Devil's Gate

3

Eastern Atlantic, June 15

AS DAWN BROKE OVER THE ATLANTIC, Kurt Austin stood near the bow of the NUMA vessel Argo, wiping sweat off his face with a towel. He’d just finished fifty laps around the main deck. Only, because the deck did not encircle the ship, he’d been forced to enter the superstructure at the end of every lap, race up two flights of stairs and across the main transom, then down two flights and back out to begin the next lap.

It would have been far easier to hit the exercise room, pound the treadmill for five miles and then climb on the StairMaster, but they were at sea, and to Austin the sea had always meant freedom; freedom to roam and explore the world, freedom from traffic and smog and the sometimes claustrophobic existence of modern urban life. Out here — with the promise of dawn on the horizon — he wasn’t about to lock himself in a cramped windowless room for his morning workout even if it had air-conditioning.

Wearing black sweatpants and a faded gray T-shirt with the NUMA logo on it, Kurt felt as good as he could remember. He stood just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and curly silver-gray hair that looked almost platinum at times. He considered his eyes a shade of blue, but apparently they were an unusual shade, as many people — especially the women in his life — had tried to explain.

As he closed in on his fortieth birthday, Kurt had rededicated himself to working out. He’d always been in shape. A career in the Navy and several years as part of a clandestine CIA salvage team required it. But with the decade number on his age going to four, Kurt was determined to get in the best shape of his life, better than he’d been at thirty, better than he’d been at twenty.

It was a tall order. It took more work, left more aches and pains, and was slower in coming than when he’d been younger, but he was almost there.

Ten pounds lighter than he’d been a year before, benching, curling, and lifting more weight in the gym, he could feel the strength surging through his body like it had in his youth when he believed he could do anything.

It was needed too. A career at NUMA came with lots of physical punishment. Beyond the regular labor-intensive work of any salvage operation, he’d also been beat up, shot at, and half drowned on a regular basis. After a while the dings started to add up. A year ago he’d considered taking up a standing offer to go back to work for his father, who owned a prominent salvage company of his own. But that felt like leaving on someone else’s terms, and if there was one thing Kurt Austin didn’t do, it was follow any lead but his own.

He stared out at the horizon as it changed from a deep indigo to a pale grayish blue. The light was rising even though the sun had yet to show its face. He stretched and turned, trying to crack his back. Off the starboard beam, something caught his eye; a thin trail of smoke, drifting skyward.

He hadn’t seen it during his run, the darkness had obscured it, but it was no illusion.

He squinted and stared, but in the predawn gloom he couldn’t make out the source of the smoke. He took one last glance and then headed for the stairs.

Austin stepped onto the bridge to find Captain Robert Haynes, the Argo’s commanding officer, standing with the officer of the watch, plotting out their course to the Azores, where the NUMA team would participate in an X Prize — like race to crown the world’s fastest two-man submarine.

The operation was a milk run. A pure research assignment given to Kurt and his partner, Joe Zavala, as a reward for all the heavy lifting they’d done on recent missions. Joe was already on Santa Maria Island making preparations and, as Kurt guessed, making friends, especially among the women. Kurt was looking forward to joining him, but before the minivacation could begin they would have to make a slight detour.

Haynes never lifted his eyes from the charts. “Done wearing out my decks?” he asked.

“For now,” Kurt replied. “But we’re going to need to change course to one-nine-zero.”

The captain looked up briefly and then back down at the chart table. “I told you before, Kurt, you lose something over the side, you’re going to have to swim for it if you want it back.”

Kurt smiled briefly, but the situation was serious.

“There’s a line of smoke off our starboard beam,” Kurt said. “Someone’s got a fire going, and I don’t think it’s a barbecue.”

The captain stood straight, the joking look gone from his face. A fire at sea is an incredibly dangerous event. Ships are filled with pipes and conduits that carry flammable liquids like fuel and hydraulic fluid. They often carry dangerous and even explosive cargoes: oil, natural gas, coal, and chemicals, even metals like magnesium and aluminum that burn. And unlike a fire on land, there’s really nowhere safe to run unless you abandon ship, the last option in any captain’s handbook.

Kurt knew this, as did every man on the Argo. Captain Haynes didn’t hesitate or even attempt to confirm the accuracy of Kurt’s assessment. He turned to the helmsman.

“Take us around,” he said. “Make your course one-nine-zero. Bring us to flank speed.”

As the helmsman executed the order, the captain grabbed a pair of binoculars and headed out onto the starboard wing of the bridge. Kurt followed.

The Argo was fairly close to the equator, and at such latitudes the light grew quickly. Kurt could see the smoke plainly now, even without the binoculars. Thick and dark, it rose skyward in a narrow vertical column, thinning out only marginally on the way up and drifting slightly to the east.

“Looks like a cargo vessel,” Captain Haynes said.

He handed the binoculars to Kurt.

Kurt trained them on the ship. She was a midsize vessel, not a containership but a bulk carrier. She appeared to be adrift.

“That’s oil smoke,” Kurt said. “The whole ship is shrouded in it, but it’s thickest near the aft end.”

“Engine-room fire,” Haynes said. “Or a problem with one of the bunkers.”

That would have been Kurt’s guess as well.

“Did you pick up any distress calls?”

Captain Haynes shook his head. “Nothing. Just regular chatter on the radio.”

Kurt wondered if the fire had taken out her electrical system. But even if it had, most ships carried backups, and every vessel of that size would have a few handheld transceivers, an emergency beacon, and even radios in the main lifeboats. To hear nothing from a 500-foot vessel burning and adrift seemed all but impossible.

By now the Argo had finished its turn and was heading dead at the stricken ship. Her speed was coming up, and Kurt could feel them surging through the water. The Argo could make 30 knots in calm seas. Kurt guessed the range at just over five miles, closer than he’d first thought. That was a good thing.

But ten minutes later, as he trained the binoculars on the superstructure and increased the magnification, he spotted several things that were less than good.

Flames were licking out through various hatches all along the deck, meaning the entire vessel was burning, not just the engine room. The ship was definitely listing to port and was down at the bow, meaning she was taking on water as well as burning. But worst of all, there were men on the decks who seemed to be dragging something toward the rail.

At first Kurt thought it was an injured crewman, but then they let go of the person, dropping him to the deck. The man tumbled as if he’d been shoved and then got up and began to run. He made three or four steps, only to fall forward suddenly onto his face.

Kurt snapped the binoculars to the right just to be sure. He could clearly see a man holding an assault rifle. Without a sound he saw the muzzle flash. One burst and then another.

Kurt turned back to the man who’d fallen. He lay utterly still now, facedown on the deck.

Pirates, Kurt thought. Hijackers with assault rifles. The cargo vessel was in deeper trouble than he’d guessed.

Kurt lowered the binoculars, fully aware that they were now heading toward more then a rescue.

“Captain,” he said. “Our problems just multiplied.”