Devil's Gate

10

Santa Maria Island, the Azores, June 17

THE INHABITANTS OF VILA DO PORTO spotted the sleek lines of the NUMA vessel Argo just after noon local time. Because the Argo had originally been built for the Coast Guard and designed for rescue work, law enforcement, and interdiction, her profile was that of a small warship: long, lean, angular.

Two hundred fifty years prior, the appearance of such a ship, or the equivalent type in its day, would have been studied cautiously from the streets and the watchtowers of the Forte de São Brás.

Built in the sixteenth century, with cannon mounted high on sturdy walls of stone and mortar, the fort was now a Portuguese naval depot, housing personnel and local authorities, though few vessels from their navy visited the island regularly.

As the Argo dropped anchor outside the harbor, Kurt Austin considered the act of piracy he’d recently witnessed and the fact that such acts were on the rise worldwide. He doubted such forts would be needed again, but he wondered when the nations of the world would grow angry enough to band together and begin fighting piracy on an international level.

From what he’d heard, the sinking of the Kinjara Maru had sent shock waves around the maritime community, and tough talk was growing. That was a good step, but something in Kurt’s mind told him the talk would fade before any real action occurred, and the situation would remain unsatisfactory and unchanged.

Whatever the outcome, another thought had dominated Kurt’s mind, even as he’d repeated his story in conversations with Interpol, with the Kinjara Maru’s insurers, and with several maritime antipiracy associations.

They steered all questions toward the notion of piracy and seemed to ignore Kurt’s point that pirates didn’t sink ships they could steal or kill crew members they could ransom.

His thoughts were acknowledged, and then, it seemed to him, filed away and most likely forgotten. But Kurt didn’t forget them any more than he could forget the sight of crewmen being gunned down as they tried to flee, or Kristi Nordegrun’s strange story about the lights flickering, a screaming noise inside her head, and blacking out until daylight came.

Something more was going on here. Whether the world wanted to acknowledge it or not, Kurt had a bad feeling they would be forced to in time.

With the Argo standing down, Captain Haynes gave most of the crew shore leave. They would be here for two weeks while Kurt and Joe finished their testing and competed in the Submarine Race. During that time a skeleton crew would remain aboard the Argo, with a different group rotating on and off every few days.

The captain’s last words of advice to the crew was to keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble, as the islanders were known to be pleasant but not the kind to put up with rowdy outsiders, having detained many, including the crew of none other than Christopher Columbus himself.

As Austin stepped off the Argo’s tender in the shadow of the Forte de São Brás, he wondered what that reputation might mean for his good friend Joe Zavala. Joe was a solid citizen, but he tended to immerse himself in the social scene wherever he went, and while Joe wasn’t a troublemaker, he liked mischief and he loved his fun.

When Kurt arrived at the shop where the Barracuda was being prepared, Joe was nowhere to be found. A security guard laughed when asked about him.

“You’re just in time to see him fight,” the guard said. “Over at the rec center, if he hasn’t been knocked out by now.”

Kurt took this news suspiciously, got directions to the recreation center, and double-timed it over there.

Stepping inside, Kurt found his way to a large gymnasium from which the sounds of an excited crowd were flowing.

He opened the door to find a crowd of two or three hundred sitting on bleachers arranged around a boxing ring. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but the place was packed.

At the sound of the bell, the crowd rose and cheered and stamped their feet until the building shook. Kurt heard the scuffling sounds of feet on canvas and then the thwap-thump of fists in padded gloves exchanging blows.

He made his way down the aisle and got a glimpse of the action in the ring. He saw Joe Zavala in red trunks. His friend’s short black hair was all but hidden under the protective headgear he wore. But as Joe shuffled back and forth, moving lightly on his feet, his rugged, rangy frame and his tanned, well-muscled arms and shoulders glistened with the sheen of sweat.

Across from Joe, in black trunks and headgear, Kurt saw a larger man. In fact, he looked like some version of the Norse god Thor. At least six-foot-four, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Joe’s opponent moved with far less grace but threw punches like bolts of thunder.

Joe dodged one, ducked another, and then backpedaled away. For a moment he looked a little bit like middleweight champion Oscar De La Hoya — a comparison that would have made Joe proud. Then he stepped in, landed a few punches that seemed to have no effect, and suddenly looked less like the middleweight superstar as a thundering right hand from Thor caught him in the side of the head.

The crowd gasped, especially a line of women in the front row. Joe stumbled away, grabbed the ropes in front of the women, adjusted his headgear, and smiled. Then he turned and kept moving until the bell rang again.

By the time Joe reached his corner, Kurt was already there.

Joe’s trainer gave him water and hit him with the smelling salts.

Between deep breaths and a few more sips of water, Joe spoke. “About time you showed up.”

“Yeah,” Kurt said. “Looks like you’re wearing him down,” he added. “If he keeps hitting you in the head like that, his arms are gonna get tired.”

Joe swished the water around in his mouth, spat some out, and then looked over at Kurt. “I got him right where I want him.”

Kurt nodded, finding that doubtful. Joe had boxed in high school, college, and the Navy, but that was a long time ago.

“At least you have some fans,” Kurt said, nodding toward the front row, which included a group ranging in age from a college girl with a flower in her hair to several women that might have been Joe’s match in years to a pair of older women who were way overdressed and too well made-up for such an event.

“Let me guess,” Kurt said. “You’re fighting to defend their collective honor.”

“Nothing like that,” Joe said, as his trainer dunked Joe’s mouth guard and then stuffed it back in his mouth. “I ram ober sombone’s cow.”

The bell pinged, and Joe stood, clapped his gloves together, and went back out to do battle.

Joe’s words had been muffled by the mouth guard, but it sounded to Kurt like he’d said I ran over someone’s cow.

This round went quickly, with Joe dodging the thunderbolts and then landing a few jabs on Thor’s midsection. He might as well have been punching a stone wall. When Joe made it back, he was noticeably winded.

“You ran over a cow?” Kurt asked.

“Actually, I just bumped into him,” Joe said breathing hard.

“Was it the God of Thunder’s cow?” Kurt asked, nodding toward Joe’s opponent.

“No,” Joe said. “One of the ranchers here.”

Kurt did not feel the fog of confusion lifting. “How does that turn into a boxing match?”

“There are rules here,” Joe said, “but no fences. The cows wander everywhere, out onto the roads and everything. If you hit a cow at night, it’s the cow’s fault. But if you hit a cow in the day, it’s your fault. I bumped into one at dusk. Apparently, that’s, ah… una zona gris: a gray area.”

“So you have to fight to the death in a cage match?” Kurt said, joking.

“Does this look like a fight to the death?” Joe asked.

“Well…”

“The guy whose cow I hit owns the gym. The Scandinavian guy over there moved here and became the local amateur champ a year ago. The islanders like him but would rather see someone else as champ, someone who looks more like them.”

Kurt smiled. With his Latin background, Joe looked far more like the islanders than Thor did.

The bell rang again, and Joe answered it, stepping up and trying to get inside the Scandinavian man’s long reach. It was dangerous work, but aside from a few glancing blows Joe seemed to be holding his own, and the Scandinavian seemed to be slowing.

Joe sat down again, and Kurt changed the subject.

“I need to talk to you about the Barracuda,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Can it dive to sixteen thousand feet?”

Joe shook his head. “It’s not a bathysphere, Kurt. It’s designed for speed.”

“But could you modify it to do the job?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “By putting it inside a bathysphere.”

Kurt went silent. Joe was a genius with machines. Still, he could work only within the laws of physics.

Joe rinsed his mouth and spat.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s on the bottom of the Atlantic that you want to take a look at?”

“You heard about what happened the other day?”

Joe nodded. “A ship almost fell on your head.”

“It did,” Kurt said. “I’d like to get a better look at it now that it’s all safe and sound on the bottom.”

The bell rang, and Joe stood, his eyes on Kurt. He seemed to be thinking. “There might be a way,” he said, a gleam shining in his eyes.

By that moment, Joe had lingered too long. The God of Thunder had roamed across the ring.

“Look out,” Joe’s cornerman shouted.

Joe turned and ducked, covering up, as the haymaker glanced off his raised arm. He stepped back into the ropes, protecting himself, as the other fighter fired blows at him, left and right.

Suddenly, Kurt felt horrible for his friend, as what was supposed to be a friendly match looked more like a one-sided beating. Partly his fault for distracting Joe. If it had been a wrestling match, he’d have grabbed a folding chair and slammed it over Thor’s shoulders. But he guessed that wouldn’t do for Queensbury rules.

Thor’s gloves made a heavy thumping sound as they slammed into Joe’s arms, ribs, and head.

“Rope-a-dope,” Kurt shouted, throwing out the only boxing advice he could think of.

His voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Meanwhile, Joe’s cheerleaders gasped. The older women looked away as if they couldn’t watch.

With little room to maneuver, Joe continued to cover up, unable to even open his arms and clinch the other fighter. Kurt looked at the clock. This was the last round, but there was over a minute to go.

It didn’t look like Joe would make the bell. Then a moment presented itself. As the Scandinavian wound up to deliver another hammer blow, he opened himself up.

At that very instant, Joe dropped his shoulder and fired an uppercut. It caught Thor on the chin and snapped his head backward. From the look of things, Thor hadn’t expected anything but defense from Joe at that point. Kurt saw the man’s eyes roll as he stumbled backward.

Joe stepped forward and fired a heavy right, sending Thor to the canvas.

The crowd oohed in surprise. Joe’s cheerleaders shrieked with pleasure, like young girls watching the Beatles step off an airplane. The ref began to count.

The Scandinavian fighter rolled onto his hands and knees by “Four,” while Joe danced around the ring like Sugar Ray Leonard. By “Six,” Thor was using the ropes to help himself up, and Joe looked a little less happy about things. By “Eight,” Thor was standing, looking clearheaded and glaring across the ring. Joe’s face had turned decidedly sour.

The ref grabbed Thor’s gloves and looked ready to send him back into the fight.

And then the bell rang.

The round was over, the fight was over. It was ruled a draw. Nobody was happy but everybody cheered.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, with his debt to society paid, a few autographs signed, and at least one new phone number in his pocket, Joe Zavala sat with Kurt, ripping the tape off his hands and then pressing an ice bag to his eye.

“That’ll teach you to run over people’s cows,” Kurt said, using a pair of scissors to help Joe with the tape.

“Next time I fight,” Joe said, “you sit in the back row. Or, better yet, find something else to do.”

“What are you talking about?” Kurt asked. “I thought that went well.”

Joe had to laugh. Kurt was as good and loyal a friend as Joe had ever known, but he did have a penchant for glossing over the downside of things. “I’ve always wondered about your definition of ‘well.’”

With the tape off, Joe moved the bag of ice to the back of his neck as Kurt explained what had happened aboard the Kinjara Maru.

It sounded as odd to him as it had seemed to Kurt. “Sixth sense going off?” he asked.

“Three alarms,” Kurt said.

“Funny thing,” Joe said, “I hear the same sound in my head right now. But I think it’s for a different reason.”

Kurt laughed. “All I want is a look,” he insisted. “Do you think the Barracuda can get us there?”

“There might be a way to do it,” Joe replied. “But only as an ROV. I wouldn’t trust the mods to keep anyone safe at that depth. Plus, there would be no room for us anyway.”

Kurt smiled. “What are you thinking?”

“We could build a small outer hull and encase the Barracuda inside it,” he began.

As Joe spoke he could see the design in his head, could feel the shape beneath his hands. He designed things intuitively. He did the math just to back up what he already knew.

“We fill that compartment with a noncompressing liquid, or hyperpressurize it with nitrogen gas. Then we flood the interior of the Barracuda itself or pressurize it to several atmospheres as well, and the three-stage gradient should help balance out the forces. Neither the outer hull nor the inner hull would have to handle all the pressure.”

“What about the instrumentation and the controls?” Kurt asked.

Joe shrugged. “Not a problem,” he said. “Everything we put inside is waterproofed and designed for a high-pressure environment.”

“Sounds good,” Kurt said.

He looked pleased. Joe knew he would be. And so he dropped the bomb.

“There is one minor problem.”

Kurt’s gaze narrowed. “What’s that?”

“Dirk called me before you got here.”

“And?”

“He gave me orders not to let you talk me into anything reckless.”

“Reckless?”

“He knows us too well,” Joe said, guessing it took one adventurous, even “reckless,” mind to know the workings of another.

Kurt nodded, smiling a bit. “That he does. On the other hand, ‘reckless’ gives us a lot of leeway.”

“Sometimes you scare me,” Joe said. “Just putting that on the record.”

“Draw up the plans,” Kurt said. “The race is in two days. After that, we’re on our own.”

Joe smiled, liking the challenge. And while he feared the wrath of Dirk Pitt if they lost NUMA’s million-dollar Barracuda, he was pretty certain that he and Kurt had built up enough markers to cover it if they did.

Besides, if the stories he’d been told were true, Dirk had lost a few of Admiral Sandecker’s more expensive toys over the years. How angry could he really get?