Clive Cussler - Wrath of Poseidon

“And you,” Remi added.

“The second is that anyone who gets in his way of finding the treasure will not be safe,” Sam said.

Perlmutter lowered his glass. “I know we could get straight to the point—search my memory banks and my library for the possible location of this fabled hoard—but I have to admit, I do love a good adventure. And Remi being so deeply involved, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell it? From the beginning?”

“That depends,” Sam said. “How much time do you have?”

Perlmutter smiled. “However long it takes.”

CHAPTER TWO

Hermosa Beach, California

Sam Fargo gripped the top corner of his bodyboard with his right hand, his left hand on the outside rail, and looked back at the massive wave approaching.

Timing was everything.

He gave a swift kick, his fins propelling him forward. At the crest, momentarily suspended, he teetered, then dropped almost straight down the shimmering wall. Head up, back arched, chest out, he dug the waterside edge of his board into the wave, riding across the smooth, glassy surface as the lip fell, creating a tunnel of blue and gray. In a rush, it was over. The white water crashed, the surge speeding him toward the shore crowded with onlookers who came to watch the expert surfers and bodyboarders riding the giant waves left over from a rare Category 3 hurricane a few days before.

Sam, having been out there all morning, was ready to call it a day. He reached the shallows, pulled off his fins, picked up his board, and waded up to the beach, walking across the wet sand to where his friend Blake Thomas sat. The two were polar opposites, size-wise and coloring. Sam, brown-eyed with light brown hair bleached by the sun, was tall with a lean muscular build. The dark-haired, blue-eyed Blake had a wrestler’s build, short and compact. They’d met their freshman year at Caltech when they were assigned adjoining dorm rooms, and had remained friends ever since.

Sam dropped his board on the sand, took a seat next to Blake, and picked up the lunch bag he’d packed earlier that morning. The offshore wind nearly ripped the paper from his hand as he reached in and pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Just like Mom used to make.”

Blake, eating a deli sandwich thick with roast beef, eyed the Spartan meal. “Ever thought if you got a real job, instead of working midnights, stocking shelves, you could afford real food?”

“But I wouldn’t have time to work on my project.” He bit into the soft wheat bread, chewed the stiff peanut butter, and washed it down with water from his thermos.

“Come to think of it, you can afford real food. You know, I don’t remember you being such a tightwad.”

“I have plans.”

“You and your plans. I remember, if Plan A doesn’t work, go to Plan B. You need to chill. Loosen up. Relax. If you backed off, you might actually have a life. Maybe even meet a girl.”

Sam smiled at Blake’s ribbing, then nodded at the Coast Guard cutter as it sped north across the water, lights flashing, siren blaring.

Blake glanced out. “Heard a surfer up in Malibu was killed yesterday.”

Sam had seen the news. A forty-year-old man had fallen from his surfboard. By the time anyone could get to him, he’d drowned. “Let’s hope whoever they’re after is okay.”

He watched the boat disappear past the pier, then finished his sandwich. As he got up to toss the bag into the trash, he saw a surfer paddling to catch what promised to be a monster wave. The swell turned into a wall of water, glistening in the sun as the man expertly hopped up onto his board, hands holding either side. He balanced then rose as the tip of the wave curled over, creating a perfect barrel.

Blake stood next to Sam. “Where was that wave when we were out there?”

The surfer emerged from the tube, victorious for several seconds—until an avalanche of water collapsed on top of him.

The crowd on the beach gasped almost collectively as he disappeared from sight. His board shot up, straining against the leash connected to his leg, then jerked back into the water. A moment later, the man surfaced, only to disappear as another wave came crashing down. He didn’t rise a second time.

“Call for help!” Sam said as he grabbed his bodyboard and fins. At the water’s edge he put on his fins and wrapped the Velcro leash to his arm, and paddled out. With each wave that broke, Sam pressed the front of his board down, ducking his head, diving below the white water. A few surfers to the south tried to reach the fallen man, but the waves, breaking in a southeasterly pattern, made it near impossible.

By the time Sam paddled out there, the man was nowhere in sight. Worried he’d lost him for good, Sam noticed someone waving and shouting from the pier. He glanced up, saw a red-haired woman pointing to his right. He looked, saw the orange surfboard, then a blur of black from a wet suit in the froth just a few yards away. He swam over.

At first, there was nothing but the gray-green of the ocean below and the white storm above. Somehow in the midst of that, he caught a glimpse of the surfer being tossed about, the churning water propelling him downward then upward in a relentless struggle.

Sam darted forward, reached out, scooping his hand beneath the limp man’s arm, pulling him toward his bodyboard. There was a gash on the man’s temple, and his eyes stared at nothing. Sam put his mouth to the surfer’s, forcing air into his lungs. As he rose out of the water to take a second breath, the bright orange surfboard shot toward them like a spinning torpedo. Sam ducked, pulling the man with him, the surfboard skimming over the top of their heads.

He managed to hold tight to the surfer as the next wave crashed down and then the next. After each, he pulled the man’s head to him, blew into his lungs, all the while kicking his fins in a desperate attempt to stay surfaced and get closer to shore. His muscles burned, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold the man. When he looked up, he saw Blake and another bodyboarder swimming out to help.

Sam gave one last breath to the surfer as Blake pulled the unconscious man up onto his own board. Once they reached the shore, Blake and the other man dragged the surfer onto dry sand, Blake taking over the CPR. Sam, exhausted, dropped his board, then stood there, trying to catch his breath.

A few minutes later, the EMTs arrived and loaded the now semiconscious man onto a gurney.

“Nice job,” Blake said, clapping Sam on the back. “But one of these days, that Fargo luck’s going to wear off, and you’ll wish you’d had the sense to wait for help.”

Sam managed a tired smile. “In the meantime, he’s going to live.”

“You working tonight?”

“Night off.”

“We’re heading over to the Lighthouse. Have a few beers and watch the game.”

“Sure. I’ll see you there.” Assuming he could walk off the beach.

—

The strains of a jazz band drifted out as Sam pulled open the door of the Lighthouse Cafe. A popular nightclub, the bar was crowded, the lights dim. He spied Blake standing at the bar with a group watching a muted television, their cheers drowning out the jazz band.

Blake called over to Sam. “Better order now while you have a chance.”

Sam, about to tell him that he couldn’t stay, caught sight of the same woman he’d seen up on the pier that afternoon. Tall, slim, her wavy red hair swept back into a ponytail, she was dressed in a tailored blue-and-white linen shirt, navy capris, and white sandals. She stood in the doorway, looking around, her face lighting up with a smile as she waved at three other women sitting at a table across from the bar. Instead of joining them, she walked up to the bar not two feet from Sam.