took a deep breath and rolled beneath the surface. She couldn’t tell whether he fired at her, but there was no sense in giving him a target.

She glided more easily beneath the surface this time, holding her breath for nearly a minute, while kicking and paddling with the current. When she surfaced again, she was more than a hundred yards from the barge—all but invisible in the darkness to anyone on the dock. Still, Pablo had disappeared from her view.

She turned her attention downriver, searching for a place to go ashore and find help. But the dock was on the outskirts of town, and the nearside riverbank was dark and empty. A sprinkling of lights glistened a short distance ahead on the opposite bank, marking the small town of Metropolis, Illinois.

Feeling the lure of safety, Ann began kicking and paddling toward the lights. She struggled for a few minutes, fighting the downstream current. Then she realized her efforts to reach the town would be in vain. The river was almost a mile across, and the current would sweep her well past its lights before she could reach the other side.

The awkwardness of swimming with bound wrists increased her fatigue, so she rolled over and rested by floating on her back. Looking into the sky, she noticed a pair of red flashing lights in the distance. Turning herself over, she studied them as they flashed—airplane warning lights. In their brief stabs of illumination, she could see they were affixed to a pair of tall concrete smokestacks. They could only be part of a riverfront power plant.

As she floated past the lights of Metropolis, she worked her way back toward the near shore. The riverbank went black for a mile, and Ann began feeling cold and alone. But she continued to track the blinking red lights and eventually drew closer. A haze of light at the base of the stacks crystallized into a profusion of bright lights that engulfed the power plant. The lights were set well back from shore, but as Ann passed a shrub-lined bank she spotted a thin inlet that had been cut from the river to the plant.